Brains

  They got out, and proceeded to walk back to the front of the building, planning to knock on the entry door, which was a plain steel door marked only with the address. Still not a soul in sight.

  When the door opened, Cameron took one look at the swarthy man inviting them in, and immediately reacted, shoving Mitzi roughly to the side as he used the momentum to propel himself the other direction. The man in the doorway leaped out, pulling a gun from his waistband, and firing it at Cameron. The twin needles caught him in the shoulder, and he fell helplessly to the ground as fifty thousand volts caused him to lose all control. Just as suddenly, the current stopped as the man released the trigger, his own control having been disrupted by his head exploding. Mitzi had understood the threat as quickly as Cameron, and wasted no time in pulling the small pistol from her bag. She liked shooting, and the FBI had always been generous with ammo at the indoor range in lower Manhattan. She fired another shot blindly through the open door, which immediately was slammed shut. Cameron was dazed, but after half a minute, he was mobile, his own weapon at the ready.

  The building had windows, but they were barred, and the only street level entrance was the door that they had just approached. They stood flat next to the steel door, protected by the brick wall from potential fire from within. There was no threat from the windows, as the angles were impossible. Mitzi called 911, reported gunshots on their street, then hung up.

  “Tasers. They’re still trying to capture me.”

  “Good thing. A bullet would have killed you. Cops will be here soon. We just need to stay out of sight.”

  “No. We need to go. They could come around the corner in force before the police get here. Besides, the cops will have way more questions than we have answers, and we need to keep the pressure on Perez. Remember, it is only my theory that ServCorp is his. Let’s go.”

  Cameron snaked his leg out, and pulled the taser towards him with his foot. It was the military model, with thirty-foot wires, and would sustain a shock for up to thirty seconds. He tucked it in his belt, his 9 mm at the ready.

  They heard sirens.

  “West,” Cameron instructed, and Mitzi ran, Cameron following close behind. She made it cleanly across the side alley, but shots rang out from an upper window as Cameron passed a dumpster, and he was grazed across the back of his left shoulder, tearing the skin open for six inches and knocking him to the ground. He rolled painfully out of the alley's opening, and struggled to his feet as Mizti turned to help him. The dumpster shielded them as they raced down the street, turned the corner and were away. By now, the sirens were approaching from the east, making a deafening cacophony in the street behind them. There was a hardware store on the next block. Mitzi went in and bought a canvas coat and duct tape while Cameron ducked out of sight in another alley.

  Cameron was a mess. He had first been sprayed by the brains of the man Mitzi had shot, then his own blood, then rolled in the dirt. She taped over his shoulder wound, and they replaced his ruined coat with the canvas one. “That wound needs to be cleaned, but shouldn't be much of a problem otherwise,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

  “The adrenaline is fading. I'm beat.”

  “Wait here. Don't shoot anyone.” She strode off quickly before he could argue. She drove up a few minutes later, and he climbed in the car.

  “Did you see anything?”

  “About a thousand of New York's finest, I'd say. They did not seem interested in me. Probably because I was walking towards the scene. The vans behind the building were gone. I'm glad we weren't in them.”

  She was quiet for a minute. “We need to talk to somebody.”

  “We're a little off the reservation.”

  “Still, they were waiting for us. Something big is going down, and we need to get the resources we need to stop it. I’m okay with it not being NYPD, but we need some help.”

  ◆◆◆

  Friday was a normal work day for Dr. Overbridge. Two aneurysms, starting at eight. The first went more rapidly than usual. The second patient was delayed in pre-op: something about the heart monitor tracing had bothered the anesthesiologist, and so they were doing a quick echocardiogram. Which, at Our Lady, meant at least a two-hour delay. Dr. Overbridge made a quick calculation, and decided to run to the bookstore. He changed and went down the back stairs, exiting on the west end of the hospital. He then walked over to the subway on Lexington, and was down to the bookshop in midtown in just a few minutes. He went in, asked for the book, and was back in a cab and up to Our Lady in well less than the two hours. The book was a “trade-size” paperback, and he had put it in the large inside pocket of his great coat to keep it dry, so his surprised watcher, who was stationed inside the hospital lobby, did not see it when his subject came in and went back up to the surgical suite.

  He called it in. “He just came in from outside the hospital. He was supposed to be up in surgery all morning. I did not see him go out. No, I have no idea where he went.” The man was sweating. This type of lapse could easily have serious repercussions.

  “Stay put. I’ll send more men to cover the other entrances.”

  ◆◆◆

  Upstairs, the patient was still not ready. Dr. Overbridge sat in the surgeons lounge, reading his new book. The more he read, the more alarmed he became. According to the author, Perez’s remarkable rise in prosperity had more to do with his ruthless elimination of competition through intimidation – and possibly murder – than with any innate business genius. Not that there was any doubt as to his intelligence. That was apparently off the charts as well.

  The author also discussed his extensive surveillance of business associates and enemies. When the anesthesiologist finally canceled the surgery, Overbridge stayed in the lounge and read. He was a fast reader, with a nearly perfect memory. He finished the book, the last chapter of which contained a prediction that Perez would have the author killed if the book was published.

  He considered the situation. The book was alarming, but as he thought about it, he realized that whatever the total scope of Perez's activities, there was also no doubt that he had poured millions into this particular project, which had such enormous potential for the good of mankind. And for him, for his place in history. He would simply be careful.

  He would assume that he was under surveillance at all times. He thought about his trip to the bookstore. He had not wittingly taken any evasive action, just taken the most efficient route. Taxis were hard to come by in that part of the city, and the subway was the obvious choice. He had, of course, purchased the book with cash. He smiled to himself. He could not have done any better if he had been a trained agent.

  He thought some more about his recent activities. Up until the night of his own aneurysm, nothing had changed in his routine for years. Maybe decades. The aneurysm, as well as his new relationship with the Tuckers, were both changes that a careful man like Perez could find concerning.

  He changed and went to the clinic, where he had his usual slate of afternoon patients. He left Our Lady at his usual time, and walked home at his usual pace. He knew it was important to act as ordinarily as possible. Anything else would tip them off that he was aware of their presence. But he was aware. Although he had not gotten to the point of wondering why, he had noticed the same man in the hospital lobby every afternoon several weeks ago, and now again today. Noticed would perhaps have been too strong a word. Perceived would be more accurate. He always counted the people in the lobby, and so glanced at each person. With his memory, he was able to dredge up any repeated faces. On the walk home, freed as he was from the compulsion to count, he was able to see reflections in the curved right-side rear-view mirrors of parked cars, which allowed him to verify that the man was following him. He smiled inwardly. Probably the most boring job in espionage.

  As he entered his apartment, he tried to ask himself if there had been any changes recently to indicate a bug or camera. He did not know of any, but he resolved to be cautious. He would need to presume that they had plac
ed equipment here as well. It was a bit of a puzzle. Not that he had said or done anything even remotely incriminating in his apartment. Other than the phone calls to the Tuckers, and food delivery, he had not said a word. Also, since they had been surprised by the fact that he had had surgery, their surveillance, at least two weeks ago, must not have been rigorous.

  It was also, he thought, a total waste of time. He had no intention of causing trouble. In fact, he was more than willing to participate in the project. He had already accepted the fact that clearly criminal shortcuts had been taken, which he was conspiring to perpetuate. His only concern was for safety. He needed to make sure that his value remained high, and that he did nothing to arouse suspicion. There was no reason that he and Perez could not have a long and fruitful relationship. He was, however, a little worried about the projected trip to Mexico. He needed to think of a way to proceed here, on his turf.

  ◆◆◆

  “Who did you send after Hansen,” Perez asked Santiago.

  “Francisco.”

  “So, Francisco is dead.” A statement, not a question. “And the police will have his body. That makes five men this Hansen has killed. Six, if you count the street rat that Ruiz left. This is far from acceptable.”

  ◆◆◆

  Detective Terrence was interviewing the three nerds in ServCorp's facility. They were all students from City University, and all gave essentially the same story. Six large Latin men had arrived late on Wednesday evening two days ago, ostensibly from corporate, and had set up cots in the break room. Two were always sleeping, the other four sat around a small table near the entry, watching TV and keeping an eye on the security feed from the front door. They said they were there for “quality assurance.” That afternoon, they had all jumped up, awakened the two on sleeping shift, and one man had herded the three students into a room and told them to stay there, while brandishing a gun. And there they had stayed, terrified by the gun shots, until the police had broken through the door.

  The police techie had immediately gone to the security cameras, and found that, although the cameras were still functional, the recording system had been disabled Wednesday evening at 21:39. Terrence was frustrated. These students were useless, could give nothing better than “big Hispanic guys.”

  Outside, the forensics team had found fresh blood from the alley – plenty if it – and they already knew it was a different type than was still oozing from the nearly headless corpse on the front steps. He would have to just wait for more information.

  One of the uniforms canvassing the neighborhood tapped on the door. “Detective, got something.” He held up a cell phone. “Woman at the end of the street was taking a video of her dog when the action started, and then got the whole thing. It's not very good, but it's something.”

  The video indeed was not very good, as it was from probably two hundred yards away. Initially, in the corner of the frame behind the dog, two vague figures were at the door, then a man came out, and one of the figures went down in a typical seizure-like taser-victim way, then the gunshot could be heard as the new man's head exploded. At that point, the witness had actually pointed the phone at the action, and he could see that the two figures were likely a man and a woman, the woman helped the man up and after a few seconds, they ran away from the camera down the street. More gunshots, and the man went down again, crawled behind the dumpster at the alley, and then there was nothing more to see.

  Terrence watched it several times, using his fingers to zoom in on the faces, which were only fuzzy Caucasian blobs. He emailed it to the forensic team downtown, with a copy to himself. He handed the phone back to the uniform. “Good job. We'll see what the folks at the lab can do.”

  So, not a total waste. Latin guys with tasers. Twice in the past couple of weeks. Detective Terrence did not believe he had seen a taser combined with a homicide in years. He was not much of one for coincidence.

  Chapter 34

  Saturday, November 5

  New York

  Mitzi pulled the adhesive bandage off of Cameron's shoulder with a sudden movement. He was lying on his stomach in their Bronx hideout. She looked appraisingly at the wound. “Looks okay. Really just a graze except right here.” She poked it, causing Cameron to yelp. “Other than the pain, there is nothing that should really limit you with this little scratch.”

  “So, I realize that all of your patients are already dead, but I have to tell you that your bedside manner sucks.”

  “Yes, all of my patients are dead, and so I know this will not kill you. Just hold on while I scrub it out again.” She poured some antiseptic soap on, and rubbed it hard with gauze, then patted it dry and taped on a new dressing. That finished, she helped him sit up, and they stared at each other blankly for a few minutes.

  “What?” he finally asked.

  “Do you want to talk to the DDO or the ATU SAC?”

  “Probably doesn't matter much, wherever we start it will end up with both.”

  “Well, I don't think that going to DC is a good option, and I think we should do it in person. So let's start with Crawley.” She pulled out her burner, but Cameron stopped her.

  “Don't turn it on.”

  “What, it's a burner?”

  “Right, and you called 911 with it yesterday from the scene. I don't know how good Mr. MexiVox is at tracking, but let's assume the worst. NYPD would also be a problem. We need a new set of burners.”

  “Fine. I'll go get some.” Mitzi jumped up and was out the door without another word.

  ◆◆◆

  Once they had the phones, Cameron insisted they drive over into Queens before calling the SAC. “For all we know, they are monitoring HIS phone,” he explained.

  “You are getting a little paranoid,” Mitzi retorted.

  “No, I'm just starting to act like a field agent on an op again.”

  Crawley picked up after several rings. “Who is this?” he barked.

  “Cameron Hansen, sir. Er, I need to talk to you. In person. Right away, sir.”

  “I'm in Texas. Henry is covering.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Late tonight.”

  “I think I'd rather wait for you,” Cameron responded. “This is not something for Henry.”

  “Who did you kill this time?”

  “We'll be at the office tomorrow morning at eight.”

  “You and Lenz, I take it? Make it nine. If it is not urgent enough to talk to Henry, it is not urgent enough for eight. See you then.”

  “I hope nothing happens before tomorrow,” Mitzi said as they both looked at the phone.

  “Toss the phone,” Cameron said, as he started the car.

  ◆◆◆

  When his driver picked him up on Saturday, Dr. Overbridge memorized the license plate number before getting in the car. He had no clear idea of what he was hoping to find out, but at this point, he had come around to the mindset that this was a mission in potentially hostile territory, and the more information he had, the more likely he would be able to take some sort of action, if necessary.

  Perez watched on a monitor as Santiago and Maxwell welcomed Overbridge and showed him the video his people had put together. It started with Pierre in his wheelchair, winning a race, reading to an audience, accepting an award. As a narrator described the first step, that of implanting the spinal interface, an animation showed how the nerves worked to control the legs. The video went on to show Pierre laboriously learning to use the computer to move his legs, and the months of muscle rehabilitation that were then needed to develop the strength which would be needed to walk. The brain mesh surgery was then explained, followed by snippets as Pierre worked with the computer to program the algorithm, finally culminating in standing, then walking, then jogging, and the glorious reunion with his grandfather. It was a masterpiece, certain to stun the world of medicine. Dr. Overbridge was prominently featured for his part in the success. What was not mentioned was where the operation and rehab had taken place, and, in fact, t
he exteriors were of Perez's private hospital in southern Mexico, complete with interviews with members of an institutional review board that had endorsed the project and granted authority for the surgery in advance.

  “You can see,” Santiago said, “This will be world-changing, and you will be part of it. Everything is ready for us to take the next step with Uncle Luis next week.”

  Maxwell added, “Nothing sells like success. With this kind of publicity, any possible ethical objections will be quickly overcome. We have made sure that everyone who knows the actual details of the project is on our team, no one from the outside has any information as to our work.”

  Suddenly Overbridge knew, deep in his heart, that if he went with Perez to Mexico, he would never return. He was, however, still committed – this was more important than all the work he had done in his career, maybe more important than all the work ever done previously on brain science. Nobel Prize-level work. He would prefer to survive, however. He spoke up, “I need to make sure that Luis survives. I need my own equipment, my own hospital. We need to operate on your uncle here, in New York.”

  Santiago was suddenly completely out of his depth. His only idea was to play along until he could get instructions. “Tell me how that would work.”

  “We would bring him in as an emergency bleeding aneurysm early on a Sunday morning. Our Lady is a ghost town on Sundays, and we could manipulate the on-call staff easily. That way, we would have the advantages of my world-class facility and recovery staff, and could maximize our chances of success. With an implant this extensive, I would not want to take any chances we can avoid. Then we simply do as you have done here, add in footage to show it was all done in Mexico, above board, legally and ethically.”

  Santiago had the presence of mind to simply nod thoughtfully. “Very interesting. Let me think about it while you visit with Pierre. I'm sure he would like to tell you about his trip.”