Up ahead, Braden's second stolen car exited the highway into a business district. Glancing over to the right, Lance could see the coast and the bay. It was lovely. Marta pulled up beside him and barreled past onto the exit ramp. She had an instinct, an innate ability to push vehicles to their limit but never lose control.

  Seconds later, she was on Braden's bumper. That's when things got interesting. Suddenly, another vehicle, a van, slowed down beside Marta's car and the side cargo door slid open. Lance laughed at the bad action movie scene, pitiful. He slammed on the gas pedal and slingshot forward, striking the van's rear bumper. It shimmied and slid to the right. Marta spotted the action, lifted her gun and fired seven shots through her rear passenger window into the van while keeping her eyes on Braden's car.

  Preacher couldn't help but be impressed by her. She was, is, a marvel. A whirlwind, a tornado of violence and death. As the van drifted to the right into an embankment, Lance accelerated into the rear of the vehicle again to push it further up the hill where it skidded, teetered and spilled over. He laughed watching his rearview mirror as the van rolled over several times down the embankment. But a second glance in the mirror showed two other vehicles, another van and a Porsche, flying up from behind.

  He tapped on the horn and Marta glanced in her rearview and spotted them as well. Suddenly, Braden hurled his car to the left and sideswiped two parked sedans. Tourists screamed and dove to the sidewalk. The two following vehicles came around the turn on Lance's tail. Just who the hell were these guys?

  One way to find out. He slammed on the brakes and slung the car sideways to block the road. Just before the van made impact, he put two bullets into the driver's forehead and ducked. The collision was violent, but before his vehicle was done spinning, Preacher opened the passenger door, rolled out and came back to his feet. From the corner of his eye, he watched the Porsche come to a screeching stop and spin around. But his focus was on the van.

  When the first head appeared in the passenger window, he put a bullet through it. The splatter covered a good part of the driver's window and windshield. He took six steps to place him at a three-quarter angle off the passenger side rear bumper. With a clear mind, now 15 days without the lubricant of heroin, a delightful little thing happened. He looked at the street view in front of him and from above simultaneously. It was something of a reward for keeping a needle out of his vein.

  "Thank you," his whispered to Lance, to himself. He saw the flash of a barrel and dove to his left as one of the rear windows of the van blew out. It was a machine gun. He rolled forward, under the van and waited. The driver-side cargo door slid open and a boot stepped out, followed by a second boot. Preacher rolled to the other side, stepped forward to the front of the van and then to the right.

  The guy who'd stepped out was facing the rear. He'd do.

  Preacher rushed forward and put a bullet through the back of each of the guy's knees and rammed an elbow into the fella's neck, slamming the poor dude to the ground as Preacher dove into the van and put four more bullets into the man who'd fired the machine gun out the rear.

  He quickly jumped back out to the street. The Porsche spun tires and accelerated right at him. There was a driver and passenger inside. It was maybe 140 feet, so the Porsche couldn't get going all that fast, maybe 30 or 35 mph. It should take four seconds. So he concentrated on the passenger for the next two seconds. His aim would be challenged since he was running. But he still launched three shots before leaving his feet to jump. When his right foot hit the hood of the vehicle, he shot one more time down through the windshield at the driver.

  He lifted his left leg up like he was back in Tulsa running the hurdles. The roof of the sports car clipped his right foot as he was raising it. And, just like embarrassingly tripping over a hurdle during a race back in high school, he proceeded to do a forward roll, ducking his head and taking most of the force on his left shoulder and back. His momentum completed the roll. He came back to his feet and spun back around toward the Porsche. But it hadn't gone far.

  The vehicle slammed into the van. The collision forced the Porsche to fishtail to the right exposing the driver's side window to Preacher as he approached. No need to put another bullet in the driver. The one fired while hurdling the car had gone right between the guy's eyebrows. A perfect friggin' shot.

  "Holy shit," Preacher laughed and looked around at the few pedestrians on the street. "Cut; that's a wrap." He chuckled as he turned and ran back to the van. Marta always gave him hell about lousy American action movies with impossible stunts. She would have loved this one.

  He made it back to the guy he had shot and cold-cocked. He rolled him over, lifted the man to a sitting position and then hoisted him over his shoulder to carry him back to his battered stolen car that was still running. With the driver's side smashed by the van and Porsche, he opened the passenger door to toss the guy in the back seat and climbed in.

  He found his cell phone on the floor and dialed while punching the gas.

  ----------

  Marta knew time was short; something neither she nor Lance could figure out was going on here. Stuart Braden running, fleeing the scene of his decades of crime and recent double homicide, was understandable. Threatening all the lives onboard the plane that jetted him across the Atlantic was out of character. But a rolling cavalcade of guns and more guns and, crap- Marta ripped the steering wheel to the right. On the overpass ahead, a guy had an automatic rifle aimed at her.

  What the hell?

  She fishtailed to the left and floored it. Her car shot forward into the left rear bumper of Braden's car as a dozen or so bullets strafed the hood, windshield and roof of her Mercedes. Enough. She veered left and then right to clip Braden's rear again and set his car spinning. She slammed the brakes and pin-wheeled around.

  Marta opened her door and rolled out, just like Lance had done a minute earlier. Her first shots were aimed at the shooter on the overpass. Two shots struck the man in the chest. She stepped forward and unloaded ten more shots into Braden's car, blowing holes in the passenger window and windshield.

  But just as she lifted her Sig to change the clip, Braden popped up and fired a barrage as Marta dove back behind her car. She skittered around the rear of the Mercedes and rolled into a prone firing position, taking aim at the space under Braden's car. But he wasn't there. She saw his shoulder duck around the corner of a building and then saw another head come out from behind that same corner. Another shooter appeared.

  Just then, Preacher came flying around the corner and spotted the guy. The shooter was busy taking aim at Marta and didn't look up until the microsecond before Lance's stolen car hit the curb, took to the air and literally imbedded the man into the wall. It was going to take a crowbar to pry some of the guy's parts from the bricks.

  Lance looked to the right and saw Braden duck into a building and another armed man step out of the door. Looks like they had tracked the rabbit to its hole. Pretty darn exciting stuff. He put the car in reverse and backed away from the seriously crushed dude in the wall. He spun the wheel and shot over toward Marta who was getting back into her car. He drove past her and nodded a smile. She smiled back. She was glorious; a glorious destructive, murderous wonder. He shook his head and looked in the back seat. His passenger with ruined knees started to stir.

  He found an alley a few blocks over and stuck the car in it. Marta pulled up a second later. Lance stepped out and opened back door to grab and lift the guy he'd captured. He tossed the man onto the bricks and stepped aside. Marta was quicker at these things than him. She bent a knee into the man's chest and jammed her thumbnail into the poor fella's left eye and pried it in and up. The pain was apparently worse than the holes blown in the backs of his knees because he screamed until Marta brought a knee to his throat.

  "Français?" Marta whispered.

  "Oui." The poor fella uttered. Lance looked at the man's shoes. They were too fashionable. French guy.

  "You are a contractor, not official. I can tell." Marta said. "You didn't plan to die today, I can tell that also. Do you want to tell me what I need to know or do you want me pull it out of you and kill off the rest?"

  "No, I'll tell you."

  "Good. How many men in the building?"

  "Eight, maybe ten."

  "Where is the cargo going after this holding location?"

  "We are to hold him and await instructions, after eliminating you."

  "Where did the job come from?"

  "I got a call in Paris yesterday. I don't know where it came from."

  "Say your name, parents' address and phone number. You are ours now. You are lucky to leave this day with your life, but your time, your heart, your soul are no longer your own. The price you pay for taking a job sometimes."

  The man looked from Marta to the Black Angel and knew he had no other option. He recited the information and Lance kicked him in the head to knock him out. They stood and faced each other. Once again, they had options. They were not required to be here or to force their way into the building around the corner. She stepped to him and put her forehead to his neck. She reached her right hand down to his left and squeezed. He cringed and she brought the hand up to look at it. Three fingers were already swelling, broken.

  "Car wreck." He smiled. She examined the swollen fingers.

  "These three are broken."

  "Yep. Ready?"

  "One moment." Marta took out her phone and dialed. She kissed him while it rang. A voice answered. "All set?"

  Frank Wyrick answered her question from 3,584 miles to the West. "Everyone has converged on your position. Foxy, Jordan 1 and Jordan 2 are on the south side of the structure. That was a hell of a car chase." Wyrick sat next to a satellite monitor technician in an ultra secret facility outside Silver Springs, Maryland. He was looking at a large monitor that featured live satellite imagery from a bird flying over southern Europe about 190 miles up. The picture was freakishly clear.

  "Yes, it was fun. Counterparts?" Marta was cheating a little with the satellites, but she didn't have Lance's screwed up vision from on high.

  "Four hostiles on the rooftop at the corners. Several more have stepped out and are fanning out your way."

  "Vehicles?"

  "Nothing. You took them out from what I can see. Also, there is an underground parking structure just north of the building, about 150 yards from your location. I saw a couple of vehicles take the ramp down about five minutes ago." Wyrick replied.

  "Thank you."

  Wyrick added. "You don't have to go in there."

  "Try to stop us." Marta hung up and turned to Lance. "Now we're ready. And your friends are here."

  "Foxy made it to the party?"

  "And the Jordanians."

  "Damn, this will be like a reunion. A bloody, messy, reunion. Just like the ones my family used to have. Huge body counts at those things."

  "Before you died." She smiled.

  "Buzz kill. You have to be all reality-based and remind me that I'm a ghost."

  She put a finger to his lips. "Not a ghost. An angel."

  Chapter 41

  "So, how old were you when you were handed your list?"

  Preacher and Fuchs stood next to each other at the corner of a funky visual arts school just across Avenue Dom Carlos from the building Braden was holed up inside.

  Fuchs only looked at him, no response.

  "Okay then, tell me this. Did you die in Vietnam?" Preacher asked his mentor. It sounded like a crazy question. But crazy just about sums up all things related to Seibel.

  "Yes."

  "That's what I thought. But I don't understand why I, why Lance, didn't die in Iraq. Why didn't he just do all this then?"

  Fuchs looked in all directions. He was the consummate stealth operative. "First, you have to know I was opposed to all of this from the start. But my vote doesn't count. Second, I have wondered about the timing for the last year. My best guess is that he needed more time to build a case, build a wall of confusion so he could uncover his leak. Braden."

  "Can you friggin' believe this? How long have you known Braden?"

  "Twenty-three years. He was just a young gun, a brilliant psychologist who Seibel just happened to stumble upon."

  Lance's procerus did some tugging.

  "What? What is it?" Fuchs asked. He'd seen Preacher's mind working like this.

  "It's him." Lance stepped away and looked up to the top of the weird triangle-shaped art institute building. "It's all him, Braden."

  "All?"

  "You, Marta, Me. We are all his projects, experiments. I knew it. I friggin' knew it."

  "I don't follow."

  "Siebel ran it all, but they weren't his ideas. He was influenced by a brilliant young rocket scientist of a psychologist and his ideas, his theories." Preacher smiled and shook his head. "He was so good, he hid in plain sight. All the time, for decades."

  "I don't see it." Fuchs shook his head.

  "And to top it all off, when Papa started looking for his mole and killing off ol' Lance Priest, Braden had him looking to Russia, ghosts in the KGB."

  "Wait," Fuchs was catching up. "You're saying Braden is not KGB, not a KGB plant."

  "That's exactly what I'm saying."

  "Who then?" Fuchs leaned in to hear Lance tell his secret.

  But Preacher just shook his head and raised his eyebrows a few times. "Let's go ask him."

  ----------

  Lisbon, Portugal is famous for many things. The Belem Tower, the Jeronimos Monastery, a world-class seaport. People come from all over the world to see the sites. Not many people came to Lisbon this morning for an epic car chase and gun battle. But a few lucky people did.

  "Confirmed. No change on the rooftop. Four additional sentries just off the corners. No discernable pattern in vehicle traffic." Wyrick's report via satellite phone to Fuchs wrapped up a series of verbal reports from the members of an elite team stationed at the perimeter of a square-shaped set of buildings on Ave. 24 Julho. Fuchs relayed the information over the radio headsets Tarwanah and Jamaani brought to the party. No one knew what to expect inside the building. The information shared by the chap with ruined knees put the number at eight. But there were that many in view right now. So that was obviously wrong.

  Tarwanah reported ready at the southwest corner.

  Jamaani was prepared at the southeast corner.

  Fuchs was on the roof of the art institute just to the east.

  Marta was positioned to the northeast in her car.

  Lance covered the northwest. But that darn underground parking garage just 80 meters from his current location was beckoning him. He wished it were nighttime, midnight instead of nearing midday. And he wished these damn tourists weren't around. Innocent people were going to die.

  All was set. Marta's diversion would start things off. The rest would then move in. Fuchs would take out the men on the rooftop before hightailing it over to join the action.

  Marta had operational control. She was just a second from issuing the go order when another voice came over their radios. It was the voice of God.

  "Latest intel has noted a large vessel docked a half mile from current position with up to 30 operatives visible. This party is about to grow in size. Time is of the essence." Seibel's voice should have shocked everyone. But surprises and changes of plan and misdirection are part of the game.

  "Source?" Marta replied.

  "Russian satellite watching the coast." Seibel was matter of fact. Where he was at present was another matter. But he was close.

  "Confirmed." Wyrick reported to Fuchs over the sat phone. "Sorry, I wasn't looking to the water. That vessel came in 30 minutes ago."

  Fuchs relayed Wyrick's confirmation to the crew.

  "Abort?" Marta asked the open radios, but her question was for Lance only. She couldn't give a shit about the others and hoped Seibel would meet his end within minutes.

  The next words were sung not spoken. Lance sang a line from one of his favorites from the Doobie Brothers. Everyone cracked up.

  Marta tamed her laughter and spoke, "Go."

  ----------

  Risking such valuable resources to catch a single spy was excessive. It was stupid, foolish really. But every member of this deadly little team had a reason for being here and completing this job. And almost all of it centered on loyalty. As silly as it sounds, these fools were loyal to something bigger than themselves. Bigger than their bond.

  Braden was a mole. A traitor.

  And he worked for someone. And that someone wanted to jeopardize the safety of America and what it stands for. This was more than hand over your heart stuff. This was core, central, pivotal. Essential.

  Braden had to be caught or killed. He could not slink away into the cracks and whatever hole he came from.

  Marta's go signal caused the squeezing of fingers on triggers. The running of feet across open spaces, dives and rolls and bullets and blood. The sentries positioned around the building were the first to go down. Next were the poor guys on the roofline. They were easy targets for a deadly marksman like Fuchs. He took them all out in a counter clockwise fashion with his silenced rifle.

  People screamed. Tires squealed. Cars crashed.

  Tarwanah reached the building first and signaled Jamaani to make the initial entry into a store that faced the ocean. They needed to enter and move quickly out the back into a central courtyard.

  Marta was behind the wheel of a stolen Mercedes and proceeded to take out her sentry by spreading him across the grill of the sedan. She plowed the car onto the sidewalk and into the doorway Braden had entered an hour earlier. She was out of the vehicle and firing into the destroyed doorway in seconds. She had to trust that Fuchs would do his job and take out the guys on the rooftop so they couldn't fire down at her.

 

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