A Necessary Kill (4 page)

Fielding smiled, and Phillips cast a quick, apologetic glance to General Green, who looked even more deflated now that his point of view had been debunked by another member of the council.

Cunningham nodded slowly, taking the comments on board. Secretly, he was happy that his gamble had paid off and that someone independent to his cause had agreed with his most recent move.

“General Green, I appreciate your concerns and your advice,” he said, looking across the group. “But I will not send any of our armed forces overseas at this time. GlobaTech Industries has the full backing of the White House, and I personally have every confidence it can provide the necessary assistance needed by the affected nations while using its not-insignificant security forces to maintain peace.”

Green went to say something but stopped himself. The president had spoken, and everyone knew that was the end of the matter. He sat back in his chair and nodded. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“Thank you.” He paused, looking at the man sitting to the left of Secretary Phillips. “General Matthews, I’d like you to stay for a few minutes to discuss some intelligence reports.”

Matthews nodded. “Of course, Mr. President.”

“The rest of you, thank you for your time. We’re done here.”

Heskith remained seated but the others stood, thanked the president for his time, and made their way out of the room. Only when the door was closed did anyone speak.

General Matthews leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk. “Mr. President, I—”

“Tom, let me stop you there,” said Heskith. “Now isn’t the time for excuses or apologies or anything else, do you understand? The president has given you one task, and that’s all we’re interested in.”

Matthews went to reply but refrained. He knew Heskith spoke for the president, and despite feeling undermined, he accepted the fact he was out of favor right now, which was likely the reason President Cunningham wanted to keep any direct communication to a minimum.

“Of course,” he replied. “Mr. President, for the last forty-eight hours my team has been using the Cerberus network to locate and track Adrian Hell. A unit intercepted him in Bangor, Maine, less than an hour ago…”

Cunningham sat up straight in his chair, suddenly a lot more interested in the words coming out of the CIA director’s mouth. He exchanged a glance with Heskith. “You have him?”

Matthews shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sliding a finger between the collar of his shirt and throat—a subconscious effort to get more oxygen. “Ah… not exactly, sir, no. He managed to escape, but we’re confident we’ll relocate him any time now. There’s only so far he could’ve—”

Cunningham held up his hand for silence before resting his head in it and massaging the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. He took a couple of deep breaths trying to summon a hidden reserve of patience. “So, let me see if I understand this… After that clusterfuck in Prague a few days ago, I—against my better judgment, I might add—gave you full control of the Cerberus satellite with the sole purpose of finding one man and killing him. You found him and sent a team to take him out. Not only did he manage to escape, you’re now telling me you can’t find him again? Is that about right?”

Matthews sighed and nodded. “At the moment, that’s where we’re at, sir.”

Cunningham looked at Heskith, who silently raised an eyebrow. He took another sip of water before turning back to Matthews. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen… Get a unit over to his last known location. Remove any traces of the CIA’s involvement in whatever the hell happened that led to him escaping. Then find him again. The next time we speak, Tom, you’re going to tell me Adrian Hell is dead. Are we clear?”

Matthews nodded again.

“Good. You don’t need me to tell you how close we are to the next phase, Tom. Adrian Hell is the only thing that could potentially stop it from happening, and I can’t allow that.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

Cunningham nodded. “Okay, we’re done here.” He looked at his chief of staff. “Gerry, I want you to sit in on this conference call, okay?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” he replied.

Matthews stood. “Thank you, Mr. President.” He left the room and the door was closed again behind him.

Heskith got to his feet and walked to the end of the table, picking up a remote and turning on the large screen facing them.

“Are we good to go?” asked Cunningham.

Heskith pressed a few buttons, looked at the president, and nodded. “We’re good, sir.”

He sat back down in his seat, and after a moment the screen flickered into life. A man sitting behind a desk appeared on the screen. He was wearing a brown military suit, with medals adorning the left breast. Behind him was a North Korean flag.

“Mr. President,” said the man in a broken English accent. “It’s been too long… my friend.”

19:48 EDT

I left Case’s Audi in the parking lot outside a grocery store and
borrowed
an old brown truck that was sitting next to it. I made it to Manchester without further incident and found a no-name, low-rent motel for the night.

New Hampshire is similar to Maine in that you can walk pretty much anywhere and it will always feel like autumn. The sun’s beginning its descent, and the deep orange glow is lighting up the early evening sky.

I’m standing on the street corner near the motel, trying to get my bearings. The last known location of the first name on my list is a hospital close to the Notre Dame Bridge, not far from the banks of the Merrimack River. According to a local, who I asked for directions, it should be on the opposite side of Lafayette Park from where I am now.

Bit strange, though—a hitman working in a hospital.

My spider sense is all over the place. I don’t doubt the information Case gave me for a second… Maybe I’m just a little shaken from the unexpected run-in with the CIA? Still, it’s not as if I have any alternative options, so I guess I’m going to see the doctor…

I set off walking, making my way through the park and coming out the other side face-to-face with a Dunkin’ Donuts. Seriously, I saw, like, eight of these things as I drove through town earlier… I’m astounded there aren’t more fat people in New Hampshire!

I can see the hospital up ahead on the other side of the street. I take a seat on a bench and study the building. There’s a semicircular driveway in front of the entrance designed for ambulances to get close to the doors in an emergency. To the left is the parking lot, which looks full—typical of most hospitals nowadays. I can see some staff loitering outside, having a quick cigarette on their break by the looks of it.

The driveway is under cover where it meets the main doors, and I can just about see the curve of a black dome fixed to the brickwork, which houses the security cameras. They’ll have a full three-sixty degree view. No way am I getting inside without being caught on camera. It’s not worth the risk to just play it cool and stroll through, because I can guarantee every security feed west of Maine will now be monitored around the clock by the CIA—and probably the NSA and Homeland, too—following my altercation on the interstate earlier.

No, I need to be discreet if I want to get in there. And how do I find the guy once I do? I doubt he’ll be wearing a nametag… I sigh, wishing to whatever god might be watching that I could call Josh and ask him for help. I’m useless on my own when it comes to shit like this.

Ah, screw it.

I cross the street at a casual pace and head through the main entrance, trying to make it look natural as I turn away from the camera so my face isn’t totally visible. If they’re running any kind of recognition software, a partial scan will take longer to get any hits, which buys me some time.

Inside, I come to a reception area. The vanilla tiling on the floor stinks of disinfectant—that awful smell that always reminds you of hospitals. I think every hospital in the world must use the same brand, so they get that same stench. They must’ve recently cleaned the floor, too, as the odor is strong and stinging my nostrils.

My footfalls are amplified by the heels of my boots as I walk up to the front desk, which runs along most of the left side. Opposite, rows of interlinking chairs form the waiting area, which is currently half-empty—or half-full, depending on your point of view. It’s the usual collection of people with visible lacerations, people who look like shit, and people who look fine—which always makes you wonder what they’re actually here for.

The desk is staffed by two nurses, both wearing navy blue uniforms with name badges clipped to a strip of material just above their left breast. One of them is talking calmly into a phone; the other is tapping away at a computer.

“Excuse me,” I say.

The one at the computer looks up—no smile, no courtesy, just the weary disinterest of someone who’s probably been sitting here for the last ten hours earning minimum wage.

I smile. “Hi. I was hoping you could help me. I was told an old friend of mine works here. Jonas Briggs? Do you know where I could find him?”

She frowns, as if thinking about it, and shakes her head. “No, sorry. Don’t know anyone by that name who works here. Although, I work the day shift—he might work nights…” She looks at the computer and presses a few buttons on the keyboard. “No, nothing showing on the staff directory, either…” She spins around in her chair and looks at her colleague, who has just come off the phone. “You know a Jonas Briggs?” she asks her. “Works here, apparently…”

The other nurse, a portly woman, maybe late forties, shakes her head. “No… nobody here by that name. Certainly not on my shift, anyway.”

I sigh, unable to hide the frustration. It’s not a good sign, falling at the first hurdle like this. Maybe Briggs uses a fake name while he’s working… or maybe
Briggs
is a fake name, I don’t know. But regardless of what he calls himself, being here’s a bust.

“Okay, thanks for your time, ladies.” I turn and head back out the main entrance. I stand on the sidewalk next to the driveway, glancing both ways along the street.

I pause, then look up and stare straight into the black dome of security cameras. I wait a moment, then walk off across the street, back through the park, and into my motel room.

Just playing a hunch.

01:51 EDT

My eyes snap open as I’m ripped from my sleep by the quietest of noises. The slightest disturbance in the air around me and my subconscious body takes control. Years of training, honing my mind to be as much a weapon as the guns I carry with me.

I feel a sharp pressure on my neck, pushing against the skin without breaking it. I glance to my left and see a dark figure looming over me holding a hypodermic needle to the side of my throat. In the darkness, I can’t make out his features. I can just see the whites of his eyes staring at me.

It’s actually a little freaky, like something out of a horror film.

But it looks like my hunch paid off… I figured if this guy was smart enough to use a fake identity for his day job, to protect himself from anyone in
my
world finding him, chances are he probably had some way of finding out if anyone came looking, too. To do that, I thought he either managed to hack into the security feeds at the hospital, or he had some kind of flag in place so he could tell when somebody searched for his name in the system.

It’s why I looked at the camera before I left, so he could see me if I happened to be right. I know it was risky, but the way I figure it, it’s more important right now to get people on my side. Even if I’m right about security feeds being monitored by the CIA, I’ll be long gone by the time anyone tracks me here. Plus, there’s no way they would think anything of me being in a hospital besides possibly being injured. They won’t know I’m recruiting.

It was a calculated gamble, which apparently paid off.

I tilt my head back and to the side, trying to alleviate some of the pressure from the needle. “Jonas Briggs, I presume?”

“Who the fuck’s asking?” he replies. “And, before you think about lying to me, pay close attention to the needle. It contains a little cocktail of my own design. Completely undetectable in any blood tests and extremely lethal.”

I smile. “Well, at least I know I’ve found the right person…”

“Who are you?”

“Jonas—assuming that’s your name… Needle or not, it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to lie to you. But for the sake of full disclosure, I want you to go ahead and lift up the duvet next to your leg.”

He’s silent, but after a moment of hesitation, he does. Even in the gloom he can see my hand holding a Beretta, which is aiming, quite accurately, at the left side of his stomach.

I feel the needle move away from my skin.

“You stick me with that thing, I’ll make sure you bleed out in an agony you can’t imagine. But that’s just me being honest with you. I’m not here as an enemy.”

Slowly, he moves away to stand over by the table at the end of the bed. I reach across and flick the light on at the side of me, bathing the room in a bright glow that forces me to squint.

Once my eyes adjust, I take a good look at him. He’s a short guy, maybe five nine. He has a thick neck and looks well put together, treading the fine line between muscular and fat. He’s bald, and his head is round. The skin around his cheekbones is tough and pockmarked.

I sit up in bed and lean against the headboard, resting my gun on my lap, allowing him to get a good look at me as well.

“Are you Jonas Briggs?” I ask.

He says nothing and doesn’t move, neither confirming nor denying the fact.

“Okay, I can understand your hesitation. Usually, I’d be just as skeptical, but in the interest of time, or lack thereof, I’ll go first. My name is Adrian Hell, and I’m here to ask for your help.”

His eyes betray his surprise when he hears my name. He rests on the edge of the desk and places the needle carefully down next to him.

“Adrian Hell?” he says, with a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Jesus… how did you find me?”

“I got your name, along with a few others, from Ashton Case.”