Episode One: Killer

Chapter Eight

"Jim? Rollin might be in trouble."

"What happened, Barney?"

"I'm not sure, but he missed the check-in point."

"Where's Willy?"

"He's gone to the bridge with Tom. They're waiting for your call but they think they can get in and find out where Rollin is without being seen. If things check out, they can slip right back out again."

"They have a plan?"

"Tom says he does. Jim, they're waiting. What do you want them to do?"

"What do you think?"

"I think Tom's a natural planner and with Willy to help him they'll be fine."

"He's young, Barney."

"How young were we when we started this, Jim?"

"Alright, we'll have to trust him on this one—Barney, is it just me or are kids getting smarter and smarter?"

"Tell me about it. Grant'll be eight this year and he's already twice as smart as I was at his age."

Jim pulled out of his reverie as he and Nicholas cycloned silently through William Breton's office, checking for bugs and for any possible hidden access points or openings from the offices next door. They communicated without speaking while they worked—working in such precise synchronization, hidden observers might assume they'd been working together much longer than three days.

"Jim, Rollin and Casey are in position."

"Things look alright?"

"Willy got a little banged up but he got Tom out okay. Kid's got good instincts, just needs a little more guidance."

"He has a gift for planning," Jim agreed, "Once he starts to better evaluate the team scenario, he'll do better seeing the completeness of the plan. I have no doubt with his own team, he'll do wonders."

"You're not growing fond of the kid, are you Jim?" Barney and Rollin both had the tendency to tease, slipping in wry comments when they thought Jim wouldn't expect it.

"What was it you told me Grant did last Christmas—rewired the Christmas lights so they would blink 'Merry Christmas' in Morse Code?"

Barney looked at him warily, clearly unsure of where Jim was heading with the comment, but answered anyway, "Yes. Somehow, he ended up cutting into the street main. Every light in the neighborhood blinked 'Merry Christmas' in Morse Code for the next 24 hours. They had to shut down power and reset the whole thing to get life back to normal again." Barney laughed as he remembered.

"I get the feeling that in a few years, growing pains aside, Grant and Tom will have our jobs and being doing them better than us."

"If they do have our jobs," grunted Barney, "Let's hope they will do them better than us. Grant already gives me more grey hair than I deserve."

"Jim?"

Jim blinked, looked away from the drawer he was checking, and realized Nicholas was speaking to him again. He walked over to see what Nicholas was looking at. The young agent's serious eyes met his as he pulled back a panel in the wall. "There's a crawl space back there, but I think it only leads next door.

"Is it shown in the hotel's building plans?"

"Not directly. They turned the large suites on this floor into split rooms a few years ago, I think. The crawlspace developed from the construction of a new wall that had to be build around the plumbing."

"I'll assume that if we didn't know about it, neither will Drake, but just to be safe let's find something to block any hidden access before we have Grant sitting in here alone."

"The hotel safe," Nicholas said.

Jim nodded in agreement. He walked over to the large metal safe under the desk. It took both of them to shift it in front of the access panel. Nicholas fiddled with it a bit while Jim went back to sweeping the desk.

"You did good on that one, Tom." Jim felt awkwardly proud. He didn't impress easily but Tom had done well. Unquestionably, exceptionally well.

Tom's answer was rueful. "If you hadn't thought to cut off access back to the bridge, it would've all fallen apart. I thought them coming from that angle was such a remote possibility, I discounted it."

"That's why we work in teams. Even the least likely angles get covered." This was true. Jim had learned it early on. No matter how good they were, mistakes were made and things went wrong. The best teams were barely fazed by the unexpected, pulling together without conscious thought, taking it all in stride, covering each other's backs. Tom would eventually learn that too.

"I think we're secure," Nicholas commented, breaking into Jim's thoughts again. "Drake's not going to have very many choices on how he gets up here."

"Let's hope we've thought of all of them," said Jim.

Grant walked into the office with a grim but undemanding smile, just as Nicholas crossed over to check the vantage points from the window.

Jim fought the urge to watch Nicholas in motion, fighting the urge to look for traces of Tom. But it was a lost cause. He kept seeing him in everything Nicholas did.

"How's Breton?" Jim asked Grant, peeling his eyes away from Nicholas while setting a picture frame back onto the desk, now certain it was free of bugs.

"He's upset," Grant answered easily, lifting his eyebrows. A gesture he'd obviously picked up from his father. With Grant's Barney-like attributes and Nicholas's eerie similarities to Tom Copperfield, Jim felt surrounded by the past. Haunted by it. Ominously close to drowning in it. Its collision with the present was slowly sucking him into an abyss of unknown possibilities. Working with this team had become about more than finishing a mission for his lost protégé. Heaven help him, he liked this team—felt connected to them in ways he hadn't planned for.

Grant stopped directly in front of him, every part of him a reflection of Barney, right down to the casual lean he adopted as he said, "It's not every day you find out a professional assassin is out to kill you."

"Will he cooperate?" asked Nicholas from the window.

"He's not happy about it," Grant shrugged in his direction, "but he's agreed to stay out of it till this is all over."

"Alright," Jim accepted. "Now the question is, how will Drake try to kill him?"

"There's a few rooftops out here," said Nicholas. "Give him a clear shot."

"If that's how he's going to make his move, I'll make it easy for him," answered Grant, pulling a suited dummy—closely resembling himself—from the box he and Nicholas had carried up earlier.

"That may be too easy," Jim commented, staring down at the mannequin. "We have to remember this man is unpredictable. There's no telling where he may come from." He had a feeling Nicholas and Grant could hear the worry emerging in his voice, much as he was trying to mute it.

"I'm going to be a couple of doors down the hall," reported Nicholas, accurately reading Jim's concern. They'd need someone close by to give Grant back-up. He moved out the door at Jim's nod, carefully checking the hallway for any possible access as he went.

Grant moved the dummy to the chair behind the desk, considering how to anchor it.

Jim paused, catching Grant's eye and giving him a meaningful look.

Grant smiled back, trying to look more encouraging than reckless. His father had always told him he had a naturally reckless smile.

From the stern response on Jim's face, Grant conceded to himself that his father was probably right.

Max was only subtly surprised that Drake chose to walk to Breton's hotel. It made following him both easy and hard. When the crowds thinned out Max had to hang farther back, certain Drake was getting wise to him.

He moved closer as they approached the hotel, jogging up the stairs behind Drake, hoping to get into a flanking position before he crossed the street to the hotel lobby.

Drake was smart, however, and once he reached the top of the stairs leading up from the river walk, his casual stroll turned into a brisk jog. He disappeared behind a tall red double-decker bus parked at the curb. By the time Max bolted across the street after him, he was gone.

All Max knew for certain was that he couldn't have gone into the hotel just yet, at least not by the front doors. They'd been in his view the whole time. He ran down the sidewalk to the corner but didn't find any trace of Drake that way either.

He felt a sudden franticness that he'd not felt on any of his other IMF missions—a franticness that had been dead in him since he'd rescued his brother from Viet Nam.

He didn't want to let Jim down, and he didn't want to lose Tom Copperfield's killer. He wanted to see this man understand the pain he'd caused through his ruthless trade. But mostly, the franticness emerged from the growing, slightly irrational fear that his failure to keep Drake in sight would result in Grant's death, or Nicholas's, or Jim and Casey's.

Imagining any one of them hurt or gone bothered Max intensely.

He clenched his left fist, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand. Pushing out one short breath, he consciously pulled himself back into control and released his fist, shook off the abrupt worry, and forced his mind to think rationally.

The team had known all along that trailing Drake this way would be difficult. They'd known they might lose him and had planned for this contingency. He quickly focused his emotions. "Jim," he spoke into his communicator, "I lost Drake."

Up in Breton's office, Grant had just finished securing the dummy behind the desk when Jim came back in from his final sweep of the hallway. He'd looked grim ever since Max's announcement but Grant knew it couldn't change the plan. They'd known all along that tracking an elusive and deadly killer would be nearly impossible—even with the deck stacked in their favor.

Max had done the best he could. Grant was certain no agent could have done better. Now they adapted. It's what they were best at.

Grant stood up straight to see Jim looking firm, confident, and nervous, all at once. Abruptly, Grant had the impression that when Jim looked at him he was seeing him as he'd been, not how he was. He was seeing him as the ten-year-old son of the much loved Barney Collier.

Grant sighed. He could tell, even if Jim wasn't seeing him as a ten-year-old boy, he was definitely seeing him through a father's eyes. Grant wasn't stupid enough to think Jim wasn't feeling some sort of responsibility to keep him safe—to keep Barney from suffering the pain of loss Jim suffered when Tom Copperfield was killed.

Tom may not have been Jim's son, but feelings in IMF often ran as deep as family, and in some cases, deeper.

"Alright," Jim addressed him.

Grant fought to keep himself from smiling as he met Jim's firm eyes. He couldn't let any perceived recklessness—real or imagined—creep onto his face. He couldn't give Jim Phelps any reason to take him out of the game.

"Grant—we can call this off."

"Not a chance, Jim," Grant answered quickly—resolutely—meeting Jim Phelps's eyes dead on. If Jim was seeing him as a ten-year-old, Grant was going to force him to see him as the agent he really was instead.

"There's no telling where or how he's going to make the hit," Jim pressed, moving toward him. "This is a big hotel, we can't cover it all."

Grant matched his gaze. "I always like surprises," he quipped, realizing too late that he'd been smiling while he said it.

Jim's frown deepened. The look he gave Grant broke the bounds of austerity—promising Grant hidden amounts of unspeakable torture should he allow himself to be harmed in any way.

Grant knew more smiling was the absolute wrong response to Jim's increased sternness, but the smirk was already there, widening without his say so. What he hoped Jim saw behind it was the seriousness in his eyes. He had chosen this job, was happy to do it, could do it, and had always done it well. Like Jim and like his father, he knew he would be happy doing nothing else, and wouldn't feel right about backing down, no matter how logical.

Besides, even if both Jim and Barney pretended to quit from time to time, Grant knew they'd never really left it behind. They'd never turned their backs when needed and neither would he. He let determination cover his face.

In the end, he wasn't sure what Jim saw, but he finally nodded, austere expression easing. He clasped his hand to Grant's shoulder a bit too firmly then slipped back into the hallway without a backward glance.

Jim walked out of the hotel's front doors, still shaking his head at the exchange with Grant in Breton's room. In stubbornness and determination, Grant was the spiting image of his father—right down to the damn unsettlingly reckless smile. But Jim could also see the young man's aptitude. He had no rational reason to stop him from completing his part in their plan.

However, intelligent or not, if the kid took any unnecessary chances Jim would introduce him to a new level of pain and suffering. There was no way he'd let them lose Grant—or any of the others—on this mission. Not now. Not ever. And definitely not to the man who'd killed Tom Copperfield.

From down the street, Max jogged quickly up to Jim's flank. "Sorry I lost him," he said. The simple phrase wasn't just platitude, it cut deep, and Max meant it.

Jim knew Max had done the best he could but was still surprised to see some of his own anxiety reflected back in the young agent's face. Max wouldn't meet his eyes—was instead constantly scanning the crowd, as though Drake would magically reappear. And there was an edginess and energy flitting through Max's muscles that worried and reassured Jim at the same time.

"Yeah," he answered simply. "Still no sign of him?" Jim knew there hadn't been, and likely wouldn't be.

Max didn't respond to that, perhaps knowing Jim already knew the answer and didn't expect it to magically change. Instead Max pulled his communicator out of his shirt pocket saying, "I'll cover the back," before efficiently trotting away.

Mathew Drake had enjoyed his walk from the botanical gardens and thought he'd like to come back sometime when he could enjoy the atmosphere better. He'd been plagued on his walk by the feeling that he was being watched but had never encountered any proof. He had a tendency toward paranoia when he was on a job, but reasoned that the paranoia is what made him so good.

When he neared his target's hotel, he changed his pace, trying to see if anyone behind him sped up. He saw no one, but the paranoid feeling remained. Spontaneously, he jumped onto the double-decker bus that was just pulling out, riding it a block before jumping down when it slowed at a stop sign.

Again, he saw no evidence being followed, but decided he'd round his way to the hotel's back entrance anyway. He still had time. As long as he was gone quickly after the job was set up, he could take his time getting there.

As he strolled roundabout the hotel, scanning the sidewalk crowd for anything unusual, he passed a "service entry only" sign and changed his mind again. If he were lucky, a service elevator would send him where he wanted to go, and no one in the hotel would see him at all.

Inside, Drake found several laundry carts full of clean linen, ready to be moved onto the service elevators behind them. Not wanting to chance a run in with staff, Drake once again changed his mind, moving instead to the service stairs, trotting slowly up to the fourth floor.

He ran into no one on the way up and no one ran into him. When he knocked on the door of the hotel room just below Breton's and found it empty, he set his final course of action in motion and got to work.

With the handkerchief in his briefcase he picked up the phone and used a pencil to dial the front desk. "Room 526 please," he requested when a woman with a nasal accent asked how she could help him.

Grant kept himself near the room's walls, moving as little as possible incase a sniper rifle was waiting to take him out through the widow, but his instincts told him Drake probably wouldn't go for that method today.

When the phone rang, he wondered if his instincts were wrong and kept himself low as he crossed in front of windows to answer it. He beeped Jim on the communicator. "Got a call," he told him, "—switching you on." He pressed the button on his communicator that would transmit the call to Jim, then answered the phone.

"Hello."

"Hello, Mr. Breton?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Lou Lawrence. I'm with one of the local trade unions. I was wondering if I might be able to come up and see you for a few minutes."

"What Union did you say?"

"I'm the secretary of the London Construction Union. It'd be a big help to us, Mr. Breton."

"Okay," he answered, in a controlled voice. "What time did you want to come up?"

"Fifteen minutes?"

"Fine," said Grant, checking his watch. "I'll be here."

"Thank you, Mr. Breton."

"You heard it—fifteen minutes," Grant said to Jim.

"He can't be far," Jim answered.

Grant agreed, feeling natural, nervous adrenaline start to fuel his system. He leaned into the corner, away from the view of anyone who might be peeking in the window. He felt a building uneasiness. Fifteen minutes. How was Drake going to do it? There had to be something they were missing.

One floor down, Drake was proceeding as quickly as possible. He wanted to be done with this fast, finish his work, and enjoy the rest of the day—maybe spend some time learning more about the flirty redhead Scorpio had used to contact him. She may actually make this trip worth something.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Breton," he sneered aloud and got to work pulling items from his briefcase. He stood on a chair and cut a hole in the ceiling with one of his own specially designed tools. The hole opened up the empty space remaining between his floor and the next. One blast would take out the whole room—above and below.

The fake golf balls came out of his bag next. He removed them from their plastic wrapping and crushed them together until they formed a clay-like mass.

Down in front of the hotel, Jim was getting antsy. At least one of them should have caught a glimpse of Drake by now. "Max, anything?" he asked.

"No, nothing yet," Max answered.

Inside, Drake finished sticking the molding underneath Breton's floor. He popped a hidden timer out of his watch and began to put them together.

"Anything, Nicholas?" Jim asked. Drake had to already be in the hotel. He and Max had to have missed him somehow.

"Not yet, Jim. He's got to show up soon," answered Nicholas, peering into the hallway, feeling more and more like Grant was a sitting duck and that even being just two doors away was too far. The entire floor of the hotel felt quiet. Nicholas risked opening his door wider to see if there was an additional angle he was missing even though he'd already checked the vantage point half a dozen times already.

Slowly, the fifteen minutes were ticking by.

Max ducked when he saw Drake emerge from the service entry. "Jim," he said, feeling his franticness double. "Drake's just come out of the back of the hotel."

"I don't like that," said Jim. "He likes to set up the job and be gone."

A second passed, and it dawned on Jim. "Grant! Get out of there! Get out now!" he ordered.

tbc