The Finish Line

2

This is why I need to get out of the office more, Kate Cochran thought as she sipped champagne from a crystal flute.

Sheathed in a red stretch satin designer dress, she stood in the middle of at least one hundred law-enforcement officials from across Europe who had gathered in Dublin, Ireland, for the Second European Congress on Fighting Organized Crime in Partnership. They had convened in the main wing of the Irish Museum of Modern Art, housed in the converted Royal Hospital Kilmainham.

It was founded and built by James Butler of Kilkenny Castle, also the duke of Ormonde and viceroy to King Charles II. The classically designed building, consisting of three major wings surrounding a large outdoor courtyard, was originally completed in 1684 to serve as a home for old, ill and disabled soldiers. Over the centuries, the building had played many roles, including the residence and headquarters of the commander in chief of the army, as well as the headquarters of the Garda, Ireland’s public police force, until it was converted into the art museum in 1991. While the clean stone walls and colonnade had remained on the outside, the interior halls had all been updated with modern amenities, including a staircase in the main hall that seemed to float in midair, and gleaming, black marble flooring. The hall’s inner wall was made of floor-to-ceiling windows that revealed the immaculate courtyard, with its neat grass lawns and graveled pathways, all shrouded in the light, misty rain coming down outside.

All in all, a rather strange place for a law-enforcement conference, Kate thought. Even though Room 59, the covert-ops agency she ran, was so secret she couldn’t even acknowledge its existence to the rest of the conference attendees, Kate knew the best way to gather intelligence was often to go on-site and get it face-to-face. She had been planning a visit to Europe and the various Room 59 department heads on the continent for some time—which meant as soon as her demanding schedule permitted. Although with the incredible technology at her fingertips, she could—and did—meet with her coworkers in virtual reality, Kate preferred seeing real people and places whenever possible. When the conference came to her attention, she put it on her schedule and refused to move it, figuring she was due for a vacation, even a working one. Her overseers at the International Intelligence Agency had grudgingly agreed, and she had been off before they could change their minds.

“Ms. Massen?”

Kate hesitated a fraction of a second before turning to see a silver-haired, middle-aged man in a sleek, spotless tuxedo standing next to her. Since her position as director of operations was as shrouded in secrecy as the agency itself, she could never go anywhere, even on what would be normal business like this conference, as herself. For events like this, she relied on her cover identity as Donna Massen, a midlevel employee with the U.S. State Department, as its sprawling bureaucracy could easily hide an extra employee or two.

“I just wanted to thank you for your comments on the potential alliance of law-enforcement agencies with private security companies. I feel that there is much potential business—and crime stopping—to be done if both sides can only come together.” The man’s words had that perfect British diction, and sent a slight shiver up her spine. After all, Kate did so like educated men.

She nodded, careful not to dislodge her glossy chestnut hair, which had been done up in an elegant French twist. “I’m afraid that you have me at a disadvantage, sir. So many people here to try to remember, you know.” That wasn’t really the case—she knew exactly who he was—but she often found it very useful to give the person she was speaking to the idea that he or she had gained a slight advantage in the conversation.

“Please excuse me, we met briefly at yesterday’s reception. I’m Terrence Weatherby, vice president of marketing for Mercury Security.”

Kate extended a slender hand. “Yes, now I remember. A pleasure to see you again. I hope your company’s name isn’t a reference to its godlike capabilities.”

Terrence chuckled and raised his drink glass before replying. “Actually, when we went global in ’99, we wanted to take on a name that implied quick, efficient service for our clientele. So far, I think we’ve delivered.”

“Of course.” Kate kept her professional smile pasted on her face, but her eyes looked past Weatherby to catch the gaze of a tall, lean, mustached man talking to a pair of energetic young women who worked for Interpol. As soon as their eyes met, she made a small, innocuous gesture with her hand, and he nodded just enough to show that the message was received. Although it was possible that Weatherby had sought her out to compliment her comments at the conference earlier, Kate never believed in coincidence. Most likely getting a feel for their potential competition, she thought as she turned her attention back to the conversation at hand. “So, Mr. Weatherby, just how do you see government intelligence agencies and PMCs working together?”

It was the opening he had been waiting for, and Kate reminded herself that when it all came down to it, he was a salesman. But at least he had a pleasant, butter-soft speaking voice. “Please, call me Terrence. I won’t bore you with a long, drawn-out pitch, but allow me to pique your interest with a few possibilities, as there are some legal issues that would need to be addressed, as well, before moving forward….”

He briefly outlined several potential alliances that did sound very good on the surface—intelligence sharing, team building on both sides to augment each other’s forces and the relaxation of controls that would make it easier for a formal government agency to use a PMC for deniable missions.

Kate broke in at that point. “Isn’t that a bit dangerous? After all, what incentive would your men have to not roll over on the hiring government to save their own skins if they were caught?” She sipped her champagne again, enjoying the mild look of discomfort that flitted across the Englishman’s face. Kate didn’t have much respect for most private military companies, considering only a handful of well-established ones to meet her very high standard in terms of integrity and trustworthiness.

“Well, it is our hope that would never come to pass, but in the unfortunate event of a member or team being captured, we would mount a rescue operation as quickly as possible in order to extract them before any information could be gained,” Weatherby said.

“Very noble of you.” Kate knew she was pushing it, but at the moment she almost didn’t care. She reined herself in, however, and turned the conversation to safer ground. “Your company has been focusing almost exclusively on Third World countries, Africa and the like. I’m surprised that we don’t hear more from you in more lucrative places—like Iraq.”

Terrence’s smile grew even tauter. “I hope you’ll pardon me for being rather blunt, but once the initial fireworks were over, it certainly seemed as if the fix was in, so to speak. The American PMCs picked up so many contracts, and the rest of us were left to fight over the scraps. Then there was all that nasty business with one of the more prominent contractors, and the environment turned even less receptive. We did a cost-benefit analysis, and realized that our talents could be put to better use elsewhere.”

And with even less oversight from watchdog groups, I’ll bet, Kate thought. “Well, you know what they say in business and politics—it’s not always what you do so much as who you know. Still, you make some very interesting suggestions, and I’d like to get some talking points on strategic alliances to show to my superiors.” Kate briefly turned up the wattage on her smile, and resisted the urge to bat her eyelids. “Here’s my card.”

Weatherby took it and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “That would be wonderful, but I was rather hoping, if you’re staying here past the conference, that we might discuss this further over dinner tomorrow evening.”

Hmm, is he hitting on me, or is this purely business? Kate drained her flute slowly, taking a couple of seconds to reappraise the man in this new light. Yes, her estimate of his age was accurate, but he was slim, fit and regal looking. She shook her head with a rueful expression. You’re not a field agent, you’re the director of Room 59. Your job duties do not entail dallying with PMC executives at conferences like this. Placing her empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray, she shook his hand again. “I’m afraid that tomorrow morning I’m heading to London for several days.”

Weatherby smiled, revealing perfect, even white teeth that had to have benefited from years of the very best dentistry. “Then it would seem that fate is crossing our paths, Ms. Massen, since my company’s head office is in London, as well, and I would greatly enjoy the opportunity to see you again and continue this conversation.” He offered her a card, a thin sheet of clear, flexible plastic with his name and contact information holo-graphically imprinted on it.

Kate took it and tucked it into her beaded clutch purse. “I’ll have to look at my schedule and see what might be arranged, but I cannot promise anything.” She looked around for the man she had seen earlier, but he was nowhere in sight. However, a stunning woman with sleek black hair, flawless olive skin and dressed in a shimmering silver evening gown walked toward Kate, leaving turning heads of both men and women in her wake. From the corner of her eye, Kate noticed Weatherby stiffen as she approached.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you Donna Massen, with the U.S. State Department?” The newcomer was British, as well, her contralto voice making Weatherby’s honeyed tones sound like those of a rough East Ender.

“I am,” Kate replied.

“I have a message for you.” The woman, whose face would have looked perfectly at home on the covers of the highest fashion magazines, turned to Kate’s companion. “If you’ll excuse us, Terrence.”

The PMC representative cleared his throat as if he had just remembered how to breathe. “Of course, Samantha. You’re looking well.”

The barest smile flickered across the woman’s face. “And you, as well. This way, Ms. Massen, if you please.” The willowy woman, several inches taller than Kate, led her through the crowd, leaving Weatherby to head to the bar.

Kate regarded her new escort with curiosity. “Professional acquaintance?”

The woman who had extricated Kate was Samantha Rhys-Jones, the head of Room 59’s UK division. “I knew Terrence back in his Royal Army days, before he retired, figuring there was more money in private security. When his own business failed, he must have signed on with Mercury. So, what were you two talking about?”

“Oh, dinner in London, among other things. Why, is there anything I should know about him?”

Samantha turned her head to regard her superior. “He claims to be decent in bed, if that’s what you’re after. I wouldn’t know—the last time our paths had crossed, he’d expressed interest, until I rebuffed him—rather forcefully.”

“I hope you didn’t leave any permanent damage.” Kate looked back to Weatherby, who had just tossed his drink back and was signaling for another.

“Only if you count his pride, I suppose.” Samantha turned her laser-sharp, brown-eyed gaze on Kate. “You can’t be serious about him.”

“Of course not. But I’ll keep track of him myself if I have to. Apparently they’re headquartered in London. But I doubt anything will come of it, so thanks for getting me out of there.”

“It wasn’t a ploy—I really do have a message for you.” Samantha snared two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray with elegant ease. “A Midnight Team operation went down in South London approximately twenty-six minutes ago. Unfortunately, the targets were not eliminated as planned—the team encountered another hit team on-site and had to engage them instead.”

“Another team? What was the outcome?” Kate asked.

“The main targets were terminated before or as our team arrived, as far as we can tell, but the other shooters got away. One of our operatives was taken out, as well. We’re still trying to determine what happened.”

Kate’s mouth tightened. “South London, you said?” Off the other woman’s nod, she continued. “I assume you’re going back to head the investigation?”

Samantha nodded. “I took the liberty of booking us both on a ten-thirty flight this evening. You’ll have just enough time to pack, but as for rest—”

Kate held up her hand. “Don’t worry about it—an airplane seat is practically like a second home to me. Just let me update Jake, and I’ll have him meet us there.” She scratched the nape of her neck. “Besides, it will be like heaven to take this damn wig off anyway.”

3

David slowed as he approached the edge of the building, his enhanced hearing picking up both the noises of his quarry and their conversation as they ran.

“What the hell was that? We’re lucky we only lost three guys to whoever those guys were, and then you go and pull a goddamn stupid stunt like that? It’s bad enough I have to report this to HQ, and I’m seriously considering bringing you up on insubordination charges once we get back—”

“Jesus, would you put a sock in it, you sound like my grandmother. They were just as surprised as we were. They got lucky is all. Besides, they had some nuts going head-to-head with us. And as for our deaders, well, I never liked them all that much anyway. Besides, we got the job done—”

“Not all of it, jackass. In case you’d forgotten, she’s still alive, which makes this even worse—”

They missed someone? David crouched at the roof’s edge and listened as the two arguing men clattered down the stairs of the fire escape and hit the alley. A soft beeping indicated that his superior was trying to contact him, but David ignored the insistent tone, trying to hear more. As soon as they were on the street, he swung over the side and followed them, his HK USP Tactical .45-caliber pistol out. He stepped carefully to minimize any noise.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll find her. That little bitch is crappin’ her pants and on the run. We’ll take her down in no time.”

“Says the guy who can barely keep his own e-mail account open. Don’t forget, she’s a hacker, and a damn good one, if she and her brother really got what we wanted. That fuckin’ prick, trying to jack up the price on us—you should have seen the look on his face just before I double-tapped him. It was almost worth all this trouble….” The first man’s voice trailed off.

David was coming down the first-floor steps when he heard an engine turn over. Looking down the narrow, grimy alleyway, he saw the headlights of a boxy SUV flare to life.

Leveling his pistol, David stepped to the end of the first-floor fire-escape landing and aimed at the driver’s side of the windshield. The Range Rover sped forward just as he fired three shots. A trio of pockmarks appeared in the glass, but it didn’t break as he had expected. Instead the SUV zoomed forward to pass below him.

Shoving his pistol into its holster, David grabbed the railing with both hands and vaulted over the side, tucking his feet under him to break his fall when he landed on the moving vehicle. He had practiced the maneuver during his Midnight Team training dozens of times, and pulled it off flawlessly, landing on the metal roof with a thud. As soon as he hit, he dropped to his knees. The built-in pads on his armor easily absorbed the impact as he grabbed on to the sides of the vehicle. The roof was more solid than he had expected, and he realized that it was armored, as well. If they can’t shoot me, then they’ll have to come out and get me.

The Range Rover picked up speed as it shot out of the alley, swerving in a hard right turn onto Wyvil Road—away from the rest of David’s team. He opened a channel to his leader. “M-One, this is M-Two. I’m tracking the hostiles, who are heading west on Wyvil—” David braced himself as the SUV ran over the curb and shot onto a larger avenue, heading north. “Make that north on Wandsworth Road.”

“So nice of you to report in, M-Two. I’ve got you on our tracker—are you on the roof of the target vehicle?” M-One asked angrily.

“Affirmative—” David broke off as a man popped up from the passenger-side window, aiming a silenced pistol at him. Without time to draw his own weapon, he lunged toward the man and grabbed the gun just as it went off. The bullet disappeared into the night air. Holding the weapon away from him with one hand, David tried to maintain a grip on the roof with his other, but couldn’t do both at the same time. The pistol slowly inched back down toward his head, the other man using his superior leverage with both hands to force it against his helmet. David let go of the roof and grabbed the man’s other arm, but his opponent twisted out over the street, pulling David’s upper body off the roof. Feeling himself slipping further, David lashed out with his left arm, grabbing the shooter’s shoulder and pulling him down with him as he slid precariously close to the road.

“Whoa!” The man leaned back as David’s weight forced him half out of the window. Dropping his pistol, he grabbed the door frame with one hand while trying to remove David’s hand with the other. The driver yelled something, but David couldn’t make it out. He tried to grab the window frame, as well, but the other man knocked his hand away, then clamped on to his fingers and pried them from his own black-suited shoulder. David tried to hold on, but felt each digit being loosened one at a time. He flailed frantically with his other hand, stealing a glance at the rough London pavement flashing by below, and not wanting to get any closer than he already was.

Before he could regain his grip on the other man, David’s hand was torn away, and he flew from the Range Rover as it took another right turn. He landed on the street with a breath-stealing impact, rolling, bouncing and skidding to a halt at the side of the road. He had just begun to clear the stars from his eyes and get some air back into his lungs when a tire screeched to a stop only inches from his head. He heard doors popping open above him, and then strong hands were under his arms, hoisting him to his feet.

“Let’s go, tough guy, you already fucked up the op enough, don’t you think?” David caught M-Four’s mocking words as he was unceremoniously stuffed into the back corner of the van, right next to the dead body they’d hauled back. Everyone else was in position. M-One was in the driver’s seat, and hadn’t even taken his eyes off the road as they’d collected David. But as David examined his battered body, he met the team leader’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and got a very clear message—we’ll discuss this later. Beside M-One, looking back with a concerned expression on her face, was Tara. M-Four, the loudmouth, had removed his MASC to reveal a lean, fox-faced man with a shock of ginger hair and a smattering of freckles.

Their final member, M-Five, rose from his position at the communication console to tend to David. “M-Four, take over here,” he said.

The other man did so with a contemptuous snort. “Sure, make sure the hard charger hasn’t hurt himself any more.”

“M-Four, that’s enough.” M-One’s voice was as calm as if he was ordering dinner, but it commanded immediate respect from the rest. “Monitor the police channels. It’s bad enough we’re exposed like this, but we might as well follow through now. Coming up on South Lambeth Road. M-Three, watch for cross traffic, particularly cops.”

The windshield was blocked out by the dark face of M-Five bending over him. “Saw you take that flyer off the SUV. Ballsiest move I’ve seen in a long time, but none too bright.” The tall South African undid the clasps on David’s body armor as he spoke. “Take your gear off and let’s get a look at you.”

The van swayed as M-Five worked, and everyone heard the blast of car horns outside. “Too close,” M-One commented. “Now heading east on Fentiman Road. They’ll either try to lose us in the neighborhood streets, or else take their chances on Clapham—”

“Watch your left!” Tara pointed, and the van jogged to the right just in time to avoid a truck that filled the windshield, passing close enough to knock the flexible side mirror out of alignment.