The Polaris Protocol (33 page)

T
he
sicario
debated whether to clean up the mess or just leave it as is. He decided to leave it. Peter Scarborough hadn’t changed his story at all, and the
sicario
had wasted precious time making sure. He wiped his knife on Peter’s jacket, staring into the man’s lifeless eyes, the neck wound gaping open, like a second mouth under the one with the tongue lolling out.

He hadn’t died easy. After the
sicario
’s mistake in letting Booth escape with his lie, he had wanted to make sure with Peter. Leave no stone unturned. Peter had given him an answer at the mere threat of violence, but that hadn’t been good enough. The
sicario
had left the soles of his feet at the far end of the bathtub, strips of flesh looking remarkably like thick-cut bacon from the grocery store. Fatty lengths of meat that were now curled in a pile. It hadn’t been pleasant—for Peter anyway—but at least the
sicario
was sure.

According to him, Arthur Booth had called from a bar named Blondie’s about an hour ago, and he was probably still there. The longer the
sicario
waited, the greater the chance Booth would leave. He closed his knife and stood, studying a map of Colorado Springs.

Peter lived in a small brick rental house just off Platte Avenue on the east side of town, in an area that was probably the place to be in 1950 but now had seen time erode its façade. Most of the houses were small, and none had been built after 1970. Blondie’s was a mile or two to the west, in the small downtown area of Colorado Springs. A two-story bar in the renovated part of town only a couple of blocks from his hotel.

The
sicario
rubbed a smudge of blood from Peter’s finger off the map, left when he’d pointed out the location. He tossed a towel on the body and walked out of the bathroom.

Opening the front door, he stood for a moment, glancing up and down the street and seeing nothing but leaves blowing in the shade. It was so different from his life in Ciudad Juárez. Trees and sidewalks. Children playing. No graffiti. No trash. The American journalist had been right. Nobody in this world had any comprehension of men like him. No comprehension of how protected and insulated they were.

They still assumed that there was a cause and effect in life, never understanding the meaning of the fox in the henhouse. They truly thought that doing good would beget good, just because of the action—and in turn that doing evil would beget evil. It was completely alien to him, and he wondered yet again if he’d missed out on some greater truth.

He’d slit Peter’s throat from ear to ear, and even while he’d bled out the
sicario
had seen Peter didn’t believe it would happen. Didn’t understand how it
could
happen. This after his feet had been peeled like a grape.

The
sicario
had done the work, halfway studying his response, and was amazed. He’d killed many, many men in Mexico, and when the time came, they were always resigned, understanding that death was knocking on their door and accepting it. Peter had begged until the last moment, even after the torture applied against him. After he’d screamed out the answer for the hundredth time. Believing he could alter the outcome.

Strange.

The
sicario
walked out the front door to his rental car and drove away, not bothering to check around him like he would have in Juárez. There was no reason to look for the hunter here, because there
were
no hunters here. He was unique, like a predator that had been inadvertently packed in a crate and shipped across the ocean, arriving in a new land looking for food.

His confidence was a mistake. Had he spent half of a second looking, he would have seen another predator. One who was his equal.

* * *

I pulled into an alley behind Blondie’s, calling Knuckles on the radio. I’d left Creed at the apartment to find out what else he could about the hackers Booth had been in contact with, then had alerted the rest of my team, telling them to move to the bar and prepare for assault.

A block off of Tejon Street, the ribbon of pavement I was on led through a large pay-for-parking area behind the strip of bars running down the middle of downtown Colorado Springs. Full of college kids and business professionals out for a good time, the area posed a significant risk to surgical operations.

Knuckles came back. “We’re out front. No parking available except for a handicapped spot. I’m assuming the Taskforce will cover the ticket.”

I said, “Don’t worry about that. You got the computer?”

“Yeah. Hacking cell couldn’t do anything with it. Clock’s still ticking. What do you want to do?”

Which was the big question. The bar was a two-story affair full of people. Booth knew us all on sight and would probably run when we closed in, which would mean a nasty little fight in a public area. We might get bouncers on us, then have to take them out, causing someone to call 911, which would mean police flooding the place.

All I needed was about two minutes and Booth’s thumb. But the repercussions might be significant.

I said, “Stage out front. When I call, we enter from both sides. Decoy and I will come in from the back. Koko will lock down our exit. You come in from the front. Leave Blood locking down that exit. But don’t do anything until I get clearance. Calling Kurt now.”

He said, “Roger. This is going to be great fun. I hope the prisons here are better than in Thailand.”

I said, “Yeah, me too, since I won’t be available to break our asses out. Stand by.”

I dialed, getting Kurt immediately.

“Sir, we’re staged to go in, but it’s a bad, bad place for a takedown. I just want to make sure I’m covered for domestic operations.”

I heard a bunch of voices in the background and realized what was going on. I said, “Am I on speaker?”

“Yeah, Pike, you are. What’s the situation? We have about five minutes.”

I went into politically correct mode. “Sir, we are about to enter an establishment and locate the man using the identified computer. If he is the target, we will not get out clean.”

I’d made the call to go after the MAC address and ignore Peter Scarborough. It would be a defining moment in my life, either good or bad. If I was right, I would be a hero. If I was wrong, I would be the scapegoat of the year. Something I was used to, honestly. I’d learned early that it was easy to second-guess decisions but damn hard to make them.

I heard a crescendo of voices, then Kurt saying, “Hang on, damn it! Let him speak. Pike, we need to know the odds of success. We’re in the window for abort. We don’t make the call in the next five minutes, and we won’t have the ability to do so. Can you stop it?”

What the hell? What kind of question is that? I have no idea.

“Sir, I can’t predict that. I’m calling to ask for domestic authority. I’m about to enter a crowded establishment, and I’m going to do some damage. I don’t have time for surgical. It’ll be caveman. I’ll get it done, but I want to make sure that’s what you want. What the Oversight Council wants.”

Someone from the back said, “Yes, yes. Tell him to go.” That was followed by someone else saying, “Wait, he’s going to compromise the Taskforce and we don’t even know if it’s worth it. What the hell are the odds of success?”

I thought the place sounded like a junior high dance, with about as much intelligent conversation coming out. I said, “Colonel Hale, this is Pike. What is the call?”

The sounds evaporated, and his voice came on. “You’re off speaker. Pike, we have three minutes. I’m recommending abort. Don’t assault. We’ll live with the repercussions.”

I said, “Sir, three minutes means those pilots are already in the envelope. Already in danger. And the repercussions are much, much greater than some strike against Syria. We lose GPS, and the whole country falls into chaos.”

“Pike, that’s going to happen regardless. We don’t need to throw good money after bad. Compromising you will only cause the problem to be worse.”

I looked at Jennifer, thinking of what I was sacrificing if the call was a mistake. I decided Kurt was right. There was no way I was going to trash my life based on some wish that the guy was inside and could stop the clock. If I were wrong—which I probably was—I might be going to jail at the same time our economy collapsed. Why throw gasoline on the fire?

Jennifer was staring intently at me, reading the hesitation in my voice. She said, “Pike, the Taskforce can burn. It’s just an organization. Do it. The guy is here. You have an instinct for this. I know it. I
believe
it. Don’t worry about us. Don’t worry about the repercussions of this operation. Worry about the repercussions to America. You can stop it, right here and right now. Do what’s right. Like in Mexico.”

I locked eyes with her for an instant. She nodded at me, and I committed, wondering if she had some ESP that I was lacking. Praying it was true.

I said, “Execute. Tell them to execute. I’ll stop the clock.”

Kurt said, “What? Pike, are you sure?”

I said, “Fucking execute. I’m out.”

I ended the call and said, “You’d better hope your instincts are better than mine, because my instincts are saying we’re going to separate prisons.”

She said, “Two minutes. Go.”

I left the car with Decoy, saying, “Lock down this exit.”

T
he Ghost watched Pelón’s car driving away and debated whether to enter the house. There was some reason he’d gone inside, and it might give him an edge. He’d been there for more than an hour, but the Ghost had no idea why. Maybe he should enter and find out what the man had done. At the end of the day, he had Pelón’s bed-down location and could always return to the parking garage, waiting for his chance again should he lose the man. But Pelón might not return to the garage, which meant he needed to stick to him and ignore the house.

Choices, choices.

Hours earlier, in Mexico City, he’d planned a route of escape, going to several banks and withdrawing as much cash as he could on the three credit cards he still maintained. He’d checked the balance and seen one of them was fresh, with over ten thousand dollars in credit. The others had about two thousand each, after the cash withdrawals.

He’d used them to pepper the American radar with plane tickets, buying as many as he could to destinations in South America, the Far East, and, of course, the Middle East. One was to Hamburg, Germany, which was the ticket he had intended to use.

Out of curiosity, he’d checked Pelón’s bank account and had seen three new transactions: one for a hotel called the Antlers Hilton in Colorado Springs, one for a rental car at the Colorado Springs airport, and one he didn’t understand, with something called Manny Aviation Services.

After thirty seconds of research, he’d learned it was a private aviation company, and it dawned on him what Pelón had done.

He’s spending my money on private jets. But why Colorado Springs? What’s there?

His flight to Hamburg wasn’t for three days. Three days and he’d be on his own, severed from the American’s trail but also incapable of traveling anywhere else because that bastard Pelón had taken his money.

He’d stared at the bank transactions, then decided. He had nothing here. A new passport and a few credit cards he could never use once he left Mexico. Pelón had the money. Money that was rightfully his.

He used the card with ten grand to charter his own flight, right into Colorado Springs. Right to the man who had his money. The Americans would be watching the transactions he’d made today but wouldn’t be able to react in time, since they had no idea of the name he was using and the air charter wouldn’t reflect his destination. Only a purchase.

It was a risk, flying into the belly of the beast, but he knew from past operations that FBOs, even in America, were fairly lax. The charter, while expensive, was much, much safer than trying to trick the Americans with multiple tickets.

He’d landed two hours ago and had leveraged the charter service to rent a car for him, using cash to pay for it, then drove straight to the Antlers Hilton. Knowing that Pelón had a rental as well, he circled around back, positioning himself in a spot where he could watch the exits from the multipurpose parking garage. He’d conducted a reconnaissance of the garage, determining where hotel guests parked and liking what he saw. If he cornered Pelón in here, he could kill him without alert. Get the electronic token and be on his way. Provided Pelón had actually parked inside.

He’d waited, as he had on any number of operations, and his patience had been rewarded. Pelón had driven out of the garage, surprising the Ghost. In his heart he had only been half convinced that the man would appear, and here he was. The Ghost had leaned his face against the glass to be sure, then had followed through the streets. He’d shadowed Pelón to the small house, then waited outside for him to return to his car, wondering who the killer was meeting. Wondering what had happened inside.

Watching Pelón’s taillights receding down the street, he put the car in drive, ignoring his curiosity about the house and deciding to follow. At the end of the day Pelón’s plans in Colorado mattered little. The only important thing was the electronic token he owned that accessed the bank account. A token the Ghost was sure was on his person.

Pelón traveled down Platte Avenue, going toward the city center. Once again acting as if he had a destination in mind. Making the Ghost wonder anew at what he was doing. He had the money, so why not simply flee? Why did he come here?

Pelón passed a large park, then turned left into an alley between two buildings. The Ghost followed. He traveled down the narrow gap, crossing one street, then another, the alley opening up into a parking area. Pelón’s car slowed. A block behind, the Ghost waited in the alley, not wanting to reveal that he was there. Pelón drove a short distance through the parking area, then stopped, right next to an exit leading back to the east. Another alley. Seeing two other cars pull into the lot, the Ghost followed, keeping his eyes on the killer’s car.

He pulled up short, giving him the ability to flee the way he had come but also circle around and intersect Pelón on Tejon Street, should he use the alley exit to the east.

He watched the car, waiting on something to happen. Curious as to what Pelón was doing here, in a back-alley parking lot in Colorado Springs.

Eventually, he saw a light come on inside Pelón’s car, then recognized him exiting. He was only fifty meters away, even at night the Ghost could identify his shattered visage, the scars on his forehead glowing in the interior light of the car.

Pelón shut his door and crouched, moving through the other cars as if he were trying to hide. As if he were hunting something.

The Ghost followed his line of march with his eyes. And saw his target, twenty meters away.