Everyone except one man.
His eyes were transfixed on only one thing, The Vessel.
Nash elbowed Sophia to get her attention as he hit talk on his comms device. “Eva, red puffer jacket, twelve o’clock.”
“Yeah, I have the fucker. Shady as fuck.” Nash heard rustling through his earpiece. “Accomplice three metres to his left, your right. She has to be a bad guy—she’s definitely a bad guy. She’s wearing a denim jacket over jeans. Only immoral douchecanoes wear double denim. With a puffer vest over the jacket. So many fashion crimes.”
Damn, Nash had missed the other terrorist but now that Eva had pointed her out it was obvious. She possessed the same glassy-eyed furious intensity as her compatriot. Both were in their early twenties, the ideal age for the susceptible and expendable.
“That’s the three,” Nash muttered, more to himself than anyone. Realising the comment needed clarification, he added, “Pinchot said there were three—”he stopped himself from using the word terrorist, given the crowd was shoulder to shoulder with them, “—people left after Yousif, or at least he thought there were. If those two are our targets and there’s one flying the drone…”
“You’re better at maths than I am,” Bishop replied in his ear. “How do we take them?”
That was exactly what was occupying Nash’s thoughts. Their jackets were far bulkier than the weather required; it was highly likely they hid undesirables beneath. If he was to hazard a guess, Nash would put his money on suicide vests. The triggers could be anywhere—concealed in a pocket, on the device itself, detonated remotely; it was impossible to tell.
About to verbalise his thoughts, Claude cut in over comms.
“Riverside status check, no change,” he advised.
“10th Avenue, no change,” Alain chimed in.
Eva was one flight of stairs above Nash and Sophia, on the first deck of The Vessel. Bishop was on a higher platform, positioned on the third set of stairs. All checked in.
There were no further check-ins.
“Baptiste?” Sophia asked, pushing the earpiece further in. “Baptiste, report.”
Eerie silence was the only reply.
Nash took his eyes off the targets long enough to see the anguish in Sophia’s eyes. Baptiste had never failed to reply when asked for a status check, always reporting that Pinchot was secure. Except now.
“Baptiste? What’s your—”
“I’m terribly sorry,” a harsh voice interrupted, “Baptiste is unable to come to the phone right now. He’s come down with a sudden case of lead poisoning.”
Nash hit talk on his comms handset. “Pinchot, I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing but—”
“I always know what I’m doing, Mason. Always. Did you really think Cavendish was going to be watching from close by? He’d never be that reckless.”
“Then why?” Then Nash thought, oh right. “Me.”
Pinchot gave the slightest of chuckles. “That’s right, you. You’re the bait that’s going to get me to him. You’re the one who’s going to enable my revenge.”
Sophia grasped Nash’s arm, fear in her eyes. Nash had seen that look countless times on the faces of those responsible for the lives of the people under their command.
Taking his finger off the talk button, Nash spoke quietly, “Baptiste is dead.”
“You don’t know that. He could be bleeding out, he could be…” Sophia couldn’t finish, already knowing the truth.
Nash had to think. There were too many rogue elements at play. Two likely terrorists in front of them, another flying the drone—but there could be more. Pinchot was now on the loose. Baptiste likely dead. Cavendish could be nearby, or on his way, but both those possibilities were from the mouth of a confessed liar.
Nash hit talk on the comms device. “Pinchot?”
“Yes dear?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Pinchot could have escaped, but he chose instead to taunt Nash. He had his own agenda and Nash didn’t have time for his bullshit.
“No, wait Nash. I have instructions for yo—”
“Secondary channel, now.” Nash swapped channels before Pinchot could infect him with any more distraction. He waited for everyone to switch to the pre-arranged frequency, cutting Pinchot out entirely. “Eva, Bishop and I will take out the two targets. Claude, converge on our position, we’re going to need the backup.” He turned to the worried Sophia. “Sophia, go check the van to see if you can save Baptiste. Alaine, back her up. No time for a debate, everyone go.”
As Nash put away the handset, Sophia gently touched his arm. “Are you sure?”
Before he could answer the decision was made for them. The lead target in the red jacket stepped forward; Double Denim fell into lockstep behind.
Pushing Sophia softly in the direction of the van, he gave her a reassuring nod. I’ve got this. She returned the nod and broke into a run. Nash stepped forward and unzipped his jacket.
“Lots of civilians in close proximity, Nash,” Bishop advised in his earpiece from the platform above.
He wasn’t wrong. Old Nash would have given Red Jacket a bullet between the eyes and hoped to hell he could get a clean shot in the ensuing panic to take out Double Denim. It would certainly neutralise the threat. But for better or worse, Nash wasn’t old Nash. He needed to find a less lethal solution to derive the same result—neutralise the threat but with zero casualties, on either side. The only trouble was, he had no idea how to achieve that.
The other wild card was that the two prime suspects may in fact not be terrorists at all. They acted like it, but that didn’t necessarily translate to being actual terrorists. Their status was ambiguous, and if their instincts were wrong they may miss the real targets.
As the suspects stepped onto the base of The Vessel a security guard placed a meaty hand on Red Jacket’s chest, demanding his ticket. In response, Red Jacket pushed backward. He and Double Denim both drew guns and shot the guard in the chest.
Perhaps their status as suspected terrorists wasn’t ambiguous after all.
