Date: Fri, 23 Dec 2011 14:32:03 -2300 From: Micheal Mikey Subject: The Game He Lost All the usual discliamers apply. If you are too young to be reading this or this type of reading material is illegal in your area, leave. This is a fictious work of art. Any similarity to "real" people or another work is purely a concidence. This story is a spin off of a previous story - The Game. You don't ned to read The Game (He Played) to understand The Game He Lost. Enjoy. The Sighting Finn wondered why he should notice this one person out of the hundreds of tourists who had passed by his post in the past hour. Even if he hadn't been on duty, he shouldn't have noticed him. Sure, he was attractive enough, in a compact "your man next door" kind of way. Soft black hair, a light chocolate skin, eyes the color of caramel, a hint of freckles on the tip of his nose and a quick, coiled-spring like energy in his movements. But he was the kind of man who would want to meet a woman's -- or maybe a man's -- parents. He had probably picked out a china pattern and two names for his firstborn. He was the kind of man who usually made Sergeant First Class Finn O'Brian -- codename Braveheart -- of the Nighthawks break out in hives. A spot just under his left shoulder blade developed a sudden itch. Finn rubbed his back against the wooden bench. "I don't think he's our target." He barely moved his lips as he spoke. His words wouldn't have been audible to a person sitting beside him, but the microphone under his collar had no problem picking up everything he said. "He would be a good decoy." The voice of Sandra Flammel, -- codenamed Songbird -- the Nighthawks Team Two intelligence specialist, came through the pea-size receiver in his ear. "I wouldn't underestimate him." Songbird had a point, Finn thought. The black haired man with the freckles would make an excellent decoy, since no one would suspect an American who looked that wholesome and innocent to be involved with a group of terrorists who were dedicated to the overthrow of the Nigerian government. Then again, no one would expect a group like Boko Haram to be using the National Air and Space Museum for a ransom drop in the first place. The man hurried past the bench without giving Finn a second glance. He headed straight for a pair of boys who were paused under the biplane that hung from the ceiling. For a moment all three of them craned their necks, gazing at the Wright Brothers' 1903 Flyer with expressions of delighted awe. Then the man herded the boys toward a group of more than a dozen chattering, fidgeting children. Evidently, the man hadn't come to the museum alone, he had brought a classroom worth of kids with him. Unless Boko Haram had dropped their height requirements and were recruiting fresh-scrubbed seven year olds now, it was unlikely that the man was involved. He was probably exactly what he seemed, a teacher on a field trip. "Heads up. Ibru just passed the front entrance." The warning came from Finn's friend, Sergeant Rafe Marek -- codename Wildman. He was positioned outside where he could observe the approach to the building without attracting undue attention -- Rafe's recent scars tended to spook people who didn't know him. Although his posture didn't change, Finn's senses went on high alert. Ambassador Ibru was carrying the ransom himself, as the terrorists had demanded. The man was adamant. He would do anything for the safe return of his son. If it had been any other case, the FBI would have handled it -- the Nighthawks normally didn't operate on American soil and when they did, it was in the role of advisor to other law enforcement agencies -- but this was no run-of-the-mill snatch. Absolute secrecy was vital. Not only was Ibru the Nigerian ambassador, he was married to the niece of the Nigerian president. If a child of such importance was killed here, the delicate negotiations that were already underway for a mutual relationship between the strategic, oil-rich African nation and the States would be derailed. And if the media caught wind of what was happening, they might as well put on their silver suits because the political powder keg would blow. So, ambassador Ibru had demanded the best. He had insisted on nothing less than the legendary hostage-rescue expertise of Nighthawks and the president had agreed. This was why Finn and the team of highly trained commandos from the Nighthawks were spending the day scattered around one of the most visited museums in Washington D.C, dressed in civilian clothing to blend in with the tourists. The mission was straightforward: recover the Ibru boy unharmed, hand the terrorists over to the Nigerians and keep the entire operation completely secret despite the few hundred bystanders with cameras who were wandering through the target zone. Oh, hey, piece of cake, right? A small, balding man Finn recognized as Anslem Ibru walked past his bench. His features were sharper than they had appeared in the briefing photo. Exhaustion did that to people: -- the man reportedly hadn't slept since his kid had been taken three days ago. Poor bastard looked to be near collapse. The top of his head gleamed damply and his fingers looked white where they curled around the strap of the green canvas backpack he carried. How heavy was twenty million dollars? Finn wondered. Even in the large denomination the kidnappers had demanded, the weight would be substantial. He had heard the entire amount of cash had been provided by the U.S. government, an indication of how vital they considered Nigerian goodwill...and the mission of Finn's team. Ibru reached the designated spot and stopped. It was hard to tell whether he intentionally dropped the pack or whether it simply slipped through his sweaty fingers. It hit the floor with a quiet thud, wobbled briefly, then slumped against the base of a trash can. The green backpack stuffed with twenty million dollars lay discarded like someone's forgotten lunch. The ambassador walked away without a backward glance, just as he had been instructed. "All right, people. Stay alert." Finn heard Ghost's voice and grunted an acknowledgement. Ghost was stationed at the temporary base they had established in a vacant warehouse. He was monitoring the feeds from the surveillance equipment that was positioned around the target zone, watching everybody's backs. When this went down, it would go down fast. And that's just the way Finn liked it. He felt his pulse pick up. It didn't race: he was too disciplined for that. No, it was a steady, solid rush of blood to well-conditioned muscles that hummed in readiness. He didn't know what the target would look like, or how many there would be. He didn't know what direction they would come from or how long he would need to wait. The odds of following the kidnappers without their knowledge, of assessing the best way to free the hostage, of bringing the whole incident to a quiet, successful conclusion weren't good. As a matter of fact, they were abysmal. But Finn's team had pulled off missions that had been far worse. When they had, there had never any recognition: no medals or official commendations, because the government wouldn't even admit that the Nighthawks existed. The hours sucked and the stress was incredible. He had to be prepared to go anywhere in the world at a moment's notice. His home was whatever base he was stationed at; his family the soldiers of the Nighthawks. He was expected to accomplish the impossible, continually challenging his brain and straining his body to the limit. Finn pressed his lips together and exhaled slowly through his nose. Damn, he loved this job. ~~~~~~~~~~ "Everything sure is old here, Mr. Locke." Abe smiled at the boy on his left. "Yes, Bradley. That's because this is a museum." The child on his right leaned over to roll his eyes. "Boy, Bradley, are you ever dumb." "You are dump, Jeremy." "Yeah, right." "Uh-huh. As if." The children were getting tired, Abe thought. The squabbling was a sure sign. "But as museums go, the exhibits here aren't all that old," he said. "How can anyone think of space flights as old? Not that long ago it was science fiction. Look over here." "What's that?" "It's the space capsule that John Glenn used when he orbited the earth." He said. "The first time, anyway." "He went to space twice?" "Yes, but the second time he was much, um older." "It looks burned." "Yes, it heated up when it went through the atmosphere. That was before NASA developed the space shuttle. Astronauts were shot into space inside a little capsule like this that was fitted on the tip of a rocket." "Wow," the boys said, tipping their heads one way and then the other to study the capsule. "That was more than forty years ago." "Wow! That's older than my mom!" "It's older than my mom." "Is not." "Is too." Abe put his hands on their shoulders and gently guided them along with the rest of the class. "It's older than me too, Jeremy." The boys looked up at him, their mouths rounded. "Hey. Really?" Abe suppressed a grimace at their expressions of disbelief. He wasn't old, he reminded himself. Turning thirty didn't mean that he was over the hill. He was just coming into his physical and mental maturity. He had plenty of good years to look forward to. But if he had intended to keep a positive attitude about his youth, visiting a museum on his birthday wasn't that great an idea. "Mr. Locke?" He smiled at a plump redheaded girl. "Yes, Beverly?" "I have to go to the bathroom." "Me, too," another child said. Abe turned to the parent volunteers who had accompanied the class and efficiently divided everyone into rest room squads. It was time to call it a day, anyway. They had been on the go since the morning and the bus was due to pick them up in half an hour. Well-accustomed to the vagaries of seven year olds, he knew enough to allow plenty of extra time to organize their departure. The unfortunate reminders of his advancing age aside, it had still been a good day. He was lucky to have a job he enjoyed as much as this one. He loved children and longed for the chance to have one or two of his own someday. Yes, his ambition was embarrassingly old fashioned and maybe too farfetched: a home in the suburbs filled with the warmth of a loving family...and of course, a nice, stable husband to share it all with. Was that really too much to ask? Perhaps it was, since he'd always assumed he would have been married by the time he was thirty. That was probably what was causing him to be so conscious of this milestone of a birthday. But chances were that he wasn't going to find Mr. Right by the end of the day...unless he jumped out of the cake at his surprise party. For a moment, Abe imagined the scene in his parents' house. His family always threw him a birthday party. He always pretended to be surprised. There was something wonderfully comforting about the whole thing, a sweet ritual that arose from his family's love. His mother would fix him his favorite potato salad, plates of fried chicken and egg sandwiches with no crusts. His father would make the same joke he always did about how Abe couldn't possibly be more than two because his mother hadn't aged a year since his birth. They would hug and laugh and make toasts to the future while he opened his gifts. He would bet a hundred, no, a million dollars that the gifts wouldn't include a cake with a man inside. Abe chuckled at the whimsical thought and scooped up a pair of discarded jackets from the rest room counter, then guided the children to the lobby where they waited for the stragglers. Of course, more jackets came off and backpacks hit the floor as they waited. "Mr. Locke, I lost my hat." "What did it look like, Ricky?" "It was blue." Well, that narrowed it down. Abe spotted a ball cap on the floor and pointed at it. "Is that it?" "Yeah! Thanks, Mr. Locke." He held out the jacket. "Whose are these?" Two children raced up to take them, and then dropped more of their belongings as they contorted themselves to put the jackets on. Once the whole group was assembled, Abe did a head count. As soon as he was assured that everyone was present and accounted for, he hurried them toward the door before anyone could wander off or decide they needed another trip to the rest room. Ricky's hat fell off as soon as he started moving. Abe picked it up as he passed by, along with three stray backpacks, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw the yellow school bus already waiting outside. ~~~~~~~~~~ "What the hell just happened?" the major demanded. His voice was low, his words clipped and that was always a bad sign. "Braveheart, report." Finn stared at the empty spot on the floor, and then looked at the departing group of children. "He took the backpack." "Who?" "That teacher." "I told you not to underestimate him," Sandra said. Finn folded his museum guide, stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans and followed the man to the door. He deliberately kept his strides slow and easy, in case anyone was watching for a tail. "I can't believe this," he said. "He would be my last choice." "It was neatly done," Sarah said. "The children swarmed the target zone while he lifted the ransom. We never saw it coming." Finn emerged into the crisp sunshine of the autumn afternoon. The man was making no effort to disappear. In fact, he couldn't have chosen a more obvious mode of transportation. "You can't miss seeing him come now," he said. "Bright yellow mini school bus with a whole bunch of screaming kids. That is going to stand out in traffic." "I need a visual confirmation that he has the money," the commander -- Ghost -- said. "The bus is blocking my view," Rafe said. "Braveheart, can you see the bag?" Finn ambled toward the sidewalk. The man formed the kids into a line, and then stood by the open door of the bus and counted heads as they climbed inside. He handed what appeared to be a hat to one of the boys as he passed him and held out a sweater to another kid, all the while balancing three backpacks against his chest with one arm. "Affirmative," Finn said. "The green backpack he is holding appears to be the one Ibru dropped. Aren't the electronics we installed in the pack working, Commander?" "The mike is muffled." "Brilliant man," Sarah said. "Anything on the homing signal, Commander?" "That's coming through no problem." As the last child climbed on the bus, the man's shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. He started after them, pausing on the first step to glance over his shoulder at the museum, and despite the noise from the squirming kids that Finn could hear all the way over here, he was smiling. Finn took an involuntary step backward. If he had seen the man's smile before, he wouldn't have needed to wonder why he had drawn his attention. Despite the freckles, despite the wholesome demeanor, there was something...alluring about his smile. It was a private little tilt of the corner of his lips, not meant for display. It was the smile of a man who knew what he wanted, and for a crazy moment it made Finn wish he could give it to him. What the hell he thinking? Finn asked himself. The man just walked off with twenty million dollars in cash. What more could he possibly want? He turned away. The doors of the bus closed. Finn snapped his attention back to the conversation that was coming through his earpiece. "...the mike is working now. All I can hear are children's voices." "...chase vehicles in position." Finn pivoted and headed for his motorcycle. He had chosen to use it because of the advantage it would give him in the Washington traffic, but considering the nature of the getaway car -- no, bus -- there was little chance of losing track of the ransom. "This doesn't add up," he said, unlocking his helmet from the back of the seat. "He can't be with Boko Haram. They wouldn't use a foreigner, and they most certainly wouldn't use a buss full of kids to transport the ransom. It's too obvious and it's not maneuverable enough." "But it would provide excellent cover," Sandra said. "They know we wouldn't dare make a strike with all those children in the way." "Come on, people. Can't you see it was an accident?" Finn persisted. "He picked up that pack because he thought it belonged to one of his kids." "That's a possibility, but..." "He's not one of Boko Haram," he said. "That might be true, but he might be working for them too." At the commander's voice, the radio chatter stopped. "Until we know for sure whether this was a legitimate ransom pickup or just bad luck, out only option is to split up. Team A follows the ransom; Team B remains in position to continue monitoring the museum." Finn kicked his bike to life, slid down his visor and slipped into the line of traffic that inched along behind the school bus. He noticed Songbird's van waiting at the next cross street and heard the distant chug of a helicopter overhead. Much farther overhead, a satellite was beaming down second-by-second updates from the Global Positioning System that had been stitched into the pack. The Commander was right. They had to cover all the possibilities. Considering what was at stake, they couldn't afford to make any assumptions. But Finn wondered why he was so sure that the man was innocent. Simply because he didn't look like a terrorist meant nothing. Trouble came in all shapes and sizes. He had seen old women in patched coats and kerchiefs lob hand grenades. He had seen children act as spotters for assassins with high powered rifles. He knew better than to trust anyone except the members of his team. Besides, even if he was right and the pickup had been accidental, it was too late to put the ransom back in place. Boarding the bus now and retrieving the money would attract too much negative attention, to say the least. And Boko Haram had ordered Ambassador Ibru not to alert the authorities about the kidnapping. No one, especially not the Nighthawks, was supposed to have been at the ransom drop, so how would they have known of the bungled pickup? Boko Haram could be following the ransom as easily as Finn was, and they would be sure to spot any attempt at interference. Oh, hell. For the sake of the mission, he should hope that he was wrong about the man. It would be safer if he really was a brilliant terrorist in disguise who has just pulled off a brilliant plan. Then again, since when had he liked things easier? Finn dropped back, allowing more traffic between his bike and the bus as he followed it. Terse, one-line reports came over the radio link as Songbird and her friends in Intelligence scrambled to keep up with the situation. Information began to build. The license plates of the school bus were registered to a local bus company. According to their log, this bus was booked by Cherry Hill School for a field trip. Contact name at the school was a Mister Abraham Locke. Abraham? It was more of an old fashioned name, perfectly suitable for a wholesome-looking schoolteacher. Finn wondered if his friends called him Abe. As if following the script that Intelligence had written, the bus pulled into the parking lot of Cherry Hill School. Finn coasted past it, did a U-turn and let the bike idle in the shade of trees at the corner of the school yard. The teacher -- Abraham -- got off the bus but he was unable to stem the flow as the kids burst out after him. He did manage to hand out a few jackets and two of the backpacks before the children met up with their waiting parents, but the kids were eager to be gone. The whole thing was over in matter of minutes. A strange man's voice came over the radio. It was soft and tinged with humor and somehow Finn knew it had to be the man's. "...good thing their heads are permanently attached." "I've patched in the feed from the mike in the backpack," the Commander said, confirming Finn's suspicions about who was speaking. "The man's been trying to give the ransom away for the past ten minutes." "Could he know the mike's there?" Sarah asked. "Possibly, not unlikely." "What is going on at the museum?" Finn asked. Rafe's voice replied. "Nothing. If Boko Haram is here, they are not making any moves yet." Finn leaned forward and crossed his arms on the bike's handlebars, straining to se across the schoolyard. Mr. Abraham Locke waved at a few of his departing students, and then turned away. "Geez." He gave a breathy grunt as he hitched one strap of the green backpack over his shoulder. "How many Pokémon cards can they cram into these things?" "Abraham Locke has brown hair, brown eyes, is five feet seven inches..." Sandra's voice droned in the background, describing the details of the man who was walking across the parking lot toward a beige subcompact. "He is the registered owner of a beige Pontiac Firefly license number..." Finn's lips quirked. Well, either this particular terrorist had established an exceptionally solid cover and was so clever that he was deliberately acting innocent for the microphone he knew was in the backpack... Or he was exactly what Finn hoped he was. Wait a minute. He had been through this already. He had no business being pleased. His innocence was going to increase the difficulty of this mission by a factor of ten. They had to get the money back before Abraham discovered it; -- along with the surveillance devices in the specially designed pack, -- and decided to be a law abiding citizen and turn everything over to the police. Once that happened, it would be next to impossible to contain the damage. The secrecy of the mission would be compromised. Rumors would get started, questions would be asked and Boko Haram would cry `double cross' and kill the Ibru kid. "He's twenty feet from his car," Finn said. "With this bike, I can reach him and take the backpack before he gets the keys out. Few if any witnesses will see it. He'll think it was a random mugging." "Negative." The Commander said. "We can't make a move on him in public. If Boko Haram did tail him and are watching, they will know Ibru talked." And cry "double cross" and kill the kid, Finn repeated to himself. "Tell me where he lives," he said, easing his bike into gear. "I think it's time we meet." 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