Mind Games

Chapter 16

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews and alerts. And now for a hint of the plot that inspired the title of this story...

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The airbag filled Charlie's universe with a bone-jarring jolt, and left him stunned for a moment as it receded. He was vaguely aware that his face hurt from the contact with the bag, and his chest ached from where the computer bag had smashed against it. He pushed at the deflating air bag, shook his head and his vision began to clear, although his thought processes were still foggy. They were on the side of the highway; a concrete barrier wall to their right, the concrete support pillar for the overpass directly in front of them. The front end of the Monte Carlo was completely crushed, although it hadn't penetrated the passenger compartment. Apparently, Don had managed to slow the vehicle down enough to keep that from happening – either that; or the car had one hell of a safety rating for front-end collisions. However, the engine and transmission had been destroyed, and the vehicle was drifting slowly backward, Charlie realized suddenly.

"Don -," he began, uttering the name as he looked to his left; then stopped abruptly. Don was slumped in the corner created by the seat and the side door, his head against the window, clearly unconscious. Charlie felt a surge of panic rush through him, and he reached out shakily with his left arm, and shook his brother gently. "Don!" No response. The emergency brake was in the console between the seats, and Charlie pulled on it frantically, stopping the rolling vehicle in its tracks.

"Oh, my God," he breathed, and fumbled for Don's wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was there, to his infinite relief, and then he noticed that Don's chest was rising and falling with regularity.

He could hear a voice coming from Don's phone, in the direction of the floor – it sounded like Ian, but Charlie couldn't see the phone, so he began to reach for his own cell phone with one hand, the other still clutching his computer bag to his chest. He gingerly turned his neck, which was already stiffening, to look behind them, but he couldn't see the white van – in fact, no one had stopped – the traffic was still streaming past them on the highway. They had just rounded a bend, and no one could see the accident in time to pull over behind them, unless they knew in advance that it was there. Charlie could only hope that someone had called 911.

He had just managed to unbuckle his seat belt and work his cell phone out of his pocket, when he heard the car windshield explode. His computer case was jerking against his chest, and he instinctively grabbed it with both hands to steady it, wincing and ducking his head to his right, as bullets thudded around him. He barely had time to draw in a breath of terror and to catch a glimpse of the black Expedition as it sped past, semi-automatics protruding from the windows, and for a split second, he sat there in shock, staring out through the shattered windshield as the Expedition disappeared around the bend. He looked down at his computer bag, dumbly, it was riddled with bullet holes, the computer inside undoubtedly destroyed, but it had saved his life. The thought flashed through his head in a split second; then a spear of agonized fear shot through him. He dropped the bag, turning toward Don and reaching for him with both hands. "Don!"

He pawed at him feverishly, trying to turn him. Don was still clearly unconscious, and although Charlie couldn't see any sign of other injury, he found it hard to believe that neither of them had been hit by the hail of bullets. There were bullet holes in the center and the right side of Don's seat, but he was leaning left, and apparently, his slumped position and the support between the windshield and the side window had prevented the bullets from hitting him. Still, Charlie frantically pulled at Don's denim jacket, trying to be sure. He was so immersed in his search that he didn't notice the two vehicles pulling up behind him, one arrival separated from the other by only seconds.

"Charlie!" Charlie jumped at the voice, and then turned to stare with a shell-shocked expression at Ian, who was wrestling open the passenger door. It opened with a creak and a groan, protesting the fact that the Monte Carlo's frame had been twisted by the impact. Ian's face was filled with concern, and he took in Charlie's condition and the bullet holes in Charlie's headrest and his computer bag. Somehow, impossibly, the mathematician had escaped the hit. Ian's eyes traveled to Don, and he darted around to the driver's side of the vehicle, and yanked open Don's door.

Charlie found his voice, and the words poured out. "Someone pushed us off the road – I think Don hit his head on the window -," He stopped momentarily as he took in the smear of blood on the window of the now open door – blood from Don's head. Then he babbled on, as Ian's hands moved carefully over Don's inert torso, "can you see any bullet wounds? They shot at us – the Expedition-,"

"Charlie, calm down," a familiar female voice came from behind him, and Charlie jerked his head around in a stiff awkward movement, to find Charlotte bent over in the open passenger doorway, looking at him. She put a gentle hand on his arm, and pulled. "Get out of the car."

Charlie looked wildly back at Ian, who said, "Relax, Charlie, just do as she says."

"But-," Charlie stammered, and Ian held up a hand.

"It's okay, Charlie – Charlotte is Agent 1."

Charlie stared at him; then at Don, then back at Charlotte, who would have laughed at the expression on his face if the situation hadn't been so serious. He grabbed his computer case and slowly slid out of the vehicle and rose shakily to his feet, and then stared up at Charlotte, who was looking at Ian. "We need to get Charlie out of here," she said tersely.

Ian nodded. "Get him to the airport. You and Charlie will continue with the extraction. I'll stay with Don."

Charlie was beginning to come to his senses, and he protested wildly, as Charlotte pulled on his arm. "NO! I'm not going anywhere without Don!"

Ian trained sharp eyes on him over the roof of the vehicle. "Charlie, he's in more danger with you here than if you were gone. You're the one who has seen the weapons dealers, the one who understands the computer downloads. The men involved in the weapons deal don't care about Don - they're gunning for you. We'll get him to a hospital and have him put under protection; I promise you, I won't leave his side. You still have a responsibility to this mission, and to your country. You need to leave, now."

Charlie paused, frozen by indecision, and Charlotte pulled more firmly on his arm. "Charlie, you know he's right. Come with me – let Ian do his job. Don will be okay."

He finally gave in to the pull of her arm, stumbling after her, still clutching the torn computer case, with one last agonized look over his shoulder. She hurried him past Ian's vehicle to hers, a white Cadillac STS. Charlie could hear a siren in the distance as he closed the passenger side door. He had no idea how she was going to pull out from a dead stop into the traffic streaming around the curve in the highway, but somehow she did, and he got a last glimpse of Ian bending over his brother, before he was whisked away around the bend.

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J. Scott Marsh stood on the ledge in the dumbwaiter chute, thinking frantically. Chances were good that the people behind this sting were from his own organization, the CIA. Granted, he was in a high position, but not at the very top, where a mission of this magnitude would be directed. It wasn't impossible that he hadn't heard about it, in fact, it wasn't even odd that he hadn't been called in to consult on it – he had never divulged his relationship with Jack Montreaux, and apparently, the Agency had never uncovered the fact that his college education had been paid for by Jacques Montreaux, Jack's father. The college grant had been listed as coming from a local scholarship foundation, and the CIA obviously had never picked up the connection. Either that, or they already suspected him to be part of the scheme, and Marsh didn't see how that was possible. No, they more than likely had no idea of his involvement. That was the good news.

After his initial relief at finding a secure hiding place, however, the bad news had dawned on him. Agents would be crawling all over the place for days, looking for records, combing the computers – he wouldn't be able to stay on his precarious perch for even twenty-four hours, more than likely, before fatigue forced him down. At some point, he would have to surface, and the more he thought about it, he decided the time should be now. As a double agent, he'd bluffed his way through many risky situations. This one, however, if he pulled it off, would undoubtedly be the performance of his career.

There was the creak of a door below him, and light suddenly poured into the bottom of the shaft. He froze and glanced downward as a head came in through the dumbwaiter opening in the kitchen. The man craned his neck, trying see upward in the darkness, and Marsh tensed, wondering if the light below would be enough to illuminate him. "All clear," the man yelled, and Marsh relaxed as the door swung shut again. The voices below receded, and Marsh quietly pulled on the dumbwaiter cord, and brought the platform upward. As it came even with him, he gripped the cords firmly and stepped onto it carefully; then began to play the rope, lowering himself to the floor of the shaft, his arms shaking with the effort. There, he pushed the door open a bit.

The kitchen was empty – it had obviously been cleared and marked off the search list. The trick would be getting out of the kitchen unseen. Once out in the lower hallway, he could pretend he had just come in from the outside, through the side door. Marsh climbed out of the shaft and moved quickly to the kitchen door, cracking it open. He could see down the hallway to his right into the interior of the building, but he had no way of knowing if someone was in the short section of hall to his left, standing just inside the side door. He could hear nothing in that direction, however, so he took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and stepped out. The hallway was empty. He was clear.

There, his resolve wavered for just a moment, as he shot a glance out the side door. He could possibly slip outside and make his way off the grounds, but if he were caught, he wouldn't be able to explain it away. No, it was safest to proceed with his original plan – to act as if he belonged there. He turned and strode down the hallway toward the elevator, pulling out his CIA credentials.

As he reached the elevator, the doors opened, and he found himself staring at two men in protective gear, holding assault rifles. They stared back, and Marsh flipped his ID at them. "I'm looking for the man in charge here," he said.

He had purposefully kept their inspection to just a glimpse, and covered up his name, but they had seen enough of the CIA ID to accept him as belonging there. "Yes, sir, step inside. We'll take you up."

Moments later, Marsh was in the computer room, holding his hand out to a man named Jerry Weir, the tactical team leader. "I was in the area on business," said Marsh, with another brief flip of his badge. The less people who actually knew his name, the better. "I was told to report here immediately and offer my assistance. Can you fill me in? Or perhaps there is someone from the Agency on site?"

"Agent Joe Bishop is calling the shots, sir," replied Weir. "I'll be happy to fill you in on what I know, but Agent Bishop could probably give you the entire picture." He flipped his phone open. "Here's his number."

"Thank you," murmured Marsh, as he entered the number into his cell phone. "Excuse me for a moment." He stepped away, pretending to hit dial, and Weir moved over to the corner of the room, conversing with a computer expert.

"The system was wiped out," the computer man was saying. "They stored most of their files on a central server, but we don't know where it is. The connections were severed. To have any hope of recovery, we'd need to be able to find and access that main server."

Marsh paused. Now that his presence there had been validated, he had fully intended simply to walk away – but what if he didn't? Judging from what he had just heard, they might just have a chance at dodging this completely. Perhaps it would be in his best interest to stay involved, to find out as much as possible. It would mean fully committing himself to the ruse, which carried more risk, but it could pay off. His finger hovered over the call button, and then he stepped out through the door and hit dial.

"Yes."

The voice on the other end was wary; Bishop obviously didn't recognize the number. Marsh spoke into the phone with a businesslike air. "Agent Bishop. This is Senior Analyst J. Scott Marsh. I'm in New Orleans on vacation, and I was contacted a short time ago and told that I need to familiarize myself with your case. I'd like to meet with you."

There was a pause on the other end, and then Bishop responded; Marsh could hear relief in his voice. "Yes, sir, things are happening pretty fast, I could use the help. I'm actually just pulling up outside the Montreaux estate; perhaps you could meet me there."

"That's good," said Marsh, now moving toward the front of the building. "I'm already here – I just met with your tactical team leader, Weir." He had made it to the front door, and stepped out; nodding at the man stationed there, the phone still at his ear. He could see Joe Bishop getting out of his car, well down the driveway, parked behind the tactical team vehicles. "I see you. I'll meet you at your car."

He flipped the phone shut and strode down the front driveway, and Joe Bishop waited for him. Marsh had met him before once, and he never forgot a face. Clean cut, late thirties, light brown hair. He held out his hand as he approached. "Good to see you again," he murmured, as he stepped toward an empty section of front lawn. "Let's talk over here."

He listened as Bishop filled him in on the sting. The plot itself and Montreaux's involvement were known to him, of course, but it was vital to understand how much they knew. He listened carefully as Bishop continued with the most recent events. "Then a few weeks back, Montreaux requested Agent 2 to find a mathematics expert to help develop an export system. That's when our radar went up. We brought in two undercover operators, Charlie and Don Archer."

"Those are their aliases, of course," murmured Marsh.

"Of course," said Bishop. "Although they're brothers in real life. I realize that they're out, and I know you have clearance, sir, but I really shouldn't give out their real names until I get the all clear."

Marsh smiled to hide his disappointment. Even within the CIA, the actual names of field operators were never used without good reason, even among those who had clearance for them. It was a strict Bureau policy. It was likely that only Joe Bishop, the handler, and the top men knew their actual names, and Marsh would arouse suspicion if he asked for them. He listened as Bishop went on, explaining what had happened over the last two weeks, but he already knew a good deal of the story. Don Archer had been strictly involved in the cocaine business – that part of it was Montreaux's, and didn't interest Marsh. Charlie Archer was the true threat – he had intimate knowledge of the weapons plot, and was the only man who could identify the Iranians and Marsh himself.

Bishop was finishing a recounting of the events leading up to the morning, and Marsh broke in. "You extracted them, of course."

"Yes – I told Charlie as soon as he made the identification, he was to leave. He and Don are en route to the extraction point, along with the two other agents." Bishop's phone beeped and he glanced at the number. "That's one of them, now. Would you excuse me for a moment?"

Marsh nodded, and Bishop flipped his phone open, but didn't bother to step away. That slight gesture showed Marsh that Bishop trusted him completely – and why wouldn't he? Marsh thought to himself. Bishop had met him before, knew he was with the CIA. He jerked his gaze back to Bishop, as the handler exclaimed, "What?"

Marsh waited impatiently as Bishop said into the phone, "No, you made the right call. Stick with Don – what hospital? Okay – I'll get some protection over there to back you up."

He disconnected the call and shook his head, his face somber. "Montreaux's men apparently tried to hit the Archers en route to the extraction point. They forced their car off the road; then another group came by and sprayed the vehicle with bullets. Amazingly, neither one of them was hit – Ian said Charlie was holding a computer case – it acted like a flak jacket, saved his life."

"How fortunate," murmured Marsh, inwardly seething. Idiots. The issue could have been resolved, right there, and they had botched it. "You mentioned a hospital – they were injured, then?"

"Don was – a concussion from the looks of it. Charlie was okay. Agent Sumner is taking him on to the extraction point, and Agent Crocker is taking Don Archer to University Hospital. We'll have to keep protection on Don. As soon as he's stabilized, we'll get him out of here. Charlie's the key to this, though. We need to get him to a safe place as soon as possible."

"What's the extraction point?"

"The Naval Air Station."

Marsh felt a heaviness in his gut. "Good choice." It was, he thought with disappointment. There would be no chance of getting to Charlie Archer there. His only hope would be to find out where they were taking him. "And he's en route to where?"

Bishop shook his head. "I don't know – they were going to Washington, but that was before their covers were blown. My contact in D.C. said those plans have been changed – but he wouldn't tell me where. Of course, now that Charlie's out, I'm no longer his handler – there's no reason for me to know. I'll have to call in – let my contact know what happened, and that they'll need to make plans to have Don join his brother as soon as he's able."

"Do me a favor," Marsh said quietly. "I'm here to help – I'm doing a personal favor for one of the assistant directors, but my own A.D. doesn't know about my assignment here yet. Don't tell anyone that I'm involved – give me a chance to talk to my boss first." He grinned, disarmingly. "You know how territorial those top guys get."

Bishop rolled his eyes and grinned back. "Yeah, no problem."

Marsh smiled. "One other suggestion – and you can tell your contact that this is your idea. You know Cypress Institute, right?"

Bishop frowned in concentration. "The think tank medical research place, just north of the city. They do a lot of research for the government, if I remember right."

Marsh nodded. The truth was; Cypress Institute was a well-regarded think tank that specialized in neurological advances, including such worthy endeavors as finding cures for paralysis and brain injuries. What the public didn't know was that there was a highly secret research sector at the institute, which specialized in rewiring the brain. It was brainwashing, technically, although that term was inadequate to describe the power of the new techniques, and a covert branch of the CIA had used it on an experimental basis to turn out pre-programmed assassins. The activity was so dark, so secret, that even at the CIA, only a handful of people knew about it. Marsh was one of them.

"That's the one," he replied. "One of the leading neurosurgeons in the country, Dr. George Allman, is on staff there, and is a personal friend of mine. I can call him, arrange to have Don Archer airlifted there. It would be a much more secure place to keep him while he convalesces, and he would receive cutting edge care for his head injury."

Bishop nodded enthusiastically. "That's a great idea. That place is restricted access – no one without clearance can get in."

"Good," said Marsh, smiling. "I'll call him right away, while you're reporting in."

Bishop nodded, and they stepped away from each other, pulling out their cell phones. Marsh felt high as a kite – a rush of adrenaline and endorphins – the same sensation he had gotten on missions in the past, acting as a field operative in dangerous situations. During the past few years, he'd been in an office job; it had been awhile since he had experienced it, and it reminded him of why he had been drawn into spying to begin with. There was nothing like it – the sensation of power provided by matching one's wits against the system, and winning. He could feel it now; he'd just had a flash of brilliance that filled him with excitement, with a feeling of pending triumph.

The thought, which had occurred to him while talking to Bishop, was pure genius, if it worked – to turn Don Archer, and use him to get to his brother. He could only hope that Archer's head injury was not so serious that Allman wouldn't consider him a candidate for the procedure.

He smiled into the phone as it was answered, and said, "George, it's J. Scott Marsh. Yes, it's good to talk to you again. Listen, George, we've got a job for you."

As Marsh spoke, he caught movement at the front door, and he looked up to see Jack Montreaux being led out, his hands cuffed behind his back. Their eyes met, and Marsh saw a brief flicker of surprise, then hope flash in Montreaux's eyes. Marsh inclined his head almost imperceptibly, and Montreaux read the unspoken statement. 'Keep quiet, deny everything; I'm working this.'

As tactical team members placed Montreaux in the back of a vehicle, Marsh continued to speak into his phone. "I have a subject for you – it's a matter of national security. I need you to arrange to have a Don Archer transferred to your facility from University Hospital. I'm told he was brought in with a concussion – it should make for a good excuse for you to examine him. I'll meet you at Cypress in an hour, and we'll discuss the details of his – treatment. Correct, my friend. As always, we need to make sure we keep this confidential. I'll see you in an hour."

J. Scott Marsh flipped his phone shut, and smiled.

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End Chapter 16

A/N: Just a little unexpected plot twist. I'm afraid I'm just hopscotching from one cliffie to another. :)