The Polaris Protocol Read Online Free Page B

know.”
    The shorter one said, “Papers.”
    Must have learned English watching old World War II movies.
    Jennifer watched the exchange with wary eyes, listening to her voice mail. The taller one tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Stop phone.”
    She complied, shrinking behind me, saying nothing. I pulled out my wallet, letting them see the crisp twenty-dollar bills they could exchange on the black market. I withdrew one and said, “This paper?”
    He took it, glancing at his partner, saying again, “Papers.”
    Perfect.
    His partner tapped Jennifer and said, “Give phone.”
    She looked at me, and I held out another twenty, saying, “Here’s more ‘paper.’”
    The shorter one took it while the taller one said, “Give phone. Not allowed.”
    What the hell is he talking about?
I knew the cellular rules, and we were meeting them. We were on their network and paying their taxes. More than likely, he wanted the iPhone lookalike just because he thought he could hold us up. Since it was working in Turkmenistan, he thought it was unlocked and something he could now use for himself. Unfortunately, it was actually a special piece of Taskforce equipment, and I wasn’t going to allow him to have it.
    I pulled out another twenty, looking at the smaller man and saying, “Here, go buy your own.” The tall one grabbed Jennifer’s arm that held the phone. She jerked it away and took a step back.
    The shorter one took the twenty. The taller one pulled out a baton like he was drawing a sword.
    Oh shit.
    Jennifer saw the weapon and raised her arms in a defensive stance. She did it out of instinct, but the move amped up everything.
    I said, “Whoa, whoa, there’s no need for this. Here, take everything we’ve got.”
    The smaller one snatched the money out of my hand while the taller one said, “Give me phone.”
    Jennifer said nothing, waiting to see what the taller one would do.
    He raised the baton, and I stepped forward. The shorter one shouted and jumped back, pulling his own baton. I held up both hands to him, saying, “Stop, stop.”
    The taller one cracked me on the shoulder, and that was it. A perfect little bribery now in the toilet. I knelt down from the blow as if it had really hurt, then went in low on the shorter man, knowing the tall one was no longer a threat.
    I used a single-leg takedown, throwing him onto his back, then scrambled on top, pinning his arms and crossing my hands into the collar of his wool uniform. I scissored my hands out, the collar cutting the blood flow to his brain. He was out in seconds. His partner wasn’t as lucky.
    I turned around to find Jennifer holding his head low and pistoning her knee into his face, his arms flailing uselessly in the air, the baton long gone. His head snapped back after the contact and he collapsed unnaturally onto the ground.
    I was on him immediately, hissing, “Jesus Christ, Jennifer. You might have killed him.”
    I checked his pulse and relaxed when I found it strong. His face was a mess, though. I left the twenties on the ground and stood up.
    “Can we get to the damn hotel now?”
    She was breathing hard, her hair askew, but her eyes were clear. Not even caring about what had just occurred. “Pike, Jack’s in trouble.”
    “You mean like a car wreck or something?”
    “No, I mean like bad-guy life-or-death trouble.”

7
    T he
sicario
watched the mechanics of his work with detached indifference. The suffering of his chosen target didn’t faze him at all. Like a butcher at the slaughterhouse, he had killed so many living things that it no longer registered as a repulsive task. It was simply work. Unlike the butcher, who killed cleanly and with the ultimate goal of creating food, the
sicario
drew out the death, with no other goal than that which was dictated by his capo. And he could make it last days if he was told to. A bullet to the head was preferable in his mind, as it was much less messy, but that wasn’t his call. Sometimes, the capo