CHAPTER 2: The Quick and the Dead
“What do you mean they’re all dead?”
Smythe raced through the main hall of the Russian Embassy, only stopping to glance at the murdered bodies of the embassy guards that lay mangled along the doorways. Each guard had a bullet hole in the center of their temple, hit with extraordinary accuracy. He had never seen so many headshots before, and it scared the hell out of him.
“Every last one of them, they’re dead,” Smythe repeated, talking into the microphone attached to his collar, “He killed them, and they’ve got the disk.”
“Who? Damn it, Smythe, calm down,” Truman pleaded, “Who killed them?”
“I didn’t see his face.”
As Smythe ran full-force towards the front door, images of the man in the shadows and the man with the red eyes flashed in his memory. Just as everything began to make sense, everything seemed to fall apart again. Vladimir Petrov was a traitor to his country, and he paid the price for his treason with his life. It was Petrov who obtained the stolen disk containing the launch data from an insider on the ocean-liner Aquarius, in exchange for tons of explosives and C4. But the Aquarius was now destroyed, and Petrov murdered. It seemed that everyone who came into contact with that computer disk ended up dead.
Smythe rushed through the main door of the embassy and the cold night air hit him like a punch in the face. Running down the marble steps, he spotted a black luxury car followed by three black vans speeding down the street and away from the embassy.
‘Going so soon?’ he thought to himself, ‘The party’s just getting started.’
The moon pierced through the dark clouds, like an essence watching everything unfold before it. The city streets of Paris were deserted, except for the usual beggars, who wandered the side-streets searching for food and shelter. A few trees lined the street in front of the embassy, while the rest of this part of the city revealed a more concrete and residential appearance. The night was cold and quiet, the calm before the storm of chaos.
As Smythe ran across the lawn towards the sidewalk, a sleek silver sports car roared from across the street and pulled up beside him, its headlights shining on high-beams and blinding him. Smythe stopped in his tracks, his heart beating wildly, as the window rolled down to reveal the silencer of a handgun aimed directly at him.
“Get in,” a voice echoed from inside the car. Smythe took in a deep breath and surveyed the area around him. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. His vision focused back on the gun, waiting, like a wild animal, to strike. With his hands up, Smythe opened the passenger door and slid in.
“Agent Trove, I presume?” Smythe said coyly, eyeing the stunning woman behind the wheel. Her dark hair was tied back into a ponytail, which cascaded onto her broad shoulders. She glanced over at Smythe, her expression remaining emotionless. Her deep blue eyes contrasted her relatively pale complexion—she reminded Smythe of a ghost. She wore a skintight red dress, almost looking more like a princess than an Echelon agent. Although her expression didn’t change, her eyes conveyed a sense of innocence, untrusting, and fear towards Smythe. He wondered what it must be like to be sitting in a car with him, a man who has killed so many without thought, served his country without question, and saved so many lives without receiving so much as a ‘thank you’. Smythe shuddered at the idea of being a new agent assigned on a dangerous mission with him. Although Truman didn’t say it, he could sense that Agent Trove had never been in a real chase, never faced real danger, never put her life on the line for freedom. She was cold, inexperienced, and the perfect way to keep him on his toes. ‘Damn Truman,’ Smythe thought. Almost on cue, Trove turned to look Smythe directly in the eyes and cracked what looked like a smile.
“Please, call me Valeri. Looks like I arrived just in time. Need a ride, Agent Smythe?”
“Call me Jonathan,” Smythe snapped back effortlessly, fighting to hold back a smile. “Now that we’re on a first name basis, we’ve got business to attend to.” Smythe pulled out his gun and then turned to face Agent Trove, moonlight illuminating his face. “Truman was right. You look like a beauty, but can you drive like a beast?” Trove shifted the car into first gear as she slammed on the gas.
“Hold on tight,” she smirked as she glanced at Smythe, “this is gonna be one hell of a ride.” The engine of the sleek silver sports car roared as they sped away from the embassy, in pursuit of Petrov’s murderers. The streetlights flew by them as they sped down the street, Smythe could barely make out the convoy of black vans in the distance.
“We’ll never catch up with them this way,” Smythe yelled over the screaming engine, “You got any ideas?” He looked over at Trove, who was frantically calling up a digital map on the front console. She ran her finger along the lines representing the streets on the map, pausing to look ahead.
“I know a little shortcut,” she said under her breath, “The street cuts to the right three blocks down and heads back along the waterway down to our right. We can head them off.” Almost instantly she swerved to the right and cut through a side street, causing Smythe to grab hold of the side door handle to keep his balance. Garbage and debris flew past the windshield as the car streaked through the narrow road, which ended with a barricade up ahead. Only a few lampposts streaked by, darkening everything around them. The car’s high-beams showcased a ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign posted on the boarded up passage straight ahead of them. Trove increased their speed as they headed straight towards the dead-end.
“What are you doing?” Smythe screamed, “Are you trying to get us killed?” They headed at full-speed for the boarded up alleyway at the end of the side-street. Agent Trove glanced over at Smythe, furrowing her brow.
“Trust me,” she yelled as she shifted into high gear, jolting them forward, faster.
Before he knew it they blasted through the wooden barricade like a silver bullet, shattered debris covering the front end of the car. Sparks flew as the metal sides of the car brushed against both sides of the brick wall, sandwiching them.
“Are you bloody sure we’re going to make it?!” Smythe yelled as sparks exploded from his side of the car.
“We’ll make it!” Trove shouted back, flooring it and igniting the car’s pre-installed turbo boost. Smythe looked up ahead and saw nothing but a blur of stars and night, everything was moving so quickly that if he blinked, he would miss it.
The car flew out of the alleyway and into the air, for a moment it almost seemed to hover for a second or two. Then just as soon as they had gone airborne they swiftly landed on the street below, overlooking the waterway.
“Still breathing?” Trove remarked to Smythe sarcastically, with a huge smile.
“Not quite,” Smythe replied, still catching his breath. Inexperienced as she was, she damn well seemed to enjoy the thrill of the chase. Something about her enlightened Smythe, and made him feel young again. “Any second now,” Smythe whispered, rolling down his window and readying his gun. Trove continued to stare into her rear-view mirror, awaiting the convoy of black vans.
“Here they come!” she shouted, shifting gears and accelerating as fast as possible. The first black van sped by them, followed by the luxury car and the other two vans.
“Quick, pull in behind the last van!” Smythe yelled at Trove as she struggled to keep pace with them. The concrete cliff-side which they had flown off of seconds ago now towered over them on their right, trapping them between itself and the waterway on their left. The last of the black vans swerved in front of them, blocking them from making any kind of pass.
“Stay on its left,” Smythe shouted as he leaned out the passenger window, aiming his weapon at the speeding van in front of them. Smythe’s hair blew in the wind as they sped down the street after the convoy at an incredible speed. “Keep her straight,” Smythe yelled once more, waiting for a clear shot at the van. Trove cringed as the first two shots rang off the bumper of the van. The third hit the van’s back left tire dead on, blowing it off completely. “Now pull up beside them!” Smythe shouted
as the van began swerving uncontrollably from left to right. Trove accelerated as they matched the van’s speed, driving parallel to its left.
The driver of the van peered at Smythe as they drove up beside him, rolling down his window and pointing a gun at them with his right hand. Trove glanced over at him long enough to catch his sadistic smile.
“Shit!” she screamed, immediately slowing down as the driver’s shot rang off the front of the car, nearly missing the veteran agent beside her.
“Quickly now, speed up!” Smythe yelled. Trove once again pulled in beside the van, which suddenly began to swerve away left and right.
“Now!” Trove shouted, as Smythe trained his sight directly on the driver and shot a bullet into his chest. The driver screamed in pain, grabbing his chest and struggling to maintain any sort of control over the van. The van veered past them and towards the railing to their left, swerving left and right uncontrollably. At that moment, Trove sped up and steered the car towards the van, cutting him off and forcing him through the aluminum railing. Smythe looked back only to see the van plummet off the road and into the water.
“He was dying for a swim,” Smythe remarked slyly.
“One down…” Trover uttered under her breath, trailing off as they sped up behind the second van. The street continued straight ahead, running parallel with the waterway.
Suddenly the back doors of the second van flew open, revealing two henchmen and a machine gun turret. One of them manned the turret while the other loaded his shotgun, both intending to blow their car into pieces. Smythe flinched as the man at the turret opened fire on their windshield, but the all of the bullets ricocheted off of the windshield without leaving a scratch.
“Bullet-proof glass?” Smythe cracked a smile.
“It comes standard,” Trove laughed, keeping pace with the van.
“Stay behind them, I’ve got an idea,” Smythe said. He suddenly opened his door completely, creating a bullet-proof shield. He leaned over and out of the car, holding onto the handle of the open door and using it as a shield from the onslaught of ammunition that peppered the door. He waited what seemed like forever for the turret’s magazine to run out of ammo, until he heard the familiar ‘clicking’ sound from the turret. Suddenly, like lightning, he aimed up through his open window and shot the henchman at the turret twice, killing him. Smythe ducked back behind the open door once more, waiting a few seconds until he heard the blast from the second man’s shotgun ring off the door. Then he aimed through the window again, taking down the second henchman almost as fast as he’d taken out the first.
“Now, drive up beside him!” Smythe shouted as he pulled himself back into his seat, sweat dripping down his face. Trove slowly accelerated, maneuvering the car up to the driver side of the van, matching its speed. The driver reacted quickly, opening his door and drawing his gun. “It was a pleasure working with you,” Smythe yelled to the rookie agent beside him as he slowly leaned out of the car, “but I work better alone. Au revoir!”
Before the driver could react, Smythe leaped from the car to the van, barely grabbing a hold of the van’s open door. There he hung for a moment, struggling to gain any sort of balance and fighting off the driver of the van at the same time.
“Imbicile!” the driver yelled as he continued to steer as well as fight Smythe off.
“Getting off here are you?” Smythe yelled, barely clinging to the van. With a swift kick to the head the driver was out, and the van suddenly began to swing left towards the waterway. Smythe struggled to hang onto the open door as he pulled the unconscious driver out of his seat and onto the road below. Before the van could swerve off of the road and into the watery depths, Smythe swung into the driver’s seat and turned sharply to the right, almost cutting Agent Trove completely off.
Smythe, now in control of the van, motioned Agent Trove to follow behind him as he picked up speed, gaining on the black luxury car up ahead, which was still following the last of the black vans. No doubt Petrov’s murderer was in that car, and there was no way either agent was going to let him escape. Smythe glared at a two-lane tunnel up ahead, split down the middle by intermitted pillars. Suddenly, the black van ahead slowed down and dropped back behind the luxury car, a predictable move, in Smythe’s point of view. ‘The chase continues…’
The tunnel lights sped by as Smythe hurtled through the oncoming lane in pursuit of his prey. His heart raced as an oncoming car flew into view, blasting its horn and swerving out of the way of the black van Smythe had commandeered from his enemy. For a split second he could swear that he had seen the panic-stricken, ghost-white face of the innocent motorist as he sliced past him.
But no matter. Bigger things were at stake here. The safety of the world was at stake. That disk of Petrov’s, which he sold at the price of his life, contained information of unimaginable power—the launch codes and co-ordinates for every major city in the western world. Of course, the disk alone was worthless, but combined with the Cancer warhead—warheads?—the ability to launch an undetectable nuclear strike from anywhere in the world, even just the threat of it, was very real. Did this man in the shadows, this murderer, somehow obtain one or more Cancer warheads? Impossible.
Smythe glanced in the rearview mirror, and his own cold grey eyes stared right back at him. His hands tensely gripped the steering wheel, shifting nervously.
‘Nothing is impossible. Anything’s possible,’ he thought to himself. This isn’t a silly spy game anymore. This is for real. The world is at stake.
Smythe shifted gears and pressed down harder on the gas pedal as the black luxury car and its final escort drew slowly into view. As he glanced to his right, he spied Valeri Trove in the through lane keeping pace with him. For a moment, they locked eyes, and their focus temporarily shifted from the thrill of the chase to each other. Although they had only met just minutes ago, Smythe felt an instant connection with her. This was no rookie. She took risks and cut corners like the best of them… like him. But she also had a hardened look in her eyes—they looked cold… like his. What could have happened, he could only guess. But there was something definitely different about this one. She was unlike any woman he had ever met. She was strong.
‘That’s what it is,’ he thought. She was strong. She could hold her own. ‘I work alone,’ he thought to himself, silently.
‘Maybe…?’
He snapped back to reality as he noticed that Trove was signaling something to him. ‘Get a hold of yourself, damn you,’ he thought as he cracked a smile. She was signaling towards the black van, which was now less than twenty feet ahead of her. As the tunnel pillars flew by in-between them, Smythe realized her plan and quickly sped up to keep pace with her.
The driver of the black van began to panic as he watched the silver sports car steadily gain on him in the rearview mirror. His already sweaty face was nothing compared to his palms, which were drenched in perspiration. Suddenly, he made a decision—he took his attention off of the road, grabbed the handgun that was on the passenger seat beside him, and began shooting wildly behind him through the driver side window. Trove did not flinch as a few of the bullets ricocheted off of the bulletproof windshield.
‘BAM!’
The driver of the black van lurched forward as he was rammed from behind by the silver sports car chasing him. The smoking handgun lay again on the seat beside him—out of ammo—out of hope. He swerved to the left just in time to avoid a second rear-end attempt by the silver car. At this speed, a collision would tear the van, and himself, into pieces.
“Shit,” he muttered as he eyed his rearview mirror—the car was going for the final blow. Suddenly he veered sharply to the left, avoiding the hit and flying into the oncoming lane. He never made it. At the last second, his attempt to swerve into the wrong lane was blocked by another black van on his left. Trapped on both sides by his pursuers, the driver’s eyes grew wide with fear as he opened his mouth to scream. But no sound came out—it didn’t have a chance to. His van blew into the cent
er median pillar and exploded on impact.
Smythe’s heart pounded as they flew out of the tunnel and the black luxury car raced into view ahead of them. His blood shot through his veins as he sped ahead of Trove and gained on the luxury car.
“This is what I live for,” he told himself.
The waterway continued to run parallel to the road, but the road itself now towered over it, with only a thin guardrail protecting motorists from a watery death. To the right, a high wall ran parallel to the road. It was a clear path to victory.
Smythe suddenly felt very satisfied with himself, and his focus wavered. The disk would be recovered, siphoned to the techies back at the Echelon base in London, deciphered, decoded, and extracted, and then, perhaps, obliterated. Assuming that this was the only copy of the disk, the warhead would then be made useless to whoever was pulling the strings on this operation. Finding that out would not take long either, of course. First, he would disable all of the men in the luxury car, shooting the guns out of their hands and then placing bullets in each of their legs.
‘They’ll be writhing on the ground like worms,’ Smythe thought to himself, amused. He would gain particular satisfaction watching and listening as the man with the red eyes—a cold-blooded killer—begged for mercy and refuge. The Echelon clean-up crew would be called in, and the injured men would be taken away, in disgrace, to the local interrogation complex, where they would be tortured and the information extracted from them. This was no time for politics, diplomacy, or rights—these men were nuclear terrorists and they would pay for their sins, and deservedly so. And it would be he, Jonathan Smythe, who had taken them down. Yes, he was satisfied.
His awareness suddenly snapped back as his mind was awakened by a horn blasting at him from behind. As he checked his rearview mirror, he saw that Trove was flashing her lights at him, while swerving back and forth wildly. As his focus returned, he turned his attention back to the luxury car in front of him.
He froze. Suddenly, Smythe felt extremely nervous, and his stomach lurched. He couldn’t breathe. The trunk lid of the black luxury car was propped open, and pointing towards him was an artillery launcher loaded with a series of mini-rockets. Just as the realization of the situation dawned on him, a loud whine blasted from the trunk and three of the rockets launched backwards from the car. He swerved to the left, and sparks flew as his side mirror snapped off as he screeched against the guard-rail. He held his breath as the rockets flew by him, missing by inches.
For a moment, relief swept over him, but only for a moment. His relief soon turned to dread as he saw a flash of light in his rearview mirror. His heart stopped as Trove’s silver sports car flew into the air, twisted, and then crashed to the ground, upside-down, skidding along the road and then bursting through the guard-rail.
“No!” Smythe screamed, tears now streaming down his face, as he continued to keep pace with the luxury car in front of him. A feeling of conflict suddenly shot through him like an electric shock. His mind and his senses were screaming at him to keep going, to continue the chase, to capture the villains. Bigger things were at stake here. The world was at stake. But his heart and his soul, two things which he believed he had given up many years ago when he had killed his first victim in cold blood—shot in the heart, no less—were reminding him about Valeri. Valeri Trove. She was strong. She was still alive. But she wouldn’t be for long—not without him. There was something about this woman. ‘I work alone,’ his own words flashed in his head.
‘Maybe…’
The decision was made. Like lightning, he reached into his utility belt and pulled out what looked like a mini-grappling gun. With his left hand, he reached out through the driver side window and fired a short blast right at the rear end of the luxury car. Then he pulled up on the hand brake, and slammed on the van’s brakes, causing it to spin in a circle. At the first opportunity, he jumped out of the van, rolled, and then got up and ran as many steps as he could away from the van before diving to the ground and covering his head with his hands. It took only a brief second for him to hear the familiar whine, and only a split second later for the van to explode into a ball of flames, lighting up the street, the wall, and the waterway below.
Silence. It was the dead of night in Paris, in the seedy part of the city, and Agent Smythe could hear his own heart beating. He could probably scream at the top of his lungs, and nobody would hear him. There was no one here to help him—help them. Valeri. Agent Valeri Trove. They had just met, just a few minutes ago. Minutes! He may have possibly thrown this whole mission away, risked it all, and lost everything, for a woman—a mere rookie—whom he had just met. A wave of confusion rushed through his mind. This is not the Jonathan Smythe that he had grown accustomed to, the cold-hearted bastard that he had molded himself into, the self-righteous killer without a conscience. This was the kind of thing that was done by someone who has a heart. Someone who cares.
‘What am I doing?’
Breathing became harder as he ran towards the ruptured guard-rail ahead of him—every step was agony. He could still smell the smoke from the wreckage of the burning black van that he had deserted behind him, giving up on the chase and allowing the shadowy figure and the man with the red eyes to get away with their prize unharmed. He had made the previously unthinkable decision to run back and to try to help Agent Trove… if there was anything left of her.
As he approached the guard-rail, he smelled the familiar scent of smoke and burning wreckage. He held his breath as he drew closer to the edge, ready for the worst. Would she be dead, thrown from the destroyed vehicle and torn to shreds on the concrete outcroppings below? Or would she end up in the water, her corpse carried away by the current to an unknown destination? Smythe shook his head as he tried to rid himself of these morbid scenarios, and peered over the edge.
A chill ran down his spine. The smoldering wreckage of the silver sports car lay upside down on the concrete that lined the side of the waterway. It was covered in small flames and smoke billowed up from it. This was one of Smythe’s worst fears: failing the people who were near to him and who depended on him. A wave of regret and despair flew through him—they had only met, just minutes ago.
Suddenly, there was hope. There was movement, and movement was definitely hope. Hope was definitely a step up from regret and despair. For a split-second, Smythe thought that he had seen an arm grasping outside from the driver side window, disappearing just a moment afterwards. But it had only been a split-second.
It was enough. Smythe quickly grabbed the grappling hook and the thin nylon rappelling gear that was standard on all Echelon utility belts, and, with a newfound sense of energy, he began to prepare for a quick descent. He was no longer thinking or feeling, he was operating on pure instinct, as if his actions were programmed into him like a machine. Just a few seconds later, he was over the edge, and he began rappelling downwards as fast as he could. The chilling air of this October night sent shivers through his whole body, but he didn’t let that slight discomfort delay him from reaching her as fast as humanly possible. To reach her and be seconds late would be a pain too great to bear. The rope began to burn through his hands as he kicked harder and harder on the wall. As he drew closer to the bottom he could hear coughing coming from within the sports car. She was alive. Just barely, as it sounded, but alive. There was definitely something about this woman. She was definitely strong.
He landed with a thud on the concrete passage next to the waterway, the overturned car just a few feet away. Fumbling with the rope that was hooked onto his belt, Smythe cursed loudly. Finally freeing himself from it, he tossed the rope aside and ran to the driver side of the car. Down on his hands and knees, he peered through the broken glass of the window.
“Valeri?” he shouted.
“Jonathan!”
Looking back at him with terrified eyes was Agent Trove. Her hair was now thrown about her face and her dress was torn. She struggled, upside-down, still strapped to the driver’s seat. Her seatbelt had b
ecome mangled and was preventing her from escaping the wreckage, but no doubt it had saved her life.
“Jonathan! Help me, please!” she screamed in terror as her eyes grew wide with panic. The flames that were engulfing the car had grown, and the whole vehicle was now on the verge of exploding.
“Jonathan! Quick!”
“Stay still!” he screamed. “I’m going to cut you loose—don’t worry I’ve got you. Everything will be okay…”
Quickly grabbing a combat knife from his boot, he slashed the seat belt from her body, then reached in through the window and pulled the door open. She tumbled onto the ground and rolled right-side up as Smythe pulled her out of the car and onto the cement. She was breathing hard, and her cheeks were covered in ash.
“C’mon, we’ve got to get out of here, now!” Smythe shouted. They began to shuffle along the waterway away from the burning car, with Smythe supporting her by the shoulders, when they heard a large clank. Smythe turned to see that the car had fallen onto its side and was now covered in flames.
“It’s gonna blow any second now!” Trove screamed, “What are we going to do?! It’s hopeless.”
“Shut up!” he shouted. “You mustn’t talk like that. We’re gonna get through this—somehow.”
Then it hit him. The waterway.
“Valeri… into the river—quick!”
Before she could argue, she was in the water. Seconds later, he dove in after her. As they both began to gasp for air, a load groan echoed through the waterway.
“Down, now!”
Taking one last breath, they submerged into the water just as the car exploded into pieces. A minute passed before they emerged from the water. Together they swam back to the edge. Smythe first helped her up and then pulled himself up after her. Together they lay side-by-side on the concrete, panting, soaking wet, trying to catch their breath.
“Why did you come back?” she asked between breaths. “What about the bad guys?”
“I came back for you,” he replied.
“Why? Why did you come back for me, Jonathan! There are bigger things at stake here!”
He was silent.
“What happened to the car?” she asked. “Did you get the disk?”
“No. They got away,” he muttered, disgusted with himself.
“Damn you, Smythe. What were you thinking?”
“I came back for you,” he said again, panting.
“Why…?” she asked, her eyes meeting his. They were no longer cold like they had been outside of the embassy. They were warm and soft. Smythe, embarrassed of the truth, looked away and back down the waterway.
“I don’t know,” he lied, “I was foolish. I made a misjudgment. I’m sorry.”
She smiled and grabbed his face, pulling his gaze towards her. “You saved my life, Jonathan. Thank you.” She smiled.
Smythe chuckled, “Water… why does it always have to be water?”
They both got up and began to walk hand-in-hand along the waterway.
“So… they got away?” she asked, sounding disappointed. “We failed our mission?” Smythe couldn’t help but crack a smile.
“Not quite.” He pulled the small device that he had used earlier, just moments before he had jumped out of the black van. “This is a tracking gun. The bug that I shot with this onto that black luxury car will track them to wherever they end up. Our guys back in the lab would have been on it as soon as I activated it. This isn’t over yet…”
“No, it isn’t…” she smiled. “But what will we do now?” Both up and down the waterway, there was no end to the concrete path in sight.
“How about a walk?” he asked, smiling warmly.
“A walk is good.”
Together they walked along the path to nowhere in particular. It was the dead of night in Paris, in the seedy part of the city, and all they could hear was the sound of silence.