Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.
-M-
Jack took in the twinkling lights, then stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets with a little sigh. "Y'know, nowhere else on Earth'll ever measure up to the perfection that is Texas, but even I'll admit, this place does have its charms."
He'd enjoyed the city in '09 during his first stint as Bryce Villanova. Gotten to know it pretty well, too, at least the less than touristy parts. The funny squashed buildings, the wide pedestrian thoroughfares and the narrow crooked streets. Intersections that didn't make any sense and everyone just tore through them going way the hell too fast.
But right now he was strolling along one of the main drags of the Hague. It was actually its own damn town as well as a kind of seat of legislation and governance, about an hour's drive southwest of Amsterdam. He'd been there a few times as Bryce, mostly chasing dirtbags, and it really hadn't changed all that much. Lotta nice cars, lotta embassies.
And exactly what you'd expect to supply that clientele, out in plain sight too.
"Well, much as I hate to disparage your birthplace, I'd take the weather here over the weather in Houston hands down." Mac turned up the collar of his leather jacket, a little smile on his lips as he studied the city around them.
Jack had spotted their tail the moment he and Mac had stepped out of the Hotel Des Indes, a beyond swanky little joint with its own private art gallery – literally a big oval room full of pictures of dogs, beachside cliffs, and not terribly attractive naked dudes. Security was tight, so that's where the majority of the folks brought in to testify were staying – apparently Turkish art featured heavily the gallery, and the Des Indes was more than happy to host in return for some favors to be named at a later date. It was a sure bet that the whole damn place was under surveillance by Turkish intelligence, and if their own information was correct, by extension, Colonel Aydin's mole.
So the big question was, was their tail Turkish intelligence, or one of Aydin's new batch of Bordo Bereliler. Or, bonus, someone else altogether.
If Mac had spotted the guy he didn't show it, taking in the buildings and the people and looking a little more at ease than he had all day. Unless his partner had intentionally hidden it from him, Mac hadn't gotten a text since they landed.
It was probably safe to say Aydin's hacker was watching and listening through Mac's phone. And maybe Jack's as well. As a precaution, Jack had turned his off when the prosecutor had started his coaching session, and had 'forgotten' to turn it back on. He'd also already decided that, if they got into a pickle, he was going to insist that Mac actually use his own damn phone for parts, and maybe buy them a few minutes where they could actually speak.
Because Mac wasn't giving him a goddamn thing. He'd done something on the tablet for about an hour, then pleaded to be left alone to nap. Jack wasn't sure how much sleep the kid actually got, but the performance kept him occupied for the majority of the flight. After that, they'd hopped their rental car – and Mac had put his phone in the cupholder next to Jack's, the way he always did – and checked into the hotel. They'd met with the prosecution's team in a conference room that looked as though it belonged in a Viennese palace, been confirmed for testimony tomorrow, and then split up and coached.
It had taken the rest of the afternoon. Now, dusk was settling over the Hague, and Jack had insisted they find something to eat that didn't look like it belonged in that stupid art gallery.
But there was something he needed to do first. Unfortunately, as far away from Mac as possible. And ditching his partner felt like the absolute worst thing he could do right now. Even though Mac wasn't being terribly forthcoming about his plan – in fact, not forthcoming at all, not even using the shorthand they'd developed back in the sandbox – Jack had a sneaky suspicion whatever it was, it was going to happen once they got inside that courthouse.
It should be safe to leave him on his own for a little while. Help convince the assholes watching Mac that he was as oblivious as he looked.
"See that little corner pub, with the wrought iron?"
Mac glanced in the direction Jack indicated, then gave a nod.
"Whatddaya say we meet there, about half an hour?"
The blond gave him a quizzical look. "Uh . . . sure. You got somewhere else to be?" Then the curiosity faded a little into suspicion. "Tell me you're not going to call Genevieve-"
Jack frowned at him. "Very funny. Nah, I just gotta go find a . . . Avon Wrinkle place. You know, Dutch 7-11."
His partner blinked at him. "Do you mean, Avondwinkel?"
Jack nodded. "That's what I said."
Mac opened his mouth, then decided to let it go. "Forget your toothbrush?"
Close. But he had a much more convincing lie prepped. "I somehow managed to get here without any pit spray."
Mac started to grin. "You forgot your deodorant?"
"Yeah. Meant to grab it outta my locker before we left, but then our drill sergeant decided a uniform inspection was in order . . ."
The grin became a smirk. "By the end of this trip, you're going to tell me what's up with the pants-"
"Not gonna happen."
"Yeah, well, if you want to borrow my deodorant, pretty sure it's 'gonna happen' . . ."
Jack screwed up his face. "And walk around the Netherlands smellin' like a millennial? That's a hell no, thank you. You can keep your Axe body spray to yourself."
Mac actually looked a little offended. "Really, Jack?"
"Dude, whatever. You can get away with that shit –" And he gestured vaguely at his partner – mostly his hair, "- but grown men like me should smell, you know, like men."
Mac's eyebrows rose politely. "Like an old gym bag. Check."
Jack swatted him in the chest. "You need anything? Maybe some slick Eurotrash hair gel?"
His partner glanced around, getting his bearings. "No, I'm all set. I'm gonna check out that park over there. It's got scale models of a couple different Dutch cities –"
Jack gave a short laugh. "Sometimes I forget how much of a nerd you are."
The blond just shook his head. "Scale models are awesome, Jack, and if was a model of a World War II battle you'd be right there with me."
He couldn't argue with that. "Dude, if you see a mini Panzer division over there, grab me one, wouldja? Oh, and if they have a tiny little Patton or, y'know, a Rommel . . ."
Mac simply turned and walked away. Jack watched him go with a broad grin, then wandered up the street in the direction of bright lights.
A block later, the tail had stayed with him.
Now Jack had a decision to make. He could lose the tail and make it look accidental. Or, he could find out just what the hell was going on. Turkish intelligence should know he and Mac were American agents, so he wouldn't be breaking cover. And Aydin's men would know exactly what he was capable of. Confronting one now might force them to step up their plan, which could be both a good thing or a bad thing.
Then again, Jack was pretty sure if it was one of Aydin's men, the guy was there to kill him, and considering Mac hadn't even tried to stop them from splitting up . . .
No, Mac had been all for it. Which probably meant Jack was meant to lead the tail away and let Mac get up to his own shenanigans.
Jack wasn't sure how he felt about that. And either way, he only had half an hour to acquire a firearm and a burner phone, so playtime was in short supply.
Let's just see how persistent you are, buddy.
Jack led the guy down a couple more blocks until he found a side street that was dedicated to the little shops that made Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and all the other damn cities in the Netherlands so charming. He glanced in a few windows until he found a shop he liked – knickknacks and touristy garbage – and headed in. The woman behind the counter looked Scandinavian, and she simply gave him a once-over before turning back to the couple that were cooing over a display of windmills while their eight year old had headed unerringly for the stuffed beavers.
He glanced appreciatively at a stand of jackknives with hand carved wooden handles, then continued to the back of the shop where a very narrow staircase declared that there was more product upstairs, and a sign above the hallway beside it said employees only were permitted past that point. Jack strolled right under the sign and pulled open the faded powder blue door, finding a cramped and packed storage room, and beyond that was a similar door to the back alley. He pulled it closed politely behind him, then turned right and walked about thirty feet before letting himself into the shop two doors down.
Most of Europe wasn't nearly as conscientious as the United States about things like physical security. It was too much of a pain to have doors automatically lock behind you when you were in and out of them all day, and besides, the only people back there were the other shop owners or the garbage men. Shops like these didn't have much in the way of truly valuable merchandise, and if they did, they were under the careful eye of the staff, not locked away in a storage room. That blonde chick was far more interested in potential shoplifters than if a customer let themselves out the back.
Or in the back. Jack gave the young man a nod as he brushed past him, into a store full of paper products, stationary and greeting cards. One pretty purple card with an angry troll on the front caught his eye, and Jack considered picking it up as a way to leave a message for Matty, but decided against it. Through the front windows, he spotted his man, about five foot eleven, charcoal quilted jacket and newsboy cap, put his back to a lamppost and set up watch on the knickknack shop.
An older woman had just finished her purchase, and Jack held the door open for her, chatting her up as he walked out. The guy never even glanced their way.
Jack almost shook his head. What kind of spycraft were they teachin' kids nowadays?
Just in case the guy was leading him on, Jack repeated the maneuver on the opposite side of the street, then headed south, where the shops became slightly less tourist friendly, and more geared towards the poor souls who actually had to live here. It took him a little while to remember the place – Bryce Villanova hadn't been there for years, obviously - but he eventually found the right black-painted door, and he rapped on it twice, then backed off.
Though there was no visible camera or peephole, the mail slot on the front of the door poked open, and a young voice floated out.
"Wat wil je?"
"To speak English," Jack replied gruffly. "I need somethin' put somewhere on short notice."
The mail slot gave that a little thought. "So?"
Jack fished in his interior jacket pocket and pulled out a note, written on the hotel stationary, and a thick wad of euros. "It's all there. And somethin' extra for your trouble."
He offered the euros first, watching them disappear into the mail slot, and after a short pause – not enough to count, but enough to confirm it was legit currency and not counterfeit – the note was snatched away as well.
"Pleasure doin' business with ya."
"Donder op."
Jack almost snorted. It was the Dutch equivalent of "piss off" and it still managed to sound way the hell more polite.
That problem solved, Jack headed back the way he'd come. He had his pick of convenience stores, so he waited for the one where three school aged kids were loitering at the nearby corner, smoking, and there were no CC TV cameras in sight.
He approached the group without a smile – you didn't smile much in the Netherlands unless you knew somebody, or you were up to somethin', and he didn't want to be mistaken for a creeper.
"Hey, fellas."
The kids jumped, looking guilty as hell, and Jack determined that they weren't smoking tobacco. That was fine. He wasn't the pot police.
Not that they knew that.
"Any of you three speak English?"
All three were young, maybe twelve or thirteen, and all with dark eyes and dark curls. But the ringleader – the one who had artfully palmed a lit doobie and was now clearly regretting that decision – cleared his throat with a little cough.
"American?"
Good. Jack nodded. "Tell ya what. I'll give ya twenty euros if one of ya'll run into that store and grab me a prepaid phone - and one'a'them Tony's chocolate bars."
The ringleader took a step back and casually tossed the still-smoldering cannabis onto the bench behind him. "Why?"
Now a disarming grin was appropriate. "'Cause I'm high as a kite, kiddo, and I don't want that guy in that store to know."
The three boys considered that, then gave him matching wide grins, and the ringleader accepted a fifty euro note and strolled over to the convenience store as only a twelve year old who thinks he's being casual can stroll. The other two decided Jack was friendly enough, and recovered their recreational cigarette. They offered him a hit; Jack politely declined.
Apparently it wasn't the kid's first time buying a burner phone, either – he was in and out of that shop in less than three minutes, plastic bag in hand. The stroll back to the group was even more casual than the first time, so much so that Jack couldn't help but wince when kid, package and all, almost wiped out on the curb.
The bag was handed over, and the change was offered up – more than twenty euros. Jack accepted the bag, gave the kids a casual salute, and headed back towards the main drag, with the sound of their smothered but excited laughter echoing after him.
The bag and the phone's packaging ended up in a trash can a block away, and Jack powered on the little flip phone and waited for it to do its thing. Once it was connected, he sent a text to a number he'd memorized more than seven years ago.
3 pair GENUINE Helikon Tex SFU pants size M - Asking 15 per. 181 202 8857
Then Jack grinned to himself, powered down the phone, and slipped it into his pocket. That'd teach Matty to give him grief about his pants.
-M-
Lose Jack and visit Madurodam.
He'd gotten that text hours ago, right after they'd touched down – the first and only one after his aborted conversation with Jack. Mac honestly wasn't sure if it was part of Hakan's original plan, or they'd somehow realized he'd signaled to Matty and Jack, and it was simply going to be a hit.
At least it would be a very interesting place to die.
Madurodam Park was littered with 1:25 scale replicas of everything Holland. Tiny soccer fields, the entirely of Amsterdam as it was in the 17th century, little canals and fields of tiny tulips, monolithic Dutch castles that stood just higher than Mac's waist. The miniatures' lights were on, showing tiny apartments with smiling families sitting down to supper, or little boys hanging out of their windows in their pajamas, watching the lovers on the street below.
There were also life-sized lovers, couples holding hands as they gasped and laughed in delight at the moving windmills, and the sailing boats in actual water. Plenty of witnesses.
MaGyver left his phone in his pocket, knowing they could use it to get his location within a few meters, and started to wander the park.
There were a lot of cameras. He'd been tagged on entrance by at least three, and in the park proper they were readily obvious, up on poles. They were clearly for security purposes, protecting the models so exuberant kids or drunk adults didn't Godzilla the whole of Rotterdam, but there were still plenty of corners and areas of the outdoor park that were outside of their view.
Mac stuck to the perimeter, and it wasn't long before another lone figure, this one with a map of the park, seemed to be meandering in the same direction. Mac crouched in front of a castle portcullis, admiring the intricate individual chain links on the grate's pulley system, and spotted the smooth, concave surface of a lens inside.
There were even cameras inside the models.
"That's really something, isn't it."
The voice had a slight accent – it reminded him of the medic, whose English had also been almost impeccable. Mac took a deep, slow breath, then turned his head, and glanced up at the man who had spoken.
His voice wasn't familiar, but his face was.
Mac couldn't help leaning away when the Turk reached for him, but the most threatening thing he did was simply extend his hand.
"It is good to see you again, American."
Warily, Mac straightened, and when it became clear he had no choice, he reached out and shook the man's hand.
It was hard and calloused, the hand of a soldier, and incredibly strong. He tightened his grip by degrees, and Mac knew it was stupid but he answered in kind. Doing what he did – working on the bike, all the DIY, even playing with paperclips – made his hands a lot stronger than they looked. He refused to flinch, staring the man down.
I remember you.
Didn't remember his name, though. Probably never heard it, just like he'd never heard his voice.
This was the man who would come in with his buddy, every morning, and collect him for interrogation. Yank a black hood over his head, and take him across his cell, out the door, twenty-two steps around a curving hallway, to the right, down seventeen stairs, three steps across the landing, then seventeen more stairs-
The Turk's thick lips twisted upwards in something that wasn't quite a smile. "You look well."
Mac bared his teeth. "Where's Riley?"
"You are not here to ask questions." The soldier tightened his grip further, which Mac wasn't quite able to match but he didn't give away the slightest sign of pain, and the Turk was forced to release him to reach inside his coat. Whatever it was, his wrist wasn't angled for the grip of a firearm, and an innocent-looking manila envelope – the right size and shape to hold a stack of cash – was withdrawn.
"You will put this in the safe in your hotel room."
This was a framing job. The purpose was to create evidence of Luka Morrow accepting money from a known collaborator of Aydin's. That's why the man's face wasn't hidden, why he wasn't wearing gloves. Why they met in front of so many cameras.
They wanted his fingerprints on the envelope. They wanted to leave no doubt that Luka was cooperating with Colonel Aydin.
Which probably meant as soon as he'd held up his end, and freed the colonel, he was going to be used as a distraction for both the local 5-0 as well as multiple intelligence agencies.
Exactly what he would have done in Hakan's shoes. Create a solid chain of irrefutable evidence, so that Phoenix would be forced to abandon him. That way, even if he somehow escaped, there would be no safe haven. Instead of the colonel rotting in prison for the rest of his life, it would be one of the Americans responsible for putting him there.
Mac accepted the envelope without looking at the contents and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans, letting his leather jacket hide the part sticking out. "Good talk."
"We're not finished. You will tell us your plan."
MacGyver glanced surreptitiously around them, but it didn't appear that anyone else was either close enough to overhear, or on approach. Then he remembered the phone.
Of course.
"I'll create a distraction, start a building evacuation, and take the colonel along the counselor's hallway to the west side of the building."
All of that was painfully obvious from what he'd downloaded on the tablet, and nothing they shouldn't have pieced together already.
"And how will you accomplish this?"
Mac already knew the Turk wasn't going to like his answer. ". . . don't know yet. I'll think of something."
It was clear the soldier found both his expression and his words unacceptable. "You still test us."
Not two seconds later, his phone vibrated.
He glared at the man in front of him, then fished the phone out of his pocket, unsurprised to see that it was a video call. Mac hesitated for a long moment before he swiped to answer it.
Once again, the beige room was brighter than where he was, and he could see every detail. This time it looked like she was asleep. Her cheek was still visibly swollen, and her split lip looked more cracked and chapped than it had earlier. But she was clearly alive and breathing.
"For every question you refuse to answer, she will suffer."
A hand came into view, male, just as hard and calloused as the pair in front of him. The hand reached out and smoothed a few strands of Riley's hair from her forehead. She didn't really respond.
"I'm telling you the truth," Mac growled, hoping against hope that she was simply sedated, drugged to keep her from causing any trouble. "I don't know what I'm going to do yet. I improvise based on the situation and what's around me. You know that."
They'd made him do it for them.
"You built a device this morning."
Since whoever was watching through the phone's camera had seen him do that, Mac could only nod. "Yes. That's Plan B, in case something goes wrong. It'll trigger a full building evacuation, but it'll bring a lot stronger presence from first responders. I don't want to use it unless we have to."
The Turk gave him a long look. "And once you are on the west side of the building?"
There really was no way to not answer that question. "I'll get us to the neighboring building. There are a series of utility tunnels that are used to control flooding along the tributaries of the Rhine, accessible through maintenance hatches. They're old stone, fairly deep and currently dry. We'll pop up a few miles away, acquire vehicles, and head to that pair of helicopters I asked for."
Sort of.
"And how are we going to escape the courthouse to access these tunnels?"
On the phone's screen, the hand once again stroked Riley's hair, and Mac ground his teeth. "I don't know yet. That will depend on how many will be in our party."
Technically it wasn't a question, but it didn't look like 'technical' particularly mattered, because the fingers in Riley's hair tightened, pulling her head back. The skin between her eyebrows puckered.
"Be more specific."
"I don't know," Mac repeated, looking away from the phone to lock eyes with the Turk he could actually see. "Building security could be tighter or more lax depending on which distraction works, so I'll have to adjust that part on the fly."
There was a soft whine from the phone, and Mac glared at the soldier. "Look, if you want details, you're going to have to give me something to go on. How many on your team, your technical and offensive capabilities, whether or not we'll have coms . . . basic logistics. Otherwise this is the best I can do – the best anyone could do."
The man across from him stared at him a long moment, silently, and Mac finally realized he was getting coached. There was someone in his ear – probably Hakan.
Which could mean Hakan wasn't actually here in the Netherlands. Was he still in the States? Even flying commercial, he'd had half a day to catch up to him and Jack . . . surely he'd want to be on the ground to greet the colonel personally.
So what the hell was he up to?
"I'm holding up my end. And I'm pretty sure no one's cuddling up to your colonel at the moment," he added sharply, "-so leave her alone."
The man in front of him curled his lips at Mac's tone, and MacGyver went ahead and pushed his luck, taking a step closer. "Go ahead. Explaining away the bruise will be the least of my problems."
The Turk smirked at him. "I won't leave a bruise."
At least not bruises that would be visible when he was in a suit.
Mac only saw the blow coming because he was expecting it. The guy was lightning quick, and Mac dropped to his knees despite himself. Guy had hit him right under the lungs, and his diaphragm briefly forgot how to function.
The soldier leaned down, putting his lips by Mac's ear. He barely heard the man over his attempts to breathe. "I'm looking forward to tomorrow, American."
And then the Turk walked away.
Mac managed to pull himself back together after a few carefully metered breaths, and he turned over the phone, still in his hand, to see that the video call had been disconnected. He'd cut the conversation short, which had been his goal, but he wasn't sure what the move would mean for Riley.
And still no clue where she was. If they were withholding food and water. If they were –
Mac pushed himself to his feet, fighting to keep his hand steady as he shoved the phone back into his pocket. The Turkish soldier had melted into the night – he was long gone. No one had noticed their altercation; people knelt in front of the models all the time. The atmosphere around him hadn't changed, but Mac would have sworn it dropped ten degrees.
It took three or four steps before he was able to completely straighten up, and Mac headed for the nearest exit. Once he was out of view of every camera but one, he moved the envelope of money from his back pocket to the inside of his jacket. Then he tugged his shirt back into place, took a few deep breaths, and proceeded towards their rendezvous point.
No sense in making Jack worry any more than he already was.
Mac turned the corner and the little pub came into view up the next block, but there was no Jack Dalton standing in front of it. The person who'd been tailing them from the hotel was nowhere to be seen, but Mac had watched him peel off to follow Jack as soon as they'd split up, and frankly he wasn't sure if it had been one of Aydin's men, to make sure Jack didn't swing around to get eyes on Mac's meet, or if it was Turkish intelligence just being jumpy that two American agents were in town. Either way, the guy hadn't seemed terribly skilled, and he had no doubt that if Jack had led him off just to tangle with him, his partner was perfectly fine.
And if it had been one of Aydin's guys, and Jack had caused a problem, he would have gotten instructions about it by now.
There was no way they'd make a move on Jack tonight. A missing witness could cause a delay of trial, and result in Aydin getting moved to a more secure location. Hakan wouldn't risk it. It was immediately after he broke the colonel out that Mac was more worried about. He didn't believe for a second the colonel's men wouldn't want payback for what Jack did at the manor.
The bargain he made was for Riley's life. Hakan hadn't said anything about Jack's.
Nor had he said anything about Mac's own. The evidence trail led him to believe he'd be used as a distraction himself, and Mac was quite sure the State Department had warned Turkish intelligence they were coming, which could have accounted for that tail. He and Jack were already persons of interest. And the State Department would be quick to distance itself, to make the assertion that he'd gone rogue, especially in light of all the evidence he was helping them create. Matty could probably keep the US agencies from putting a kill order out on him, but he wasn't sure her seemingly endless authority stretched as far as Turkey.
He was going to have to be very careful.
Mac finally reached the pub, and he glanced into the glazed windows, but it was too dark to make out any specific shapes. He almost grabbed his phone to text Jack before he remembered, but frankly, texting Jack would normally be his next move-
"Enjoy the dollhouses?"
Mac very carefully didn't jump, plastering on a half-annoyed grin instead as he turned. "I did actually. There was a castle you'd have really liked. You have any trouble finding the right brand of anti-aging serum?"
The absolutely clueless look Jack gave him almost made him laugh – actually laugh - and he felt an overwhelming rush of gratitude for his partner's presence.
"Your Avon Wrinkle cream, Jack. Remember?"
For a split second, it looked like his partner really wasn't catching on, but then the light bulb illuminated, and he patted the right side of his jacket. "Yeah, I think it's some kinda sports scent. Couldn't read the label, and they package that shit like they mean it over here. Haven't cracked it open yet."
"So . . . you might actually have bought 'old gym bag'?"
Jack grabbed the back of Mac's jacket collar and shoved him towards the door. "Boy, if you're gonna keep takin' cheap shots, you better get in there and buy this senior citizen a beer."
-M-
"I'll tell you the same thing I would tell Jack. No."
The size twelve combat boots stayed right on her tail. "Director-"
Matty turned on the man. At six foot one inch, he stood just as tall as the man whose shoes he was trying to fill. When Jack Dalton was on a mission, security for the Phoenix fell to his second in command, Joshua Carter. He was unlike Jack in virtually every way but height. Where Jack kept his hair short save for that kewpie-like mohawk, Carter's strawberry blonde hair was longer, and immaculately coiffed. Carter was naturally more tanned, a California boy to his roots. And his smile, when you could coax one out of him, was blindingly white from all the coffee and tea he didn't drink. She knew from hard experience that Carter could do terrible things to kale smoothies.
But there was one aspect of the man that was a precise match to Jack Dalton. And that was the seriousness with which he took his job.
Agent Carter had offered to 'walk her to her car', seeing as it was nearly eleven and there was a 'personnel issue' he wanted to discuss. There were cameras in the parking lot, but no audio, and it allowed them to speak openly for the first time since she'd summoned him to a conference room earlier that day and read him in.
And now it seemed that 'walking you to your vehicle, ma'am' actually meant 'assign two agents to crawl up your ass and lock you down under house arrest.'
"Yes, Carter. Director. That's my title. Do you know what that means?" She was, frankly, too exhausted to get properly angry, but she still cocked her head to the side like she was considering it. "It means I'm your boss's boss. And when I say no, I mean no. The Phoenix could be under surveillance-"
"That's my point exactly," Carter interrupted smoothly. "We have no idea how compromised the Phoenix is, and you could be a target-"
Matty rolled her eyes. "Listen, carrot top, I've been a target for going on thirty years now, I think I can handle it. I don't want some well-meaning agent to decide to do a perimeter walk and tip them off."
In Carter's defense, there was a lot they didn't know. She'd come up with various reasons to look into the areas of the Phoenix that Mac had visited during his early morning activities, but preliminary surveys hadn't come up with much. She couldn't order a full inventory of the labs for the same reason she couldn't order a full search of the Phoenix's network. The initial one she'd had run that morning she'd pretended had been part of an 'audit' that she'd then sent on to the CIA – after a quick call to Marguerite so that she didn't give away that she hadn't asked for it.
As for Riley, her agents on the ground in Las Vegas could only confirm that Riley was not in her hotel room, and her rental car was in the hotel parking lot. Riley's burner phone was in her hotel room, with only her prints on it. If the same hacker who had gone up against Riley last year was involved, Matty knew they weren't going to find any evidence on the hotel security system – or any other – as to how and in what condition Riley had been taken. She was going to have to assume the worst – that Riley had been kidnapped the first evening – and she could be literally anywhere on the globe by now.
She'd gotten Jack's message and his burner phone number from the text-only classifieds messaging group the CIA had set up ages ago, but since then Jack's only communication was that he hadn't gotten anything else out of Mac, and he suspected Mac had had a meet with one of Aydin's men. Mac hadn't given them the first clue where Riley was – if he even knew.
Luckily, tomorrow afternoon her hands would be untied. The grey hat conference ended Thursday, so when Riley didn't phone home, she would have a legitimate excuse to start a proper search, and then lock down the Phoenix network and see if they couldn't get whoever was in it out.
And she wasn't going to blow that because Carter decided he needed to be overprotective in Dalton's absence.
"I know you can, but I would feel better if you had secure transport."
"And I would feel better if I had eight hours of sleep and a massage, but we don't always get what we want, do we." She rooted around blindly in her pocketbook, locating her key fob and unlocking her vehicle. "I'll be back in four hours. Make sure you get some sleep, and that's an order. We have rotating quick response teams for a reason."
Shit was going to hit the fan timed with the colonel's trial. There was a nine hour time difference between LA and Amsterdam, and the trial was going to resume at ten am local time, which was basically in two hours. However, Mac and Jack weren't going to be testifying until late afternoon, and she was hoping that left her just enough time to get a couple hours of sleep and a few things from the house that she was going to need. Until the Phoenix had been swept and cleared of bugs, she was going to have to go old school.
Fortunately she had a whole toybox in her closet just waiting to get dusted off.
"Go back inside, Carter." The parking lot lighting accentuated the set of his jaw, and Matty relented. "I'll text you when I get home, okay, dad?"
The jaw didn't shift much. "Please do."
She wasn't the least bit surprised when he literally waited for her to get into her car and pull out of the parking spot, but by the time she navigated the parking lot and badged out, his shadow was no longer visible in the lot. Rush hour in LA never really went away, even at eleven o'clock at night, and Matty used the Bluetooth connection in the car to start listening to the many voicemails she'd accrued today and hadn't bothered to check.
None were important, and she barely noticed that the reminder that the landscaping company was going to come by in two days to spray the lawn cut off at the end. When the next message didn't autoplay, she glanced at the car's entertainment display, and noticed it was giving her the 'No Signal' error.
Awesome.
Matty glanced at her actual phone, in its holder on the dash as she stopped at a red light. The phone also indicated it had no service. Matty studied it a moment, then looked to her right, where someone else was waiting at the light. That person, too, was staring at their dash-mounted phone, with a finger to their earpiece, and didn't look pleased.
Cell signal problems near Hollywood on a Wednesday night. Someone's head was going to be on a platter tomorrow.
Despite the late hour and the knowledge that she was probably being overcautious, Matty decided to take the long way home. She never saw a tail. Cellular signal wasn't restored by the time she hit the gate for her neighborhood, and Matty drove the block. Nothing out of the ordinary. No utility or moving vans where they shouldn't be. No unfamiliar cars. The house looked undisturbed.
Paranoid much?
Her home security had been set up by the same outfit that she'd had upgrade the CIA's security while she'd been there. She had multiple fallbacks – internet, landline, cellular, even a satellite connection. And the system was smart; if the base station lost the 'heartbeat' of the alarm system, meaning that the internet or landline had been cut, it would trigger an alarm. Her home security reported both to the LAPD and Phoenix, and Carter would have sent a damn helicopter by now if the house alarm had gone off. Hopefully he realized the cellular outage wasn't localized just on her house.
Matty climbed out of the car, fishing out her house keys, and nothing was amiss. The crickets were putting out a steady hum. The alarm was armed and had no information and no alerts on the panel when she input her code.
. . . and that was wrong.
Because cellular service was still disabled, and the panel should have told her.
Matty tucked her house keys back into her pocketbook, and pressed the silent alarm button on her key fob as she did so. The car had both cellular and satellite connections. And while she knew Riley could take out a satellite, she was pretty sure Riley couldn't take down all of the ones that were over Los Angeles at any given time without attracting a lot of attention.
Which meant no one else could, either.
Then she palmed the Beretta Nano she kept in that pocketbook, and headed through the house, turning on very few lights on her way upstairs to her bedroom.
She didn't encounter a soul, didn't hear a sound out of place. As if she was just exhausted and preoccupied, she closed her bedroom door, tossed her pocketbook on the bed, and flipped on the light to the master bathroom. It was one of the reasons she'd chosen this particular house; there was a huge walk-in closet that led to the sink and mirror portion of the bathroom - and the counter was the perfect height for her – before leading into a spa-sized shower room that contained an inset tub as well as a glass-walled shower large enough for her and ten of her closest friends.
She turned on all the lights, shut the door to the shower area, and returned to the closet. Then she headed straight for the wall of hanging suit jackets, and quietly slipped behind them to face the closet wall. The drywall door was heavy, and she eventually had to stuff the gun in the back of her pants to free up her hands. Once she had it moved, she bent and backed into the small space, grabbing the handles that had been glued to the inside of the removable square of drywall.
Then she pulled it back into position, blending seamlessly with the floor molding and chair rail in the closet.
The pinhole that was in the passageway's door was essentially invisible from the other side, and Matty shifted her crouch, pressing her face up to it and peering through.
Dalton will never let me live this down if I'm wrong.
It had been known to happened, but only every once in a blue moon. And tonight's moon wasn't blue.
A shadow crossed soundlessly past her, face painted in night camo, his M4 tucked tight to his body. He had eyes only for the closed door to the shower room, and Matty remained perfectly still inside the wall, and waited. She never heard the door open, but in less than sixty seconds he was headed back, this time evaluating the closet carefully. He was wearing a throat mic and radio, no patches on his black ACUs, and Matty didn't flinch as he used the barrel of the M4 to part any collections of clothing that touched the carpeting, including the wall of suit jackets.
Then he backed off, and signaled silently to someone out of her line of sight to continue searching.
So there were at least two of them. Obviously military or ex military, obviously special forces.
God dammit. They must not have gotten all of Aydin's Bordo Berelilers after all. There could be up to four of them, and honestly Matty wasn't sure how Carter's quick reaction team would stack up to them. If she had Jack in her pocket, she'd consider going on the offensive, but with these odds -
She needed to evade and escape, and use the satphone to call in backup like she meant it.
Matty gave them a thirty second head start – by then they should have finished searching the bedroom – and then carefully adjusted her crouch, and pulled off her shoes. She set them silently on the wooden floor of the passageway, and then did her best impression of duck walking down the almost completely black tunnel.
She'd had it installed during the renovations, before she'd moved in. A very cramped little secret passage that would allow anyone her size or smaller to pass unseen from the second floor to the first floor, and from there to the crawlspace of the house, under the kitchen. She'd be exposed from the kitchen to the treeline, or she could hide between the house and the landscaping and try to make it back to her car –
Except she'd left her keys in her pocketbook.
Treeline it was.
The tunnel took a ninety degree turn with the wall, and Matty followed it by touch, moving slowly to keep the awkward position from winding her in the close, stifling space. There was another pinhole in the wall along the hallway, and she paused to watch through it, but no one passed by. If there were more than two, one was likely watching the stairwell, and he wasn't in her field of vision. The others would have spread out and could be anywhere by now.
They could look for this passage all they wanted, tap on as many walls as they could find, but the drywall was no different along the tunnel than anywhere else in the wall, and besides, no one ever thought to tap down low enough. The only thing that would catch her would be radar or infrared, and she was counting on them having the latter. Which meant she couldn't hang out in the walls forever.
Knowing that she'd be creeping down the stairs almost on top of one of them, Matty took a moment to compose herself, wipe the sweat off her face, and steady her breathing. Then she eased herself down the hall, to the next ninety degree bend.
If she was right, there was a soldier right on the other side of the wall.
Matty took each stair gingerly. The men who'd done the work had done everything possible to guarantee that the wood wouldn't creak when pressure was applied. However, it had been constructed years ago, and frankly outside of a couple test runs – and one Christmas party she'd used it like ten times to freak out her employees – she hadn't been back to it. There were the obligatory cobwebs, and plenty of dust, but the stairs themselves were solid and took her weight with no problems.
The actual stairs, the ones that were just a wall away, were not quite as soundless. And someone was moving down them, pacing her almost exactly.
Matty froze, and held her breath, frowning as a tickle of sweat trickled down her spine. A stair creaked, then silence.
Could they hear her . . .?
But then a stair below hers popped, and Matty waited for whoever it was to finish making it downstairs before she continued.
The tunnel was limited in that it could only follow established walls, which meant she had to work her way through the formal hall and living room to make the kitchen, and the trap door that would lead to the crawlspace. She stopped at every pinhole, but didn't catch any sign of movement, nor did she hear a damn thing. She didn't dare wake up her smartwatch to check the time, even though she knew full well the light would not be visible. It would take as long as it took.
But it wouldn't be long before they broke out infrared goggles to try to find her, if they hadn't already. The wall would conceal her somewhat, but she would be an obvious warm spot in an otherwise empty room. The formal living room wall was the longest, and it was there she was going to be the most exposed.
The wall wasn't bulletproof, and she wasn't wearing a vest.
Her lungs seized a little at the implication, and unwanted memories of another dark, cramped space crashed forcefully against her calm.
This was not that. This would not become that. She had time. Backup was coming, the satellite connection wouldn't have failed. Carter was already looking for an excuse.
No time for doubt.
She put a steadying hand on the interior wall of the tunnel and glared into the blackness until her mind was locked down tight and focused. Then Matty edged around the last ninety degree bend and started down the hallway wall towards the living room.
Her knees were killing her, a painful but welcome distraction; she probably hadn't duckwalked this distance since beginning agent training –
About two feet behind her, there was a loud crack, and light poured into the tunnel from a boot-sized hole in the drywall.
Matty barely had enough room to turn around, and she pulled the Beretta from the back of her pants as someone continued pulling off the wall. The tunnel had a ceiling, one of three quarter inch plywood, and something struck it hard, twice, before someone growled something and started to poke their head in.
She squeezed off two rounds – the Beretta Nano only had six – and the soldier jumped back with a shout. Then she ran like hell, as fast as the cramped space and her crouch would let her.
They obviously knew their target was low to the ground, and Matty had to dive and press herself flat to the floor of the tunnel as drywall exploded around her. She felt something burn across the small of her back, then again across the back of her shoulders, and she couldn't help a cry of pain. The hail of bullets stopped, and Matty dared to glance up ahead. With so many holes in the wall, she could see where the trapdoor was, and –
And it was too far. There was way too much debris between her and it. They'd hear her.
Behind her, back at the hole, something metallic thunked onto the tunnel floor, and clattered towards her. The sound of the cannister was unmistakable.
Grenade.
Matty pushed herself up, clapped her hands over her ears, and ran.
It wasn't even a two count before it went off, and searing hot air buffeted her, knocking her off her feet. Matty pulled her hands away from her ears, which were ringing, but at least not bleeding, and dragged herself towards the trap door. But the grenade had destroyed the wall, and a vise closed around her bare ankle. She tried to flip onto her back, Beretta still in her hand, but she was yanked backward with the force of a parachute deploying, and then she was slithering out of the tunnel and onto the oriental rug in the formal living room.
She got off a shot; the soldier released her and fell back with a grunt, and Matty scrabbled backwards towards the love seat, towards cover. Besides the guy she'd tagged, now on the ground, someone else was standing in the hallway, and she saw the barrel of the M4 flicker to life.
Two flashes.
She heard them clearly, saw them clearly, but she didn't feel any pain. She froze, more out of surprise than surrender, and the man in the hallway covered the distance between them with long, rapid strides.
"Enough," he spat, in accented English, and he jerked the barrel of his weapon in a sharp gesture. "Toss it away."
Rage rose up in her throat, smothering even the panic, and Matty gave him a good long glare before she did as she was instructed. "You and your men have just made a terrible mistake."
"You are the terrible mistake," the soldier snarled, advancing on her steadily. "You should have been drowned by your mother."
His buddy groaned but made as if to get back to his feet, and Matty scooted backwards towards the love seat as the other soldier bore down on her. His sneer was visible even through the black makeup.
"You are like a monstrous child." He struck out with his boot, more of a shove than a kick, and he pinned her effortlessly to the floor. Matty grimaced and tried to shove his boot off, but she may as well have been trying to move a building.
"Well . . you know what they say . . . about monsters," she retorted, a little breathlessly as he started to apply his weight like he meant it.
He intended to break her ribs. Crush her to death. He didn't want her shot; he wanted to leave a message.
And she was damn well going to leave one of her own.
His face twisted, but he resisted adding any additional pressure to hear the answer. Almost everyone would, no matter what culture; it was ingrained in human social cues to give you that opportunity to finish your statement.
And Matty took full advantage.
He hadn't been paying any attention to her left hand, which was now under the love seat, and she helped herself to the six inch combat knife that was attached flush to the bottom. His leg was perfectly positioned above – and on – her, and in one fluid motion she hamstrung him.
She used his involuntary stumble to roll up under his foot, upsetting his balance, and the M4 went off in his hand as he fell. But she was no longer directly beneath it, and she used the knife to knock the barrel aside. As he finished falling, she lunged up and buried the knife to its hilt in his liver.
The second man was back on his feet and Matty pushed herself up and ran – at him, not away. He'd let his M4 dangle by its strap when he'd taken her round - in the vest, unfortunately - and he reached for his sidearm as she barreled at him. It was going to be close, he was moving faster than she'd thought and he was starting to backpedal –
There was an explosion from the front of the house, and the windows to the patio behind her shattered with gunfire.
Matty dove, rolling under a wingbacked chair for cover, and the sound of automatic fire stopped abruptly. A beat later, she heard a body hit the floor.
"Director!"
She froze, hardly daring to breath, and someone crunched rapidly through glass. Matty rolled painfully onto her side in time to see Agent Folami covering the hallway, and a woman roughly half his height heading right for her.
Agent Keung.
"There may – be two more," Matty managed, and then it occurred to her that she was out of breath.
"Carter and Hannagahn are out front, reinforcements are on the way," Folami called over. With the French doors to the patio shattered, she could clearly hear a helicopter, and Matty started to crawl out from under the chair as Keung slid onto her knees beside her.
"Director-"
"Go. Back up Carter." She held out her right hand, surprised to see it gloved in blood.
The man she'd stabbed.
They needed at least one of them alive.
"Give me your sidearm," Matty ordered, wondering why she sounded so breathless. Agent Patience Keung was Taiwanese, barely over 5'4", and she had petite hands and also preferred weapons with smaller grips. The medic hesitated, then shot a glance towards Agent Folami. He was still covering the hallway, the whites of his eyes stark against his otherwise ebony face, and though he never looked their way, something seemed to pass between the two agents.
Several bursts of automatic fire shattered through glass in the front of the house.
"Now!" Matty barked.
Agent Keung handed over her sidearm – a Springfield XD .45 – and Matty checked the chamber and managed to roll onto to her knees, covering the hallway door as Folami advanced. There was glass all over the floor, and she was barefoot. She wasn't walking anywhere without shoes.
"Patience, see what you can do with him. I need him alive."
Agent Keung, however, was staring at Matty's back in alarm. "You're bleeding-"
"So is he."
The rapid response team's only medic gave her another evaluative look before turning for her other patient, who was lying on his right hip, barely seeming to breathe. His useless leg was pinning his sidearm, preventing him from drawing it, and Keung disarmed him without touching his most obvious injury. Matty blinked in an effort to chase away a little lightheadedness, watching the door for any shadows while Keung worked.
The last time, blood seeping into her eyes had made it hard to see. Her back was burning, but not like it had that night, the rug was much softer than asphalt, and -
"Gimme an ETA on those EMTs," she heard Patience murmur into her radio, and then the medic's eyes were back on her.
It was getting harder to hear. Must have been from the grenade, and her adrenaline wearing thin. "No EMTs." God, her phone was also upstairs in her pocketbook. "Call my personal physician."
"Director – Matty," the agent tried. "I need to check you out-"
Why was it so hard for people to follow orders? "Deal with him-"
"He's been dealt with," Patience interrupted dryly. "I'm not a coroner. Now, let me see."
Damn. Damn.
"Get on the radio. Tell Carter I need one alive."
Just one. If she could get the colonel's plan, or at least a piece of it. Maybe intel on Riley's location –
There was another explosion from the direction of the front, and both women flinched. Matty's back was starting to do more than burn.
Gentle hands landed on her shoulders, easing her jacket off, and Matty huffed out an irritated sigh and helped, swapping the gun into her left hand as needed. She was fine, if she'd been badly hit by either bullet she wouldn't be moving around –
Another wave of lightheadedness hit, and breathtaking pain seared across her lower back.
"-ell me what happened?"
The next time Matty opened her eyes, the living room lights were on.
She was on her stomach, with her jacket folded under her face as a pillow. A first aid kit had puked all over the floor beside her, with paper wrappers everywhere, and someone out of sight was muttering quietly in a foreign language.
"Pait, can we –"
"No," the medic snapped, switching to English. "I will tell you when you can come in. What's the ETA on the doc?"
"Seventeen minutes," Folami sighed, in his deep, resonant voice. "You're the medic, Pait. This is your call."
Matty blinked, and something was pressed into her back hard enough to elicit a groan.
"Sorry, Director –"
"No hospital," Matty managed, when she could, and Agent Keung swam into view. She was wearing blue examination gloves, now, and they were smeared with blood. Her straight, dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her normally impassive face was downright stony.
"Director, you've got several puncture wounds from shrapnel, and I can't tell how deep they are –"
"Only my physician," Matty repeated. It was hard to get much volume, and when she shifted her right arm to try to push herself up, she saw that it was bare.
Of course. Keung had cut off her shirt to treat her. That was why she wasn't letting the other agents in.
It occurred to Matty, suddenly, that she didn't hear any more gunfire. It was quiet, save the far-off sound of sirens.
The fight was over.
Not like last time. This is not like last time.
She pointed towards the secretary, which was Victorian cherry, more than one hundred and fifty years old, and looked like it had somehow miraculously been spared any damage from the grenade. Her hand shook. "Bottom wide drawer. Sat phones. I need one."
Patience gave her a long look. "If you pass out again, you're going to the closest ER," she informed her, somehow steely through her normal deferential demeanor, and then she stood and peeled off one of the blue vinyl gloves, crossing the room to the correct piece of furniture.
From the door, Matty heard Leo again. "Is she-"
"Stay," Keung repeated firmly, and started digging around in the drawer. She paused a moment, as if surprised, and then turned her head a little. "Does it matter which one?" she called over her shoulder.
"No." No, they were all configured for a specific purpose, but some contacts were ubiquitous.
The slight agent brought back two – apparently just in case – and Matty selected the Globalstar device. There was some kind of quiet commotion in the hall.
"Keung, I need you back on coms -"
It was Carter's voice.
Patience frowned and shoved her freely dangling earpiece back into her left ear as the phone booted. Matty unlocked it and laid it on the floor before she started texting – her arm was shaking too badly to keep holding it.
"Have Carter contact . . . Wilt Bozer. I want him . . . to process the scene."
Even holding up her own head was getting difficult. She hated lying on her stomach, to hell with modesty and to hell with her back –
Matty barely managed to get her left arm under her before Keung stopped her with a firm hand. Even gentle pressure on the top of her left shoulder pulled at the wound across her upper back, and Matty hissed.
Patience looked sympathetic, but she didn't let her up. "Try not to move, Director, I've just gotten the bleeding stopped –"
"Carter. Get Bozer here. Now," she added, with as much snap to her voice as she could muster, and the medic gave her an inscrutable look, then tapped her coms.
"Josh, did you catch that?" She seemed to listen for a moment, and Matty rolled her eyes.
"Tonight!" she barked towards the hallway, and then relaxed back to the floor, letting her head fall on her jacket pillow. That took way the hell more effort than it should have.
Crap.
Laying her head down brought one of the dead soldiers directly into her line of sight. "Did you manage to . . . . capture one alive?"
Keung focused back on her, her lips set in a grim line. Wordlessly, she shook her head.
Crap.
The medic gave a little sigh, then she quickly scanned the room. Holding up a finger, and obviously still listening to coms, she rose gracefully and stepped off somewhere behind Matty. She heard fabric rustle, and then one of the throw blankets from the couch was draped ever so gently over her back.
"Alright, Leo, Josh," Patience called, and a tall, slender shadow eased around the doorframe. Agent Folami decided to take a position with eyes on the patio, keeping his gaze respectfully averted, and then Carter took Folami's position by the hallway door. He was wearing exactly what he'd been wearing when she'd left the office half an hour ago, with the exception of a tactical vest thrown over his tee, and blood was smeared over both his bare arms.
He didn't seem to be favoring either one. And no one else followed him in.
Matty stared at him a long moment. Her memory wasn't awesome, but hadn't Leo said that Hannagahn was with them?
Carter opened his mouth in a silent sigh, then tapped his coms. "This is Carter, gimme an ETA on that doctor." Then he locked eyes with her. "How you doing, boss?"
She knew exactly what he was asking. And she knew exactly how she needed to respond. Matilda closed her eyes, fending off another wave of lightheadedness, and took a preparatory breath. Her voice had to be strong.
"-atty? . . . Matty!"
-M-
Hakan carefully pulled the sliding door closed behind him and shrugged off his navy jacket. He handed it to a man as he passed, then stepped behind the host stand and helped himself to a radio. The moment he put the earpiece in, he knew something was wrong.
"-ve got reinforcements coming. Three vehicles, at least ten men."
He swiftly made his way to the central staircase and descended a level, taking his first right. The formal sitting room looked mostly untouched, save the corner Liris had taken over. Her equipment was staged near the curtains but exposed, and the woman herself was dressed for her day job, a Bluetooth earpiece in her left ear, and a mic hovering in front of her mouth from the right side.
In his ear, he heard a pop, followed by the unmistakable sound of automatic fire. "I lost visual on Tolan-"
"Tolan, answer me!" he heard Feza bark.
Without keying the radio, Hakan quietly walked up beside her. "Report."
The woman didn't even seem to notice him. "Denha, you will lose your exit in twenty seconds."
". . . Gani and Tolan are confirmed down," It was Denha. He sounded furious. "We can't recover them. Fall back."
There was a brief pause, then another pop, accompanied by slightly quieter automatic fire. "You get eyes on target?"
"-down and bleeding. I can't get a clean shot on the medic." Denha's voice was tightly controlled and grim. "Repeat, fall back to exfil."
Liris was staring at her screens – not displaying much that Hakan could interpret, unfortunately. She didn't have satellite; she did have a map up on one screen but it only showed moving signal dots rather than the actual heat signatures of the men. They were on opposite sides of the residence, and there was no indication of where the resistance might be.
He hesitated to ask her twice, letting her concentrate on her task, and finally the woman shot him a quick glance out of the corner of her eye. "Things didn't go to plan."
"Clearly," he responded, and watched the two dots rendezvous on the east side of the residence. "Is their exfil still secure?"
" . . . yes." It was distracted; the windows were appearing and disappearing so fast he couldn't focus on one before the next flashed up. "Target was hit, we can't confirm a kill."
Losses were regrettable, but acceptable as long as the objective was realized. "We won't get a second chance."
"You're right." Her voice was cold. "I was unable to access the Phoenix network. We had to . . . improvise."
Hakan digested that, watching the signals of their two remaining men moving rapidly towards safety. Other windows showed traffic intersections, and in the lower righthand corner, a convoy of three black SUVs ran a red light.
It was certainly disappointing, but this particular leg of the plan was not part of the critical path. It was a setback to be sure, but not insurmountable. "What happened?"
"What didn't." The woman finally turned from the screen, her frustration clear. "Without our ingress point to the Phoenix, I had to take out five cellular towers on top of disabling the alarm, and they still responded within minutes. She must have sent a signal. Probably through a satellite connection." The brunette looked and sounded disgusted. "The orospu knew. She hid in the walls, Gani finally found her using infrared. By the time they did, they only had a few minutes to neutralize her before reinforcements arrived. I think she may have killed Tolan herself."
Hakan swallowed a sigh. Perhaps he should have settled for simply shooting her. "She is injured, though?"
"Yes." Liris was quite confident. "I'm almost certain she was expecting us."
Whether she knew or was simply vigilant was in question. "You believe MacGyver signaled them?"
She knew he was looking for hard evidence, because her outrage subsided somewhat. "I was never able to make contact with my program. Either someone unplugged the USB drive, or the code was detected during a sweep and isolated."
Though he had seen the American plug in the USB stick with his own eyes, that was no guarantee that he hadn't determined another way to counteract Liris' tool. He was nothing if not resourceful.
Not openly. Not enough to risk being found in breach of their agreement.
Not enough to risk the woman's life.
Hakan had been watching him very carefully, but his eyes and ears were limited by technology. The USB drive had always been a gamble, because there had been such a delay between deployment and use. By itself it was not enough to know for certain.
And if his men had been successful in fatally wounding Director Webber, it wouldn't matter.
"Do your best to ensure Feza and Denha return safely."
She gave him a curt nod. "There's no indication their flight has been compromised."
"And your other traps?"
The woman hesitated, then toggled through a few windows. "Untouched."
Which would refute the claim that Angus MacGyver had gone back on his word, and warned his Phoenix Foundation what was about to happen. Surely if they had found the USB drive, they would have started investigating the other data stored on it.
"Good."
The sergeant left Liris to it, still listening to the radio with half an ear as he crossed the wide sitting room. The lounge beyond it was sparsely populated, with a few of his men dotting the tables, engaged in various activities. Behind the bar, a smartly dressed woman stood with her back ramrod straight, very carefully studying the surface of the polished wood. He could see that she had already cleaned everything she could possibly clean.
It wasn't as if she was serving alcohol, and a silver carafe of tea, with neat stacks of white cups, sat on the edge of the bar's counter, in easy reach of the men.
She didn't move or acknowledge him with more than the most furtive of glances, and Hakan crossed in front of the bar, pushing through the double doors to the auxiliary kitchen.
His men were in position, and the cooking staff were all quietly occupied. As he'd instructed, everything requiring the use of knives had been moved to a single station, and Major Sahin was monitoring it, leaning against a nearby freezer door with his sidearm held casually in his right hand. Hakan caught his eye and gave him a quiet nod, and the major returned it.
Truly, there was nothing to do now but wait.
Hakan returned to the lounge, helping himself to a cup of tea before taking a table by one of the large windows. He watched the city without seeing it, listening to his earpiece as his men made it to the hangar without further interference from Phoenix.
It was maybe twenty minutes later that Hakan's phone vibrated.
He pulled it free of his pocket, and saw that the message had come from the American agent's cloned phone.
034985 – enact Myrrh protocol
No further information.
Hakan headed back to the formal sitting room, and Liris. He didn't even have to ask.
". . . it's a mass text," the analyst murmured, almost to herself, her fingers flying across the nigh-silent rubber keyboard. "I can't determine the origin."
Only a few seconds later, another text from the agent's phone flashed on the screen. It was from Wilt Bozer.
R u ok? Call me ASAP!
On one of the monitors, two previously black windows lit and a crowd of people and part of a ceiling swung crazily into view. Hakan focused on the forward camera angle, and that image finally settled on the American's face, his expression one of confusion as he unlocked the phone. Several people passed by his side, as if he had stopped moving in the middle of a crowd. His eyes flicked across the messages, then his expression opened slightly into barely concealed shock. He looked away, then the phone was dropped to his side, and Liris unmuted the audio so they could hear.
There was a loud murmuring – clearly they were at the courthouse, and in a room with many people. A very authoritative voice was instructing someone in broken Turkish to use the lockers on their left for personal items. MacGyver, when he spoke, was hard to pick out of the ambient noise.
". . . Jack . . .? Is this . . .?"
Hakan closed his eyes, focusing on the slightly higher pitch of the older operative's voice, but he couldn't pick it out of the noise.
"Sir, place your personal items in the locker to your left-"
"Hang on." It was louder, and Angus. Probably addressing the court staff member who was trying to usher him through to the witnesses' chamber. His phone would be confiscated before he entered, which would leave them with limited eyes and ears, only what Liris could get with the in-court cameras and the audio from the listening devices on his own men.
Hakan opened his eyes. "Who's been monitoring the Americans since this morning?"
"Koray," Liris replied briskly. "He reported nothing out of the ordinary."
The camera on the outside of the phone showed that the American was moving towards a wall, away from the throng of people being processed, but it was artfully angled in such a way that Dalton was not visible.
"Jack," Angus tried again, more insistently.
Finally, Hakan picked out the other American's voice, though he was not addressing his partner. "Carter, Dalton, what-"
Both the images spun as MacGyver was forced to turn and deal with a uniformed member of the court. "Sir, I need you to –"
"One second," MacGyver snapped, and then the ambient noise died down significantly as a door closed.
The images didn't change, one was a wall without windows, and the other was a trouser leg. The audio snapped as if the phone itself had just creaked.
"Sir, you're needed in the witness chamber, the prosecutor will be addressing the group shortly-"
There was an impatient huff, and then the audio crackled as the images spun wildly. For a brief second the forward camera showed the American again, glaring down at them, and then another hand took the phone and they watched it being tucked into a small metal locker. Something else was tossed down on top of it, so that both cameras were now covered, and audio was muffled.
Hakan ignored it. "Show me his face."
The analyst silently did as requested, and the video image was rolled back to a clear, unpixellated image of Angus MacGyver, in a grey suit and pressed white Oxford shirt, glaring at them.
"Enlarge it if you can."
All Hakan needed was his face.
The American's mouth was slightly open, clearly in irritation at being forced to leave his partner with his question unanswered. The room was well lit, yet the American's pupils were slightly dilated. One of the very few permanent lines in his face was between his eyebrows, and it was puckered. More importantly, the skin around his eyes and over his cheekbones was taut, and his nostrils were slightly flared.
Adrenaline, preparing for fight or flight. The emotion wasn't fury yet, there was still too much disbelief in his expression.
Hakan stared at the American another long moment. "The mission was successful. She is dead, or expected to die." That was exactly what they needed. "Once you are certain our men are clear, go. You don't want to be late."
Liris made a dismissive noise. "I can be as late as I like."
Hakan barely suppressed a smile.
-M-
Well, I guess now we know who the secondary target was . . . that and the fandom seems in general scared of actually doing anything to Matty, so was the actual show, too, until she used pysops and a cigarette lighter to crash a car. I felt like that was a gap that needed to be addressed.
So, in summary, a boatload of incriminating evidence has been created to show that Mac is working willingly with the rebels to free Colonel Aydin. Jack's trying to get a plan together to help Mac but they both just suffered a serious setback, and unless Mac can come up with a new plan, right now, once he walks into that courtroom it's showtime.
Also, this chapter was insanely difficult to write. I ended up writing the attack on Matty from three other perspectives before I finally went with just her. I hope I didn't confuse anyone with that – next chapter will reveal the technical details.