Chapter 25

For a split second, James thought he might be able to catch the man before he even made it out the door, but he over estimated his knee’s ability to maneuver around through the frantic crowd as they transitioned from stationary awe to frantically trying to escape at around the same time the surviving terrorist suspect took off for the door. James shifted his weight to his bad leg as he tried to squeeze past two young women who were hindered by their stilettos as they made their move for the door. By the time James got outside, his target had a growing twenty yard lead. James took off in his direction, sprinting in a way he may not have thought he was capable in his current state of still healing injuries and a stomach full of beef and vodka. He wasn’t gaining much ground, but he was keeping the man in his sight. It would have to do for now.

The man was wearing a white track suit and sneakers, far better suited for the run than James’ tailored suit and dress shoes, but the white stood out as a stark contrast against the varying shades of grey all cities adopt in the cold winter months. He looked light on his feet and no stranger to this kind of exertion. God damn soccer players, James swore to himself as the track suit wearing man took a right into a parking garage. James was aware that the man could be waiting right around the corner to ambush him, but he couldn’t risk slowing down and losing him. James reached into his jacket mid-stride and produced the silver PP9 he’d been batting at in its holster since he arrived in Spain as he reached the corner. He dropped his shoulder and took the right with the pistol in front of him, hoping he might get a shot off before his opponent if he was indeed waiting there. Fortunately, he wasn’t. James found himself staring into a dimly lit parking garage, the blacktop ascending in front of him to a second floor and chain link fences on either side. At least I know he’s in here somewhere, James told himself as he slowed his breathing to listen carefully and walked into the dark structure.

In movies, James had always seen people carrying pistols in one hand, almost casually as they looked for the bad guy in buildings like this, and had James not been taught better in the Corps, he probably would have done just that. Instead, he adopted a posture that was usually familiar only to those who’ve carried a weapon for a living and that he knew only as “the groucho.” Leaned forward with the pistol held squarely in both hands, he could absorb the recoil of firing the weapon while maintaining a small silhouette his opponent could use as a target. It had been years since James had cleared a building in this manner and as he reached the second level, he considered that he had never done it alone, nor had he ever done it in a situation where the person he was looking for might actually shoot him back (his previous experiences had been entirely in training). He paused for a minute to survey the scene, hoping to see some sign of the man hiding behind one of the few cars that remained in the garage. He heard the howling exhaust of a Mercedes with a mashed gas pedal and realized his backup wouldn’t know to find him in here. He thought for a moment about returning to the street to bring them in, but knew there had to be a secondary exit in the building. He knew that if he left the parking structure they may lose their only chance at finding this man, and in turn, finding the rest of the organization. It wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. As the growl of the Mercedes engine grew closer, James pointed his weapon at a nearby BMW. It was a late model M5, an expensive car James assumed would probably have a car alarm, and squeezed the trigger twice. The piercing bangs of the shots reverberated in the concrete building, followed immediately by a blaring car horn and an alarm that sounded remarkable like an air raid siren.

If that doesn’t get their attention, I don’t know what will, James thought to himself as he leveled the pistol once again and moved forward. As he passed the BMW, he heard the sound of the Mercedes’ tires screeching their disapproval as DePietro or Black (whomever was driving) brought it to an emergency stop outside the garage. He returned to his “groucho” posture and continued into the dark building. As he reached the end of the row of cars, he could make out the illuminated exit sign just down a short stairway. Its window was browned with years’ worth of grime, but he could make out the flickering light of what looked like an alley from the other side. He paused at the door, aware that if it was an alley, there would be little promise for cover once he passed through. He took a cautious glance through the window, but the grime permitted little more than a blurry view of a hanging light fixture. The door opened outward from James’ position, so he placed his back against the wall on the handle side and used his (still sore and not entirely healed) pistol hand to press down on the door handle, releasing the latch. He paused, waiting to see if the sound of the door latch would illicit any gunfire, when it didn’t he drew his right knee up toward his chest and thrust his foot backward into the bottom portion of the door. In one motion, the door swung open and James span into a kneeling firing position in the doorway.

James studied the scene before him; it was a hallway rather than an alley that lead to what appeared to be another staircase just beyond a machine James assumed you would use to pay for your parking. Aside from the machine, the hallway was a barren expanse of worn out floor tiles that would have looked at home in a rundown high school and a single, hanging light fixture that flickered twice in the few seconds James spent surveying the layout. James was about to stand and press forward for the next stair case when the shadow of the parking machine shifted. Someone was standing behind it.

“Step out with your hands up!” James first yelled in English, then repeated in Spanish for good measure. The shadow froze in place, “I know you’re there, step out and you won’t be hurt.” He spoke only in Spanish this time.

“All things being equal, I’d prefer the English,” a voice came from behind the machine.

“Well that’s just fine with me, I prefer it too. Now step out from behind the machine with your hands in the air,” James wondered if the man he was speaking to was the one who’d bombed the cruise ship or if he was just a local set of hands.

“We both know if you take me in they’ll torture me,” there was no fear in his statement. James knew immediately that this man was more than just a local henchman.

“You don’t have to be tortured. You could just tell us what we need to know,” The sound of heavy footsteps was approaching from behind James. He prayed it was Agent Black.

“So you can find and kill my brothers and sisters in arms…” It wasn’t a question, or if it was, the man behind the parking machine meant for it to be rhetorical.

“No different than what they’d do to me. My patience is running out and I’ve got five more rounds in this clip and two more clips on my belt. Step out with your hands up or I’ll use all nineteen of those rounds to keep you behind that machine long enough for me knock it over and crush you with it. Maybe we’ll both get lucky and it’ll just paralyze you.” James wasn’t bluffing. Knocking the machine over onto him was the best tactical move he could come up with.

“Good work,” Agent Black’s voice caught James’ ear from behind him as he approached.

“Here comes the cavalry, last chance to come out,” James announced down the hall.

"Keep him talking, she’s going around to the other door,” Agent Black whispered into James’ ear.

“I do not fear death,” James was having trouble pinpointing the accent, but it seemed Arab, “In fact, it’s preferable to capture.” His voice was calm. James had no reason not to believe him.

“There’s no reason for anyone to die here tonight,” James announced almost without thinking. He’d been trained to talk people down in just this type of situation.

“We all die someday…” The way he trailed off told James everything he needed to know. This man was convincing himself. He was going to make him shoot him.

“I plan to die in bed, an old man a long time from now. You can have that too, just step out from behind the machine with your hands up and this all ends.”

“I plan to die a free man,” he was getting excited again. He was psyching himself up for what would come next, “Nineteen rounds? You won’t need nineteen, but I promise you’ll need more than one.” James heard the sound of a pistol being racked. He was reloading. James turned to look to Agent Black, to see if he had any suggestions, but just as he looked away the door on the far end of the hall burst open.

“Free…” DePietro couldn’t finish her command before shots rang out. DePietro went down and out of instinct James took off sprinting toward the machine. He hit with his right shoulder at a dead sprint. James thrust two decades worth of football and rugby experience into the soda machine, launching his weight into it with enough force to send it tipping instantly. The man leapt out from behind it and rolled. James heard shots ring out as Agent Black took advantage of the situation. The man yelped with pain as a round connected with his shoulder while leaping over DePietro’s body. He stumbled up the stairs but kept his feet. James rolled off the machine and took off after him, pausing only briefly to look down at DePietro’s terrified eyes as he stepped over her toward the still open door at the top of the stairs.

“Go! I’ll take care of her!” Agent Black yelled from behind him. He made it up the ten steps in three strides and threw himself out the door and toward the stumbling man. They were outside again, on what appeared to be another portion of the parking structure. The man was twenty or so paces ahead of James and moving well for someone who’d just been shot. Adrenaline and blind rage helped James close the gap and as the man reached the concrete barrier at the end of the parking structure, he stopped instead of leaping over it. James wasn’t thinking, but assumed they were on the ground floor, as he’d gone down stairs to the hallway and back up out the door. It didn’t occur to James that the parking structure he’d first entered could be above ground level on the opposite side of the building. He was four steps away when the man stopped, two steps away as the man span and began to raise his pistol, and as James lowered his shoulder into the man’s chest and wrapped his arms around and down toward his legs a single shot rang out above his head. James’ leverage lifted the man into the air and his inertia carried them both over the barrier at the end of the structure.

James realized they were falling a split second before they landed atop a small car on the street level. His shoulder was still buried in the man’s abdomen and his head hit metal as the Ford Festiva buckled under their combined weight. His vision went black and for a second, James was comfortable and unafraid. Unaware of where he was or why he was there, he saw only flashes of light and knew only overwhelming tiredness. Then the world came rushing back over him all at once, the bite of the cold winter air came first, then a throbbing pain in his head, then the rest of his body chiming in with injuries, new and old, all competing for his attention. Finally, the realization that the man he’d tackled was getting up. James knew the man was going to kill him if he didn’t do something to stop him, but for a fraction of a second, that didn’t seem so bad. Maybe it was about time James checked out, he was awfully tired.

Then the anger returned. Anger over the pain, anger about DePietro, about leaving Eve, about all those people in Honduras… it was an all-encompassing anger that was stronger, wilder than James had ever felt before. It was strong enough to bring him to his feet, staring eye to eye with the only man he could hold responsible. The man was disheveled, blood poured from his nose and from where he’d caught a bullet in the shoulder. His eyes revealed no pain, only the same angry hatred that burned in James. The man glanced to the ground where his pistol had landed only a few feet away. James saw his gaze shift and took advantage of his broken concentration, launching his broken hand into the man’s nose and feeling the crunch of misplaced cartilage as he connected. The man stumbled backwards but corrected himself, thrusting the top of his head into James’ face as he stepped back toward him. James saw the head butt coming and turned slightly, catching it in the jaw with his teeth clenched. It hurt, but did little other damage. James wrapped his hands around the back of the man’s head and stepped back, swinging his knee upward as he pulled his head down. He connected, smashing his knee into the man’s teeth. The sharp pain of one of them cutting through James’ thin dress pants and into his flesh did nothing to stop James from retracting his knee and doing it again, this time the man’s weak resistance fell away, allowing James to connect with all of his strength. The man collapsed around James’ knee and crumpled to the ground in a bloody pile. James stood over him staring, waiting for any indication that he was simply pretending to be unconscious: waiting for a reason to kill the man. He didn’t provide one and somewhere inside James’ head, somewhere deeper and darker than he’d ever ventured on his late nights drinking, he was disappointed.

Blood was pooling in his mouth and he was dizzy. He spat the blood onto the unconscious face of his fallen opponent in disgust before finding and picking up both pistols. Chances were good the police would arrive soon. He hoped Agent Black would show up first, but couldn’t find the energy to worry too much. The sound of sirens erupted in the distance and James hoped it was an ambulance for DePietro. He hoped she still needed one. He tucked his PP9 back into its holster beneath his torn and bloody sport coat then he tucked the other one into his belt. His dizziness was getting worse and it was clear that he had a concussion. He hoped that was the only new injury he’d be adding to his list, but doubted it. The man on the ground was still out cold and probably needed serious medical attention, but before James could let any paramedics touch him, he’d need to be searched. James took a knee beside the unconscious man and patted at his pockets. A wallet without identification and a few hundred Euros, a generic key ring with two keys (one for a Peugeot and the other appeared to be an apartment or house key) and a key fob for the car. Inside the man’s coat pocket he found an airplane ticket for the next morning. The destination stood out in bold lettering, “New York City.”

James stood back up and looked around. The sirens were getting closer and there was still no sign of Agent Black. Looks like I’m on my own. He thought. As two Citroens with “Guardia Urbana” emblazoned on the sides pulled up they shut off the sirens and James removed both pistols from his coat and pants and placed them on the ground in front of him. The police officers poured out of their vehicles with their weapons drawn, shouting at him in Spanish to get on the ground with his hands atop his head. James obliged and knelt down, allowing them to handcuff him without any trouble. One of the officers called for the paramedics on the radio strapped to the shoulder of his uniform as they put James in the back of one of the cars. James had been in the back of a police car a few times and recalled complaining about the cramped quarters in the back of the Ford Interceptors they used back in his home town, but compared to the back seat of the Citroen, the Ford might as well have been a sprawling country manor. He did his best to adjust his legs in a way that hurt his knee a bit less and leaned his head back. Nothing like sleeping off a concussion to end a hard day’s work, he thought to himself as the officers milled about the unconscious body James had left for them. He closed his eyes.

“This is our jurisdiction,” he heard Agent Black’s voice escalate as he spoke to one of the officers. James wasn’t sure if he’d passed out for a minute or had just missed his arrival. Either way, he was happy to hear his voice. Agent Black continued to talk to what must have been the senior officer on the scene until the ambulance arrived, at which point, the two men shook hands and Agent Black walked over and opened the door to the squad car.

“Nice work, Agent White.” He spoke loud enough for at least one officer to hear.

"Thanks boss,” James’ response was sincere as he stepped back out into the free world and turned to let Agent Black unlock his handcuffs. James wondered if he always carried a handcuff key. Seemed like a pretty good idea, he had to admit.

“Let’s just hope you left enough brain cells in the guy to get anything out of him in interrogation,” Agent Black patted his back gingerly.

“DePietro?” James asked him as they walked toward a Mercedes that had just pulled up with a man behind the wheel James recognized from the office.

“She’s hanging on,” Agent Black’s voice turned grave, “but it doesn’t look good.”