Page 26 of The Eagle (Spy Girl 2)
He believes it will be the last time he sees him.
"Do you feel it?" he says to me. "Can you feel the chaos coming our way?"
I do. And the sound of a helicopter in the distance isn't making me feel any better.
"Where should we go?"
"Set of stairs leading to an underground tunnel," he says, pointing to a bookcase. "You have two options. Kill me, take the credit, and earn the bounty. Or--"
"Or what?"
"Don't let my son see what you saw. I'm sorry. I wouldn't have wished that on any child. Please, take him far away from here. Leave me for them."
The chopper is getting closer. I quickly run all possible scenarios through my head and come to a decision.
"There's a third option."
"What's that?"
"You come with us."
"How could you ever trust me?"
"How could you trust me with your son?"
"Because you don't have the eyes of a cold-blooded killer. They're getting closer," he says.
"Then I'm in danger, too. We could fight them together and win, but it would be difficult to protect your son during the battle. And we won't know how many of them there are."
"They will come in full force. I've killed too many men to send just one."
"What if we had a surprise for them?"
"Like what?"
"If they are coming in force, I assume they will shoot first and ask questions later. Do you have a gas stove?"
The assassin smiles at me. A smile that spreads to his eyes. Eyes that hold the joy of fatherhood.
I tuck my pistol in the back of my pants, grab his son, and carry him down the stairs. "Stay here. We'll be right back," I say to him in French, then I run up to the kitchen.
The Priest now has an assault rifle, but it's hanging loosely across his body.
"Let's help it along." I open his pantry, but don't find what I'm looking for, so I open the refrigerator and find a metal take-out container. I throw it in the microwave and then slam the door shut, as the sounds of the chopper get louder. They are almost directly above us now.
Knowing we don't have much time before things get ugly, I set the microwave for two minutes and hit start as The Priest turns on the burner, then blows out the flame.
We both run to the bookcase and down the stairs. He picks his son up, kisses him, then pushes him into my arms. "Go."
"Come with me!" It takes everything I have to not feel like a child myself. Even though I hate him, I don't want him to die right now.
"Please, go," he begs. "I will follow if I am able."
I wrap my arms around the child, kiss his forehead, and tell him to hold tight. Then I run as fast as I can down the dark tunnel with one arm out, praying I don't crash into anything. The tunnel is a straight shot, and I've traveled a very short distance when I come to another set of stairs.
"Stay here," I say, trying to set him down. But the boy clings to me, shaking his head, obviously scared.
"Promise you won't make a peep?"
He doesn't reply, just nods his little head.
I take a deep breath, grab the pistol from my back, and aim it in front of us as I silently traverse up the stairs. Just like in The Priest's home, there is a wooden door at the top. I open it, peeking out of a matching bookcase in the front room of a similar home.
There are sheer curtains covering the windows, but I can clearly make out an assault team--dressed in black military garb, their faces covered--as they rappel down from the sky. One team of four moves into position in front of the house, the other takes the back. I briefly wonder if this is how many they will send some day when I'm through serving my usefulness.
Of course, I work for my country, not for the highest paying bidder.
The helicopter has a military look but no identifying marks. The only things of consequence are the matching PP-19 Bison submachine guns the men are carrying, which are favored by the Russian Spetsnaz, their special forces.
I look back down the stairs, hoping to find The Priest coming to tell me the rest of his escape plan as the men's boots hit the ground, and they start firing in unison at the house.
I hear a whoosh.
Knowing what's coming next, I hurl my body on top of the boy as the air flashes orange and the house across the street explodes into a fireball.
The detonation blows out the windows of the house we're in and sucks all the air out.
I'm struck in the side by the bookcase door swinging back at me with force.
"Ugh," I yell, as pain rips through my side.
The air is thick with the smell of burning wood, and I can hear the crackling of flames.
Through everything, the boy has been silent, but now he starts sobbing softly, his big brown eyes filled with tears.
Once I determine he's not injured, I pick him up and hug him.
He clings to me, not wanting to let go.
Tears stream down my face as I tighten our embrace.
The fact that his father has not joined us is a bad sign. And even though this is what I wanted, what I prayed for--the assassin dead--I instantly wish I could take it back.
Lorenzo was right. Revenge doesn't bring back the dead. It only further adversely affects the living.
Just like it will affect this little boy for the rest of his life.
Now he's an orphan just like me.
And it's all my fault.
The distant sound of sirens takes me out of my reverie. I set the boy down and tell him to stay put, then I move stealthily across the glass-strewn living room to survey what's going on next door.
The house is destroyed.
The helicopter must have gotten in the way of the explosion, caught fire, and crashed into the street. The house is in shambles and on fire, smoke and ash billowing from it. The assault team was close to the explosion. Even though they were wearing body armor, I doubt any survived.
I watch as a neighbor rushes to what's left of them, checking for a pulse on one who is mostly intact.
I want to run next door and check the rubble for The Priest.
I want to search for clues as to who sent the assault team.
But I can't.
We need to go.
I run back to the stairs and grab the boy's hand.
"What's your name?" he asks in French.
I tell him it's Huntley. I'm not sure where I'm going to take him, but I have to get this child somewhere safe. Somewhere far away from here.
More than likely, whoever sent these men will be sending a clean-up crew to dispose of evidence of their involvement.
Not to mention the police and rescue teams that are already on their way.
"I'm Chauncey," the boy says. He has dark hair, big brown eyes, and eyelashes so long and thick you'd think he had extensions.
"How old are you?"
"I'm six."
"We have to go on a trip," I tell him.
"Trip!" he exclaims. He pulls out of my grip, runs into the small kitchen, and points to the pantry.
Curious, I open the door.
Inside are two backpacks. One sized for a child, and one an adult pack.
He puts his on, so I grab the other and sling it over my shoulder. He takes my hand and leads me out the back door and down the alley until we arrive at a park.
I expect him to want to play, but curiously, he takes me across the street and points out a bar. "We have to go there."
I think about the song Lorenzo's grandfather taught him to help him escape the castle in a time of danger. About how my parents told me to go to Uncle Sam's if I was ever in trouble. Is that what this is? Did his father train him to do the same--with or without him?
As we enter the dark bar, I grip the boy's hand tightly.
There are only a few patrons, but they all turn their heads in our direction.
So, I ask where the bathroom is. Who can turn down a kid who has to pee?
The bartender gestures toward the back. I keep my head down and lead the boy
that way.
When we get into the bathroom, I ask Chauncey if he needs to use the restroom. He shakes his head no, so I set him up on the counter and have him wash his hands while I open his backpack.
A sound behind me causes me to stop.
I turn to see the bartender approaching in a menacing way. When he places his hand on my shoulder and grips it tightly, I grab his hand and spin, sweeping my leg across the man's kneecap and causing him to fall to the ground.
I pull the pistol out of my waistband and take aim.
"Was the explosion for his father?"
"Yes," I say, the gun trained on him. "Do you know what he does for a living?"
"The boy has his special backpack," the bartender replies. "That means he is on the run. Why are you with him? Although, that is a stupid question based on the way you just handled yourself. Are you in the same line of work?"
"No, I'm just a friend. A scared friend." I pretend shake then let the gun fall to my side. "I'm sorry about your leg. It's the only move I know."
I put the gun away and help the man up.
"In the boy's backpack are travel documents. Passport. Birth certificate," he says.
