A Necessary Kill (18 page)

I pause, looking around once more to see if any of what I just said is sinking in. The silence and blank stares tell me it probably isn’t…

Okay, I’ll try the shock tactics instead.

“Guys, you have a sniper aiming at you…
run
!”

The silence holds another second or two, then the screaming restarts with renewed volume and vigor. People start running in every direction out of panic before focusing long enough to aim for the door.

There
we go… idiots!

I hear another ping as a second bullet penetrates the window. I drop to the floor on instinct, dragging Ruby down with me. I land on my back and she falls on top of me, momentarily winding me. Off to my left, a man hits the floor with a smoking hole in the center of his forehead. His eyes are wide and blank. The screams grow louder again as I lose valuable seconds staring at the innocent blood running from his skull like a faucet.

Goddammit!

I look at Ruby. Her face inches from mine. She’s in visible pain, wincing from her gunshot wound as I hold her in place on top of me, trying to press her as low as possible for cover.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods, but can’t manage to form words.

“We need to move. Suck it up, alright? You can bleed later.”

As gently as I can, I slide out from under her, move to a crouch, and scoop her up again, placing her arm around my neck as before. Practically dragging her, I push us through the stampede and out the doors, stepping onto the sidewalk. I head toward the back of the building, out of sight, down North Ohio Avenue.

The way I figure it, judging by the position of the bullet holes in the glass, the sniper—who I’m going to go ahead and assume is The European—is somewhere east of the convention center and north of Applebee’s. There was practically no angle of elevation on the holes, which suggests to me he’s at street level, so presumably shooting out the back of a stationary vehicle. I didn’t hear a shot, which means he’s not using anything as big as a .50 cal’. Maybe a Savage, or a Remington…

Now that we’re out of sight, it’ll take him a few moments to get back behind the wheel and track around to follow us, by which time, hopefully, I’ll be ready for him.

We turn onto Arctic and head toward the strip mall at the opposite end of the plaza from Applebee’s. I don’t want to try losing him in a crowd because he’s already proved he won’t let something trivial like an innocent life get in the way of taking us out. I just need to get someplace where he can’t follow me in his vehicle, yet still keeps me close enough to him that his rifle becomes ineffective.

Ruby’s dragging her feet next to me and breathing heavily. I glance sideways at her and see her fighting to stop her eyes from rolling up in her head. The wound is far from fatal, but exertion and blood loss can take their toll on a person after getting shot. She needs to rest…

We make it to the plaza. I head for a nearby bench and gently lower her onto it.

“Rest here, okay? I’ll be back.”

She flops back heavily as she sits. She looks around for a moment, dazed, before focusing her gaze on me. “Where… what are you…?”

I place a hand on her left shoulder. “Relax. I’m going to—”

Tires screech behind me. I spin around to see an old station wagon sliding to a stop in front of the plaza. It came from the left, did a one-eighty, and stopped with the driver’s door against the curb. It opens and a man wearing a tailored shiny suit and sunglasses, which probably cost more than most people make in six months, steps out. He doesn’t shut the door; he just walks toward me unbuttoning his suit jacket.

The European—Fernando Garcia.

Ruby’s ex-boyfriend.

Assassin… Asshole… Dead man.

I move to meet him, anxious to close the gap before he has time to produce the gun I can only assume he’s reaching for.

Yup… he’s pulling out a handgun as I get within arm’s length of him.

Without a word I grab his right wrist with my left hand, controlling his weapon. Holding on, I step into him and shove him backward with my shoulder, which sends him arcing counterclockwise, swinging away from me.

As he does, I follow up with a strong right hook, aiming for his throat. He sees it coming and uses his own momentum to move back and avoid it, dropping his gun in the process. I overbalance and stumble forward, momentarily losing my footing and, consequently, my grip on his wrist.

Uh!

I didn’t see that kick coming—it just caught me in the gut… knocked the wind out of me for a second…

I’m keeling over but look up as I go down, expecting a follow-up shot.

I see his right hand swinging down. I try to lift my arm to block it, but it has little effect. The blow goes through my guard and hits me on the side of the head. I land hard on the ground, lying on my side, feeling groggy.

I close my eyes for a split-second, allowing my instincts to take over. I’m on the back foot and can’t consciously think fast enough to regain the upper hand. I need help…

I need my Inner Satan.

I open my eyes again. On cue, all traces of humanity are gone, replaced by the urges of a primal, long-buried killer who’s eager for a taste of the old days.

I spring to my feet, immediately stepping in close. He seems unfazed, moving like the calculated professional I know him to be, planning his next moves. In the back of his mind, he’ll be thinking of a way to get his gun back.

Fighting is like chess, remember?

Without breaking stride, he steps through and throws another kick with his right leg. I catch it, hooking his ankle in my left arm. Not wanting to let up for even a second, I launch a straight kick with my right leg, catching him squarely in the gut. I let go of his ankle and let his momentum take over, carrying him back a few feet.

He lands awkwardly, but recovers straightaway. He uses the momentum to roll backward, feet over head, finishing in a crouch with a hand on the ground for balance. His sunglasses have fallen off. His gray eyes stare at me, full of hatred.

His gaze flicks to his left, seeing his gun. I know it’s there, but I don’t want it. And I don’t want him to get it, either. Too many things can go wrong when you’re armed in public.

I sense he’s going to lunge for the weapon. I see his muscles tense beneath his tight-fitting suit. My resurgence will have taken him by surprise, prompting panic. That will lead to desperation and, ultimately, a mistake. Which is exactly what I’m hoping for.

I dash forward, heading to my two o’clock to cut him off. We collide, and he throws a right hand. I block and counter with a right elbow of my own. He deflects it, bending his left arm up beside his head. Unleashing a body shot with his right hand, he connects with my side.

Thankfully, it just misses my kidney. I stagger back, unable to absorb the power behind the blow completely. I clutch at my waist, wincing as I gasp for breath. The European smiles at me with evil intent in his eyes.

He’s a lot closer to his gun than I am. If he gets to it, I’m dead.

Sirens sound out loudly, interrupting our standoff. We both straighten up and turn to see three patrol cars slide into view.

We lock eyes. “We will finish this dance another time, Adrian,” says The European, smiling.

“Bet your ass we will,” I reply, forcing myself not to blink as I stare him down.

He scoops up his gun and sets off running away to my left. I watch him go, knowing I’m too late to make my own escape now the cops are here.

I sigh. “Sonofabitch…”

I look over at Ruby, who seems to be struggling with her wound. She catches my eye and holds my gaze, a look of regret and apology on her face.

I simply smile and shrug. I always knew my luck would run out eventually. I glance over my shoulder as the cops exit their vehicles, draw their weapons, and move in a practiced formation, approaching me from all sides.

I turn clockwise to face them, slowly raising my arms out to the sides.

“The guy you want went that way,” I say loudly, gesturing quickly with my head in the direction The European ran.

They don’t care. They ignore what I say and form a semicircle in front of me.

“On your knees!” shouts one.

“Hands where we can see ’em!” says another.

I have no choice but to comply.

Shit.

It was all going so well…

11:54 EDT

They didn’t mess around with the arrest. There were six officers in total—five of them cuffed me and loaded me into the back of a squad car while the other read me my rights. They rushed me back to the PD in a neat formation. One car in front, one behind, me in the middle—sirens blaring.

The Atlantic City Police Department is on the aptly named Atlantic Avenue, only a few blocks from where I was picked up. Within minutes, I was escorted through the doors straight into an interrogation room. They never took their eyes, or their guns, off me.

The real kick in the balls came when they took the flash drive from around my neck. It was a strange sensation because I felt genuinely lighter—as if it had been this enormous weight
literally
around my neck. But I also felt deflated and beaten. That evidence is the key to ending this, and it was entrusted to me. Without it in my possession, I’m letting everyone down. Tori, Josh—everyone.

They secured me to the table in a sparsely furnished room and left me alone. I’ve been here maybe ten minutes, staring around the room, bored. It’s a standard layout—square, gray walls, security camera, no clock—it could be any interrogation room in any precinct. There’s an empty chair opposite me. The table’s fixed to the floor. I’m sitting with my back to the door, and the two-way mirrored wall is on my right.

I feel calm. I know how this works, and having taken time to consider my options here, I’ve come to the unfortunate conclusion that I don’t actually have any. There’s nothing to think about, nothing to plan, no next steps… I am completely, unequivocally fucked. The police have me in custody, and I have no doubt that every government agency in the country will be aware of it. Usually, they would be fighting one another to see who can get here first and claim the prize. But not this time. This time, everyone’s drinking the same Kool-Aid. Everyone’s united under one badge, and President Cunningham’s made sure I’m going down as the most wanted man in history.

Fucking prick.

I feel my heart rate increase as I think about him and my jaw muscles clench as the frustration and anger build inside me.

I can’t wait
to shoot him.

The door bursts open, distracting me. I casually look to my left and wait for whoever’s just walked in to stride into view. Probably some fat desk sergeant here to tell me the CIA are on their way to question me…

Question me
, my ass.

I’m seething with rage, struggling to control it as it erupts inside.

I swear I’ll burn this entire
fucking
building to the ground before I let them take me anywhere! Goddamn—

“Adrian Hell…”

Huh?

Two men appear next to me. Both are in suits and wearing their jackets open with their badges clipped to their belts. FBI badges. One man’s Caucasian, and he takes a seat opposite me. The other’s a black man, maybe mid-thirties, and he stands just to the right of the table.

I know them both—one better than the other. I didn’t expect to see either of them again. In fact, I know people went to great lengths to make damn sure I didn’t. For their sake.

“Adrian, would you care to tell me what the hell you think you’ve been doing?” asks Special Agent in Charge David Freeman. His voice is as gravelly as I remember. Maybe even a little more so. I might have driven him to smoke more. He needs a shave, too, and his naturally tanned skin looks weathered. He seems tired—I can see the fatigue in his eyes.

I raise an eyebrow and glance at Special Agent Tom Wallis, standing next to him. He nods once, discreetly, but says nothing. He looks tired as well.

Welcome to my life…

I take a deep breath. I know what’s going on here, even if I don’t understand how they managed to get involved. They can’t be seen to be familiar with me because Ryan Schultz saw to it that any involvement either of them had with everything that’s happened was explained away. The only thing that can’t be denied is that Wallis was in the room when Matthews pushed the button, and the official explanation is he was there trying to catch me. Consequently, he’s been dancing to Cunningham’s tune ever since.

It’s a big risk, them coming here.

But I’m glad they did.

I casually glance over my other shoulder, up at the camera, and then directly at the mirror before answering.

I shrug. “Honestly? An assassin was hired to kill me. I was defending myself.”

Freeman frowns. “And who would hire one assassin to kill another?”

“Another?” I smile. “Who said
I
was an assassin? I was just looking after my friend. Is she okay?”

Wallis clears his throat. “Your friend has been taken to a hospital. She’s stable, but we’ll need to question her as soon as possible.”

I breathe a silent sigh of relief. At least Ruby’s alright—for now.

“Adrian, you’re wanted in connection with the murder of over twenty NSA agents, seven CIA agents,
and
suspected links to the terrorist organization responsible for the 4/17 attacks. We’re here to detain you pending a full investigation. You will be appointed legal counsel once you arrive at the FBI field office. Any questions?”

I shake my head. “No, just make sure
all
my possessions are brought with us.”

Wallis steps forward and unlocks my handcuffs, allowing me to stand. I do, and he turns me around, cuffing my hands again behind my back. “Let’s go, asshole,” he says, guiding me toward the door with his hand on my elbow.

With Freeman just behind us, we walk through the precinct and out the back to the parking lot, where a chocolate-colored Crown Vic is waiting. Wallis guides me into the back seat, walks around the trunk, and climbs in beside me. Freeman slides in behind the wheel, starts up the car, and pulls out of the lot, heading west.

12:09 EDT