James Acton 01 - The Protocol (11 page)

“No, they don’t have equipment like this.” Acton looked in his rearview mirror to see if they were being followed. “I think we lost them.” He took the exit for JFK.

“You’re not worried about them knowing you’re on the plane?”

“A bit. I’ll just have to hope they’re not willing to shoot down an airliner full of people. They’re after the skull, anyway, and right now they don’t know where it is. I’ll try and lose whoever is waiting for me in London. I can’t believe they’d want to risk an international incident at the airport. My guess is they haven’t even notified the regular authorities to watch for me since that would raise too many questions.”

When they arrived at the airport, Acton battled his way to the departure drop off area and jumped into a spot as another car pulled away. He turned to Milton. “I don’t want any more help from you. If they ask you questions, tell them the truth.”

Milton shook his head again.

“Listen, I don’t want you to get hurt,” pleaded Acton. “Too many have died already. Promise me.”

Milton sighed. “Okay, Jim, I promise.” With that, Acton popped the trunk and left the car. Milton climbed out as well. Acton gave his friend a quick one-armed thumping hug, grabbed a hockey bag from the trunk, and strode into the terminal, not looking back. Milton closed the trunk, watched his friend disappear into the crowd, then got in the driver’s seat and pulled away.

Three thousand feet above, a Black Hawk helicopter hovered just outside of the airfield’s restricted airspace. “Bravo Air Unit to Bravo One, subject has entered the airport.”

Red accessed the reservation system as Dawson packed up their equipment. “Once you find it let’s get to the base.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.”

JFK Airport, New York City

Acton studied the boards to confirm the midnight flight to London. It was on time and leaving in one hour. He approached the counter and purchased a ticket. He knew he would be tracked on this flight since he had to use his passport so he decided to use his credit card, reserving the cash for when he arrived in London. His ticket bought, he headed for customs to find several of the scanners down and the crowds getting frustrated. Finally cleared, he arrived at his gate with little time to spare. As he headed down the gangway, he took one last look over his shoulder and could have sworn a man was looking directly at him as he talked into his wrist.

As Milton guided the Prius through the chaos that was the JFK loading and unloading zone, he started to shake as the realization of what he had been through sunk in.
Get a grip!
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

Someone stepped in front of his car and he slammed the brakes on. The person, dressed in a dark suit, flashed a badge as he walked up to the passenger door. He knocked on the window, pointing at the lock. Milton reached for the switch to unlock it then hesitated.

“Open the door, sir,” said the man in a firm tone.

I have to get out of this alive.

He glanced in his side view mirror and saw a gap in the traffic. With the car still in drive, he took his foot off the brake and hit the gas. The car’s electric motor thrust it into traffic with a force he hadn’t expected.
Maybe that’s why Jim chose this car?
Dodging in and out of the lanes, he tried to put as much distance as he could between him and his would-be passenger, whom he could no longer see in his rearview mirror. As he exited JFK he started to breathe a little easier.
I’ve got to ditch this car.

He didn’t see the black Ford Expedition following several car lengths behind, his would-be passenger inside, watching on a laptop the red blip from the tracking device stuck to his door.

Milton saw a car rental place just outside the airport. He parked the Prius in a lot just down from it and walked back. As he entered the rental office, the Expedition pulled in and parked, its tinted windows blocking a view of the interior. Within minutes he was waiting out front for the car to be brought around for the customary inspection. He signed the paperwork and climbed into the Ford Focus. He gunned the motor and left the parking lot, a little disappointed in the power after having just experienced the extra torque available in the Prius’ bottom end.

The SUV pulled out and followed. Milton drove for about half an hour then pulled into a gas station. Inside, he bought some chocolate bars, chips and Diet Coke.
Just for the taste of it.
He asked for the bathrooms and the attendant pointed to the back. Milton left his bag on the counter and headed to the bathroom. He didn’t look back as the chime sounded at the opening of the entrance door.

Entering the bathroom, he cringed at the pungent odor of stale urine. He used his foot to kick the lid up, not wanting to touch anything, and relieved himself.
Man, I’ve been needing this!
He was just about done when the door to the bathroom opened. He looked over his shoulder, surprised because he was sure he had locked it.

“I’ll be just a minute.”

No response. He zipped up his fly and turned around. There were two slight popping sounds then a searing pain in his chest. He fell to the floor, one hand gripping his chest, the other trying to hold onto the sink. A few seconds later he was prone on the floor, bleeding out. The man calmly walked out of the bathroom, the chime on the door signaling his departure.

The life draining from him, Milton reached for the Blackberry on his hip and pulled it loose. With his last few ounces of strength, he typed a message into it, pressed
Send
, then collapsed, the device landing in the now large pool of blood. Bright spots of light flashed before his closed eyes as the life sustaining oxygen stopped reaching his brain. Then nothing.

Classified Airstrip

On a military airstrip twenty miles away, in a closed hangar at the end of the runway, members of Bravo Team loaded equipment onto a Gulfstream V, while nearby, Dawson studied the screen of one of Red’s several laptops.

“Confirmed, B.D., he just boarded.”

“Okay, wheels up in five minutes!” Dawson ordered. Outside, the wind whipped around as a Black Hawk helicopter touched down. The massive doors of the hangar opened and it taxied through. The four Bravo Team members who had been tailing Milton jumped out and ran toward the G-V. The computers were packed up, stairs stowed, and the door sealed, leaving empty tables and a lone helicopter.

The G-V’s mighty engines powered up, filling the cabin with engine noise as they taxied out onto the airstrip. Dawson looked out the window to see a flatbed truck pull up to transport their chopper to base. There would be no record of it ever having been there. He laid his head back onto the leather seat and let out a deep breath, preparing himself for a few hours of rack time.
Who knows when I’ll get the next chance?
Around him, his men did the same.

Looking at the two new members of his team, he nodded in approval. He hadn't worked with them before, but knew from their records they would make fine additions. Mickey would be hard to replace; he was so gung-ho and loyal he would execute orders without question, now that he had learned his lesson with the Smitty incident. He was relieved to have found Mickey alive in the cave when they returned to search. It would take months of recovery, but he’d make it back – he was tough. Spaz was another story. Just thinking the kid’s name made him smile.
That guy was the life of the party
. He had already told Spaz’s wife about the unfortunate training accident. He hated having to lie to the families, but it was necessary for operational security. What made it worse was they knew they were being lied to.

He was asleep before they reached cruising altitude.

Somewhere over the Atlantic

Acton stared at the seatbelt warning light, waiting for it to go out as the plane climbed toward thirty-five thousand feet. Finally the gentle gong rang through the cabin. Acton immediately whipped off his seatbelt, rose and approached the nearest flight attendant. “Do you have any Internet terminals that I could access?”

“Yes, sir, on the upper deck there are several.” She pointed to a curving staircase a few feet away.

“Thanks,” he said as he rushed toward them. In Mexico he had only had about fifteen minutes to find out whom to send the skull to. Once he had found out Professor Palmer was the foremost expert and was in London, he had headed for the courier’s office. Now he needed to complete his research.

As he neared the top of the stairs he noticed a row of terminals lining one wall. All were taken except one. He quickly sat in front of it. He brought up Google and typed in
professor laura palmer british museum
. Google responded with 197,000 hits.
Shit.
He scrolled through the entries until he found who he was looking for. One click brought up a picture of a woman with her hair tied back and sleeves rolled up, working on a dig site in the desert.
Not bad.
He scanned the biographical information.

Dr. Laura Palmer had several degrees, including Archaeology, Ancient History and Literature. She had held a position at the British Museum for over ten years and was well respected in her field. She lectured all over Europe and North America, and was currently on a dig in Egypt.

Egypt!
He scrolled through the document to try and find the date it had been written.
Two years ago
. Some more searching confirmed she was currently at the university lecturing as he had thought. He spent the next few minutes entering notes into his Blackberry on contact names, numbers and addresses he might need. When he was done he turned it off, knowing he wouldn’t get a signal here or when he’d have a chance to recharge the battery. Next, he pulled up a map of the Heathrow terminal.
Now to figure a way out.

Fifteen thousand feet above him the Bravo Team slept in their G-V. Several thousand feet below, and about an hour behind, followed a C17. Six hours behind, Jasper and Lambert sat in US Airways coach, trying to sleep while a baby wailed in the seat behind them. Finally Lambert gave up and opened his complementary bag of mixed nuts. As he munched away he realized he was thirsty.
Salty!
He flagged the attendant and asked for a Pepsi.

“Is Coke okay, sir?”

He nodded.
Same shit, different flies.
She brought back the half-size can of pop and poured it into a glass of ice then placed it on his tray table.

“That will be three dollars, sir.” Now he realized the scam. He fumbled for his wallet and paid her, grumbling the entire time. Finishing his peanuts then his mini-Coke, he searched for more things to entertain himself with. He turned to Jasper.

“Sir?”

Jasper opened his eyes without raising his head and looked at his younger partner.

“What?”

“Any idea why Acton would run to England if he was innocent?”

“No.”

“Do you think he had something to do with it?”

“No.”

Lambert nodded then grabbed the in-flight magazine and flipped through it for a couple of minutes.

“Sir?”

“What?” This time Jasper sounded slightly exasperated.

“Uh, nothing, go back to sleep.”

“You’ve woken me now, what is it?” asked Jasper, clearly frustrated with his underling.

“I was just wondering something.”

“What?”

“Have you ever been to England?”

“When I get my gun back I’m gonna shoot you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Washington, DC

Wheeler had never worked on a case this high profile before, but now appreciated all the resources it granted him. They had worked through the night and were now running on adrenaline and Red Bull. Every minute of video footage from every store in the area had already been pulled and reviewed. They had the killer on tape but his pulled-up collar, pulled-down ball cap, and blacked-out shades rendered him impossible to identify. This had at least confirmed it was definitely not a random mugging. Billy had been targeted.

One wall Wheeler had run into however was the White House. They had refused to give him any information regarding the boy until he had placed a call to Guthrie. Fifteen minutes later, Wheeler had an appointment with Billy’s boss in an hour.

After clearing security, Wheeler and Schultz were led to a waiting area where they sat for several minutes before being shown into an office where they were greeted by the victim’s supervisor.

“Lesley Darbinger,” he said as he pumped both of their hands in a double grasp. “Pleased to meet two of Washington’s finest.” He motioned toward two chairs in front of his desk as he leaned on the edge of it.

Wheeler sat in the chair and looked up at Darbinger.
Classic assertion of power technique, always be higher than your opponent.

“We’re here about the death of one of your interns, William Guthrie.”

“Billy’s dead? But I just saw him yesterday!” Darbinger’s shoulders slumped as his jaw dropped.

“You didn’t know?” asked Schultz, surprised.

“No, I’ve been in closed-door meetings all day.” Darbinger looked at the floor, shaking his head, then looked up. “What will I tell his father? Does he know?”

“Yes, we’ve already notified the family,” replied Wheeler.

“How did he die?”

“He was murdered.”

“Murdered!”  This seemed to catch Darbinger off guard. “Do you know who did it?”

Wheeler shook his head. “Not yet, but it appears to have been a professional hit.”

“Professional? What do you mean?”

“Military style,” explained Schultz. “Head held back exposing the jugular. Throat slit, left to right, deep. He bled out within a minute.”

Darbinger shook his head in disbelief. “This is terrible. Does his father know?”

“Yes, sir, as I said, I’ve met with his parents already.”

“Of course you did, sorry,” replied Darbinger. “I’m just a little shaken up. How can I help you?”