Chasing zero, p.28
Chasing Zero, page 28
part #9 of Agent Zero Spy Thriller Series
Click.
The gun was empty.
Another metallic flash. A sear of pain. Dawoud held a knife and slashed at Zero’s arm. He grimaced and fell back as Dawoud hobbled toward Rutledge.
No. He hadn’t come this far to fail now. He ignored his bleeding arm, his friends who he didn’t know were on their feet or down, and lurched for Dawoud. He grabbed a foot, the pant leg torn and bleeding where Talia’s ricocheted shot had hit him.
He pulled. Dawoud howled. He swung again with the knife but Zero slid backward in the sand. A rifle cracked. Automatic weapons rattled. Zero stayed low and wrestled with Dawoud for the knife, twisting it out of his grip.
He heard a cry of pain. Maria.
He turned to look. Just for a second. She was in the sand, on her side, still firing with one pistol.
Dawoud swung his head forward and caught Zero in the forehead with a vicious headbutt.
He reeled. Bright stars swam in his vision. He saw double, Dawoud and an identical Dawoud. Another one, a second. A Double.
Zero saw two arms, each holding a knife. Two knives, flashing in the sun. He swayed with dizziness. He didn’t know which one to try to stop, if he could even stop one.
Plunk!
An odd sound. A sharp yelp of pain from Dawoud.
Zero shook the fog from his head as best he could as the sound came again.
Plunk!
One of the guards fell. The remaining one was firing upward, on an angle…
Toward the sky?
Zero glanced upward and saw a small, dark shape flitting like a hummingbird against the blue sky.
The drone. Penny’s drone. Maria must have deployed it from the Jeep.
Dr. Penelope León was currently five thousand two hundred and twenty-eight miles away from their current position—but with them in more than just spirit.
Plunk! The small electronic cannon on the underside of the drone fired, and the guard shielded his face as sand plumed from the missed shot. He took aim then, and emptied his magazine into the air.
At least one round found home, striking one of the drone’s propellers. It wobbled in the air, flying in lazy circles, the cannon trying to track its target.
The guard turned and tossed his assault rifle to the ground. Zero was on his knees. His head throbbed. His limbs didn’t want to respond.
Get up, old man.
The guard drew a curved knife from his belt and took a step toward him.
Get up.
You’ve come too far for it to end now.
One foot planted in the sand. With a groan he stood. The guard reared back with the knife.
The rifle cracked. The guard’s head jerked, and his body fell sideways in the sand.
Zero let himself fall to his hands and knees. “Thanks, Talia,” he muttered. She’d made the shot.
For a long moment, he closed his eyes and just breathed. He needed to check on Maria. He needed to check on Rutledge and Strickland. And get some damned water.
But it was done. The guards were dead. Penny had taken out Dawoud with the drone.
He opened his eyes and frowned. There was something in the sand there. He reached for it; a tiny, perfectly round steel ball. Like a ball bearing, or a marble.
Right—the rounds that the drone fired. He remembered Penny showing him in her lab, before Jerusalem.
Nonlethal? he’d asked her.
Depends on how close it is. And where it hits.
He spun suddenly. This round had bounced off of something. Or someone.
Rutledge’s chair was empty.
Zero staggered to his feet and lurched forward, nearly falling again. He rounded the domed tent to see Dawoud, breathing hard but still on his feet, grunting with effort as he tried to mount one of the horses.
He’s alive.
He had the limp, handcuffed president flung over the horse’s back as he mounted behind Rutledge. Zero surged forward, arms outstretched.
“Addhab!” Dawoud cried, and the horse shot forward.
Zero stumbled and fell into the sand where the horse and two presidents had just been.
Get up.
He hauled himself to his feet and, with no small effort, flung a leg over the back of the nearest horse, a gray and black brindle stallion with a black mane.
It had no saddle. Zero had never ridden bareback—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden a horse at all—but still he grabbed two fistfuls of mane and dug a heel into its flank.
“Yah!”
The horse didn’t move.
“Go! Run! Giddy-up!”
The beast snorted at him. Dawoud gained ground across the sand ahead of him.
Arabic horse, he reminded himself.
“Addhab!” he shouted as he kicked at its flank again. The horse shot forward with the Arabic command to go, and Zero teetered precariously for a moment before throwing his body weight forward, almost lying flat against its back.
He bounced dangerously, every stride threatening to throw him off, but he held fast with his thighs and ankles and a firm grip with both hands on its mane.
There was less weight on his horse. He was gaining. But he had no idea what to do when he caught up.
“Addhab!” he shouted again, and the horse broke into a full gallop.
Zero had leapt out of helicopters onto moving trains. He’d jumped off of bridges into rivers. He’d dived headfirst into firefights and hornets’ nests and lion’s dens, but nothing had been quite as terrifying as riding a horse bareback at full speed. His knuckles were white against the horse’s black mane, and his breaths came quick and panicked.
Dawoud was mere yards ahead and the distance was closing as the two horses sprinted across open desert toward the shadow of a tall spire of a plateau.
Where is he going? Where would he want to take Rutledge when he could have just killed him quickly?
He’s not taking him anywhere, Zero realized. He’s drawing me away. Dawoud’s plan wasn’t just to eliminate Rutledge, but him as well. And it seemed he was still intent on doing it.
His horse’s head was level with the other horse’s flank then. Another few feet and he’d be able to reach out, to grab Dawoud and yank him off...
Something silver flashed. Not a gun; Dawoud still had the knife. He slashed out, not close enough for Zero. Aiming for the horse.
The beast shied away and the blade missed by inches.
Zero tugged the mane, trying to direct the horse to get closer again. Dawoud held the knife with one hand and the mane with the other, daring them closer again, as Rutledge bounced, still not looking conscious.
“Come on!” Zero demanded, as if the horse would listen to frustration.
He heard a high-pitched buzz behind him and hazarded a glance over his shoulder. It was the drone, flying unevenly with three propellers and struggling to keep up.
Plunk!
A plume of sand popped behind Dawoud’s horse.
Plunk!
Another miss, by a wider margin. The damaged propeller was throwing off Penny’s aim.
The drone flew wide then, not behind them but at an angle.
Is she out of ammo? Is she peeling off?
He had to get closer. Stop Dawoud and get the knife away. If he slashed at the horse and Zero was thrown, that was all he’d need to take them both out quickly.
“Addhab!” he commanded, digging in his right heel. The horse seemed to understand, drawing nearer to Dawoud as they ran nearly side by side.
He snarled at Zero. The knife was ready. Zero wasn’t sure he could let go with even one hand and still stay on the animal’s back. But he had little choice…
A shadow passed over Dawoud’s face. Zero looked up to see the drone arcing, coming in at an angle from the east. Too far for an effective shot. It wobbled once, and then—
Plunk!
Sand sprayed as the hooves of Dawoud’s horse skidded. The beast whinnied in pain and shook its great head as the steel ball bounced off its neck.
Nonlethal, at that distance.
Its front legs came up, just slightly—and then it bucked, throwing its rear quarters high.
Dawoud vaulted forward, right over the horse’s head, tumbling through the air. Rutledge, his body limp, rolled over onto the sand several times.
“Stop!” Zero pulled at his horse’s mane. “Stop! Qaf!”
The horse slowed quickly, and Zero jumped off. His legs were like jelly and gave out, sending him to his knees in the shadow of the tall plateau.
Get up.
He swayed on his feet but stayed upright as he teetered toward Rutledge.
Please be alive.
The wobbly drone buzzed nearby, the cannon hanging limply at its underside. Out of ammunition, he guessed. At least that last shot had counted.
But then he saw him. Dawoud rose from the desert like a beast from the sea, not twenty yards from Zero, Rutledge’s unconscious body between them. Sand stuck to the blood on the Double’s face and one arm hung loosely at his side.
But the other still held the knife.
Dawoud staggered forward, toward Rutledge, just as unsteady on his feet as Zero was. He stumbled, fell to his knees, and crawled as quickly as he could with one good arm.
Zero tried to run, but his foot hit a soft mound of sand and sank, giving way beneath his weight. He had no traction, even in these boots.
These boots.
He didn’t have to run. He just had to aim.
Zero brought his left heel up and smacked it with the back of his hand. The blade slid out from the toe. The last of the three that Penny had loaded.
Dawoud crawled closer, loping along with his useless arm swinging.
With his foot pointed toward the fake president, Zero lifted the boot—and then stomped it down.
Nothing happened. The blade stayed there, jutting from the toe. The sand was too soft.
He tried again, stomping harder, but the sand gave way, the surface tension breaking. His knee gave out and he fell to his side.
Dawoud was mere feet from Rutledge, his face a sandy, bloody, leering mask of madness.
Zero wrenched the boot from his foot. He flipped it around in his hand, heel-up. He aimed it like a gun.
Dawoud reached the prostrate US president and huddled over him. But he stared ahead, right at Zero, his eyes furious but his mouth contorted in a grin.
He raised the knife.
Zero hammered down onto the heel with a fist, as hard as he could muster.
The ballistic knife shot out and caught Dawoud in the throat, about an inch above the sternal notch, and stuck there. His mouth fell open, but no sound came forth. Blood arced across the sand. Then the Double fell backward, the knife still raised in his one good arm.
Zero tossed the boot aside and crawled the rest of the way to Rutledge. He hauled the president onto his back. His eyes were closed, his face red from heat exhaustion, his skin puffy from dehydration.
But he had a pulse. It was weak, but it was there and steady.
“Mr. President?” With a groan, Zero sat him upright and held him there. “Jon?”
His eyelids fluttered open. He coughed twice.
“Zero?” It was barely more than a croaking whisper.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
Rutledge glanced left and right, his eyes glassy and bloodshot. “This real?” he managed.
Zero grinned despite himself. “Yes. This is real. You’re alive.”
“Never…” Rutledge coughed, a deep, lung-rattling hack. “Never doubted. For a second.”
There was a sound then, a familiar one in the distance, growing louder. Zero stood and shielded his eyes against the horizon to see shapes—first two, and then four, and then ten dotting the sky as they flew over the desert in formation.
Helicopters.
The cavalry was here.
And somehow he just knew they’d send helicopters.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
Jonathan Rutledge had never been happier to step foot again on American soil.
He was helped down the flight stairs by Agent Chubb, and at the bottom he waved and smiled to the crowd that had gathered behind barricades to see the American president returned safely to Joint Base Andrews.
He made no attempt to hide the bandages around his wrists from where the handcuffs had bitten into his skin. His face and neck were still quite red, despite being given IV fluids and treated for heat stroke on Air Force One.
He was exhausted, aching, hurt, and his ego had taken quite the blow. But he was alive.
And EOT deserves one hell of a raise.
Rutledge didn’t stop for any comments, despite the amount of press present. Speaking was still somewhat difficult, and he wasn’t sure he wanted those types of sound bites circulating in the media.
The helicopters had taken him and EOT back to Egypt, and from there to Jerusalem, where Air Force One was waiting. He had offered to give Zero and his team a lift home in style, but apparently they’d had a jet of their own waiting that they would have been remiss not to return.
Unfortunately, they did need to borrow a pilot, due to a loss on the team out there in the desert. There would be posthumous accolades for Charles John Foxworth, and Rutledge vowed to personally see to it that his loved ones were taken care of.
He waved once more to the crowd as the Secret Service ushered him into the back of a fortified SUV in a motorcade. He was glad, but not all that surprised, to see who was waiting for him inside.
“Mr. President.” Joanna Barkley smiled as he climbed in opposite her in the rear-facing seat. “Forgive me if it would be unbecoming, but I’d like to give you a hug.”
“Just be gentle.” She hugged him briefly, punctuating it with a slight squeeze, and then settled back in her seat and smoothed her lapels. “I understand…” He cleared his throat, his voice still quite hoarse. “I understand you got to enjoy… being president for a day.”
“‘Enjoy’ might be a strong word,” she admitted. “Perhaps someday. Maybe in a few years. Until then, it would be appreciated if you’d stick around.”
He smiled. Joanna deserved a lot more praise than that, and eventually she would get it—when he was able to give it. He had been fully briefed on the flight back to D.C., and he knew that she had singlehandedly talked Israel down from a missile strike that would have undoubtedly sparked a new war. She ignored the media, kept her cool under pressure, stood up to Kressley and others who would have favored conflict, and led by her morals.
One day she would be a great president. He was just very glad it wasn’t today.
“So tell me,” he said.
She nodded. “First and foremost, a DNA and blood test have conclusively determined that the man who took you hostage was not Ashraf Dawoud. There is currently a large-scale manhunt in Palestine for the real Dawoud, but unfortunately, he is presumed dead. Thirteen others close to him, including a chauffeur and a pilot, had also been murdered, and the running theory is that the double killed anyone who knew about him.”
Rutledge nodded. Rumors of Dawoud’s paranoia had been rampant, but he had no idea they had been that extensive. To have a body double, and one that looked and spoke and acted exactly like him, it was unthinkable.
“No one from the group responsible has been identified outside of those that were killed in the operation,” Barkley continued. “If they’re out there, they’re hiding.”
“Rightly so,” Rutledge said. “They know now…” He put a hand to his mouth and coughed. They know now, he thought, that whatever lengths they might be willing to go to try to stop peace, there were others willing to go further to stop them.
“Prime Minister-Designate Levi has assured me that Israel has stood down with the knowledge of the double,” Joanna told him. “And he is amenable to continuing the discussion of a treaty…”
“In Washington, D.C.”
She smiled. “That’s right, sir. And to that end, the Palestinian Parliament has put forth a proposal. A joint task force between the three nations with the specific goal of finding and eliminating militant factions that threaten the peace.”
Rutledge nodded. And he already had someone in mind to run it—a certain Mossad agent who had proved invaluable to EOT.
Peace cannot be made by force; it can only be achieved by understanding. He realized now that he had gotten Einstein’s quote wrong in his address. Einstein said, “Peace cannot be kept by force.”
Although, maybe he hadn’t gotten it so wrong after all. Force alone did not make peace. But sometimes force was the only thing that some people could understand, and applying force against resisting force showed strength.
And he would have to be stronger.
*
The man had no name. He did, once, but he had given it up for the cause.
Was there still a cause? One could argue there was. As long as the hope of a true, pure Arab nation beat in one man’s heart, it was still a cause.
But what good was it when that man had no name? His group, they had no name either. Names made them real. Names gave them meaning in the eyes of others. Names became whispers, and rumors, and then targets.
But what was a group of one man? He did not know if any others had survived. He knew only that the Double and the rest involved in capturing the US president were dead. He knew that he was alive. He knew he was in Cairo International Airport with fake documentation and about to board a plane to Ankara, in Turkey, where they had established a safe house for this type of situation.
He would have to go underground. For how long? Until he was certain he wasn’t looking for him. The phantom. The bloodhound. The one they called Zero.
The Double had gotten overzealous. He could have killed the American president and made history. He could have dashed the hopes and empty promises of false peace in front of the world. But no; the Double wanted the president’s executioner too. He had lured a cold, quiet killer and had been killed for it.
The man glanced over his shoulder at the very thought of it. The tall white man in the business suit sipping coffee, he could have been Agent Zero. The too-tan man sitting three seats away at the departure gate, he could have been Zero.
Or perhaps he would never even see Zero, and his throat would be cut in his sleep…
