The Polaris Protocol (34 page)

I
entered the bac
k of the bar with Decoy, feeling the pressure of my decision. Not liking the weight on my shoulders. We ran into a room full of pool tables, the bar packed to the gills. I started swiveling my head, immediately realizing the stupidity of my bravado on the phone.

There is no way we’re going to find this guy inside here. Not in under two minutes. Damn it. I should have aborted Operation Gimlet.

I called Knuckles. “We’re in. Status?”

“I have the computer with me, and it’s got about ten minutes of battery left.”

No issue. Two minutes from now it won’t matter.

He continued. “I came in the front, but there’s a stairwell on the other side that leads into the bar to the south. I’ve got Blood positioned there. Pike, we’re out of time. I’m tracking two minutes and counting.”

“I know, I know. Find him. He’s here.”
I hope.

Decoy and I pushed our way into the main bar area and I saw a circular stairway leading up.
Holy shit. Another exit. That makes four. We are screwed.

I pulled Decoy’s sleeve. “I’m headed up. Keep going forward. You find him, lock him down. I don’t give a damn about the repercussions. He resists, knock him the fuck out. Call and we’ll handle the bouncers.”

He said, “Wow. I’m getting paid to get in a bar fight. Where were you ten years ago?”

I would have laughed, but the impact of my decision to continue took away all humor. Beyond the fact that the US grid was going to grind to a halt, there were a lot of civilians in Syria who were going to be incinerated by American airpower. And I’d made the decision to execute.

I sprinted up the circular staircase, exploding onto the second floor and drawing stares. This floor had another bar running lengthwise from the staircase exit, and it was full of people. I started bulling my way through, now drawing glares. That was fine by me. I needed a reaction. Girls were talking and pointing, and guys were bowing up. I saw another staircase to the right and hoped that was the one Blood was tracking.

To my front was a balcony with a fire pit. No Arthur Booth. To my right was another room. I could see tables inside. I started moving that way when a lumberjack-looking guy said, “Hey, you got any manners?”

I said, “I’m sorry, I’m looking for my daughter. She’s underage and she’s here with a guy.” The excuse was just the first thing I could come up with. His answer was the worst thing he could have said.

He glanced at the man behind him and said, “Maybe she’s here with me.”

My sweet daughter’s face flashed in my head, forever six years old, and I punched his throat as hard as I could, watching him collapse on the ground. His buddy looked at me in shock, and blackness began to flow. The pressure causing the beast to appear.

I said, “You seen my daughter?”

He shook his head like he was a dog wringing water.

“Then move the fuck out of my way.”

He piled into the people behind him as if he was fleeing a fire. I marched through the gap, everyone now focused on the turmoil. I reached the room and saw a man with a computer. He looked up, and I recognized Arthur Booth.

He slammed the lid down and took off running, straight toward the stairs on the far side. I started flinging people out of the way, but my rage did no good. The sheer physics of the bodies prevented me from intercepting him. I made it to the top of the stairs as he was reaching the bottom. Reaching the exit to the bar next door.

I bounded down the steps three at a time. He turned in the landing and I lost sight of him. For one second. He was gone, then he appeared again, flying into the wall and collapsing. Blood whirled around the corner, his fists raised. He saw me and turned back to the target.

I said, “Knuckles, Knuckles, jackpot. I say again, jackpot. Eastern stairwell leading to the other bar. Need the computer. Need it right now!”

Booth rolled around on the filthy floor, finally focusing. He said, “I have rights. I want a lawyer.”

I pulled out a serrated knife and said, “All I want is your fucking thumb.”

T
he
sicario
strained his eyes, trying to penetrate the glare from the streetlight. He’d passed the car and seen the person inside, the brief instant shocking him. It was the female from Mexico City. The same one from Tepito. The one who’d interrupted the meeting in the museum. But how? Why was she here?

And it dawned on him. She was still tracking Arthur Booth. She was trying to capture him for his computer skills. The
sicario
no longer cared about that, but he cared a great deal about what Booth would say. He would give up the
sicario
’s true name. And for that, she would have to die.

He sat in the darkness and thought of the intertwining of events. It was always a mixture of circumstances. On the surface, none seemed to matter, but all were intertwined. Random events that shaped future events, but there wasn’t any overarching purpose. Like the fox in his youth. An animal following his nature had caused the loss of their livelihood and had driven his sister to prostitution. She had become a favorite of his Kaibil battalion commander, and because of it, his village had been targeted by rebels. He in turn had exacted his revenge. Had started on his path.

Nothing but random events.

Throughout all of the brutality he had searched for meaning. Searched to find some fingerprint from the hand of God, but had failed. And the woman here was but one more piece of evidence. He would kill her, and nothing would stop that.

He had worried about his soul. Worried that he would burn in hell for his actions, but there was no hell. No greater being that would punish him. The journalist had been wrong and he had been right. There was no such thing as good or evil. Only interconnected events. God couldn’t punish him for actions that He could prevent. And He had never once prevented anything the
sicario
had done.

He slid out of the car, crouching between it and the one next to him, and began to stalk, his thoughts saddening him.

He wanted to believe in destiny. Wanted to believe, like the journalist, that there was good and evil in the world, and that following one path led to salvation. Even if it meant he would burn in hell for eternity. That one moment of truth would be worth the price.

But it wasn’t to be. The girl would die at his hand, whether she was good or evil. Then Booth would die. Then he would die, years from now, probably in a bathroom, much like Peter, after slipping on a bar of soap.

There was no such thing as justice. It was all random events.

He slid between the cars, staying out of the rearview mirrors of his target. He approached at a crouch, slinking along the ground. Moving forward one step at a time, he kept his eyes on the driver’s-side door. He reached the rear quarter panel of the car and paused. He slowly rose up and saw the girl leaning forward, as if she were listening to the radio. Focusing on something else besides her immediate surroundings.

He pulled his knife and scooted forward. He took one breath and flung the door open. She turned in surprise. He grabbed her shoulder and jerked her out of the car, intent on stabbing her in the heart. From the ground, she kicked his leg, breaking his balance, then began to scramble away on her back like a crab.

He fell on top of her, surprised at her reaction. He grabbed her hair and twisted her head. She screamed and brought her knee up, hammering his inner thigh. He grunted and brought the knife down. She parried the blow with her forearm, the blade slicing her flesh.

Fighting like a banshee, she hammered his face with the same forearm, causing his vision to explode in stars. Still holding her hair, he slammed her head into the pavement, then felt a blinding pain in his right arm. He tried to raise it and couldn’t. He felt another searing pain in his lower back, burrowing into his kidney, and rolled over, seeking the source.

He saw the Arab from the museum above him. The killer now taking his payment. He rose to his knees, the Arab crouching over him with a blade dripping blood. He felt the warmth of his body leaking around his waist, spreading on the ground. And he was finally at peace. Finally understood.

He said, “Of course. It’s you. So there is no bar of soap.”

The killer stared at him through his thick glasses, slight of build but breathtaking in his destruction. The
sicario
staggered backward, slapping a bloody hand against the car for support.

He looked up and said, “Tell me, please, do you fear what you have done? Do you believe in judgment?”

The Arab remained still and said, “I fear what I have done now. I fear that I have prevented my freedom. Because of you.”

The
sicario
smiled. “Destiny. Not random. The fist of God.”

His hand slipped in his own blood, causing him to slide against the car. He struggled for purchase, sagging forward. He looked his killer in the eye and said, “Thank you.”

He began to fade, the vision of the killer replaced by one of his mother, cooking in the kitchen of their little hovel in Guatemala. The smells as vivid as the day they’d happened.

He fell onto his face, his body hitting the pavement and splashing the blood rupturing out of his vital organs.

He heard his sister outside, calling him. Telling him it wasn’t his fault. Beckoning. His body left the hut and he found her, sitting in a yard full of chickens, petting a fox on the head.

W
ith Decoy, Knuckles, and Blood surrounding us, I dragged Booth back up the stairs and into the light. The clock was at one minute and counting. I threw him into a chair and shoved the computer in his face.

“Turn that shit off. Right now.”

He made another comment about a lawyer, and I slammed his hand onto the table, running my knife against the back of his knuckle. The people in the bar went crazy at that scene, but my little protective security detail kept everyone at bay, and Booth saw the light. With sweat dripping from his greasy, traitorous head, he decided that admitting he could stop the attack would be better than losing his thumb.

He accessed the computer.

With forty seconds left, he made one dumb comment about not being responsible for what “we” had put on his computer, since it had been outside of his control. I placed the knife against his neck. Not sure whether I was serious, he looked at me with dishpan eyes and began typing, disabling all the little software booby traps. Which was a good call, because I was way, way serious.

The clock kept ticking. I said, “What the hell are you doing? Shut it down.”

He said, “I’m trying to. I have to get through my security.”

At five seconds I said, “Just so you know, your life is tied to this. It doesn’t go down, and you do. Permanently. Right here and right now.”

His fingers trembling, he tapped a few more keys, and the clock stopped.

I sagged against the bench, drawing deep breaths. Booth said, “Can I go now?” I popped him in the face hard enough to bounce his head into the wall.

* * *

Seven thousand miles away, Bricktop hit his release point. His headset chattering incessantly now, he talked to both his wingman and his copilot in a robotic monotone, maintaining the myth of calm over a military net, like every pilot before him. He opened the bay doors. The two MOABs sat silently, dumb pieces of metal holding more destructive power than anything on earth outside of a nuclear bomb.

He hit the release, and they fell to earth, now alive and seeking information to guide them to their target. They locked on to the GPS signal and began to glide, shifting left and right, furiously attempting to please their master by destroying themselves precisely where they had been ordered.

* * *

Abdul Hakim cracked the door to his house, peeking out at the cloistered confines of Palmyra. To the east he saw the glow of the infamous Tadmor prison, where President Assad’s father had imprisoned many, many members of the Muslim Brotherhood for daring to defy him in a fight before Abdul had been born. Farther out he saw the lights of the Palmyra airfield, a military enclave that the regime apparently would do anything to protect.

Seeing nothing outside the door, Abdul touched his brother’s arm and began walking down the alley, the houses so close together there was nowhere to hide should trouble appear.

A flash over toward the airfield caught his eye. He held up, pushing his brother into a wall, straining to see what had caused the light. A second later the earth split apart as if the Devil himself was escaping, the violent action muted solely by the distance.

Two seconds later the shock wave hit, and he and his brother were flattened on the sidewalk, buffeted with debris from a strike nearly a mile away. Abdul sat up and stared uncomprehendingly, watching a mushroom cloud rise exactly like in an old TV show, wondering if Israel had struck with nuclear weapons.

Unaware of how close he had come to dying because of a fragile radio signal.

* * *

Bricktop looked out the window of his B-2 and saw the impact, feeling immense pride. A round-trip mission of national importance, from the heart of the United States. Just like the doctrine that had led to the creation of his aircraft during the Cold War. There
was
a reason for his weapon system. For the money spent on his capability.

After all, no snake eater had done a damn thing for this operation.

* * *

Jennifer felt like her head had been smothered in cotton. She fought the fog, some internal instinct telling her it was vital but not consciously knowing why. Her brain began to clear, and she saw the man who had attacked her slip against the car, then slam face-first into the pavement, his body across her legs.

She began to rise and heard, “Don’t! Don’t move.”

She turned and saw the Ghost. Standing above her with a knife.

She pulled her legs out from underneath the body and he shouted again, “No, no, no. Stay down. Please.”

She stopped her movement and looked into his eyes. She knew what he had done. Knew he had saved her life. She rose into a crouch, saying, “I can’t.”

He said, “I know.”

And attacked.