Episode One: Killer
Chapter Six
"What is the holdup?" Drake snapped. "Why is he taking so long?"
Nicholas grimaced. He was starting to get a bit nervous. They could only push this for so long before they lost the bird they were trying to cage. He hoped Jim was picking up on it. "I don't know," he said in response to Drake's irritated query. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"I'm going to find myself another cab," Drake stated.
Nicholas cringed—hurry, Max, hurry. Aloud, he begged, "Would you have a heart? I need the fare." He implored Drake with his eyes, hoping the books stacked on the front passenger seat had successfully given him the look of struggling night student. Not that he expected a man like Drake to have actual sympathy for anyone.
After a moment, Drake sat back with a forced nod but Nicholas had the feeling his consent had more to do with the lack of other cabs on the street than from any sympathy he might feel for his own supposed need of a fare.
Jim breathed in relief when he didn't hear Drake get out of the car. Mentally, he applauded Nicholas for his skills.
"The room is set, Jim," called Casey, coming down the back stairway on the far side of the control room.
"Thanks, Casey," he acknowledged.
Over the speaker, he heard Drake say, "I'm not going to wait much longer, you know."
Jim knew it was true. He lifted his communicator to his lips. "Better move, Max."
"Right," came the instant reply. He could imagine Max just waiting for permission to bail Nicholas out of the tensing situation. He flashed on the sudden image of Max as a very controlled pit-bull, waiting only for the word to attack. The people who'd kept his brother in a POW camp probably never knew what hit them.
Shaking the visual from his mind, Jim refocused on the activity in the cab.
Nicholas sighed in relief when Max started back towards him. His face was grim as Max handed him the clipboard with a silent nod. "You think you'd be out catching crimps instead of bothering honest working people," Nicholas complained as Max pointed to where Nicholas's additional signature was needed.
He ripped the fake ticket free and handed it through the window. Nicholas seized it out of his hands crossly.
"Drive carefully next time, sir," Max advised in a droll voice.
Nicholas simply nodded, reaching out for the return of his license as Max started to walk away. After three steps, Max turned and handed the license in to Nicholas, "Sorry, sir."
Nicholas snapped it out of his hands briskly, starting the car with a frustrated fervor that didn't feel entirely pretend.
As the car bolted away, Max walked back to the motorcycle, muttering to Jim, "I tired to hold him as long as I could."
"We need more time, Max," Jim confirmed, "seven minutes."
Groaning, Max swung onto the motorcycle and shot off toward the next stopping point.
"All the cameras are set and the microphone is under the front desk," reported Grant from the doorway.
"Nicholas is doing what he can. Let's just hope Max can get to the next point before they do."
Grant nodded.
Conner stepped up to pass Grant the new sign-in book for their hotel guests. "Only the best for the Raeburn," he quipped.
"Talk about hot off the press," bantered Grant, carrying the book promptly out front.
Max pushed the police bike as fast as it could go, adrenaline feeding his system as he swerved in and out of traffic. He cut through two side streets and rode the sidewalk down another before finally pulling into an underground parking garage. There was no way Nicholas would beat him to the next point—he hoped. Even so, he yanked the sunglasses off his head and ran full out for his waiting truck.
Casey pulled open Grant's mechanized engraver. It was the same machine they'd used to print the front desk book covers. She pulled several dark-wood Raeburn labeled key chains out of it carefully. Clipping room keys to the wood as fast as possible, she checked Nicholas's progress on the map anxiously. He was almost to the second point.
"Jim," she called, pulling him back from the front desk, knowing he'd want to monitor what was happening in the cab.
Nicholas was driving fast, but not as fast as he'd been driving before. He almost hit another traffic jam but cut across a side street, telling Drake he knew a short cut while complaining that traffic was getting worse all over the city. In the backseat Drake said nothing—simply sat looking both snide and petulant.
Turning down another side street, Nicholas hoped again that Max had made it to the position in time. Sure enough, just in front of them, a large truck backed across the street, cutting off their exit. Nicholas pulled the cab up to the truck just in time to hear Max choke out the engine. "Looks like they've stalled," he commented.
Drake said nothing, but the frustrated look he gave Nicholas evidenced his murderous nature.
"Oh, come on, come on!" Nicholas groaned aloud. He leaned out the window, shouting, "Come on, would you move it!" He could barely see Max's silhouette in the truck's cab. "MOVE IT, will ya?" he shouted again.
Max made an angry gesture with his hand out the window, grinding the engine a bit.
"I told you I was on a tight schedule," iced Drake from the back.
"Give me a break," Nicholas complained in response. "What do you want me to do? You want me to drive through it?"
"Look, I've got to get to a phone booth, so either back up or I'm going to get out here."
Nicholas shifted into reverse. Right on cue, two of their London affiliates pulled a large blue garbage truck into the street behind them, boxing them in. Nicholas stopped short his reverse, turning around to look dumbfounded at the truck, as though he couldn't understand how his luck had turned so bad. "Blast! What's this now?" he moaned.
Drake's look was growing icier by the second. Nicholas decided to attempt the misery-loves-company approach. "Can you believe this?" he asked. He knew before he finished that Drake wasn't going for it.
"This is ridiculous. I'm getting out."
"No, no, no. Hey!" cried Nicholas as Drake reached for the door. "I told you I'd get you there." Drake sat back as Nicholas pulled the wheel to the right, guiding the car onto the sidewalk and around the back of Max's truck, mentally apologizing to Jim for not being able to stall for more time.
Max stepped out of his truck, watched from the corner of the building as Nicholas pulled away, then ran back into the parking garage while pushing the button on his communicator. "Jim, I couldn't hold them any longer—we almost lost him." He swung back onto the motor bike, gunning the engine.
He waved to the London agents as he rode out of the parking garage and sped back toward the hotel.
Having listened to the exchange over the speaker, Jim knew both Nicholas and Max had done the best they could. "No more time," he said aloud, crossing over to the coat rack so he could fit his blazer.
"Are we ready?" asked Casey, as she and Grant neared the finish of their current projects.
"We're about to find out," said Jim.
Together, the three moved out of the war room. Jim took his place standing behind the front desk while Casey and Grant ran upstairs.
Through the opaque glass-front window, Jim watched Nicholas pull up outside.
"I'm sorry it took a little longer than fifteen minutes," said Nicholas, stopping the car in front of the hotel.
A London agent, acting as doorman, stepped up to the car to open the door for Drake.
"Ah, forget it," Drake sneered fiercely, stepping out of the car and yanking his bags with him. "You know, you ought to do yourself a favor and keep your big mouth shut!" he added through the window, throwing his fare in at Nicholas, then snapping away without a backward glance.
Ouch, thought Nicholas merrily as he pocketed the money with a smile. I guess he didn't like me trying to talk my way out of Max's ticket. He watched Drake enter and hoped the others were ready for him.
Jim Phelps gave off the illusion of a busy hotel manager by fiddling with the hotel room keys and the boxes they belonged to, making himself appear completely oblivious to the arriving guest.
"Good morning," Drake clipped precisely, calling the deskman's attention.
Jim spun toward him as though he hadn't heard him come in. "Oh sorry! Good morning, sir," he greeted in a subdued but jaunty British accent.
"I'd like to have a room, please."
"A room—yes, we have one of our very best available—room twelve," he answered, moving back to the room boxes to pull out the key.
"I'd like to pick my own," Drake stopped him pointedly.
"I beg your pardon?" Jim glanced back at him, the oddness of the request showing in his face. Inwardly, he was pleased, knowing his team was ready for this. Pleased even more so that Drake—for all his unpredictable behavior—was still, in fact, predictable. Casey and Grant were waiting and listening, ready to put whatever number on the door Drake requested.
"I'd like to pick my own," Drake repeated. Jim watched him glance around, eyes settling on one of the tour brochures Casey had placed in the front rack. On one of them, a large number seven was printed across the top. "Uh, say…how 'bout room seven?" Drake requested.
"Room seven?" Jim clarified, returning the room twelve key to its box and moving to the one that said seven. They were all the same to him, every key printed would open Drake's door. "Yes, I do believe you're in luck," he said, pulling the identical key out of the box. "Room seven is available." He picked up a hotel registration sheet and handed it to Drake. It would give Casey and Grant the short time they needed to change the numbers on the doors. "If you'll just fill out the registrar here."
Drake took the sheet without comment and started filling in the blanks.
As Jim watched he felt the sticky incompleteness of his nightly dream return, accompanied by a sudden and sincere desire to do violence. A desire he rarely allowed himself to feel no matter what the circumstance. For a moment, he saw himself reaching across the desk and laying Drake flat out on the bar.
He held his breath, attempting to banish the image from his mind, attempting to avoid the temptation, glowering at Drake while the other man's head was down. If Drake were to look up right then, there was no way he would mistake the intent in Jim's eyes.
Recognizing this, the seasoned agent forced a smile and rang the bell on the counter to his left. The loud sound cut through the red in his mind, refocusing him on his task.
Drake looked up questioningly when he heard the bell.
Jim dismissed the curiosity with a tight smile, gesturing to Tim Conner as he stepped toward them dressed like a bell hop. "If you would just show this gentlemen to room seven, please," said Jim as he held the key out to Tim.
"Sir," said Tim, taking the key. Then, turning to Drake added, "If you'd like to follow me, sir?" while picking up his bags.
"Enjoy your stay, sir," said Jim as Drake strolled after his bags.
"Yeah, thanks," was the muttered reply, as though Drake couldn't be bothered with the subtleties of polite interaction.
Jim watched him intensely until he was out of view, burning anger prickling along the surface of his skin. Leaning his hands onto the counter before him, he dropped his head with a silent groan. Sucking in air, he pushed off the front desk, turned, triggered the hidden door behind the boxes and escaped into the control room.
He couldn't close the door on the lobby fast enough, and once it shut he pushed against it a bit more, as if he could shut out the very existence of Matthew Drake and Scorpio.
Team leaders shouldn't act this way. It had been a while since he'd led a team, but he was pretty sure that letting anger overtake you was still against the mindset.
"We were pretty lucky on that last one, don't you think?" Barney Collier laughed as he said it, leaning his forearms across the railing of Tom's new deck patio, watching the sun set into the ocean.
"What we were went way beyond lucky!" contradicted Jim, thinking of some of the missions they'd pulled through the years. Half the time—most of the time—the plans he came up with never worked like they should and yet they remained one of the most successful IMF teams—ever. He glanced through the open patio door, watching Tom as he and two other agents shifted furniture and unloaded boxes into Tom's new place.
"Yep, we sure had someone watching out for us." Barney said, noticing Jim was watching Tom.
"We had us watching out for us," said Jim.
"That too," Barney agreed and kept watching Jim watch Tom. "Time to pass things to a new generation?"
"I guess," Jim answered slowly, finally turning to look out at the ocean.
"You're worried?"
"I shouldn't be, I guess." Jim shrugged. "But, I admit, I don't want anything to happen to him."
"He's young," said Barney and Jim thought no truer statement had ever been made.
"If I'd worried like this as a team leader, we never would have got the job done."
"Wrong, Jim." Barney shook his head sagely. "We got the job done because you worried like this."
"I wish I knew the people he'll be working with better," Jim said, dropping his head in his hands.
"He'll find his own team. He'll learn," said Barney.
"Jim?" Jim turned to see Tom watching him from the patio door. "Are you alright?"
"Are you all right?"
Jim turned his head, expecting to see Tom behind him, but the keen eyes regarding him were brown, not blue. Nicholas. Jim hadn't even noticed him in the room. The young agent must have made good time getting around through the back door.
He dropped his head, shoved off the wall, and walked toward Grant's desk, feeling Nicholas follow him with his eyes, feeling the now familiar stickiness follow him as well. The feeling was wearing. It made Jim feel old—weary, and old.
"I wonder if I've been away from this too long," he mused aloud, pondering how Nicholas Black would handle hearing the private conjectures of a supposed legend.
Nicholas didn't say anything. He did nothing except take several steps closer, as though to hear whatever else Jim had on his mind, expression open. His silence holding neither surprise nor condemnation.
"I wanted to kill him," Jim confessed. "I wanted to reach across the counter and grab him by the throat."
"He killed your best friend, Jim." Nicholas didn't blink or fidget with pity when he said it. His voice was blunt, as open and raw as Jim felt. "No one's going to fault you on that emotion."
Jim nodded. He'd said something similar to Tom once. "Emotion doesn't make you weak—but denying it does—that's when it can tell you what to do without you realizing it, instead of the other way around."
Anything more Nicholas or Jim might have said was cut off by Tim's voice coming from the hallway camera monitor. "Here we are, sir." The two agents looked down at the video feed to see Tim letting Drake into his room. Jim pushed a button, switching their view to the bedroom camera as soon as Tim and Drake entered. "All set," Tim was saying. "Hope you enjoy your stay."
"Alright," said Jim, watching Drake with hatred but finally feeling his anger reach a more even keel. "The trap's been set. Let's spring it."
tbc