Read Online Protocol 7 by Armen Gharabegian - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Armen Gharabegian
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before Takara had fully regained her balance.
Jonathan attacked quickly and in absolute silence. He swung the baton and connected to the side of the woman’s unprotected head with a meaty thwack. As Takara’s head bobbled to one side, he followed through with the stroke, cocked his arm, and swept it back, using his elbow as a club and ramming it into her throat with all his considerable strength. He felt something pop in the flesh and muscle inside the woman’s neck. Then he used the momentum of his backhanded swing to continue turning his body, bringing up the cosh in his right and driving it deep, deep into Takara’s belly, doubling her over, driving her to the concrete, onto her stomach.
It happened in less than five seconds.
Takara’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
Jonathan stepped in even closer, partly to hide the weapons, partly to take the full dead weight of the woman on his clenched fist. He turned and shoved with his hip, then turned and shoved again, literally guiding the upright body to the edge of the platform. Then all it took was a push, a step back, a leg up, a foot flat on Takara’s belt buckle and a kick. Takara’s body flew back and twisted to the left as it teetered off the edge of the platform and disappeared into the sooty shadows below.
Jonathan stepped back from the edge of the platform—two steps, three-and pocketed the weapons. He took a deep breath and turned to see three passengers nearby. One was staring at him with open, wide-eyed horror. That didn’t concern him; the man was too terrified to ever give an accurate description. The other two, like most good DC residents, didn’t want to see a thing. One was in the process of turning away, hurrying down the platform to get as far from whatever was happening as she could get. The third had his back to them already. Nothing was happening as far as he was concerned. Nothing would happen.
Jonathan moved swiftly but calmly toward the stairs that led up to C Street. He would have to switch to Plan B, that was all. He always had a Plan B. And a Plan C. That was how he stayed alive doing what he’d been doing since a nice matronly woman came to his door at Cornell and invited him to join the CIA. Plan A was just the easiest and fastest option. He would still get where he was going; it would just be a little more trouble and take a little more time. That was—
“Jonathan!”
He stopped short at the base of the staircase. He turned toward the sound of the voice—a shout, sharp as the call of a bird of prey.
Takara was standing on the far side of the platform. There was a wide, black smear of oil across her immaculate coat. Her perfect, long, sharp hair was disheveled, and he saw a patch of blood coloring one cheek.
She was too far away to capture him. In the next instant there was the horn of an oncoming train, and as it surged into the station, it hid her from view.
Jonathan didn’t hesitate. He was out of the station and back in the bright sunshine of a spring afternoon before The B line to Pentagon City departed from Track 3 and gave her a chance to follow him.
He didn’t see her again, but he knew she would return.
NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND
Spector Safe House
Hayden sat in his own personal cavern and drank. And thought. And then drank some more.
He never felt dwarfed by the size of the place, even now, when he huddled in one corner of the secret, massive, four-story hangar. This was so much larger—grander—than the Oxford installation: the huge buttresses of the dome soaring over him, the vast concrete floor scattered with electronic gadgets of multiple sizes and shapes, some as large as cars. Somehow it still felt normal to him—manageable—even when the sound of his own voice echoed through the cavernous, deserted space like the sound effect from a bad horror movie.
“Check,” he said to Teah, who leaned and bobbled in the space across from him.
“I think not,” Teah trilled, her visual sensors focused
Jonathan attacked quickly and in absolute silence. He swung the baton and connected to the side of the woman’s unprotected head with a meaty thwack. As Takara’s head bobbled to one side, he followed through with the stroke, cocked his arm, and swept it back, using his elbow as a club and ramming it into her throat with all his considerable strength. He felt something pop in the flesh and muscle inside the woman’s neck. Then he used the momentum of his backhanded swing to continue turning his body, bringing up the cosh in his right and driving it deep, deep into Takara’s belly, doubling her over, driving her to the concrete, onto her stomach.
It happened in less than five seconds.
Takara’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
Jonathan stepped in even closer, partly to hide the weapons, partly to take the full dead weight of the woman on his clenched fist. He turned and shoved with his hip, then turned and shoved again, literally guiding the upright body to the edge of the platform. Then all it took was a push, a step back, a leg up, a foot flat on Takara’s belt buckle and a kick. Takara’s body flew back and twisted to the left as it teetered off the edge of the platform and disappeared into the sooty shadows below.
Jonathan stepped back from the edge of the platform—two steps, three-and pocketed the weapons. He took a deep breath and turned to see three passengers nearby. One was staring at him with open, wide-eyed horror. That didn’t concern him; the man was too terrified to ever give an accurate description. The other two, like most good DC residents, didn’t want to see a thing. One was in the process of turning away, hurrying down the platform to get as far from whatever was happening as she could get. The third had his back to them already. Nothing was happening as far as he was concerned. Nothing would happen.
Jonathan moved swiftly but calmly toward the stairs that led up to C Street. He would have to switch to Plan B, that was all. He always had a Plan B. And a Plan C. That was how he stayed alive doing what he’d been doing since a nice matronly woman came to his door at Cornell and invited him to join the CIA. Plan A was just the easiest and fastest option. He would still get where he was going; it would just be a little more trouble and take a little more time. That was—
“Jonathan!”
He stopped short at the base of the staircase. He turned toward the sound of the voice—a shout, sharp as the call of a bird of prey.
Takara was standing on the far side of the platform. There was a wide, black smear of oil across her immaculate coat. Her perfect, long, sharp hair was disheveled, and he saw a patch of blood coloring one cheek.
She was too far away to capture him. In the next instant there was the horn of an oncoming train, and as it surged into the station, it hid her from view.
Jonathan didn’t hesitate. He was out of the station and back in the bright sunshine of a spring afternoon before The B line to Pentagon City departed from Track 3 and gave her a chance to follow him.
He didn’t see her again, but he knew she would return.
NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND
Spector Safe House
Hayden sat in his own personal cavern and drank. And thought. And then drank some more.
He never felt dwarfed by the size of the place, even now, when he huddled in one corner of the secret, massive, four-story hangar. This was so much larger—grander—than the Oxford installation: the huge buttresses of the dome soaring over him, the vast concrete floor scattered with electronic gadgets of multiple sizes and shapes, some as large as cars. Somehow it still felt normal to him—manageable—even when the sound of his own voice echoed through the cavernous, deserted space like the sound effect from a bad horror movie.
“Check,” he said to Teah, who leaned and bobbled in the space across from him.
“I think not,” Teah trilled, her visual sensors focused
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