Hunter's Games (5 page)

“And I’ve already told you, so what else do you want to know?”

Johnson leans forward, his expression changing from attempted intimidation to genuine anger. “Well, this morning, a man died in City Hall of a suspected heart attack. Roughly around the time you were in the building.”

“That’s a tragic coincidence,” I say, solemnly.

“Our Forensics team is running blood tests at the moment. I wonder what they’ll find...?”

“How should I know? Maybe that he needed to cut out fatty foods or something?”

“Look, asshole, we might not have anything in a file, but we know who you are and what you do, alright? Everybody does. The FBI, the CIA, the NSA, Homeland Security—everybody. I don’t care if we can’t prove it. We all know it. You’re a goddamn psychopath and you should get the chair!”

Wallis stands up and pushes Johnson away from the table. I wink at him, to wind him up further. You know me—I’m not one to pass up an opportunity to piss someone off for my own amusement.

But what he said concerns me… I doubt
everyone
knows who I am and what I do, given I’m sitting in an FBI Field Office; there’s possibly
some
truth to it. I think back to my dealings with the Secretary of Defense last year in Nevada. I wonder if word has gotten round?

I dismiss it for now.

After a moment or two of whispering, seemingly happy he’s defused the situation, Wallis returns to the table. He clasps his hands in front of him and leans forward, coming across as a lot more experienced and comfortable than he probably is. I’m impressed. He looks briefly at the one-way mirror and sighs before speaking.

“Adrian, like it or not, my colleague is right,” he says, somewhat reluctantly. “You
are
on several Agencies’ watch lists after your involvement in the Nevada incident last year.”

Shit. I knew it.

“It’s kind of an unspoken agreement that we all know what you do but keep it to ourselves because we all know we can’t prove it. You want the truth? You’re so good at what you do, it scares us. But that’s not why you’re here. You’re here because we at the FBI need your help.”

I wasn’t expecting so much honesty, and it confuses me. What could they want
my
help with? Before I can say anything, there’s a knock at the door. Another agent enters, followed by a man in a suit with shoulder-length blonde hair and a briefcase.

“Sorry to interrupt, but this gentleman says he’s Adrian’s lawyer, and he’s demanded access to his client before any further questioning takes place,” says the agent.

“Jesus Christ,” mutters Johnson as he steps out of the room, shaking his head. The other agent follows.

Wallis stands and turns to my lawyer. “I’m Special Agent Wallis,” he says. “Adrian has been formally arrested for assaulting an FBI agent.”

My lawyer looks at me with raised eyebrows. I shrug in response.

“But to be honest,” continues Wallis. “While that explains why he’s handcuffed, that’s not why we originally wanted to bring him in. I was just about to explain that we need his help. Consequently, I don’t think legal counsel is necessary at this time.”

“That’s a valid opinion,” says my lawyer. “And we can discuss that in more detail once I’ve spoken with my client in confidence.”

“I can assure you there is no need to –”

“Did you or did you not place my client under arrest?” my lawyer says, interrupting him.

“Well, yes,” he replies.

“And I assume you followed procedure and read my client his rights?”

“We did.”

“In doing so, you advised my client of his right to legal representation, and on his behalf I am exercising that right immediately. Please clear the room and turn off any recording equipment so I can talk with Mr. Hell confidentially.”

Wallis sighs, realizing there’s no point in arguing. He leaves the room and a moment later, the little red light on the CCTV camera goes out, signaling it’s no longer recording.

My lawyer sits opposite me and places his briefcase on the table. I regard him for a moment. He looks younger than me, but I know for a fact he’s a few years older. I’ve not seen him in a few months, and under the circumstances, I’m very glad he's shown up. I smile at him.

“Hey, Josh.”

4.

14:56

“WHY IN GOD’S name did you assault an FBI agent?” asks Josh, sitting down opposite me. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

“It's good to see you too,” I say, smiling. “How did you get here so fast?”

“I was in the area,” he replies, dismissively. “What happened, Adrian?”

“I was walking out of City Hall on the phone to you when they swarmed at me from out of nowhere. They knew exactly who I was and where I’d be, I'm sure of that much.”

“And again, what possessed you to beat up an FBI agent?”

I look down and sigh, feeling like a guilty child being given the
‘we’re not angry, just disappointed’
speech by their parents.

“I hit the agent trying to bring me in for questioning because he said for me to come along quietly, or else.”

“He used those exact words?”

“Yup.”

Josh is quiet for a moment. “Fair enough,” he says with a dismissive shrug. “All things being considered, the guy’s lucky you didn’t kill him…”

We both fall silent for a moment, before bursting out laughing.

“It’s good to see you, Boss,” he says.

“Likewise,” I say. “How
did
you know to come here?”

“You know I don’t like giving away trade secrets, Boss. Don’t ask me that.”

“Josh...”

I stare at him until he can't hold my gaze any longer. He looks down at the table, lost in some inner turmoil, like a magician asked to reveal how he does a particular trick.

“Just because I’m handcuffed, it doesn’t mean I won’t kick your ass,” I continue.

“Alright, fine,” he says with a reluctant sigh. “Typically, I'm never more than a couple of hours away from you when you’re on a job. I have a little Winnebago which I’ve kitted out as my own little mobile command center. Ever since Philly, I’ve tried to stay close when you’re working... y'know, just in case you need any back up or anything.”

I stare at the wall just behind Josh, my mind flashing back to Philadelphia, eight years ago. Finding my wife and daughter murdered in our family home. The result of a drug kingpin called Wilson Trent taking revenge on me for unknowingly killing his son.

I re-focus my gaze on Josh and smile. This guy is the closest thing I have to family. He’s always had my back, and he’s the only person other than me, that I trust with my life. But right now, I can only think about one thing.

“You have a Winnebago?” I ask, failing suppress a laugh.

“Ah, screw you—I like it, and it beats having to stay in all the crappy motels
you
sleep in.”

We laugh together again, for a brief moment, before addressing the current predicament I’m in.

“So what’s the score here?” he asks.

“No idea,” I say, quite honestly. “They have my background up until I moved to Philly—they know my real name and apparently, along with every other acronym, know what I do for a living. I think the Secretary of Defense may have started talking after last year.”

“Oh, how thoughtful of him… prick!”

“Exactly. But apparently, the FBI wants my help with something.”

“Okay, well let’s just see what they have to say. The way I see it, if we can do them a favor, it'll buy us a free pass this time and we can get out of here and lie low for a couple of weeks.”

That’s why we work so well together—I’m the impulsive, violent, loud-mouthed, borderline-sociopathic member of the team; Josh is the calm, patient, sensible one. Together, we’re unstoppable.

“Sounds like a plan,” I agree.

Josh stands and walks over to the door. He opens it, sticks his head out, and says something I can’t quite hear. A moment later, Special Agents Wallis and Johnson come back into the room.

Josh closes the door behind them and stands behind me. Agent Johnson sits down opposite me, with Agent Wallis standing behind him. I look up and notice the red light is back on the CCTV camera.

“Are you going to formally charge my client?” asks Josh, back in character as the tough, British lawyer.

Agent Johnson glances behind him then looks at me.

“Despite the circumstances surrounding his arrest, we don't intend to press charges following Mr. Hell’s assault of an FBI agent at this time.”

“Good, then you can take the restraints off him.”

Wallis steps forward and produces a key from his pocket. He unlocks the handcuffs, allowing me to pull my hands free. I massage each wrist in turn, getting the blood flowing back to them.

“Thanks,” I say. “So, you were about to ask me for help?”

“Reluctantly, yes, we were,” replies Johnson.

“So, go ahead.”

“Are you aware of the recent terrorist attacks that have taken place in this city in the last seventy-two hours?”

“Attacks?” I say. “I’ve not heard of anything, no. I only arrived in town yesterday afternoon, and I’m not one to follow the news.”

Agent Wallis steps toward the table with another folder in his hand. This one he opens and turns around for me to read through.

“Yesterday morning, a bomb went off in a restaurant in Chinatown,” he explains. “There were over fifty casualties, with a further twelve fatalities.”

“Oh, wait—I think I saw this on the news. There was a TV with it on in the place I ate yesterday when I arrived here. Looked pretty bad…”

I skim through the folder. It contains lots of photographs, both black and white and color, taken at the scene. It looks like total carnage—worse than the TV had said. Bodies and body parts littered the remains of the annihilated restaurant, and the street outside. There’s a report attached which seems to detail witness statements and forensic information, but I don’t bother reading it.

“Jesus,” I say quietly.

I close the folder and pass it over my shoulder to Josh, who takes it and starts flicking through.

“Two days ago,” continues Wallis. “There was a seemingly random sniper attack outside the Trans-America Pyramid, with two people being shot dead from roughly seven hundred yards away.”

“
Seemingly
random?” asks Josh.

“I’ll get to that,” he says. “Both victims were shot through their right eye. Whoever pulled the trigger was exceptionally talented.”

I wouldn’t say they were
exceptional
… Seven hundred yards is a good distance, sure, but it’s not earth shattering. Any half-decent sniper with six months of military training could hit a target at that distance. Admittedly, getting them in the right eye is a little more impressive, but it’s still no cause for concern.

“So, you think there’s a link between the two attacks?” I ask.

Before either of them have chance to answer, the door opens and a woman walks in. She’s an average height, maybe five-six, and is wearing a gray trouser suit and black heels. When she speaks, her voice is a perfect blend of icy authority and warm comfort.

“I’ll take it from here,” she announces.

Agents Wallis and Johnson excuse themselves and leave the room. She sits down opposite me and regards me silently for a moment before speaking. Her jacket’s open and I can see her gun strapped to a shoulder holster over her white blouse.

“I’m Senior Special Agent Grace Chambers,” she says, staring at me with steel-gray eyes that look out of place on her otherwise welcoming and friendly face. “I’m well aware of who you are and what you do for a living.” She glances up at Josh. “Both of you.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. She’s very well informed, that’s for sure. Apparently, more so than her colleagues are, if she knows who Josh is.

“You’re here because we need your help with an ongoing investigation. I believe the other agents gave you the details of what we have so far?”

I nod. “I’ve seen the photos and heard the details,” I say. “I still don’t know what any of it has to do with me. How could I possibly help?”

“These attacks weren’t random. They were meticulously planned with one purpose in mind.”

“Which is?”

“To send a message to you, Adrian Hell.”

I stay silent, but my mind is racing. Josh stands and starts pacing around behind me. I look up at him and see the same look of concern on his face. My face betrays nothing, but this has left me speechless and confused. I’m wracking my brain trying to think of anyone who could hold this much of a grudge against me, and have the means to execute a plan of this magnitude.

After a few seconds, I realize my approach was futile—that list is extensive to say the very least. I re-focused my attention on Agent Chambers.