I don’t wait to hear the rest of Katie’s plan. I start walking the perimeter. Bunker’s pack being here doesn’t mean this is where he may have … left the roof. The U-shape of the building makes for a lot of roof edge.
“No, Peter,” Katie calls after me. “I’ll do it. You shouldn’t be the one to—”
“I definitely should be the one. It’s the very least I can do, since I’m the one who left him up here with someone I knew was dangerous,” I say, because it’s true. But I appreciate what Katie is trying to do, so I add, “You go left, I’ll go right.”
Katie tries to offer a smile, some comfort, but I can tell she’s worried about finding the same thing I am. My stomach lurches, but I force myself to follow my own instructions and head right, covering the north-facing side of the building. With each yard of the roof’s edge that I cover without finding any sign of Bunker, I am encouraged to cover the next yard.
I’m so busy looking down, I almost miss movement among the stand of Russian olive trees about three hundred yards south of Carlisle, near an old abandoned shed. It’s such a small movement, and so brief, that I’m wondering if my eyes are playing tricks on me. I stand there watching, and I see it again—flecks of black moving among the light green leaves.
Then the flecks grow bigger as they emerge from the trees, and I know exactly what it is, even if I don’t know whether it’s good or bad.
It’s a full-scale tactical incursion.
CHAPTER 23
From this distance, nothing gives away whether these people are friendly or hostile. They’re dressed pretty much the same way I am, the same way black ops everywhere dress, which could make them military, mercenary, FBI, or even the SWAT team from the Boulder police department.
When Katie reaches me, she’s smiling, which means she found no sign of Bunker being pushed off Carlisle’s roof. My relief is deep, but only lasts a second because we now have a new problem. I motion to her to get down. She lies on her stomach, next to me.
“Katie, were you able to get the SOS out to your team before all comms went down?” I ask her.
“If I had, they’d be here by now.”
I point in the direction of the Russian olive trees. “Well, someone’s coming.”
“I’m not sure if we should be relieved or worried,” Katie says, pulling mini-binoculars from her purse. She clearly has a better go-bag than I do, and it appears to be bottomless.
“When in doubt, I always go with worry.”
“They aren’t part of an overt operation like local police or FBI,” she says as she peers through the binoculars. “If they were, their affiliation would be stamped all over their clothes. Requirement for good community relations.”
“You know who doesn’t care a good goddamn about community relations? Terrorists. Mercenaries. We’re not waiting until they get here to find out. You have rappelling equipment in your bag, right?”
“They could be special forces. They tend not to broadcast who they are.” Katie is more hopeful than I am.
“Let me see,” I say, motioning for her binoculars. By now the team is close enough that I clearly recognize the guy who appears to be the leader. White-blond hair, shockingly white skin, eyes so flinty gray it’s almost like he has no irises—the kind of looks that make me wonder how he succeeds in a business that requires blending in. “There’s one more organization that prefers anonymity. Mine.”
“They’re CIA? Are you sure? Neither of us were able to call for help.”
“I’m sure the lead guy is. His name’s Berg. He was at Langley while I was in training, but was forward deployed a few months ago. Unless he’s gone to the other side, that’s a Company team.”
“The fact that he’s here makes me think his defection is a possibility. How would the CIA even know there’s a problem?” Katie asks.
“I lied to my boss about why I wanted to attend Carlisle, but maybe she read right through my lie and figured I was here to track the hacker, and thought I needed help.”
“But why today? It’s too much of a coincidence.”
“Maybe my team picked up some noise today about Marchuk’s arrival?” I offer. My turn to be hopeful. Berg’s an asshole, but he isn’t a traitor.
I don’t think.
Katie rolls away from the edge of the roof, out of sight of the approaching team, before she stands up and starts peeling off her clothes. It takes me a second to realize I probably shouldn’t be staring like I’ve just seen the promised land, and turn back to look at the approaching agents. But I can’t help but comment because, you know, Katie. Half naked.
“Hey girl, as much as I’d like to, this probably isn’t a good time.”
I can only imagine the eye-roll Katie’s giving me when she says, “I’m glad you can find levity in our imminent capture. If they are your people, I don’t want my cover blown. You can look now.”
When I turn around, to my great disappointment, she is not half naked but back in her school-issued uniform, minus the blazer. It’s a little wrinkled because it was no doubt crammed into that magical bag of hers, but she’s back to looking like Katie Carmichael, Carlisle’s most popular student.
“I’ll keep your cover. Berg is the last person I’d do any favors for,” I say, though I hope he’ll do one for me. If it really is him, I could use a few of his people to help me find Bunker.
“You could be wrong and the leader just looks like the guy from your office. You were right to be worried. I don’t think we should assume this is a rescue team.”
It’s too late for us to assume anything. Three soldiers, CIA operatives, or Marchuk employees—I’m not sure which—have just come over the edge of the building, fully armed. No doubt there will be more right behind them. While we were busy looking north, another team roped up to the roof from the south. We might be screwed.
I stand to face Katie, with my arms up. Without turning around, she realizes what is happening and assumes the surrender position, too. We look at each other, silent for a moment, until Katie says, “Petah, I … I wouldn’t have minded being your girlfriend.”
“I should have asked you for a second date,” I say, because I may never have the chance again.
But then I hear “Peter Smith!” being called from behind me without a trace of Ukrainian or English accent, just a good ol’ plain-Jane Midwestern voice that I remember well.
“Ray Berg,” I say, turning but keeping my arms up. I nod left, toward Katie. “It’s okay. She knows who you are because I told her who I am.”
Berg looks angry and dumbfounded at the same time.
“The whole damn world knows who you are. That’s the problem,” he says, his contempt for me obvious in every word. “And put your arms down. I’m here to save your ass, not kill you, though you tempt me.”
“What do you mean, the whole world knows who I am?”
His response is so Berg, blowing the #Prettyboy thing way out of proportion. That’s probably what he’ll put in his report, too, exaggerating the situation just to keep me out of the service.
“Well, they don’t know who you work for,” Berg says. “Or who you used to work for, if I get my way. But they know what you look like. Did you cut class that day at Langley? It’s difficult to be a covert operative when your face is all over the internet.”
“Hold up. You can’t get me fired over that.” It doesn’t matter that I’m already close to being fired given my probationary status, but I’m not backing down from Berg on this because he’s wrong. “For one, it isn’t my fault. For two, I’m trending only in Denver. As long as I don’t take any future assignments out here, I should be—”
“Only in Denver? Prettyboy, you’re trending in the whole goddamn country.”