And so, here I am. I’m currently… I don’t know, maybe four thousand feet above the ground, making my way slowly down to earth via a parachute, thinking about how much I hate flying.
I hate terrorists and I hate flying.
I hate not knowing what the hell is going on, I hate terrorists, and I hate fucking flying!
26
I’m lying on the ground, looking up at the sky and watching the fireball that used to be my plane descend out of sight. The parachute is covering me almost completely — just my head and left arm are exposed. I’m aching all over, and I have no issue admitting I’m a little shaken up after the experience of jumping out of a plane.
You know how, in the movies, the hero always lands in a field, on a farm, or something? Somewhere out of the way where the good-looking woman can find him? Well, that’s bullshit… In real life — in my real, shitty life — you land in the middle of a busy street, surrounded by people and cars.
I take a few moments to compose myself, and then prop myself up on my elbows as I take a look around. Horns are sounding from angry drivers, and there’s a small crowd of people gathered around me, curiously looking at me as I lie in the center of the road.
I slide my bag off my chest and rest it next to me. I run through a quick mental check of my vital limbs and organs, coming to the conclusion I’m still in one piece. I scramble to my feet, shake the parachute off my back and pick up my bag. I jog to the sidewalk, dragging the ’chute behind me as I hold my hand up in silent apology to the cars that have been delayed as a result of my unexpected appearance.
I take a proper look around as people start to go back about their business. I’m on a busy street in a one-story high, industrial-looking city. There are no tall buildings, no designer outlets… no modern or expensive cars on the road. The whole place seems to have a perpetually gray hue to it. I could be anywhere east of Germany. But I know we passed Minsk before the plane blew up, so I’m hoping I’m somewhere near where I need to be.
I step into a doorway and crouch down, opening my bag and putting my holster on. I’ll definitely feel better with my babies at my back. I take out the phone and put it in my pocket. I’ll call Josh in a minute, once I’ve figured out where I am.
I carry on down the street, trying to look like I know where I’m going. But I come to a crossroads and stop on the corner, searching around for a clue as to which direction is best.
Yeah… I have no fucking idea where I am…
I step to the side and take the phone out of my pocket. I dial Josh’s number, hoping he’s done something technical so that no one knows I’m using it.
“It’s me,” I say as he answers.
“Have you made contact with our operative yet?” he asks.
“Not exactly… There was a slight problem on the way here that delayed me.”
“What happened?”
“The plane exploded.”
“What?” he exclaims. “Your plane blew up?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. Just the cockpit, and it was ten hours into the flight, so I’m pretty certain it was sabotage,” I explain. “If I had to guess, I would say it was the guy who was refueling the plane when we arrived.”
“Jesus… Adrian, this means the bad guys must know you’re there. Watch your back.”
“Copy that. And I’m fine, by the way…”
“Sorry, yeah, I mean… I figured, so I didn’t… y’know?”
“It’s fine. The main problem is, which bad guys are after me? The terrorists? The CIA? The NSA? It could be anyone.”
“I think we can rule out the NSA for this — not really their thing. Could feasibly be the CIA, but I don’t see the logic.”
“No, me neither. Plus, they’d have sent the D.E.A.D. unit after me again, and I’d never seen the guy at the airfield before, so I think the safe bet is El-Zurak’s band of merry men are coming my way.”
“I guess they figured you’d work out Tori was in Pripyat with Clara and head there?”
“Sound thinking, but how did they know where I’d be flying from? Even though we were hacked by the NSA back in Arkansas, that doesn’t explain how the Armageddon Initiative found out about the flight.”
“Still no clue on that one, but we’ll get there. You just focus on getting Tori back, okay?”
“I will. Which reminds me, where the hell am I? I jumped out of the plane and landed in the street, but I don’t know how far I am from the rendezvous point, and there are no signs.”
“Let me ping your signal from the nearest cell tower and pinpoint the location of your phone…”
There’s a moment or two of silence while he works his magic. As I stand there, holding the phone to my ear and absently gazing at my surroundings, I feel a sharp prod in my back. Without reacting, I casually look over my shoulder and see a man standing behind me, holding a gun two-handed, leveled at the center of my back. He’s a rough-looking guy, dark stubble and tired eyes beneath a baseball cap. He’s about my height, dressed in scruffy jogging pants and a sweater with a sleeveless jacket over the top. My initial thought is that he’s a terrorist, but I dismiss it almost as quickly. There’s no way they’d send one guy after me.
“Adrian?” he asks. His voice is deep and coarse, like he’s smoked twenty a day for the last decade.
Keeping the phone to my ear, I slowly turn around and face him, raising a quizzical eyebrow. I glance at the gun, and then back at him. I look at his professional, trained stance, his body language, the confidence… definitely not a terrorist.
“Josh?” I say into the phone, ignoring the new arrival. “What’s the name of the operative I’m meant to be meeting?”
“His name’s Collins. Ray Collins,” he replies.
“Thanks,” I say, before putting the phone against my shoulder and looking back at the man with the gun. “Ray Collins?”
He regards me for a moment, and then slowly holsters his gun, extending his hand. I nod and put the phone back to my ear.
“Josh, never mind — he’s just found me. Call me if you find anything more out.”
“Oh, good. Yeah, I will do. Watch your back, Boss.”
I smile and hang up, putting the phone back in my pocket before shaking Collins’ hand. “How’d you know where I’d be?” I ask. “I don’t even know where I am.”
“Ya fell from the sky in a ball of fire,’ he replies casually. “Ya weren’t exactly hard to fuckin’ miss.”
I shrug. “Fair point. Where are we?”
“This… is Gomel,” he says, gesturing around us at nothing in particular. “Ya were lucky — the wind must’ve carried ya farther south, so ya landed just a couple of miles short of our rendezvous point.”
“First bit of luck I’ve had in a while,” I say with a humorless smile. “So how quickly can we get over the border?”
“Follow me, my car’s nearby.”
He walks past me and crosses the street, heading over to the other side. I follow him, taking a quick look around out of habit. We walk for a few minutes before turning right onto a side street, where a battered, rusted European sedan last sold in the 80s is parked against the curb. Collins walks round to the driver’s door and climbs in. Somewhat skeptical of the safety risks potentially involved in traveling in this thing, I climb in the passenger side.
Without a word, he drives off, turning right at the end of the street.
“In the glove compartment are fake papers for the border patrol,” he says. “If ya reach behind ya, the back seat will lift up. Use the space to hide your bag — they’ll check it otherwise, and I’m guessing ya don’t want what’s in there being seen?”