Date: Fri, 23 Dec 2011 14:32:03 -2300
From: Micheal Mikey <michealwitluv@gmail.com>
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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