True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(30)

A crackle came from the speakers, breaking into his thoughts, and was followed by a report from the ground team across the Atlantic.

OPERATIVE #1: We’re going in.

The room was silent as the satellite view showed the ground team entering the farmhouse simultaneously through several entrances. At the same instant, a flash washed out the satellite screen and the sound of gunfire rattled the speakers.

“Shit,” Kelton said, biting down on his pipe.

Everyone in the room was tense except for Healy, who, for an instant, smiled before catching himself and frowning. But Cross saw the smile out of the corner of his eye.

OPERATIVE #1: Tripwire. Explosive booby trap. We are under fire. We are engaging the targets.

The gunfire abruptly ceased. The room was silent and filled with palpable apprehension. Cross leaned over the mike on Kelton’s command console.

“Do you have the targets?” Cross asked.

OPERATIVE #1: Targets acquired.

“Any casualties?”

OPERATIVE #1: Both targets are down.

“Are their identities confirmed?”

OPERATIVE #1: Positive match.

Healy sighed. “There goes our chance to interrogate the suspects.”

“It wasn’t ever going to happen,” Cross said. “They didn’t want to be taken alive. We can get plenty of intel out of what they left behind, just like we did with bin Laden.”

Cross faced the mike again. “Take everything—papers, books, computers, cell phones, and the bodies. Anything you can get your hands on.”

OPERATIVE #1: Affirmative.

Kelton turned to one of his agents, who was seated at a nearby console and wearing headphones. “Any chatter about this on the Belgian police bands?”

The agent shook his head. “Not yet, sir. All quiet.”

Kelton smiled at Cross. “Got to love bad guys who pick remote locations. Your boys might even have time to buy some Belgian chocolates for us on their way out of the country.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Top A-1 Economy Motel was next door to a storage unit facility along a dusty, desolate portion of Highway 97 in Klamath Falls, Oregon. The only difference between the two one-story cinder-block structures was that the motel units had windows and doors instead of roll-up garage doors and it stored people instead of junk.

The rooms at the Top A-1 Economy Motel were only thirty-three dollars a night so it was popular with truckers, adulterers, runaways, day laborers, and drunks. Only one room was vacant when Ian and Margo showed up and it had a table with two chairs, an old TV, a microwave on top of a four-drawer dresser, and a queen-size bed with a vinyl-padded headboard bolted into the wall.

“It’s not the Four Seasons,” Ian said as they came in carrying their suitcases. “But it’ll do as a place to rest up until tomorrow morning.”

“We’ve still got a few hours of daylight left. I don’t see why we’re stopping now.” She clutched the jar of coins like it was a treasure chest.

“Because we’ve been driving for seven and a half hours,” Ian said, closing the door. “And that also happens to be how many hours of sleep I’ve had over the last two days. I’m exhausted and I need to rest.”

“Fine. You sleep and I’ll drive. Just give me the directions to wherever we’re going.”

“It’s not that easy. I know my way by sight, not highways or street names and I don’t want to make the drive in the dark. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.” He set the suitcase by the door, sat down on the bed, and fell back onto it. “Oh, that feels nice.”

Actually, he could feel every spring in the saggy mattress, but he was exhausted, and lying anywhere, even on a sidewalk, would have felt good to him right now.

Margo hadn’t moved from where she stood. “I’m a lesbian.”

“Okay,” Ian said.

“I moved to Seattle from Walla Walla with my lover and six months after we got there she left me for another woman.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You mean that I’m not straight.”

“I mean that you got your heart broken.”

“I’ve broken plenty of hearts myself,” she said, then quickly added, “all of them women. I’m not into dicks at all.”

“I believe you. You’re as lesbian as it gets.”

“Just so we’re clear,” she said.

“All I want to do in this bed is sleep, Margo. I’m not going to make a move on you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She set the jar of coins down on the table. “I’m not.”

“Then why are you telling me that you’re a lesbian?”

“Because you’re talking about a life on the run together, at least for a while, and if you thought it might someday turn into a thing, I want you to know that it’s not going to happen. Ever.”

“The romantic possibilities of this situation never crossed my mind.”

“There are no romantic possibilities. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Understood,” Ian said.

“Good,” she said.

“But now that you mention it, James Bond got Pussy Galore to switch sides.”

“You’re not James Bond.” Margo trudged to the bathroom and closed the door.