The Janus Reprisal

39

Put down your gun and walk into the apartment or I’ll put a large hole where your forehead used to be,” Harcourt said. Smith lowered the rifle to the floor. It dropped with a clattering sound onto the wood.

“What are you talking about? I’m on your side,” Smith said. “We’re using Nolan as bait. Dattar is close. You’re interrupting a mission here.”

“Shut up,” Harcourt said. He tapped out a text.

“Jon, they’re lying to her. Dattar just told her that he has you and demanded she move to the corner. She’s doing it.” Marty’s voice held a manic tone and it startled Harcourt, who twitched.

“Who the hell is that?” he said. Smith felt his blood pressure spike. Because of him, Nolan had surrendered. Bitterness welled up in him and then anger washed over him. He kept his hand that held the phone still.

“Howell. MI6. He knows I’m up here. You kill me and he’ll kill you.” Smith hoped the lie was effective, but Harcourt shook his head.

“Forget about lying to me. The FBI has surrounded both of your buddies. Or should I say both of Russell’s buddies? CIA knows she’s a mole and we’ve requested that the FBI pick up her, you, and Beckmann. Everyone she brought with her when she came inside. They’ll detain Howell long enough to transfer him back to England and into the loving arms of MI6. Give me that phone.” Smith tossed it at Harcourt’s feet and tensed, waiting for the moment Harcourt would glance down. When he did, Smith would make his move. It didn’t work. Harcourt kept his eyes on Smith and his gun pointed.

“Pick it up and hand it to me,” Harcourt said. “You don’t think I’m that stupid, do you?”

Smith reached down to the phone, all the while hoping that Marty had kept listening to the open channel and had the good sense to remain quiet.

“Russell’s not a mole. You’ve got to know that.” Smith spoke loud enough that Marty must have been able to hear. No sound came from the phone, but the screen lit again as Smith handled it. The connection was still live. He handed it over. Harcourt powered it down.

“It’s Russell’s password that’s being used to hack the system. Lie on the floor, face down.”

Harcourt glanced at the phone and in that instant Smith took a fast slide step, raised his leg at a ninety-degree angle, knee bent, and extended it out as he kicked at the other man’s face. The blow was backed by the rage that consumed him. Harcourt sensed the action, but moved a split second too late, and Smith’s foot hammered into Harcourt’s chest, knocking him backward. The gun went off and fired dead center into Smith’s breastbone. He grunted as he felt the bullet’s punch into the protective vest, and he stumbled with the force. Harcourt lost his footing and landed hard on his lower back. Smith kept coming on, his fury eclipsing his good sense, and he aimed another kick at Harcourt’s face, connecting with his nose at the same moment that Harcourt fired again. The second shot whizzed past Smith but his foot hit its mark. He felt the man’s nose shift to the right with the blow and a plume of blood sprayed with it.

Smith grabbed at the gun and yanked it out of Harcourt’s hand with his left while he delivered another punch to the man’s nose with his right. Pain reverberated through his knuckles when he hit Harcourt’s hard cheekbone instead of the soft cartilage of his nose. Harcourt swung a fist that managed to land on Smith’s injured left arm, but the resulting sting hurt far less than the bullet to the vest had.

The sound of pounding feet on the stairs told Smith that the SWAT team had heard the shots and were coming to Harcourt’s rescue. Smith leaped over Harcourt’s prone body and ran back up the stairs to the room with the fire ladder that Nolan had used days ago. The window was still open and Smith clambered through it, not bothering to check whether the team had shown enough foresight to cover the rear of the apartment. If they had, then he would be forced to surrender. He jumped on the stairs to release them and held on as the bottom ladder portion swung downward. He heard rather than saw the men above him. Their voices got louder as they reached the window. Smith didn’t look up at them or down at the street. He kept his focus on the ladder and the left-right motion of crawling lower as fast as he could. Above him a man’s voice yelled.

“I got him. On the fire stairs. Hold tight.” In the next instant Smith heard the sound of a compressed air shot fired from a rifle. They had either Beckmann’s or Howell’s gun.

The dart hit him in the back of the neck. A small part of Smith’s brain, the one that was in charge of his logical thinking, informed him that the dart had missed his vertebrae and hit his upper shoulder where the neck met the collarbone. It sank into his flesh and he winced from the rush of tranquilizer that pumped into his system.

His legs kept moving despite the fact that several milligrams of a powerful animal sedative was pouring into his bloodstream. He made it to the corner before the real effects hit him. Each step was becoming an uncoordinated mess and his vision started to blur. He stumbled forward, functioning on adrenaline more than anything else.

He turned the corner and a silver car jumped the curb and slammed up onto the sidewalk. It came to a halt five feet away from Smith, which was a good thing, because Smith was in no condition to dodge out-of-control cars. Simply walking was becoming a feat unto itself. The car’s window lowered and Russell stuck her head out.

“Get in.”

Smith lurched to the passenger’s side, wrenched open the door, and collapsed inside. His feet weren’t off the ground when Russell slammed the car into reverse. She hit the gas and the car shot back, bouncing off the curb, the front swinging into place as she twisted the steering wheel. The rear window on the passenger side cracked and Smith heard the bullet whiz past. Smith was still wrestling with the door when Russell shifted into drive and the car jumped ahead. She drove down the street and turned at the first corner. Despite all the motion around him, Smith was having a hard time staying awake. He tried to thank Russell for saving him, but his lips wouldn’t follow his brain’s command and form the words. She seemed to deform in front of his eyes, her body undulating like a flag in the wind. He knew it was the tranquilizer setting in, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at that particular moment. He decided to let the languor take him and he closed his eyes.