Patriot, M.A. Rothman [reading like a writer TXT] 📗

“Neither,” Thompson said.

Annie rolled her eyes as she pulled her Bluetooth earpiece from her jacket pocket and slid it into her ear. “Hold on.” She tapped the button and waited. The earbud beeped, connecting to her phone. She slipped the handset into her inside jacket pocket and zipped it closed. “I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you want, I just like to stay on top of things.”

“You’re becoming as bad as Henderson.”

Thompson laughed. “I resent that remark.”

“Resemble, you mean.” Annie pulled her full-face helmet down over her head, her close-cropped black hair moving only slightly against the interior padding. She pulled a small case from the compartment under her seat, unzipped it, and produced a pair of clear glasses. She slid them on and pressed the small, almost invisible button on the upper corner of the right lens. A translucent holographic display flickered into existence on both lenses.

It took less than a second for the phone to sync with her smart-lenses. Thompson’s name and number appeared in small letters in the bottom left corner, her current GPS coordinates appeared in the top right, and speedometer, fuel data, RPMs, and engine temperature appeared in the bottom right.

“So what’s so important?” Annie asked, swinging one leg over the padded seat. She inserted the key into the ignition, and the bike rumbled to life.

“Frederick Wagner,” Thompson said.

A man’s face appeared on Annie’s smart lenses, with his name, age and other information beneath. “German national, self-proclaimed New World Order nut. Hangs around with a few extremist groups in Berlin, and he’s a bomb expert. He’s been spotted in various places around the Middle East over the past several months, meeting with various Islamic fundamentalist groups and leaders.”

Annie walked the Ducati backwards out of the parking spot. “What’s he doing, setting up book-of-the-month clubs?”

“This guy’s a bad dude, and he’s here for a reason. He blows crap up for fun. You know—cafes, train stations, stuff like that. For some reason he hasn’t ticked off any of the Homeland Security lists, so it’s on us. He’s arriving at Dulles on a Delta flight. I’m sending you his landing information. We need you to find him and stay on his ass to figure out why he’s here.”

She kicked the bike into gear and twisted the throttle, speeding out of the hotel parking lot without giving Room 102 a second glance. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said she’d see him again. Annie wasn’t done with him yet—she was just getting started. And then the Widow would have her turn with the dirty cop.

“I’m on my way.”

“That’s my girl.”

“You wish.”

Even at three o’clock in the morning, Dulles International Airport was busier than most airports were during prime time. Still, it was far better than arriving at three o’clock in the afternoon. The line of waiting cabs and Uber drivers in the pickup lane was already full, and drivers stood around chatting, smoking, and playing on their phones, all waiting for the next fare.

Annie parked at the east end of Saarinen Cir, at the edge of the sidewalk. Wagner’s flight had touched down fifteen minutes ago, and she expected him to come walking out the exit doors any minute.

As she waited, the built-in high-resolution camera in her glasses sent images back to headquarters, which ran the pictures through its facial-recognition algorithms. Confirmed identity information was sent back to her, and the faces, names, and other relevant data was displayed on her smart-lenses’ heads-up display.

Five minutes later her camera identified Frederick Wagner stepping into the pickup area. A red line appeared around the man as he crossed to the street, marking him for easier tracking.

A black Mercedes-Benz passed Annie and stopped in the middle of the lane, pausing just long enough for Wagner to hop into the back seat. Then it sped off, cutting off two Ubers on its way out of the terminal.

Annie gunned the bike’s engine and followed.

Chapter Six

“… and don’t even get me started on the sushi,” George Tanaka said, shaking his head. “Come on! Get out of the way!” The station chief of the CIA’s field office in mainland Japan threw a hand into the air.

Connor groaned as the man abruptly changed lanes for the third time in less than a minute. He braced his leg against the passenger door, one hand on the roof handle, the other on the side of Tanaka’s seat.

“You know, this is important, but if we don’t make it there alive…” Connor broke off, gritting his teeth as Tanaka changed lanes yet again.

The olive-skinned man flashed Connor a million-dollar smile, strands of his jet-black hair hanging across his face. Tanaka was in his late twenties, short but athletic, and put too much attention on his teeth. By the look of his brilliant whites, Connor guessed he’d had them professionally polished and cleaned on a weekly basis. They almost looked fake. The man clearly prided himself on his appearance, a fact made obvious by his expensive clothes, his shined leather shoes, and his over-starched blue shirt.

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Tanaka said. He brushed a strand of hair away from his face and tucked it behind his ear. “Folks around here can’t drive for shit. It’s like they completely forget the actual driving portion of the mandatory class once they get their license. Son of a bitch!”

Tanaka hit the brakes, throwing both men forward as red lights appeared on the car in front of them. “For Christ’s sake, pay attention!” he yelled at the car in front of him.

Trying to keep his mind off the chaos of the traffic that surrounded them, Connor asked, “How long you been on station here?”

“Thirteen months. Give or take a couple days. It’s actually not that bad, once you get used to the fact that a hundred and twenty-seven million people live in a region the size of California. You know, I considered doing a few semesters here during my college days.” Tanaka shrugged. “Didn’t