The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (24 page)

Michael could feel the beating of his heart returning to a more proper rhythm, and his face was finding an appropriate color. He looked at the guard. He said nothing. The pain in his leg and the anger running through his mind were simply too much.

The driver shouted, “Sixty seconds.”

Michael detected a small but palpable elevation of the man’s voice. He could see that his hands were clamped firmly onto the steering wheel; his knuckles were ghostly white as he squeezed.

Michael cast an angry glare at the guard, and, with some difficulty, he stammered, “What’s in my leg?”

“It’s a bit of insurance, Doc.”

Michael shouted back, his voice finding some strength. “Insurance! What the hell are you talking about? Who the hell are you guys?” Michael’s questions were growing furious. The pain in his leg and the disbelief running through him was morphing into anger.

The guard answered Michael as if stating a fact. “You are responsible for Senator Door’s death.”

Michael stared angrily back at the man.

The guard continued, “The Intelligence Oversight Committee—a committee that is headed, excuse me, that
was
headed by Senator Door—is investigating that little issue between Iran and the US.”

“Merlin? This is about Operation Merlin?!” Michael shouted, realizing that his hypothesis had been confirmed. “You guys were the ones behind the operation, weren’t you? You’re trying to clean up your mess, aren’t you?”

The guard smiled but didn’t answer Michael’s question. Instead, he said, “The investigation into Operation Merlin was Senator Door’s pet project. She was breathing down your neck looking for answers. She was about to call you before the Oversight Committee. You had her assassinated to stop her investigation. At least, that’s what the world will hear. Unless…”

Michael was fuming. He growled at the guard, “Unless what?” But he knew the answer to his question.

The man patted Michael’s pocket where he had placed the medallion and replied, “You’ll need to figure that out, Doc. Just know that Merlin wasn’t the only thing of value that Door came across. Our confidence is in you, Doc, but we will know where you are at all times. And, Doc,” the guard leaned in and gave Michael’s leg a little squeeze. Michael grimaced but never took his eyes off of the man. “Don’t cross us. That little device will make sure that you do as you are told. Try to remove it or don’t do what we ask, and it will explode. You have forty-eight hours, Doc. Your wife will have two hours more. It should be just enough time for you to figure out where she is. Consider it a gift should you succeed.”

Michael felt a wave of fear slam against his torso.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Michael screamed.

The man smiled and then said, “Do we really have to reopen old wounds? You know exactly why. I believe that you were once told, Dr. Sterling—we are everywhere.”

Michael eyed the man with anger. The man was right; he knew exactly why. “So the Order is still pissed at me, is that it?”

The guard smiled but said nothing. He didn’t confirm it, but Michael knew: the Order had resurfaced.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Michael asked, resigned.

The guard’s response was pithy. “You’ll figure it out, Doc. Just find York.”

“What about CPT Scott?” asked Michael, afraid to hear the answer.

The guard cast a downward glance at Michael and said, “Scott’s dead. And, Doc, don’t go and get clever on us and try that futile
save the world, here comes the cavalry crap
. We will, without hesitation, kill your wife.”

“Fifteen seconds!” shouted the driver.

Up ahead, through the front windshield, Michael saw the lead car. Off to the side of the road was a broken-down motorist. The first Yukon passed the unlucky driver. The moment that it did, the broken-down car lurched out onto the road.

Michael looked at the guard who was smiling devilishly back at him.

“You might want to brace yourself. And, Doc—”

Michael turned and looked at the man. “It may not seem like it, but we are on the same side.”

Just then, Michael’s rage replaced the ice in his core; he bolted at the guard and smashed his forehead into the man’s face, but the restraints of the seat belt allowed him to go only so far. He tried to open his mouth and speak. He wanted to ask how in the hell they could be on the same side, but he couldn’t force the question out. The air had been forced out of his lungs, and time had run out.

In the blink of an eye, the guard slammed his fist across Michael’s temple and then pulled his seatbelt tighter. The guard was holding onto the strap across his chest; he started to take deep, heaving breaths. His eyes were latched onto the car that had now pulled out onto the road. He was preparing himself for impact.

He turned his head toward Michael and whispered, “Cross your fingers.”

Michael was in a daze, but he had the senses to say to the guard, “I am going to kill you.”

The guard smiled and said, “We’ll see.”

Michael shifted his focus forward, out the front windshield. He could see the driver of the small car that now sat perpendicular in the road, blocking their way. The driver of the Yukon didn’t take any evasive action nor did he brake. Instead, he accelerated. The driver of the small car only stared into the distance, sitting immobile in the car. Not once did he turn his head toward the fast-approaching Yukon, nor did he acknowledge that the oversized SUV would soon end his life.

But Michael wasn’t as ready as that man. He wanted to protest. He wanted to do something. But it happened too fast. All that he could do was to stare ahead and brace for the crash.

The impact between the fast-moving, steel-bodied Yukon split the small sedan into two halves. Michael couldn’t hear the sound of crumpling metal and the explosion of shattering glass. Time was fragmented and disproportionate to the event. All sound was dislocated. His brain could not keep pace with the occurrences. He knew that they were in the air. He knew that they were spinning. But he had no idea for how long or in which way they had spun.

It was oddly quiet.

Then, as fast as it had left, all sound came back.

The Yukon was thrown wildly down the road upon impact. The chase vehicle slammed on its brakes to avoid the car that now sat on the road in two pieces. Narrowly, the driver of the chase vehicle avoided the back half of the car but couldn’t do the same for the front half. The driver of the vehicle was already dead—this much the Special Activities Division operative driving the chase vehicle could tell. He worked to keep control of the Yukon, but physics is by far a greater force than hope. The vehicle flipped onto its side and slid noisily down the road. The metal rubbed harshly against the asphalt, throwing the piercing sound of grating steel into the woods that lined the road.

Michael’s head was spinning, but he never lost consciousness. Fragments of glass rested in his hair; his face had a few minor cuts. But the rest of him was unscathed. The Yukon had come to rest on its wheels and sat in the middle of the road. All of the windows had shattered, and black smoke was pouring through the cabin. The guard next to him was alive, but barely.

A small piece of twisted metal had cleanly pierced the man’s right thigh. His chest expanded and contracted heavily.

Karma,
thought Michael as he stared at the impaled leg and struggled to undo his own seat belt.

In the front seat, the driver was slumped over the center console. His life had ended.

Michael shot a glance at the chase car behind them. Already, its dazed occupants were climbing out of the vehicle. Ahead of the accident, the lead car had slammed on its brakes and was turning around.

The seatbelt was tight across his chest, which made it quite hard to maneuver his cuffed hands to the seatbelt’s release. Michael grimaced as he twisted his body. He desperately fumbled for the release, but his fingertips weren’t close enough to grasp it.

He pushed against the force of the handcuffs as much as he could tolerate. The metal of each cuff dug deeply into his wrists. He let out a long groan as they bit harder into his flesh. His fingers grabbed onto the seatbelt’s release, and he clumsily undid the restraint.

Freed from the buckle, Michael flipped onto his back and grunted heavily as he slid his legs through his cuffed arms. Still on his back, with his cuffed wrists now in front of him, he kicked open the door and slid awkwardly out of the vehicle.

Momentarily sizing up the situation, Michael looked left and then right. Reaching back into the vehicle, he took the sidearm from the unconscious guard. Michael reached for the piece of metal impaled in the man’s leg and yanked it free. The pain forced the guard to shoot up against his seatbelt. He regained consciousness, let out a loud scream, and then looked at Michael.

Michael put the gun to the man’s temple. “Where is she?” screamed Michael.

“I was never told, I don’t—I don’t know. That’s how it is. We never know what the other teams are doing,” he replied weakly.

“The keys for the cuffs?!”

“In the chase vehicle,” panted the guard.

Sirens were closing in from the distance, and some of the men from the chase vehicle spilled out from its upturned sides.

Michael looked back at the guard, and, with one swift movement, he slammed the piece of metal into the man’s chest.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said to the newly dead guard, and then he sprinted toward the wood line.

The thick-trunked trees were covered by even thicker brush and roped vines. Michael couldn’t run in a straight line. With his arms outstretched to protect his face from low-hanging branches, Michael ignored the sting of the increasing number of new cuts.

Pimmit Bend Park was close. He would find what he needed there.

The men in the lead vehicle didn’t see Michael run into the woods, nor did the men stumbling from the flipped-over chase vehicle. The small vehicle that they had crashed into was on fire; the thick, black smoke obscured Michael’s escape. Michael used this to his advantage. It bought him a few extra minutes, and he used them wisely.

Once safely into the woods, Michael fell to his knees. He undid his belt buckle and pulled down his pants just enough to expose his hip. With a muffled groan, Michael dug the tip of his index finger into the small hole created by the heavy sewing needle he had shoved into his hip earlier.

A small amount of blood dripped from the wound as Michael struggled to grasp the needle’s eye. Finally getting a grip on the needle, he worked it from where it resided. The thick shaft of the needle’s body was slippery; Michael squeezed it hard and pulled it slowly from his flesh.

Once it was out of his hip, Michael shoved it into the keyhole of the handcuffs and manipulated the tumblers to unlock them. It took only a few moments to pick the locks.

Throwing the cuffs to the forest floor, Michael sat motionless for a moment and thought,
Why would three men willingly choose to die to make it look like I escaped?

There was no answer to his question.

He stood and sprinted toward the park he knew was a few kilometers north of his position. The small park was as standard as any other in Fairfax County. A few cars straddled the roadside of its southern border. It was a favorite spot for runners. Once there, he ran to the nearest car—a 2007 Honda minivan, silver in color—and didn’t hesitate. He smashed in its window with his elbow, opened the door, and climbed in to the front seat. Hot-wiring the car was as easy as picking the locks of the handcuffs.

Soon, he was speeding down the road and distancing himself from his captors.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the medallion that the CIA officer had put there. It was small and emblazoned with a four-armed cross. Each arm was inset with a marble-sized purple amethyst. Another amethyst was set in its center. The stones were set into gold. Carved into the precious metal were simple designs—designs that meant nothing.

Flipping it over, the back of the medallion was flat and nondescript. He saw the engraving that the guard had read to him:
From Four to Fifteen: Ten are Lost Forever
. This part didn’t make sense, but etched crudely underneath the phrase was another:
They Amount to the Same.

Reading the engraving, Michael immediately knew why he was in the middle of this mess. He let out a long, heavy breath and said out loud, “I should have been a lawyer. Am I the only guy in the fucking CIA who knows history?”

Michael knew what the second engraving meant: he had come across and studied its significance when earning his PhD in religious history.

Sighing, he turned the car toward Dulles Airport Road. He had a plane to catch. But first there was someone he needed to see. Keeping one hand on the wheel, Michael flipped open the center console. He rummaged through its contents, pulling out a small map, a pen, and a package of tissues. He threw them all into the back seat. They weren’t what he wanted.

“Come on, there’s got to be one here!” he shouted out loud.

He reached over to the glove box, doing his best to keep the minivan on the road. The door of the compartment fell downward, and Michael immediately saw what he needed.