A Necessary Kill (20 page)

Right, it is…

I raise my arm over the hood and fire a blind round to the left, just to give them something to think about. I leap to my feet and fire off two more rounds at the guys on the right. The first finds its mark, hitting the driver center mass, just below the throat. He drops quickly, bouncing off the hood and onto the ground. The second shot misses—the remaining guy must have good reflexes because he’s already down behind an open door.

Shit.

Two left…

Fuck it.

I get up and run toward the guy on my right. As I do, I switch hands, extend my left arm, and fire my two remaining bullets at the guys over by the flaming wreck. Again, the first hits the target. I see one of them hit the ground and clutch his thigh. The blood loss from a wound like that will likely finish him off.

The second one is wide but prompts the last man standing to duck away momentarily, buying me a much-needed reprieve.

I reach the guy on my right just as he’s breaking cover to shoot at me again. I throw the empty Glock at him as I approach at full speed. He flinches long enough for me to get within arm’s length. I slam into the open door, shoulder first, knocking him off his feet and sending his gun flying from his hand. I move around the door and pounce on him, not wanting to give him any time to recover. I stomp down hard on his stomach, causing him to jolt upright from the ground. As he does, I crouch and throw a punch, hitting him squarely on his jaw. His head snaps back, bounces off the blacktop, and knocks him out.

I’m covered by the door now, so I reach over and pick up his weapon, quickly checking the mag. It’s a Sig Sauer P220. It has a small barrel and is a common handgun for law enforcement agencies. There’s almost a full load, too, which is good news.

I glance around the door to see where the last remaining asshole is, but there’s no sign of him.

I look back at the guy and check his pockets. There’s no ID, just a billfold containing a couple hundred dollars. I suppose if these guys are part of a special operations group, any mission to take me out would be off the books. I look at this whole situation and see the brazen, couldn’t-give-a-fuck-anymore attitude stemming from the White House and filtering down to all the acronyms, and it pisses me off. The public remain oblivious, because Cunningham still needs to be seen to be doing everything by the book, so there’ll be no record of things like this to link back to him. It’s not so much the fact they’re playing by their own rules that gets to me, it’s the arrogance they show while they’re doing it—like they’re untouchable.

I’ll show them
untouchable
… bastards!

I stand and make my way into the middle of the expressway. I’m not bothered about cover now—there’s only one guy left… What’s he going to do?

I hold the gun loose by my side. I feel a wave of calm wash over me. The hard part’s done, and my Inner Satan can rest again.

“Hey!” I shout. “Get your ass out here, front and center.”

I stop and wait for any movement. After a moment, the remaining guy appears from behind the trunk of the Crown Vic. Sneaky bastard was going to try to get the jump on me…

He’s aiming steadily and professionally at me using both hands to line up his shot.

“Drop your weapon!” he shouts back.

I laugh. “Fuck me—you’re optimistic, aren’t you?”

“Drop it now!”

I raise the Sig Sauer, one-handed, and take aim at him. “No.”

He hesitates, just for a second. Pussy.

I fire once, shooting his right hand. His gun flies from his grip, and he yells in pain as the bullet penetrates his palm. He clutches at the fresh hole in his hand and staggers backward.

I take a couple of steps toward him, keeping my gun raised. “Who sent you? Was it Matthews? Or did Cunningham finally decide to get his hands dirty?”

He’s standing still, grimacing from the pain and staring at me with a mixture of anger and fear. He doesn’t look like he’s going to answer me, though.

Stubbornness can be real painful sometimes…

I line up another shot and fire once, hitting him in his foot. He screams and falls to the ground, unsure of which bullet wound to tend to.

“You’re not going to make me ask again, are you?” I say to him. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’ve been lucky so far with those non-lethal wounds—they were deliberate, and the next one will be decidedly more painful and life-threatening.”

He growls through gritted teeth and stares at me. He’s maybe ten feet away, close to the Crown Vic. His breathing is deep but rapid. “Fuck… you! We’ll… we’ll get you. Sooner or… later.”

“Yeah, so you people keep saying… Tell me, how’s that working out for you so far?”

He says nothing.

I shrug. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. I’m gonna bring it all down, do you understand me? Cunningham, Matthews, the entire presidency… I’m gonna reduce it all to dust. I’m past caring whether or not everyone was involved, or if it was just the brass in the offices on the top floor pulling the strings. I have the evidence to bring the entire administration to its knees, and I’m gonna show it to the world.”

The guy frowns. “What… what are you… talking about?”

I scoff. “Don’t act like you don’t know!”

He simply shakes his head, his face softening, his anger giving way to something else. Confusion?

“Okay, wait… Why do you think you’re after me?”

He grimaces again before answering. “Because… because you’re a terrorist…”

“Uh-huh… and who told you that?”

Again, he says nothing.

“Well, maybe you’re proof that not everyone involved is necessarily guilty of conspiracy. You think I’m responsible in some way for 4/17, right?”

He nods slowly.

“Well, I’m not. In fact, I started out trying to stop the people who were, until I found out President Cunningham is actually the person behind it all. And I have proof. Categorical, undeniable, proof. That’s the real reason you’ve been sent to kill me. To silence me. And every attempt to do so has failed. General Matthews is getting so desperate that he’s actually hired a professional assassin called The European to try it.”

He doesn’t believe me. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter, really.

“So here’s how it’s gonna work—you’re going to go back to your bosses at Langley and tell them you failed. Tell them I’m still alive, and I’m coming for all of them. Say that I have proof the CIA manufactured intelligence to frame me and did so on the president’s authority. And I’m going to tell everyone.”

I step toward him and lean down, hitting him around the face with my gun, knocking him out.

I walk over to the Crown Vic, duck inside the back and take my flash drive from Wallis’ pocket. I put it back around my neck and feel reassured once more that I’m in control. I move to the front, open the driver’s door, bend over, lift Freeman’s arm, and place it over my shoulder. He’s conscious, but barely.

“Come on, Freeman. I’ve got you,” I say as I haul him out of the car.

“You’re… a… asshole…”

I smile. “Yeah, I know. But this way, the sole-surviving agent will head back to the CIA and say I escaped by force, which stops either you or Wallis from being associated with me. It had to be believable.”

I heave him upright, and he leans against me, staggering as we walk toward the only SUV that’s still roadworthy.

Freeman tries to speak again. “Wh… where… are—”

“I’m getting you to a hospital,” I say, saving him the breath. “Just relax, alright? I’ll leave Wallis here—he’s fine.”

I load him into the back seat of the SUV, quickly gather up all the weapons and ammunition I can see, and climb in behind the wheel. I gun the engine, spin the SUV around, and speed off, away from the carnage I just caused.

12:57 EDT

I slide to a halt outside the emergency entrance of the AtlantiCare facility on Pacific Avenue. It’s a brilliant white brick and glass building that looks newer than it probably is. I step out of the SUV and rush to open the rear door.

Showtime.

I look over at the open doors leading into the emergency room. “Hey! I need some help over here!”

I move to the rear door and open it, reaching inside and grabbing hold of Freeman’s arm.

“Sir, step out the way,” says a female voice behind me.

I turn and move to the side. Two EMTs in green coveralls are rushing toward me, one on either side of a gurney. Both are women. The one nearest to me steps toward the vehicle, helps Freeman out, and then looks at me. “What happened?”

“I saw him on the expressway… There was a pileup, but he looks like he’s been shot. He’s an FBI agent. I got him in my car and came straight here.”

The EMT nods. “Okay, let us work.” She turns to her colleague. “Gunshot wound to the right abdomen. It’s through and through. Let’s get him inside right away.”

They expertly lay him down and wheel him quickly toward the entrance.

I walk alongside them. “Is there anything I can do?”

“We’ve got it from here,” says the other EMT, “but you’ll need to hang around. The police will have to be informed, and they’ll want a statement from you.”

“Yeah, of course. Thanks.”

I slow down and watch them disappear inside. I quickly look around to check for any suspicious, not-so-well-disguised G-men, but can’t see any. I walk casually inside, making sure my jacket covers the gun I’ve got tucked at my back. I head over to the front desk and catch the eye of a nurse who’s talking on the phone. She holds up her finger and smiles, signaling she won’t be a minute. I smile back and lean on the counter, glancing idly around at the waiting area.

As places like this go, it’s really nice—nothing like how I envision a normal hospital to look. The furniture doesn’t have that basic, bulk-bought style. The seats are chocolate brown and made of a soft material that appears more comfortable than your standard waiting room chair. The floor is carpeted, and there’s no smell of disinfectant anywhere. TV screens are positioned strategically around the area, with local news channels on some and internal information on others.

“Help you?”

I turn back and see a nurse standing in front of me behind the counter. She’s short and a little overweight with nice eyes and a friendly tone. I get a faint waft of her perfume—smells like coconut. I get the impression she enjoys her job.

“Hi—yeah, I hope so. A friend of mine was brought in here earlier with a gunshot wound to her shoulder. I’m just checking up on her. Can you tell me where she is please?”

“Sure, I’ll check. What’s their name?”

“Ruby.”

She moves over to the computer and taps away at the keyboard. “Second floor, room twelve,” she says after a moment. “She’ll be resting after the surgery, but you should be able to see her.”

“That’s great, thanks.”

I think about taking the elevator but decide against it. I don’t want to voluntarily trap myself in a metal box, just in case. Instead, I head away from the front desk toward some double doors at the end of the corridor, where a sign directs me to the stairs.

I take them two at a time and push open the doors at the top. I come out into a smaller open-plan waiting area. Freeman said she was being held in a secure wing, so I’m guessing there will be at least one cop outside her room. I need to be discreet, as my face will be pretty well known at the moment.

I approach the desk. The young man sitting behind it looks up. He’s clean shaven with boyish good looks and a professional smile.

“Can I help you?”

I smile a greeting. “I’m looking for room twelve. A friend of mine’s in there.”

He nods. “Sure, it’s that way.” He points to his left. “Last door on the right.”

“Thanks.”

I walk cautiously toward the corridor, peering around the corner as casually as I can.

Shit.

There are two cops outside the door.

I won’t be able to get in there without causing a ruckus, and I really need to lay low—especially if I want to get Ruby out of here in one piece.

I look around in search of inspiration. I see two doctors come out of a room set back on the left, away from the waiting area. I wait for them to disappear out of sight, and, curious, I walk over. It’s a break area for staff.

Hmmm…

I glance over my shoulder at the front desk. The guy’s distracted by some files in front of him. I grab the handle and quickly push the door open, stepping inside and closing it again.

It’s a square room with vertical blinds at the window directly opposite the door. There’s a couch against one wall and a circular table with some chairs around it a little farther along. There’s a small kitchen area by the window in the far corner. It smells of fresh coffee, and my mouth waters at the prospect of sitting down with a cup of Joe and forgetting about my troubles.

Huh… I wish!

The room looks great, but it doesn’t help me. I sigh and turn to leave. Hanging on the back of the door are two white lab coats, complete with name tags of doctors.

I scratch at the ever-thickening coarse hair on my chin and smile to myself.

Lightbulb!

13:19 EDT

I approach the door to Ruby’s room, smiling at the cops standing on either side. They look bored out of their minds. They’re wearing knife vests over light blue short-sleeved shirts, their guns strapped to their waists.

I stare at both of them in turn, nodding a curt greeting as I move to open the door. The one on the right shuffles sideways slightly, allowing more space for me to pass.

“Afternoon, Doc,” he says to me.

“Afternoon, Officer,” I reply courteously.

I open the door and step inside, closing it gently behind me. It’s a generic room—clean and smart with little decoration. The bed is facing me, and machines are on either side, idly beeping at regular intervals, which is comforting. Two windows allow in plenty of natural light.

I move over to the side of the bed and glance down at her. Ruby’s lying still with her eyes closed. Her chest is rising and falling slowly. There’s a thin plastic tube running under her nose, and her right shoulder is bandaged. Her arms are resting on top of the covers. I place my hand on hers.

“Hey, you awake?” I ask.