Termination Orders(49)

Now he had to make his move. The sniper wouldn’t be able to target him, but he could easily get hit by one of the bullets sailing past. And he had another problem now, too—the fire was spreading fast. It wouldn’t take long for the whole room to turn into a blazing inferno.

Then he happened to look at the desk and saw, by the orange light of the flames, the file on Plante’s desk. He couldn’t leave it behind.

He listened for the shots. Soon the sniper would take a brief respite. It would be only moments, to take a second look and reassess, but it would be enough. And then . . .

The bullets stopped coming, and he sprang from his corner. He found the bloody file with his hand as he passed and yanked it from under Plante’s dead head. The bullets came but too late—he was already outside the line of fire. He dashed through the door to the hallway and out the door. It was a short run to the car from there. He was out of the woods, for now.

So long, old friend, he thought as he glanced back at the house. The only response was the rising smoke and the faint flicker of the consuming flames inside. It was a funeral, of sorts, a final blaze of glory that would consume his former handler’s slim body.

Morgan ran as fast as he could back to the Sebring. He got in, tossed the bloody folder onto the passenger seat, and sped off toward I-495, his eyes darting constantly to the rearview mirror to make sure that T hadn’t managed to follow him. His next destination was to see his wife and daughter, and he would not sleep until he reached them in Vermont. He glanced at the folder on the passenger’s seat. What kind of answers would it contain? Would it tell him who the mole in the CIA was?

But what if it did? He was running out of allies. The only one in the Agency whose loyalty he could be certain of was Plante, and that was because he was now dead. But he was on his way to see his family. That was more important than any investigation.

While he was still wired from the adrenaline, his first two hours of driving flew by. But the stress of the past few days finally caught up to him. He had barely slept in four days, during which time he had flown halfway around the world and back, while continually being chased and shot at. He forced himself to keep going, saying Alex and Jenny’s names like a mantra as exhaustion threatened to make him delirious. He had to get to them, had to stay ahead of his pursuers. He gripped the steering wheel, hunching over, holding on by a thread. He tried to slap himself awake, but still sleep encroached on him. Several times, he awoke with a start to find the car drifting onto the shoulder of the road.

He couldn’t help his family if he was in the hospital, he thought, or dead from a traffic accident. He pulled onto the shoulder and backed onto a dark, rutted access road so that the car faced the highway for a fast getaway yet was just far enough in to be hidden from view. At least he could avoid being spotted at a rest stop. Twenty minutes. That’s all I need. He reclined his seat and closed his eyes. Twenty minutes, and I’ll be back on the road.





CHAPTER 23


Harold Kline yawned into his hand, and as the elevator doors opened, he was startled to see CIA Director Boyle standing in front of him.

“Sir,” said Kline, flustered, shifting the heavy folder in his arm.

“Good morning, Kline,” said Boyle, stepping aside for Kline to walk out into the hallway. “What’s the latest on this Cobra situation?”

“The forensics team at Plante’s house found evidence of an accelerant,” said Kline, walking along with Boyle.

“Not surprising.” Boyle opened the door to his office. “Please, come in.”

“That’s not all, sir,” continued Kline, sitting down at Boyle’s desk. “They found a couple dozen bullets in the walls and floor of the room. It seems likely it was one of those bullets that killed Plante.”

Boyle sat down at his desk stiffly. “What’s the official story?”

“He will have died in bed, in a tragic house fire started by faulty wiring. He will be buried in a closed casket, with a large wreath from the CIA acknowledging his service. There’ll be no indication of violence.”

“Good,” said Boyle. “Any word on the identity of the shooter?”

“We found a shell casing under a tree a few hundred feet from the house and signs of a hasty cleanup. Definitely a sniper. But nothing that would lead to a positive ID,” said Kline. “That’s why I had Plante’s communications pulled.” He placed a small digital audio player on the table. “This is a recording made yesterday on Plante’s line.” He pushed play.

“Is this line secure?“

“Is this who I think it is?“