The Temporary Agent (17 page)

He had barely exposed himself when the first gunshot sounded.

Thirty-Four

That first shot was followed by a second, the bullet striking the heavy metal door frame and fragmenting.

Tom felt the skin on his right cheek zip open.

Stumbling backward, he kicked the door closed, turned, and quickly studied the loading dock and cluttered workshop.

There were windows on the opposing wall, six of them in a row, their many panes painted over.

But each window had a grate of iron bars over it.

Tom figured there had to be an exit in the room with the cache of weapons.

That room was located at the front of the building, along Front Street, so it would make sense as a place for a front door.

He hadn’t noticed one—it had been pitch-dark the two times he had moved through that room—but if the Slav’s bodyguard was intent on keeping Tom and Hammerton inside or killing them as they emerged, that door would certainly be covered as well.

There were any number of positions on Front Street that would give one man a clear view of both doors.

And anyway, the moments they’d had to spare were all used up.

Tom had to find another way out, and he had to find it now.

He scanned the workshop and saw something on the western wall—the wall that ran along the edge of the Quinnipiac River.

It was an elevated office, similar to the one from which Tom’s foreman watched him and his coworkers.

The only real differences were that it was smaller and the viewing window had been boarded over with plywood.

Tom grabbed Hammerton and led him toward the office, once again passing the truck bomb as they moved.

Tom glanced at the clock and saw that they had less than a minute.

In his head, he began a countdown.

Despite Hammerton’s efforts to be less than dead weight, he stumbled several times before they reached the stairs.

Each time he went down, Tom pulled him back up.

The stairs had only six steps, but they were narrow, so climbing them side by side would be no easy feat.

And Hammerton was reaching the limits of his strength, relying more and more on Tom to not only keep him up, but keep him going.

Still, they made it to the top step fast enough, and to Tom’s relief the office door was unlocked.

But it was rotted and loose on its hinges, so its warped bottom edge dragged along the tile floor as Tom pushed the door open with his free hand.

To make things even more slow-going, the doorway was for some reason even narrower than the steps leading to it, so Tom and Hammerton, joined as they were at the hip, had to turn sideways just to move through it.

As Tom overcame these obstacles, he maintained the careful countdown in his head.

Thirty seconds.

Once inside the office, Tom led Hammerton to the window that overlooked the Quinnipiac River.

It was a large window of thick plate glass.

He scanned the office for something he could use to shatter the window, but the small room was utterly bare.

Fifteen seconds.

Though the building was located on the edge of the river, there were rocks visible just above the surface of the water immediately along its side.

He and Hammerton would need to clear a distance of several feet if they had any hope of reaching deep-enough water to break their fall.

Hammerton said, “Back up.”

Tom understood what the man meant.

He led Hammerton to the opposing wall—fifteen feet from the window, tops.

Five paces would be all they’d have to build up enough speed.

Directly below the bottom edge of the window was a cast-iron radiator.

Just a foot or so tall, it would serve as the launching point Tom needed.

Ten seconds.

As they readied themselves, Hammerton raised his right hand, aiming his SIG at the window.

Tom did the same with the Glock.

Eight seconds.

“Let’s fucking go,” Hammerton said.

They ran, Hammerton wedged in beside Tom, Tom’s left arm around the man, both of them firing at the window as they rushed toward it.

Each round punched holes in the plate glass, but that was all at first.

Three steps down, two more to go.

Five seconds.

It wasn’t until they were taking their last step that a network of cracks crossed the entire sheet of plate glass.

But it remained intact.

Turning at the last second so his right shoulder would hit first, Tom stepped onto the radiator with his right foot and leaped, pulling Hammerton with him.

The momentum and combined weight of the two men sent them through the now-opaque glass and out into the evening air.

Two seconds passed in free fall—seconds during which Tom felt countless more cuts zipping open—and then they hit the rushing water and sank fast into an icy darkness.

Tom opened his eyes, keeping hold of Hammerton as they sank into the river’s steady current.

It quickly began carrying them south toward the bridge.

Two seconds.

One.

Tom saw nothing but blackness, felt nothing but the cold water sweeping them and the urge to exhale building in his lungs.

For a long moment it seemed as if this nothingness would never end, and then it came.

The darkness gave way to white light, the water suddenly as bright as swimming pool water in daytime.

Tom could see the stark details of the riverbed below, the rocks and the mud banks.

The bright light was followed immediately by the muffled sound of a tremendous explosion.

Even though he was protected by the several feet of dense water, the blast knocked even more wind out of Tom’s already-burning lungs.

The white light lingered, then was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, the river black again, devoid of any detail.

Despite the agony building in his chest, Tom let the current carry them for as long as he could before finally scrambling for the surface, gasping for air as he and Hammerton emerged.

They were lucky; the current was strong and had already carried them thirty feet downriver.

Tom glanced back and saw that the building they had occupied just seconds ago was no longer there.

A fireball still rising above a debris-strewn lot was all that remained.

Tom tried to spot the Slav and his bodyguard, but there was no sign of them.

Of course there shouldn’t be; they would have certainly taken cover right before the blast.

But if he couldn’t see them, maybe they couldn’t see him.

What other choice did he have?

Facing forward, Tom clung on to Hammerton as they continued toward the Grand Avenue Bridge.

Once they had passed under it, Tom grabbed a slick rock and used it as an anchor. He pulled them out of the current and toward the riverbank.

All along Front Street, car alarms were sounding.

Soaked and freezing, Tom and Hammerton made their way out of the water, up the rocky bank, and onto the street.

The rain felt almost warm compared to the water they had just left.

As they crossed the street, Tom asked for the car keys and Hammerton dug them out of his pocket. He still had his SIG in his hand.

Tom had lost the Glock the moment they’d hit the water, but somehow Hammerton had hung on to his weapon.

He helped Hammerton inside the SUV, then covered him with the leather overcoat Simpson had left behind.

Reaching under the backseat, Tom grabbed the lock box and placed it on Hammerton’s lap. “Open it.” Then he climbed in behind the wheel, started the engine, and shifted into drive. He steered the black SUV away from the curb.

It was only when he looked in the rearview mirror that he noticed the back window was gone—blown out of its frame and into countless pieces by the force of the explosion.

He remembered the neighborhood well enough to find his way out and back to I-91, was doing so when Hammerton reached over the seat with his smartphone.

Tom held the device with one hand, keying in Stella’s number with a thumb he could not stop from shivering, though he didn’t know how much was because of the cold and how much was from the adrenaline still pumping through his bloodstream.

In the backseat, Hammerton was gasping for air.

“Jesus,” the Brit muttered. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Tom glanced at him in the mirror.

“Is this vehicle Carrington’s? Can he track it?”

Hammerton was still breathing hard. He shook his head from side to side.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I take care of tech stuff.”

“You put the tracking device on my pickup?”

Hammerton shook his head again.

“Any idea who did?”

“Simpson, maybe. He was there, in the city.”

Tom thought about that, then lowered Hammerton’s window and told Hammerton to throw his cell phone out.

He did, then held up Simpson’s phone.

“This one, too?”

Potential intel might be stored within its call history or address book. Something—anything—that could help them make sense of what had just occurred.

And Tom was desperate for that.

Desperate to make sense of the long and dangerous road he’d been led on by the one man he thought he could trust.

“No, hang on to it,” Tom said. “But disconnect the battery.”

Hammerton nodded and did that as well.

He put the phone and the battery into the pocket of the leather coat.

Each breath the man took clearly caused him pain.

Tom saw this and knew what he needed to do next.

There was only one place they could go now.

“Hang in there, man,” Tom said.

He looked down at the phone in his shaking head, entered the last digit of Stella’s number, and held his breath as the call connected.

It rang once, then again, and then a third time.

The call was finally answered at the very end of the fourth ring.

Tom was so relieved when he at last heard Stella say his name that he briefly closed his eyes.

“Are you safe?” he said.

“Yes.” She paused. “Some men broke into our room.”

“I know, I saw.”

“You saw?”

“I’ll explain when I see you. Where are you now?”

“I’m with Conrad. He’s driving me to his place.”

“I need you to do something for me, okay?”

“Yes.”

“We’re done with this hiding out shit. I need you back at your place. I need you surrounded by people. By every state trooper and town cop you know. Throw a party if you have to, I don’t care, but be as loud as you can. Do you understand?”

“What’s going on?”

“Someone bugged your apartment. I need him to know you’re there and that you’re surrounded by armed law enforcement. I need him to hear that. I have to be certain he can’t come after you again. It’s the only way I’ll be able to do what I need to do now.”

“What is it you need to do?”

“Get answers.”

“From Cahill,” Stella said.

“Yes. I need the address Conrad gave you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go alone, Tom. He and I can meet you there.”

Tom looked at Hammerton in the mirror. “I’m not alone. Please just do what I say, okay?”

Stella recited the address, then told Tom the name of Richard Mercer’s daughter.

Sandy Montrose.

“I looked the place up on Google Earth,” she said. “It’s a decent-size farm about a mile north of Taft. She was an army doctor and is the school physician now. Like father, like daughter. Her husband is a veterinarian. Livestock, horses, big animals. His office and hospital are in the barn out the back.”

Tom could think of no better setup for Cahill in his time of need.

His mentor’s daughter was someone he had likely known for much of his life and could trust implicitly.

She had medical training, but she also had immediate access to resources as well—through the school or, if needed, through her husband’s practice.

And she owned property that was large enough and probably private enough for Cahill to lay low on while he recovered from his wounds.

Property that was less than an hour’s drive from New Haven.

The only question that remained now in Tom’s mind was what kind of reception he would receive.

Which Charlie Cahill would he find there?

Stella was obviously wondering the same thing.

“What if your friend isn’t so glad to see you?” she said.

Tom told her that he didn’t have a choice.

Stella was silent.

“Tell Conrad to keep his eyes open,” Tom said.

“I will.” Stella paused for several seconds—so long, in fact, that Tom feared their connection had been lost.

But finally she broke the silence.

“Tom, I killed three men.”

He closed his eyes tight.

Opening them again, he said, “I know.”

He wanted to be there with her right now, wanted to go to her and take her far away, begin the long process of forgetting—not that one ever forgets.

But he could not offer her that, not yet.

All he could offer her now was the vague promise that he’d be home as soon as he could.

It was killing him that this was all he could say.

“I’m okay,” Stella said. “I’ll be okay, really.”

It broke Tom’s heart even more that she felt compelled to comfort him.

And it was clear to him that she was anything but okay.

He once again felt a rage growing within, a rage toward everyone who was keeping him from being at her side.

For those who’d made it necessary for him to leave her alone in that motel room.

But he needed to think—to outthink—and that required a calm mind.

“Be careful, okay?” Stella said.

“Always.”

“I love you, Tom. So much.”

“I love you, too, Stella.”

He heard her lower the phone, and then the call ended.

Tom looked at Hammerton in the rearview mirror.

The man was struggling for each breath he took, and the blood the river had washed from his scarred face had been replaced with fresh blood.

Tom told him again to hang on.

Then he asked how many rounds remained in his SIG.

Hammerton checked his weapon.

“Two,” he said.