Smoke and Mirrors (20 page)

I, Parker Brothers, take thee, Bradley Milton, to be my – my everything..

“Asset acquired, progressing through red sector without Agent Game. Medic needed ASAP, it’s a wet job.” Silence and a look of terror from Jones. Earpiece released, I grabbed his sweaty hand in my right, ducked between the two commercial-sized Sub-Zeroes and threaded my way out through an employee locker room, a bathroom, and finally the coat closet.

“Are we safe?”

I considered the question.
You and I? Probably. As far as I can tell, the sniper is alone…

But was
he
safe? Brad that was.

“For now.” My earpiece was broadcasting again.

“Ambulance on its way instead of recovery vehicle. Asset and cargo to be removed from red sector whatever the price.”

Acknowledging the command, I ran through my options. Our driver could well be dead or the car tampered with. My fingers reached for the valet rack and I searched for something useful. Big and heavy, the Mercedes SL?

A Nazi Staff Car?
Brad’s sardonic words drifted around in my head.

Range Rover?

Gas guzzling motherfucker.

All right, Brad. What about the Ferrari 512 TR?

Red?

Black
,
I recalled.

Take her.

Keys clenched, I donned a hat and we made our way through the chaotic dining room. With no reason left to play the frightened consort, I dragged Jones out into the open and hit the pavement at a sprint. Bullets sprayed again, making me reconsider my first count, but the doors to the car were already open courtesy of modern invention, and we made it safely inside.

I pushed Jones away from the window. “Stay down.” Key in, engine turned over, the wheels moved toward the exit, going from zero to sixty in…

“
4.7 seconds, but only if she’s a stick. If not, the owner’s a bloody fool. An automatic Ferrari is like a Barbie. False advertising; nothing under the hood.”

Three seconds later, the car zigzagged down the hairpin turns, picking up speed without losing cornering ability. A flash high on the ridge above us suggested a tail, so I dropped it a gear and took to the insides of the road praying no one else was heading up the mountain. Jones was swearing, pent up fear playing out in a stream of curses from which even Brad would learn.

Brad. Low cut flack jacket, customized for the open-necked Armani dress shirt, just too short for the slug that hit his clavicle and disappeared into the mass of muscle making up his right shoulder. Not a mortal wound that. Painful, long recovery, but not mortal. So why was he unconscious?

Head wound? No evidence; though I hadn’t seen the back of his head. Had it hit the concrete again? I didn’t think so. Head wounds bleed a lot, enough to halo his dark hair.

Could the bullet have bounced off his collarbone into a vital organ?

“Fuck!” An ambulance,
the
ambulance I’d called for, was nearly on top of us before I managed to swerve around it. I glanced in the rearview mirror, satisfied that the driver wasn’t going to go off the road into the Mediterranean.

“What is it? Are they catching up?” This from the guy on the floor, the guy who bragged about being able to stand up against terrorists. Typical BFN.

British Foreign National. Bullshit. Big Fucking Nerd.
That coinage being mine, not Brad’s.

Too American, luv. More like Boasting Freelance Narcissist.

Tears burned my eyes behind my rimless Gucci’s, reminding me that the sun is bright, but a soul is far brighter.

Suddenly another image replaced Brad’s face. A photograph of two men. Dealers, roughnecks, whatever. Them. The men posing as paramedics. I hit the brakes, yanked the wheel and left half an inch of the Pirelli P Zeroes on the ancient cobblestone street. The vehicle lived up to its reputation, and we were roaring back up the mountain after swiveling on the proverbial ‘Euro’.

“What the hell?” Jones yelled, lunging toward me with hitherto suppressed speed and rage. But before he did me any harm, I pistol whipped him into la-la land.

Where else had I seen those men?

“Agent Board to base…”

Alasdair’s voice boomed through. “Go ahead.”

“There’s been a change of plan. I’m heading back for Agent Game; have medics standing by. The Asset’s a wooden nickel. Over.”

“Message received; only keep an eye on the suitcase, Agent Board.”

Swearing, I climbed the mountain at increasingly dangerous speeds, pulling into the carpark just as a gurney was being rolled out by the paramedics. With no time to lose, I headed full throttle at the ambulance, scattering the growing crowd of diners. At the very last second, I spun the wheel, broadsiding the stolen vehicle and leaping from the smoking Ferrari.

The driver and bogus EMT drew guns from hidden holsters, but I drilled them with 9 mm slugs. Quick and efficient, bloody and scream-inducing, they weren’t my first choice. But Brad was.

I was beside him in a moment, terrified at the pink hue his normally tanned face had taken on. A bell tolled in my mind and it woke the sleepy part of my memory. Page thirty-five of the Medical Reference Book I studied so many years ago.

“…often accompanied by the scent of bitter almonds, a pinkish-red coloring of the skin, shallow rapid heart beat, and labored breath. Cyanide poisoning can be treated with a variety of antidotes, however a mixture of sodium bicarbonate administered intravenously, coupled with an oxygen mask, has proven to be the most effective.”

My fingers felt his pulse as I listened to his labored breath. Breath tainted with the scent of bitter almonds. Fast and light. Light and fast. His heart rhythm scared the hell out of me. Nearly panicking, I realized he’d ingested the cyanide salts meant for the BFN. He’d most likely licked his knuckles after bumping the salt.

I raced from Brad to the ambulance where I located a syringe and bottle of sodium bicarbonate. Returning quickly, I yanked the wrapper off with my teeth and pulled up Brad’s sleeve. Sucking the liquid into the hypodermic needle, I pushed it into his hammering vein. Then I took his hand in mine and brought it to my lips. It was freezing. Corpse-like against my warm mouth. A moment later, he began convulsing, and my heart moved into overdrive.

“You!” I yelled to the man who was inspecting his ‘not so new’ Ferrari. “Get me the keys to the Rover. They’re on the hook in the coatroom.”

Glad he wasn’t going to lose his baby again, he made double time, returning with the keys and a newcomer who obviously didn’t want me to borrow his fully loaded SUV. Unwilling to argue with either of them, I rapid fired orders along with my handcuffs. “Take that man out of the Ferrari and use these cuffs to secure him to the bar inside the front passenger seat. Make certain the briefcase stays with him. Then help me put my partner in the back.”

They did as I said, partly out of shock and partly because the semi-automatic in my hand was still waving in their direction. Ninety seconds later, they were at my side, straining under Brad’s dead weight. Fifteen stones of dead weight, over the gravel, over the blood-spattered surface that reminded me of the ground at the Colosseum.

I eyed the spare room behind the back seats. “Do they fold down?”

The owner perked up, bizarrely animated as he explained the various configurations his vehicle could make. Silencing him with a murderous look, I followed his initial directions and rearranged the back to leave room for my partner. For my lover. For my best friend.

Brad, shaking uncontrollably, was like a salmon in their arms. The rear gate closed on his crumpled 6’ 2” frame, and I was back in the driver’s seat, the dust behind us obscuring the men’s faces.

Descending once again, I scanned the mirrors, knowing Mr. Sniper hadn’t just gone home for the day. Puzzled by his disappearance, I mentally calculated the distance he could have traveled on foot. Just as the figure popped into my harried mind, he was there, in front of the vehicle with an automatic rifle.

If the Rover had the package I thought it did, the tires wouldn’t pop, but I didn’t see any indication on the windscreen that it was bulletproof. Raising the Glock from its 10:00 position on the steering wheel, I pointed it directly at my wily friend.

Three shots. One took out the windscreen, spraying us with miniscule beads of glass. One hit the sniper high, spinning his body to the right along with his spray of gunfire. One removed the back of his head. Damned if I was going to take another chance with Brad’s life, I tested out the Rover’s all terrain traction and marveled at the relatively minimal disturbance a two-foot bump created in the cabin.

The remainder of our decline was much slower, and I cringed when taking the shepherd’s crook curves, hoping Brad’s battered body wouldn’t be damaged further by the minimal protection of the forest-green metal interior. By the time the vehicle reached sea level, I pressed the earpiece again and relayed our position.

“Agents Board and Game out of red sector. Permission to go ahead to the Station?”

“Permission granted. Medics standing by. You do have the suitcase, correct?”

“Copy. Suitcase on board.”

I glanced over my shoulder. He wasn’t moving, and I couldn’t tell if the black rug was stained with more blood. “Brad?”

Nothing.

“He’s dead.”

“He’s fine,” I snapped at a groggy Jones. “Doctors are standing by to treat him.”

His lips became a snarl, unbecoming on a jowly, beady-eyed individual. “What did you do to my men?”

“
Your
men?”

“Where are they?”

The wheel slid through my loosened hands as I took the turn into the bustling portside village. “Resting back at The Villa.”

He lunged for me, but his nose met the barrel of my gun. “I suggest you settle down before you need rhino-plastic surgery.”

I reached the Station, a non-descript stucco cottage on the outskirts of the village just as the sun was beginning its slow decline. Backing the over-sized vehicle into the false-fronted potting shed took a bit of maneuvering, but within thirty seconds, I was out and surrounded by operatives.

I glanced once at Jones before heading for the vehicle’s rear. “Get him the hell out of my sight,” I snarled from the muffled back of the SUV, cursing under my breath when I realized the hatch didn’t have clearance.

Our team doctor opened the door diagonal to me, and I squeezed back through the darkness until I was across from him.

“What did you give him?”

“An intravenous dose of sodium bicarbonate, no transportable oxygen was available.”

“Fine. Vitals?”

“Weak, rapid pulse, cyanic coloring, labored breathing last I checked. Seizures post-medication.”

“Okay.”

A light went on, and I recognized our Handler beside The Firm’s doctor. They filled the doorframe, one set of eyes trained on the patient, one on the patient’s partner.

Partner?

Fine, lover.

“Is he going to be all right?”

The doctor removed Brad’s flack jacket, quickly for someone who doesn’t wear one for a living, leaving Brad’s chest exposed, drenched in blood and sweat.

The doctor’s brows were drawn. “The bullet passed through.” He grunted as he felt his way along the back of his patient’s shoulder.

“So it didn’t ricochet downward?”

“No.” His concerned face flashed me a worrying look. “But the cyanide salts have had –”

“Twenty-five, no twenty-three minutes.” My Rolex Oyster gleamed in the semi-light.

“Very well, twenty-three minutes to work on him.
That
is not good.”

I punched the floor.

Our Handler’s gray eyes observed me closely. “You were told to get him out at all costs. It’s not your fault, Parker.”

“I don’t agree,” I said, distracted when the doctor yanked a syringe from his kit. “What’s that?”

“A solution of dicobalt edentate and glucose. He’s probably going to vomit, so I’m not putting the oxygen mask on him until he brings up his lunch. By the way –” A slightly amused look flashed my way. “Am I correct to assume he ate a large meal?”

I felt a ghost of a smile form on my lips. He nodded and resumed filling the hypodermic needle.

“Will it work?” It made me nauseous to ask the question.

“That remains to be seen. Help me turn him on his side.” We followed his lead, my fingers cradling Brad’s head, covertly caressing his skull through the tangle of dark curls that clustered sexily at the base of his broad neck, while Alasdair moved Brad’s legs.

“I thought the clean cut James Bond look was de rigueur.”

“I’m not James Bond.” White open-necked Hugo Boss shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, untucked and hanging over frayed Versace jeans and bare bronzed feet. Hair, thick, loosely curled and jet-black, finger-slicked back to frame a wide-square face cloaked in five-o’clock shadow.

“No, you’re not, thank God.”

The needle slid into his vein, the one pulsing slowing in the crook of his arm. Long and sharp, it paused and released its contents into his blood stream.

“How long will it take?”

“A few minutes, but I’m going need to get him inside the Station to do a thorough exam. Alasdair?”

Alasdair nodded and they both backed up, leaving me alone for a few unguarded seconds with Agent Milton.

“Brad, can you hear me?” I whispered.

I turned him so that his head rested in my lap and stroked the damp hair away from his unshaven face. “You’re going to be fine; we’re safe now.” I looked up as light flooded in through the rear of the potting shed, giving the other agents room to open the hatch. It swung up, and I used the infinitesimally small moment to kiss his mouth.

Miraculously, it parted. Manna for my soul.

“You had to pick the fucking gas guzzler.” The harsh whisper faded before the pistons stopped hissing, and I finally found a reason to smile.

“P
arker?” Alasdair’s voice came through the rear of the Range Rover, loud and tinny as it bounced off the green metal.

I tried to formulate an answer. “Stubborn son of a bitch. Help me get him the hell out of here.”