Shadow Game Page 6

  He instantly caught sight of the man approaching the house. The light seemed to surprise him. He tried to move, but his slight hesitation made him an easy target. The man recognized his vulnerability immediately. Instead of searching for cover, he raised his gun to fire. But Reddic already had him in his sights. He squeezed off a round just before his left shoulder crashed into the ground.

  Strangely, the sound of his body hitting the turf seemed louder than the actual shot. The contact was so jarring he dropped the gun. He knew that any attempt at fumbling around the grass in search of it would be a mistake. Instead, he popped up into an athletic crouch. He had hit the man in the shoulder, but he knew the confrontation was far from over. The bullet wound may slow him down, but it would not stop him. Professionals always kept coming until they either killed or were killed.

  Reddic stayed low, closing the distance between he and the gunman in less than two seconds. He saw the man reach for his gun with his left hand. Reddic’s hand shot out and seized the man’s left wrist, twisting it forcefully clockwise. But the man was strong, despite the bullet wound. He refused to let go of the weapon.

  Reddic kept the gun away from his body as he pulled harder on the arm. Then he brought his own elbow crashing down on the backside of his arm, which was facing up. His arm made a gruesome snapping sound. It was followed by an ear-piercing howl of pain. Reddic chopped his windpipe with the back of his hand. The man instantly went silent as he struggled for air. Reddic saw an opening to put him away. With all his weight on his left leg he kicked out with his right, connecting squarely with the man’s jaw. The effect was like a switch being flipped to off. His body simply crumbled to the ground.

  Reddic reached down to check for a pulse and felt a faint beating on his fingertips. It would have been easier to have simply shot him and gotten it over with, yet Reddic always felt that outside of war or imminent life-threatening danger, killing should be a last resort. There was something fundamentally wrong with taking another man’s life without exploring all other options first. That wasn’t to say that he was a pacifist—far from it. He had killed before and would most likely do so again. There just needed to be a moral boundary. If an enemy was a clear and present danger to him or his loved ones, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. But he wasn’t a sadist either. He found no joy in killing, especially when the lines between friend and foe were blurry.

  He found his gun on the lawn and scurried back to the house. As soon as he reached the rear entryway, he heard the front door splinter open. He grabbed Brooke’s hand, extinguished the patio light and pulled her into the backyard.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  He accelerated into the fence and leaped into the air. This time he planted his foot on top of the fence and cycled over. He landed in a front somersault, letting the momentum carry him to his feet. He looked back at the fence expecting Brooke to be climbing over any second. Instead, he saw a section of the fence open just to the left. Seconds later Brooke walked through and jogged over to him.

  “Nice jump,” she said.

  Reddic suddenly felt embarrassed. There was a gate in the fence this whole time. But there was no time to dwell on the fact. They were not out of the clear yet. When he made it to the Audi, he was surprised to find Brooke right behind him. She was much more athletic than she was letting on. Reddic started the car and pulled away from the curb. He made two rights until he was back on Brooke’s street.

  “What are you doing?” Brooke asked. “You’re going the wrong way.”

  “We’re not getting chased tonight,” Reddic said.

  As soon as he rounded the corner the black SUV was visible. He rolled his window down and stuck the gun out with his left hand. He fired two shots into the windshield and then one each into the front and rear tires. The Audi accelerated to sixty miles per hour before screeching to a halt beside the white van. There, Reddic shot out two more tires. In his rearview mirror he saw three men sprinting out of Brooke’s house. They were firing their guns wildly in his direction. Reddic put the car back into gear and accelerated down the street.

  “Who are you?” Brooke asked, staring at him.

  “I already told you. I’m just here to keep you safe.”

  Reddic kept his eyes glued to the road. He didn’t want to engage Brooke. He had bigger things to worry about. Getting her away from her home was the easy part. Keeping her alive would prove to be much more difficult.

  9

  A storm was raging, but it was not coming off the Pacific Coast. Mahan paced back and forth inside an anonymous warehouse along Oakland’s harbor. There were five men before him, two of which were seated and in bad shape. One had a grade three concussion and the other a bullet wound in the shoulder.

  Never had he felt so much anger. He wanted to shoot every one of them in the head for their incompetence. He felt himself reaching for his gun, but abruptly stopped. Such rash thinking would get him nowhere. These men were allegedly the best that money could buy. The Priest had made the arrangements. They were former FSB agents, which was the successor to the infamous KGB. They were well trained, intelligent, ruthless, and usually terribly efficient. That they were operating on foreign soil did little to assuage the fact that they had been bested by a professor, a woman professor no less, and her mysterious ally.

  Mahan exhaled slowly. Maybe he was being too hard on them. After all, they were not part of the brotherhood. They were pawns being used in a bigger game. If the woman had truly outwitted them, they would no longer be breathing. They would be dead before they could utter an excuse. As it was, he knew their top priority now was to identify who it was that was coming to the woman’s aid. One thing was glaringly obvious; they were dealing with an extremely talented professional. But everybody had a weakness. And Mahan was certain that he would find what it was.

  Yet these men sitting before him had a weakness too. They were weak. And thinking that he was being too hard on them was a soft sentiment. The bottom line was, he didn’t trust these men and their results to date have been pitiful. As soon as the Priest gave the word, he would rid himself of them. For the time being, however, he knew he had to get every bit of use out of them as possible. The Priest had demanded it.

  Still, it was almost impossible to keep his anger in check. Intermittent Explosive Disorder was what some pencil-neck psychologist diagnosed him with while in prison. All because of a minor skirmish at a bar. There he was, minding his own business only a month after being released from his first sentence, drinking a tequila when a gorgeous woman walked in and sat two stools away. The fact that she was with another man meant nothing to him. He had wanted her. So, he grabbed her arm and pulled her off her stool. It wasn’t a big deal. He was just going to rub up against her a little on the dance floor before taking her home. Then her boyfriend came and pushed him away. The next thing he knew he was being put away for another five years for aggravated assault, which was just a legal term for beating the piss out of that guy.

  When he was finally released the unexpected happened. He was invited to church by the Priest and immediately found religion, but it wasn’t any religion he had heard of. The Priest encouraged him to use his anger. It was his strength, he was told. But it needed to be channeled into a purpose. Over time as his knowledge grew, he learned how to do just that. He began to see the world in a completely different light. All the power that he possessed, all his strength, all his influence can be attributed to the oath that he made years ago. These men needed to see his power in action.

  “You fools,” he said. “How could you let her get away again?”

  “We were unprepared,” replied one of the FSB men standing to his left. His name was Dmitri Pavlov, and he spoke perfect English. This was another reason why these men were so expensive and sought-after. They passed the eye and ear test.

  “It was a rush job,” the man with the bullet wound added. “We were unable to do any reconnaissance before acting.”

  “Excuses,” Mahan spat out. Wit
hout warning he pulled his gun out and drove the tip of the barrel into the man’s damaged shoulder. “I want results, not excuses!” he screamed.

  Mahan pulled the gun away and waited for a reaction. The man’s eyes welled up with moisture, but he refused to look away or give heed to the pain. Mahan admired this trait but was also very much aware of Russian defiance. He took a quick step back, raised his weapon and fired a round just above the man’s head. The bullet struck a barrel full of water across the cavernous space. The concussive sound was deafening, causing Mahan’s ears to ring. Yet he was not worried about anybody outside hearing. These warehouses along the harbor were nearly soundproof.

  The shot had the desired effect. All five men suddenly perked up like dogs that had just been whipped. It was imperative that these men knew who was in charge.

  “Your first order of business is to find out who or what agency is protecting the professor,” Mahan said. “This operation was not supposed to have been difficult.”

  One of the men raised his hand like a submissive child. Mahan simply gestured for him to speak.

  “We were assured that the American government would not involve itself in this matter. Now you infer that an agency is running an op?”

  “Let me worry about that. You need to shake all your contacts for information. I will have my contacts upload intel onto a secure server. Check airports and rental agencies. Find her cell phone and track its number. We have no more than forty-eight hours to close this up. Now get moving.”

  As the men filed out of the warehouse, Mahan reached for his satellite phone. He needed to call the Priest and find out who he thought was interfering. He hesitated before dialing. If there was one man who accepted failure worse than himself, it was the Priest. The thought of disappointing the man again made him ill.

  Mahan’s father had abandoned him shortly after his birth. The Priest was now the closest thing he had to a father. The secrets, the knowledge, the power he had received from him far surpassed anything he had ever imagined.

  A sly grin formed along the corner of his mouth as he brought the phone to his ear. The secrets he knew indeed wielded tremendous power. He knew that if they ever came to light, they would surely shock the world.

  10

  President James Rutherford slammed the phone into its cradle with such force it stung his hand. He pushed back his chair, took a second to compose himself then paged Betty Hadfield, the presidential secretary.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Betty answered softly. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is Madison Jenkins here yet?” he asked with a biting tone.

  “Not yet, sir. She should be here any moment.”

  “As soon as she arrives, send her right in.”

  The president disconnected the line before his secretary could respond further. He stood from his chair and suddenly felt a hint of remorse. He probably should not have treated Betty Hadfield like that. It wasn’t her fault. She was completely out of the political loop and had absolutely no impact on his current problems. She had been nothing but loyal to him from his days as a lowly New York State Senator to his time as a United States Senator and now as the President of the United States. He made a mental note to have one of his aides bring some flowers to her later.

  Rutherford stepped away from the Resolute Desk and turned toward the towering south windows. There was not much to see during this late hour. The sun had set long before. Only flood lights illuminated patches of the south lawn.

  He caught his reflection in the bullet-proof glass as he moved to leave the windows. His appearance certainly reflected his physical state, which was exhaustion and apprehension. Still, at age fifty-eight, he maintained a relatively striking appeal. At six-feet tall and trim, he had an athletic build that projected an aura of youthful energy. He had light brown hair with a few gray strays mixed in. His brown eyes had always been good political weapons to stare down obstinate opponents. His rugged looks were capped off by his high cheek bones and aquiline nose.

  Feeling foolish for having examined himself in the window, the president turned away and faced the elegant fireplace to the north end of the Oval Office. Above the mantel was an oil painting of the nation’s first president, George Washington. There were two traditions upon entering the world’s most famous office as a newly elected president. The first was to leave General Washington above the mantel, and the second was to change the décor of the room to his liking.

  Rutherford wisely allowed the first lady to decorate. She chose neutral colors, which was fine with him. He hated anything ostentatious. The drapes hanging over the south windows were tan, the couches were brown, and the oval rug was beige with a blue presidential seal. For the most part Rutherford approved of all that she did, especially her choice of artwork. Hanging on the walls were paintings of his favorite presidents who came before him, such as Lincoln, Jefferson, and Truman, each portrayed during a moment of crisis.

  Rutherford drew strength from these men. Through two years of his first term as president, he had faced many crises. The war on terror, immigration reform, and a contracting economy were only the tip of the iceberg. Not a day passed when he failed to marvel at the difficulties and pressure of being the leader of the free world. Life as a US Senator was so much simpler. One could bloviate for months with little to no accountability. Right or wrong, the buck always stopped with the president. If the economy was good, then he would be labeled a genius. If not, certain media called for his head.

  He thought he had caught a break when word arrived on his desk via his daily briefing of two Stanford physicists who had allegedly developed the first viable alternative energy source. Of course, it was only in its theoretical stage, but the thought of it being developed during his administration, or better yet, because of his administration was tantalizing. It did not take him long to realize that it could be his legacy.

  Correction: it would be his legacy. He had already made the executive decision that he would do everything in his power to make this happen, so that it would be presented to the world during his time in office. Unfortunately, there were two major obstacles that he faced. The first, as it had been explained to him, was that while his administration was permitted to act in an official capacity to aid in the development of the research, it could not interfere and attempt to control the rights to the technology. These physicists were American citizens. If word ever leaked that a government operation was run against one of its own citizens…Rutherford could not bring himself to even imagine the political fallout.

  There were ways around that problem, he was told. The most pressing issue, one that he just found out about, was that the lead physicist and all her research had disappeared. From the report he had just received, it appeared that one of his advisors had disobeyed a direct order. He had a good idea who it was, and he would find out as soon as she showed up.

  The phone buzzed and Rutherford quickly snatched it off its base.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Ms. Jenkins has arrived, sir,” replied Betty. “Shall I send her in?”

  “Yes, immediately. Thank you, Betty.”

  The northeast door opened, and Madison Jenkins walked in with a purpose. The president hoped that she had nothing to do with tonight’s debacle. She had been a most trusted and valuable advisor since he took office. Her department had produced more tangible results than any of the others combined. If there was one thing that his predecessor did right, he supposed it was creating her branch.

  Rutherford strolled across the carpet to meet her. After shaking her hand, he signaled for her to sit across from him on one of the couches. Once seated, the president wasted no time getting to the point.

  “What do you have for me?” he asked.

  “We were able to plant a listening device inside the Manhattan mosque,” she said. “As we suspected, there is significant anti-American chatter and talk of an imminent—.”

  “We can discuss that later,” interrupted the president. “I’m referring
to that little energy development on the west coast. I recall asking you to stay away.”

  Jenkins furrowed her eyebrows and spoke deliberately.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. President. You asked that all hands be removed, but eyes and ears stay open. We have done nothing but comply.”

  “Let me enlighten you then. Less than one hour ago the esteemed Dr. Marjorie Hansen was abducted from her home along with all her research. From what I understand, witnesses say it was a professional job, which means it obviously was not one of your sister agencies.”

  “It’s not us,” Jenkins said quickly. “However, I feel it is my place to remind you that had we been permitted to shadow her we would have been in position to prevent a situation like this.”

  The president’s face flushed. It was not often that he was scolded in his own office. Sadly, he could not dispute her logic. He would have been much the wiser to have used EOS to reel this fish in.

  “What do you recommend we do now?” Jenkins asked.

  Rutherford looked at her, his eyes looking deep into hers. The situation had just gotten worse. It would have been much better for her to have openly disobeyed his orders. At least then she could have disclosed the professor’s location. As it was, only one avenue was left unblocked. It was the one he hoped never to use.

  “Do nothing, for now,” he said. “I’m afraid my only option at this point is to bring in the FBI.” Jenkins started to protest, but the president waved her off before she could continue. “She’s an American citizen, Madison, a high-priority one that is missing. There is no other option.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. I suppose you’re right. Our top priority is to get her back.”