The Temporary Agent (14 page)

Twenty-Nine

Tom’s vision returned well before his ability to hear.

Or rather, before he could hear anything more than a ringing that sickened him.

Deeply nauseated, he was glad he hadn’t eaten in a while.

Looking over, he saw Simpson on his knees with his hands joined together on the top of his head, fingers linked.

Next to Simpson lay Hammerton, also just regaining consciousness.

Beside Simpson stood a man in tactical gear—black pants, black shirt, black boots, and a Blackwater vest.

A pair of night-vision goggles hung around his neck, foam ear protectors still in his ears.

A Glock, held in a gloved hand, was pressed against Simpson’s temple.

His other hand gripped Simpson’s collar.

Tom scanned the room and saw two other men, both similarly dressed and equipped.

A moment passed, and then Tom realized there was a fourth man in the room.

He wore civilian clothing—dark wool pants and sweater, shoes, and a raincoat.

Expensive materials, tailored.

In his midfifties, Tom estimated. Graying hair, low hairline, thick eyebrows.

He was looking at Tom and smiling.

Tom understood two things right away.

This man was the leader.

And he had been standing there waiting for Tom to regain all his faculties.

What Tom didn’t understand was the man’s smile.

It was the smile of an old friend.

Fond, reassuring, almost cheerful.

Behind the leader and his flanking thugs loomed two flood lamps on aluminum tripods.

Both lamps were on, their bare bulbs aimed at Tom, their stark light forcing him to squint.

Despite his disorientation, Tom could remember Carrington telling him there were no active utilities in this building.

The leader spoke several times, doing so with the same warm smile, but Tom still could only hear ringing.

Finally, the man spoke to the two thugs standing behind him. They advanced on Tom, roughly lifting him to his knees and expertly binding his hands together behind his back with plasticuffs.

They did the same with Hammerton, then Simpson.

Tom and Carrington’s two men were now in a row.

An executioner’s row.

The leader spoke to Tom several more times.

Eventually, the ringing in Tom’s ears diminished enough for the man’s words to seep through.

So did the man’s accent, which was Slavic.

Maybe Ukrainian.

Or Croatian or Czech or Serbian.

Or Chechen.

Tom knew, though, that there were more important things to focus on right now than where exactly in Europe or Asia this man had been born.

“Can you hear me now?” the Slav said. “Can you hear me now? Hello? Can you hear me now?”

Tom nodded.

“Good,” the Slav said. “Welcome back to reality, though it is likely you will be wishing for unconsciousness again before we’re done.”

This was also said with a smile, one that was at once friendly and taunting.

Before Tom could reply, Hammerton spoke.

“Our employer knows our location.”

The Slav took a step to his right and bent at the waist so he was face-to-face with Hammerton.

Tom noticed a considerable limp in the Slav’s right leg.

He detected, too, a grimace on the Slav’s face, which told Tom the cause of the man’s limp was probably recent.

“Ah, yes, your trusted employer. Tell me, dear soldier, how do you think we knew to be here waiting for you?”

It took Hammerton a moment to respond.

“Bullshit,” he said.

“Betrayal is a difficult thing to comprehend, no?” the Slav said. “And an even more difficult thing to bear, once the truth finally sinks in.”

The Slav moved back to Tom. “I’ve been instructed to tell you before we begin that he is sorry it had to go down this way. But business is business.”

Tom said nothing.

“I am right now going to give you a choice, Tomas. I can call you that, no? Tomas? Such an old-world name, no?” The Slav smiled again, then continued. “I’m told the freedom to choose is important to you, and that giving you a choice in this matter might make things go more quickly. The old way of doing things—my preferred way of doing things—takes time. Hours, sometimes days. Certain men can endure quite a bit of pain, both physical and psychological. I am told that you are likely one of these men. I am also told that we do not have a lot of time to waste. Our window is closing, so it’s now or never.”

He raised his left hand and snapped his fingers.

One of the two men behind him stepped forward and handed him a smartphone. Tom’s Beretta was tucked into the waistband of the man’s black pants. He wore a utility belt to which were attached mag holders, a knife sheath, and a carbon-fiber holster containing a black tactical flashlight.

The Slav said, “It seems your woman is very clever. Very clever indeed.”

Holding the phone with one hand, he pressed the display with his thumb.

After a brief delay, an audio recording began to play, Stella’s voice coming from the micro speakers.

“It’s me,” she said. “I was wondering if you could check something out for me.”

Her voice continued.

“I need to know if a man named Dr. Richard Mercer had any children. And if he did, where they’re living now.” A pause. “No, I’m fine. He should be back before four, but if he isn’t, I’ll let you know.” Another pause. “Okay, but find out what you can and call me back, please. Thanks, Joe.”

The Slav thumbed the phone’s display and ended the recording.

“That was made shortly after you left the motel. And this was made just fifteen minutes after that.”

He pressed the display again.

A cell phone was ringing, then Stella answered.

“You found something?” She paused. “Wait, let me write this down.” There was excitement in her voice. “Okay, go ahead.” A pen scratching paper could be heard. “And her name?” More scratching. “Does she have any medical background or anything like that?” Another pause. “You’re kidding me. And you said her husband is a vet? Oh, a
veterinarian
. Wow. Thanks for this, Joe. I owe you big-time.” She listened for a moment, then said, amused, “Okay, I owe you anything except that.”

The Slav ended the recording. “I’m sure you have many questions right now. Like how were you tracked to that motel? Take a moment to think about it. How long had your truck been out of your sight while you were in New York, being hand-fed all the information you would need to not only find your friend but to make you want to find him? To feel obliged to find him? About an hour, correct? Plenty of time for a tracking device to be attached to your vehicle.”

It was imperative that Tom remain calm, he knew that.

“He is a traitor, you know. Your friend. Cahill. The kill order came from the highest levels of your own government. When the plan failed, a new one was developed, quickly. But Jim Carrington is known for thinking on his feet. That plan, Tomas, is you. It relied solely on you finding the traitor and killing him. The first part of your objective has now been achieved, thanks to your woman, so all that remains now is the final part.”

Emotion on the battlefield—any emotion, every emotion—was a hindrance.

But inside Tom, rage was mixing with adrenaline.

A volatile mix that could lead to a mistake he could not afford to make.

“And why would I want to kill him?” he said.

It took all he had to keep his voice even.

The Slav smiled. “Ah, yes. The man who saved your life. Why would you kill him, indeed? The simple answer is because in this matter, I am afraid, you will have no choice. It must be you. Everything now depends on it being you. And so it will be you.”

“I’m not killing anyone,” Tom said.

His tone was not as calm as he would have liked.

“Defiance is the first reaction, yes,” the Slav said. “But you will comply. And you needn’t bother yourself with the why, Tomas. It’s best for men like us to leave the big picture to those who are paid to think on that scale. I know that you understand what I mean by this. We are men who know our limits, what we are good at, and what we are not good at. So do yourself a favor—do your country a favor—and obtain the address from your woman, then go to that place and put two bullets into your friend’s brain. That’s all that is being asked of you. To kill for your country one more time. Tonight.”

Tom shook his head.

“Predictable,” the Slav said. “But not the end of the road. The beginning of it, in fact.”

The Slav thumbed the display of his smartphone again.

But this time he brought it to his ear. “Stand by,” he said, then lowered the phone and snapped his finger.

The man directly behind him stepped forward with a netbook.

“We are pressed for time,” the Slav said, “so there is no point in me threatening to kill your colleagues here. No point in making you face the difficult choice of either killing the man who saved your life five years ago or watching the men who saved your life last night die right next to you. Instead, we will, as they say, cut to the chase.”

He nodded to the man holding the netbook, who turned the device so Tom and the men kneeling beside him could see the screen.

On it was a live video feed.

The camera panned from left to right, showing two men in civilian clothing, ski masks, and gloves.

Both men were armed with pistols.

One held up a roll of duct tape as the camera panned past him. Tom recognized the room in which they stood as a motel room.

Identical to the room where Stella was waiting for his return.

He also recognized eavesdropping and recording equipment in the background.

As well as black parachute cord, a blindfold, and a ball gag.

“You are about to go on a mission via live video feed,” the Slav said. “Rest assured, my men are professionals, so they will not harm her any more than they need to. Abduction, of course, is a rough business. Should she, say, fight back, they will do what they must to subdue her. However, they are more than capable of committing unspeakable acts. Barbaric acts. So if and when I give the order to begin hurting her . . . well, I will leave the rest to your imagination. A smart man like you will have no problem piecing such an ugly scenario together. And anyway, from what I’ve been told, she might not mind it. You two like it rough, no? She says things to you about all the other men in town.”

Tom attempted to rise from his knees, but the man who had handed the Slav the smartphone was at Tom’s side fast.

Pressing the muzzle of his Glock against the top of Tom’s head, he pushed down on Tom’s shoulder with his free hand.

Tom’s eye went to the Beretta in the man’s waistband.

Just inches from Tom’s face.

“You are thinking of options right now,” the Slav said. “Your brain is frantically calculating. I can see it in your eyes. Maybe if you force us to kill you, no harm will come to her. After all, what would be the point, right? Or if you somehow kill us right now, then maybe my men standing by will not act. Or if you kill us after they storm her room, this will buy you time to call the authorities and have her rescued. These are all false hopes, Tomas. If my men get no further word from me within three minutes, they proceed with their mission. And, once their mission is completed, should they report to me but hear nothing back, then starting tonight your Stella spends the rest of her life in a room with no windows, the toy of the worst men this world has to offer. Kept alive until we no longer need her. Until she is so broken that no one will pay for her.”

He paused to let those words linger, then said, “There is only one way to save her.”

It was a moment before Tom could speak.

“Call off your men,” he said. “Leave her out of this, and I will do whatever you want.”

The Slav shook his head, drew a breath, and let it out. “Appeasement. Another miscalculation. You know as well as I do that in order for you to fully commit to your mission—for you to truly want to succeed,
need
to succeed—we must have her in our possession. And at our disposal. This is the only way. Again, Tomas, whether or not any harm comes to her is your choice. I must stress that. I must make that perfectly clear. You
can
save her. You can
choose
to save her. Simply kill a traitor. You both will be free to walk away. And those who matter will know that you have served your country once again.”

“Don’t believe him, mate,” Hammerton shouted. “She’s fucked and you’re dead, no matter what you do. Trust me.”

The Slav said, “Ignore your colleague. He is not thinking about you, or her. He is concerned only with his own neck.”

“A lot of my mates are going to be hunting your ass, motherfucker,” Hammerton said. “Ex-SAS, with all the time in the world. You’re the one who should be concerned. You won’t be safe anywhere.”

The Slav raised his hand and casually, almost dismissively, gestured toward Hammerton.

It was as if he had dispatched an attack dog.

The man with the netbook stepped forward and stomp-kicked Hammerton in the chest, sending him sailing backward into the brick wall, hard.

Tom had never seen a kick so powerful.

Hammerton sunk to the floor, rolled onto his side, and lay still, gasping.

But that was what he had wanted. From the corner of his eye, Tom saw Hammerton reach for something at the small of his back.

Something hidden in his belt.

Lying in that position, his hands cuffed behind him, meant that the Slav and his men were blind to his actions.

Tom felt his heart rise just slightly and looked quickly forward.

The Slav said, “Shall we get this over with, Tomas?”

“Don’t do this,” Tom said.

The Slav looked at him. “Your objection has been noted,” he said.

Tom used the time left to stare at the Slav, committing everything about the man to his memory.

Every line in his face, the shape and color of his eyes, the teeth he flashed with that well-practiced smile of his.

“You will want to brace yourself,” the Slav said. “Whichever way this goes, I am certain it will not be easy for you to watch.”