“That she is to pick up the bag and come to the end of the street. If she does not, I send a signal to my men and she will be responsible for what happens next. I suggested to her that money was not worth the number of innocent lives that would be lost if she didn’t comply.”
Dattar put the binoculars to his eyes and watched as Nolan consulted her tablet. She typed something and sat back. Dattar’s phone beeped. He opened the reply, read it, and hissed through his teeth.
“What did she say?”
“That money is worth a lot and people die every day.”
Smith saw movement at the end of the street. Seconds later the shadows formed into several men making their way toward both Nolan and Beckmann’s van. When Smith put his eye to the scope they came into focus. Six men in dark uniforms, combat boots, Kevlar vests, and sniper rifles. All wore communication headsets. Smith placed his sight on the first and waited as the man drew closer to Howell’s hiding place. Nolan sat over fifty feet away and they had to see her. None targeted her, though, a fact that gave Smith pause. Howell’s voice came over the speaker of the phone that Smith had placed next to him.
“You see this crew?” Howell’s whisper sounded soft in the darkened apartment.
“I do. Dattar’s?” Smith kept his sight trained on the first. The man slowed and as he drew even with Howell’s hiding place, he turned back to speak to one of the team. For a moment the letters on his shirt became visible in Smith’s sight.
“Beckmann, Howell, don’t shoot. They’re FBI. Probably a SWAT team.”
“Who the hell called them?” Howell said.
“I have no idea, but they’re going to blow the plan sky high. Dattar sees them, he’ll run for sure.”
Smith’s phone beeped. “Hold tight, everyone.” Smith switched the line. It was Marty.
“He’s contacting her. He told her to come to the corner or he’d unleash his weapon.”
Smith was on his feet and headed to the door with the phone at his ear and the rifle in his hand. If she walked to the corner, Dattar would get her.
“What did she say?”
“That money is worth a lot and people die every day.” Marty made a noise between a laugh and a snort. “She’s calling his bluff.”
“He’s not bluffing,” Smith said. He opened the apartment door and stared into the eyes of Harcourt and the barrel of a gun.
39
Put down your gun and walk into the apartment or I’ll put a large hole where your forehead used to be,” Harcourt said. Smith lowered the rifle to the floor. It dropped with a clattering sound onto the wood.
“What are you talking about? I’m on your side,” Smith said. “We’re using Nolan as bait. Dattar is close. You’re interrupting a mission here.”
“Shut up,” Harcourt said. He tapped out a text.
“Jon, they’re lying to her. Dattar just told her that he has you and demanded she move to the corner. She’s doing it.” Marty’s voice held a manic tone and it startled Harcourt, who twitched.
“Who the hell is that?” he said. Smith felt his blood pressure spike. Because of him, Nolan had surrendered. Bitterness welled up in him and then anger washed over him. He kept his hand that held the phone still.
“Howell. MI6. He knows I’m up here. You kill me and he’ll kill you.” Smith hoped the lie was effective, but Harcourt shook his head.
“Forget about lying to me. The FBI has surrounded both of your buddies. Or should I say both of Russell’s buddies? CIA knows she’s a mole and we’ve requested that the FBI pick up her, you, and Beckmann. Everyone she brought with her when she came inside. They’ll detain Howell long enough to transfer him back to England and into the loving arms of MI6. Give me that phone.” Smith tossed it at Harcourt’s feet and tensed, waiting for the moment Harcourt would glance down. When he did, Smith would make his move. It didn’t work. Harcourt kept his eyes on Smith and his gun pointed.
“Pick it up and hand it to me,” Harcourt said. “You don’t think I’m that stupid, do you?”
Smith reached down to the phone, all the while hoping that Marty had kept listening to the open channel and had the good sense to remain quiet.
“Russell’s not a mole. You’ve got to know that.” Smith spoke loud enough that Marty must have been able to hear. No sound came from the phone, but the screen lit again as Smith handled it. The connection was still live. He handed it over. Harcourt powered it down.
“It’s Russell’s password that’s being used to hack the system. Lie on the floor, face down.”
Harcourt glanced at the phone and in that instant Smith took a fast slide step, raised his leg at a ninety-degree angle, knee bent, and extended it out as he kicked at the other man’s face. The blow was backed by the rage that consumed him. Harcourt sensed the action, but moved a split second too late, and Smith’s foot hammered into Harcourt’s chest, knocking him backward. The gun went off and fired dead center into Smith’s breastbone. He grunted as he felt the bullet’s punch into the protective vest, and he stumbled with the force. Harcourt lost his footing and landed hard on his lower back. Smith kept coming on, his fury eclipsing his good sense, and he aimed another kick at Harcourt’s face, connecting with his nose at the same moment that Harcourt fired again. The second shot whizzed past Smith but his foot hit its mark. He felt the man’s nose shift to the right with the blow and a plume of blood sprayed with it.
Smith grabbed at the gun and yanked it out of Harcourt’s hand with his left while he delivered another punch to the man’s nose with his right. Pain reverberated through his knuckles when he hit Harcourt’s hard cheekbone instead of the soft cartilage of his nose. Harcourt swung a fist that managed to land on Smith’s injured left arm, but the resulting sting hurt far less than the bullet to the vest had.
The sound of pounding feet on the stairs told Smith that the SWAT team had heard the shots and were coming to Harcourt’s rescue. Smith leaped over Harcourt’s prone body and ran back up the stairs to the room with the fire ladder that Nolan had used days ago. The window was still open and Smith clambered through it, not bothering to check whether the team had shown enough foresight to cover the rear of the apartment. If they had, then he would be forced to surrender. He jumped on the stairs to release them and held on as the bottom ladder portion swung downward. He heard rather than saw the men above him. Their voices got louder as they reached the window. Smith didn’t look up at them or down at the street. He kept his focus on the ladder and the left-right motion of crawling lower as fast as he could. Above him a man’s voice yelled.
“I got him. On the fire stairs. Hold tight.” In the next instant Smith heard the sound of a compressed air shot fired from a rifle. They had either Beckmann’s or Howell’s gun.
The dart hit him in the back of the neck. A small part of Smith’s brain, the one that was in charge of his logical thinking, informed him that the dart had missed his vertebrae and hit his upper shoulder where the neck met the collarbone. It sank into his flesh and he winced from the rush of tranquilizer that pumped into his system.
His legs kept moving despite the fact that several milligrams of a powerful animal sedative was pouring into his bloodstream. He made it to the corner before the real effects hit him. Each step was becoming an uncoordinated mess and his vision started to blur. He stumbled forward, functioning on adrenaline more than anything else.
He turned the corner and a silver car jumped the curb and slammed up onto the sidewalk. It came to a halt five feet away from Smith, which was a good thing, because Smith was in no condition to dodge out-of-control cars. Simply walking was becoming a feat unto itself. The car’s window lowered and Russell stuck her head out.