“I’m working on launching a Reaper from Ramstein. It’s going to take a few hours.”
Eric leaned back in his seat, contemplating his options, the only sound the rumble from the Gulfstream’s Rolls-Royce engines. “What are the odds that it’s nothing?”
“It’s almost certainly something,” Clark said. “The driver is a CIA asset. He’s rock solid. Do the math.”
Eric clenched his jaw so tightly that he thought his teeth might crack. “Activate the Implant.”
“Are you sure?” Karen asked. “We don’t know—”
“They’re in trouble,” Eric said. “I can almost taste it. Activate the Implant. John will handle whatever needs handling.”
Karen sighed. “You’re the boss.”
The winter wind cut through John’s shirt like a knife. “You’re making a mistake.”
Gohl smiled. “You are wanted for questioning in the death of two people, a terrorist bombing, and now”—he waved his hand in the air—“attempting to flee the country via an improperly licensed vehicle. You’re a rude American in the company of other rude Americans.”
“Gohl,” Deion said, finally able to speak but still unable to stand. “We can work this out—”
“You should have thought of that before refusing my most generous offer.”
“Damn it,” Valerie said. “You’re going to cause an international incident. You really think you’ll be rewarded?”
“I think the finance minister will be most appreciative when your government finally agrees to cooperate,” Gohl said cheerfully. “Don’t look so morose, my friends. Everything will be well in the end.”
John blinked rapidly at Valerie, then turned to Deion. They were both looking at him and shaking their heads. He grunted and placed his hands on his head, ready to surrender to the Swiss man, and took a step forward.
At that moment, his heart thumped in his chest and started beating like the drummer in a speed metal band. Electric fire surged through his veins, and he dropped to his knees, gasping for breath.
The Implant!
Before the thought was finished, he was springing up from the muddy road and rushing at Gohl. Gohl’s eyes widened and his eyebrows arched in surprise, but he was unable to raise his hands before John hit him in the throat.
A sickening crunch ran up John’s arm, and Gohl collapsed.
The two men behind Gohl started to raise their HKs, but John rushed forward and slammed into the man on the right, grabbing his HK and spinning him to face the other man.
The other man, no more than thirty, was yelling at him in German. John couldn’t understand the words, but he understood the intent — drop the HK, or the man would shoot.
His brain worked in hyperdrive as he processed his options, but the soldier yelled louder and then the man was firing at him, the bullets tearing through the man in front of him.
There was a stinging in his shoulder and then a burning in his arm. A bullet had ripped through the soldier’s back and through John’s bicep. He ignored it and yanked the HK from the collapsing soldier, raising it and squeezing off a shot that blew a pink mist from the other soldier’s head.
The soldier he’d held, a short-haired man in his forties, lay on his back in the mud, gasping for air. At least four bullet holes covered his torso. John hesitated, then shot the man in the head. The man collapsed back, and his eyes went glassy.
Gohl was making wet choking noises as John approached. The Swiss spy held his hands to his throat, his face red and his eyes wide, and John shot him in the face.
“Jesus,” Deion gasped, finally managing to stand. “What did you do?”
There was yelling from the front of the flatbed truck, and John raced around to the front.
Hubbard was handcuffed to the steering wheel. He scowled at John. “What the hell?”
“Where are we?”
“One of the old border crossings.”
“Are there other soldiers nearby?”
Hubbard shook his head. “Just the two schmucks that pulled me over and that shitbag that handcuffed me. This crossing doesn’t get much traffic.”
John searched Gohl’s body and returned with a key. He unlocked the handcuffs, ignoring the pain in his right arm.
Deion helped Valerie to her feet, and they joined the others at the front. They were both watching John with a horrified expression.
“We need to go,” John said. “How soon before we’re in Germany?”
“Sixty seconds, maybe,” Hubbard said. He pointed to the road a few hundred feet away. “We pass over that bridge and we’re in Germany.” Hubbard leaned out of the truck, took a long look at the three dead bodies, then turned to Deion. “Are was going to stay here, or are we going to get the hell out of Dodge?”
Deion’s eyes never left John. “We’re getting the hell out of Dodge.”
“All rightie,” Hubbard said. He retrieved the truck’s keys from Gohl’s trenchcoat and started the engine. “Let’s make like a tree and get the fuck outta here.”
“You got your phone?” Deion asked Hubbard as they crossed the snowy bridge.
Hubbard yanked a cell phone from under the dash and handed it to Deion. “It’s a burner.”
Deion turned on the phone and dialed the memorized number. The call was bounced around the world and then he heard Kryzowski’s voice. “What’s your pleasure?”
“Where would you like me to put it?”
There was a pause, then Kryzowski said, “The back door. How do you like it?”
“Rough,” Deion said. “I’m a nasty boy.”
“How nasty?”
“The worst.”
“I’ll take care of you, baby.”
“You know it.” He turned to Hubbard. “New orders. We’re going to Landstuhl.”
The man nodded. “It’s about four hours. We won’t have any heat from the mess back there?”
John glanced over at Deion, then turned to stare out the passenger window, holding a rag from the floor of the truck against his bicep.
“No,” Deion said. “We’ll be at Ramstein by the time the Swiss realize there’s a problem.”
Hubbard nodded and started whistling softly to himself.
Taylor and Burton were waiting for them when they arrived. Deion shook Taylor’s hand. “Hope this didn’t cause you any trouble.”
“We were halfway to Biggin Hill when we got the orders,” Martin said.
“Your gear is still on the Gulfstream,” Burton said. “We turned and burned to Mildenhall to catch the flight here.”
Valerie trudged up the loading door, pulling her coat tight against the frigid wind. “We’ll take you with us to Biggin Hill once we’re in Mildenhall.”
Burton smiled, showing his stained teeth. “A private jet beats the hell out of a cargo hold, ma’am.”
Valerie brushed past him, and Burton gave Deion a quizzical glance. Deion shook his head and turned to John.
John stood on the loading door, holding his arm. He finally noticed Deion watching. “What?”
“How’s the arm?”
“The doctors sewed it up.” John flexed his arm. “It barely caught the muscle. I’ll be good until the local anesthetic wears off.”
“And the shoulder?”
John frowned. “Just grazed the skin. Didn’t even need stitches.”
“Lucky for you,” Deion said. He turned to the two Operators. “You were briefed?”
“We spoke to Clark,” Martin said. “The Swiss found the bodies. They’re going apeshit.”
What would have been a thorny political problem was now an international incident. “What’s the fallout?”