Deadly Intent: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 4) (28 page)

“Dixon,” he replies.

“Okay, Mr. Dixon, let me clear a couple of things up for you. See my friend’s shiny little badge? That outranks any supervisor you’ve got, so their input is irrelevant. My friend also told you this is a matter of national security. Those two words mean no one cares about your procedures. You’ve got, what I’m guessing, is at least one entire floor of this building dedicated to running a computer system for one of your clients. Your client has its own employees working here around the clock. You must have some idea what I’m talking about, if you sit at that front desk all day. What floor are the non-ComForce personnel working on right now?”

He looks me up and down, a little intimidated, but unsure why. I figure him for the most senior of the three, so he’ll want to try and exert some authority over me.

“And just who might you be?” he asks. “I ain’t seen no badge from you.”

“I’m a consultant,” I reply. “I don’t need a badge. I just need the FBI guy to vouch for me. Which he does, by the way. Now, Mr. Dixon, I won’t lie—I’m not big on wasting time, and my patience isn’t what it used to be, so just tell us what floor and we’ll be on our way.”

As he’s about to speak, five black SUVs pull up outside with blue lights silently flashing. Each one has the FBI logo emblazoned along the side in large, white lettering. I look at Wallis, who nods and makes for the door to meet them. I look at Dixon the security guard.

“And these guys
definitely
aren’t big on wasting time…” I say.

His eyes go wide, probably because he’s never seen anything like this other than on TV shows.

“F-f-floor sixteen,” he says. “Bunch of guys work there twenty-four-seven. They’re not our people, but we check them in and out. N-nice fellas.”

“Thanks, Dixon. You’re a good man.”

I turn to Clark, and he nods before setting off across the lobby. Raynor and I follow him, but we all stop in our tracks as the front doors burst open behind us. We turn and see Wallis hurriedly walking alongside an FBI agent, who I assume is in charge of the men outside. Behind them, four of the agents from outside are marching, kitted out in full riot gear, with their MP5 submachine guns locked, loaded, and aimed forward.

“This is
not
why you’re here!” says Wallis, seemingly imploring the agent in charge to listen to him. The agent ignores him and strides purposefully over to us.

“Adrian Hughes?” he asks me as he stops in front of us. His voice is deep and gravelly, like he smokes forty a day. His eyes are deep set and dark, and his tanned complexion makes him look Mediterranean.

I shake my head. “Nope.”

His eyes narrow, and he squares up to me. “Don’t fuck me around, asshole.”

I smile at him. “I could say the same to you. Thought you were here to help?”

“I’m here to detain a small group of known terrorists until people arrive to take them away.”

“Good, so am I.”

“Are you fucking with me? Or are you genuinely this stupid?”

I smile again. “Bit of both, probably. But we’re on the same side. You should listen to Agent Wallis.”

The agent glances back at Wallis, who’s looking apologetically at me. Then the armed unit moves to surround us.

“Check them for weapons,” he says.

I take a step back as the first man from unit makes a move. I raise my right hand and point my finger at him.

“I swear to God, if you touch me, I’m gonna shove that gun so far down your throat you’ll be shitting bullets,” I warn him. “I won’t tell you again.”

The guy stops. He isn’t intimidated, but I put that down to sheer ignorance. Nevertheless, he stops, making a point of readjusting his grip on his MP5.

Raynor steps in between the armed unit and me, his hands held out to the sides. He looks at the man in charge.

“Agent, I’m Sheriff John Raynor from Devil’s Spring in Texas. As a fellow lawman, I’m asking you to listen to what we have to say. We’re not—”

“Texas?” he says, cutting him off. He looks him up and down with something akin to disgust, lingering a moment longer as he stares at Raynor’s hat. “I never would’ve guessed. Listen, Sheriff John Raynor from Devil’s Spring in Texas, you’re so far out of your jurisdiction, you need a passport to take a piss. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a civilian, and you will do as you’re told or face being detained along with your boy here.” He puts his hand on the left shoulder of the first guy in the unit. “Search them and confiscate everything. If any of them resist, shoot them in the leg.”

He turns and walks off, brushing past Wallis, who looks at me again before following the agent out of the building.

“You heard the man,” says the guy. “Search ’em.”

The unit steps in toward us, letting their weapons hang loose while the first guy covers us. They take Clark’s laptop and phone, and then Raynor’s gun, before pushing them both off to the side. One of the guys walks off with the items and another aims his gun at them. The remaining two look at me.

“Now you,” says the first guy. “Hands to the sides, feet shoulder-width apart. No sudden movements.”

I clench my jaws muscles and reluctantly obey. I have no doubt he’ll shoot me, and now isn’t the time to make any
more
enemies than I already have. He pats me down and takes my Beretta from my back.

“Now what?” I ask as they step back.

“Outside,” he replies, gesturing with this gun.

We all file outside, and I see Josh and Tori waiting for us on the sidewalk, surrounded by more FBI agents in riot gear.

“What the hell’s going on?” asks Josh as I walk over.

“I have no idea,” I reply with a shrug.

“Wallis?”

I shake my head. “No idea either. This isn’t him.”

The agent in charge walks over to us, with Wallis just behind him.

“The five of you are being transported out of here in a few minutes,” he announces.

“Not by the FBI, I’m guessing?” I say.

His eyes narrow again. It’s obviously not going to be the FBI, and I think he’s a little sore about it.

“No, another team is on its way.” He turns to Wallis. “Good work, Agent.”

Wallis simply hangs his head, knowing someone has played the game better than him.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

The guy stares at Wallis a moment longer, then looks back at me. “I’m Special Agent-in-Charge David Freeman. Why?”

“When all this is over, and the world’s gone to shit, and the American people are looking for someone to blame, I want to know whose name to give them. Now I do.”

He holds my gaze momentarily, and then turns on his heels, striding off toward the huddle of armed men. The unit of four spreads out in a semi-circle around us, guns trained in our direction.

I look at Wallis. “What happens now?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he replies. “I’m sorry, Adrian. I thought I could trust him. I thought they were here to help.”

“It’s not your fault. They probably
were
here to help. I suspect they got a call on their way here with new orders.”

He frowns. “From who?”

A large black transit van approaches, and screeches to a halt nearby, with a matching black sedan behind it. The side doors slide open, and three men jump out. They’re dressed in black with no marking on their uniform. The same steps out from the car. Freeman moves to meet them, but they barge past him, heading straight for us. They frog-march us to the van and line us up. Tori looks at me with fear in her eyes.

“It’s alright, babe,” I say, trying to reassure her. “We’ll be fine.”

In truth, I wasn’t sure we would be.

Before any of us can react, they secure our hands bound behind our backs using zip ties, and bags are placed over our heads. We’re ushered into the back of the van, and in the darkness I hear the door slide shut. I hear the scuffling as we all re-position ourselves so we’re sitting upright against the sides.

“Adrian, I’m scared,” whispers Tori, her voice cracking with emotion.

“Don’t be,” I say. “We’ve got rights. They can’t hurt us. Just lawyer up and plead ignorance—you’ll be out of this in an hour.”

“What about you?”

I sigh. “I… might have a bit more explaining to do.”

34.

??:??

The bag is whipped off my head, and my eyes sting in the bright lights. I squint for a moment until they adjust. It’s always disorienting when you travel with your eyes covered. You lose your sense of direction very quickly—especially when you set off from somewhere you’re unfamiliar with. You can try and keep track of time, to help you get a rough idea of where you are when you stop, but your mind wanders too easily, which puts paid to that after a few minutes. I have no idea how long we were on the road, or where we were heading.

I blink a few times and look around me. I’m in a small room, no bigger than ten by ten. There’s a mirror along the wall to my left. There’s a table in front of me and a chair opposite. I’m sitting with my hands still bound behind me and resting over the back of my chair. There’s a constant, low buzz from the lights above me, and a faint smell of disinfectant in the air. The door’s on my right in the far corner.

And that’s it.

I turn and look at the mirror. It has to be a two-way—I wonder who’s behind it, watching me…

I hope everyone else is alright. I suspect they’re all in similar rooms. I’m not concerned about Tori. She’s nothing to do with this. She’s a victim, plain and simple. Whoever took us doesn’t have any grounds for holding her.

It’s Josh and Clark I’m worried about. GlobaTech is on the NSA’s radar, and they’ve been heavily involved in tracking the Armageddon Initiative, running missions to stop them. Even before I got dragged into all this, they were elbow-deep in terrorists. They’re going to get both barrels here.

The door opens and a man walks in. He’s wearing a black suit, bright white shirt, and a red and brown striped tie, loosened slightly around his neck, with the top button of his shirt unfastened. He looks young—compared to me at least. Clean cut and clean-shaven. Full of self-importance.

CIA.

I smile at him as he sits down opposite me. He flashes a sideways glance at the mirror, and then clasps his hands on the desk, leaning forward.

“Who do you work for?” he says.

I tilt my head slightly; over-emphasizing that I’m weighing him up.

“Aren’t you meant to introduce yourself?” I ask. “Tell me this conversation’s being recorded? Read me my rights?”

He remains silent.

“Oh, I see. Let me guess: you’re name’s Smith, this isn’t being recorded, just observed, and I have no rights anymore?”

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t worry… I used to be a
Smith
as well.”

He takes a slow, relaxed breath. “Who do you work for?” he asks again.

“Myself.”

“Who do you work for?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you deaf?”

Silence.

“I own a bar in Texas called The Ferryman. It’s due some renovation work, but it’s a nice place. You should come in for a drink.”

This guy should be a poker player. His face betrays nothing. But then, I’m just getting started…

“What were you doing in Atlanta?” he asks.

He said that in the past tense, so I’m guessing wherever I am right now, it isn’t Atlanta...

“Trying to help,” I reply with a shrug, like it’s the most obvious reason in the world.

“Who do you work for?”

I sigh. “Look, I used to sit where you are, back in the day. I know the techniques. Ask the same question over and over again until it angers the prisoner enough that, they lose their temper and let slip the answer you suspect they’re lying about... That won’t work, and I’ll tell you why. I’m not lying. I’m not a bad guy. I’m not a terrorist. I don’t work for anyone. Ask me what I’ve been doing for the last two weeks.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then glances at the mirror again.

“Are you allowed to ask me anything other than
who do I work for
?” I ask.

I take another slow, patient breath. “Tell me your story,” he says.

“Okay,” I nod. “Okay… now we’re getting somewhere. One question before I start. Do you know who I am?”

He’s silent again.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, a couple of weeks ago, three guys walked into my bar. I know that sounds like the start of a joke, but…”

He remains silent and expressionless.

My smile fades and I shrug. “Forgot you guys don’t have a sense of humor… anyway, they ask to speak to me in private, and they tell me a man called Yalafi Hussein sent them to offer me a job. I told them I was retired, and not in the least bit interested in working for them, or their cause. They didn’t like being told no, so we discussed it further, and I threw them out of my bar with a few broken bones.”

He’s unimpressed and doesn’t believe me. He simply gestures with his hands for me to continue.

“Terrorists from all over the world then flocked to my bar and turned it into Swiss cheese in an effort to kill me. I took them out and that’s when GlobaTech made contact.”

The guy shifts in his seat a little. “GlobaTech are known terrorists. Are you admitting your involvement in their activities?”

I sigh. “They’re not terrorists, you fucking retard. They’re a private military contractor who themselves were approached by the bad guys over twelve months ago. They rejected their offer back then, and have been tracking them ever since, concerned over what they intended, and keen to gather intel to share with government agencies in an effort to stop a potential threat.”

“We have evidence to the contrary,” he replies nonchalantly.

“Show me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have to prove anything to you. You’re the one being interrogated here.”

“So, do you guys just believe the first thing you’re told nowadays? Back when I was on your books, we’d be given intel, and we’d have to verify it before taking any action based on it.”

“Back in your day, you must’ve had questionable sources.”

He immediately falls silent and his face, more specifically, his left eye, betrays him for a split second. He squints with his eye, which I spot as his tell for when he’s made a mistake or is losing his composure.

Got you.

“What makes your source so damn good that no one questions it?” I ask.

“Who says we don’t question it?”

“You just did. You might not realize it… or maybe you do, but you just did. You’re being told by someone that GlobaTech are the bad guys, as is anyone who’s helping them, and you’re blindly acting on their word. Can I guess who?”

Silence.

“A CIA unit that I used to run hijacked my plane and took me to Colombia, where they accused me of stealing government property before trying to kill me. They then shot their own commander. Care to explain that?”

He shrugs. “Seems to explain itself, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I
did
steal a laptop…”

“And the orders were to retrieve it from you.”

“Except, I didn’t steal it from a government employee. At least, I hope I didn’t.”

He’s silent for a moment, but I can see him wanting to bite…

“What do you mean?” he asks.

And... reel him in!

“I will go on record right now—assuming there
is
a record?—and say that I stole a laptop from an apartment in New York. That apartment wasn’t empty. The man in possession of the laptop at the time was Yalafi Hussein, the known terrorist who masterminded the assault on my bar. He had armed men with him. Want to know who he was meeting when I broke in?”

I see a flicker of doubt. I know this guy will have had extensive training in the art of interrogation. And probably torture. He’ll be an expert in determining whether someone is lying or not. I know I’m telling the truth, and so does he. Which confuses him, because someone who’s telling the truth is giving him information that directly conflicts with what he’s been told by his superiors. Hence, the doubt now clouding his mind.

“Enough,” he says. “You’ve had your chance to explain your actions. If you continue to lie, you will be treated as a traitor to this country and prosecuted as such.”

I chuckle. “Son, we both know I’m not lying. Go on, go outside, and ask your boss to disprove what I’m saying. I bet you my considerable fortune he gives you the brush-off, just like you’ve given me.”

He goes to stand, but hesitates.

“Go on,” I urge. “I’ve got all day.”

He waits a moment before standing, to make it seem like it was his choice, and not because I told him to. Then he walks over to the door, opens it, and leaves, slamming it closed behind him.

I sigh heavily and relax. Round one to me there, I think. Now I just have to wait for someone else to walk in who outranks the first guy, and we get to dance all over again.

??:??

I reckon they’ve left me a good twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour, but no more. They’ll be in here any minute. I know as well as they do that time isn’t on their side, so they can’t afford to give me the full psychological work-over and leave me here for a few hours.

The door swings open a moment later.

Told you.

General Thomas Matthews, the Director of the CIA, is standing before me, wearing his suit and medals with pride.

I wasn’t expecting to see him here, and I admit it catches me off-guard for a moment. But I recover quickly.

“Hey, General,” I say. “I’ve not seen you since New York. How’ve you been?”

He remains silent, standing firm and regarding me with distaste.

“Come on, you must remember me?” I continue. “I’m the guy who barged in on your meeting with Yalafi Hussein and stole his laptop before jumping out of a window… Say, what were you two talking about? He’s not a very nice guy, y’know? Strange someone of your social standing would be seen cavorting with the likes of him…”

“Boy, I’ve never seen you before in my life,” he says, finally. His voice is powerful and suits his tall, broad frame. “Now tell me everything about the terrorist attacks you’ve been planning.”

“Wow… okay. Where shall I start? First of all, you’re a terrible liar. That first guy was better. Second, going from a lowly interrogator straight to the Director is unheard of, and is pretty much an admission of guilt on your part. You might as well set up a large neon sign on the roof saying ‘Free Conspiracy With Every Purchase!’ The fact you’re here shows you’re panicking and desperate. You know exactly what I know, and I know everything about your involvement in all this… Ares.”

His eyes betray him. He mustn’t have figured we’d make the connection between him and the cartel, but after what I learned from Clara, it was
obvious
to the point where it’s insulting. He remains stubborn and steadfast in his act.

“I don’t know what you think you know, Adrian Hell, but I can tell you that you have no concept of what’s happening here; what’s at stake.”

“I’ve got a rough idea.”

“You really don’t, soldier. This world is a shitty place, and sometimes you gotta do things you don’t agree with to get the result you want. Now tell me what you know about the terrorist attack!”

I frown.

That was an odd thing to say… and all of a sudden, it’s not
my
terrorist attack anymore.

“You tell me, General. I’m still trying to figure this whole thing out. But I’ve been busting my ass for two weeks in an effort to stop the attacks myself. We’re on the same side in this.”

The general smiles. “No, we’re not.”

I shrug. “Yeah, you might be right there, actually.”

We’re both silent for a couple of minutes before the general opens the door, letting the first guy back in.

“Take him to a holding cell,” he orders. “Once they’re all together, they’ll be shipped out to GitMo.”

What? Guantanamo Bay?

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I shout. “That place is closed!”

The general turns to me and smiles. “Says who?”

“The president!”

He laughs. “Not
this
president.”

The first guy lifts me by my arm to my feet and marches me out of the room. As I pass Matthews, I stop.

“This ain’t over, General. Not by a long shot.”

He ignores me and looks at the guy escorting me. “Get this sonofabitch out of here.”

He pushes me out of the room and leads me right, down a long corridor. The walls are plain and dirty cream. The floor is thirty-year-old linoleum. At the end, we turn left and go down some narrow stairs that lead into an underground parking lot. It’s mostly empty, save for a large truck over in the far right corner.

He marches me over and opens the back of it, revealing Clark, Josh, the sheriff, and Tori, all sitting on small benches, two on either side. Their hands are cuffed in front of them and linked via a chain to metal hoops in the floor. He pushes me up the steps and sits me down on a bench of my own, facing the door. Reaching behind me, he removes the plastic ties, then pulls out a pair of cuffs and secures me in the same way as the others.