by Ed Kovacs
He laughed at an off-color joke, but then glanced back at the CCTV monitor. WTF? Get your ass in here girl, I'm busy! Irritated, he moved his left hand to the camera control console, selected Camera Three, and grabbed the joystick.
###
Working hard to take silent deep breaths, Nicole Grant continued to move the fake finger slightly, and then waited, hoping the scan would read it. So far it hadn't. The battery-powered microprocessor was safely in her pants pocket. She wondered if somehow the connection had come loose. How could she check it without raising suspicion?
A voice suddenly came through her earbuds. “Miss Grant, keep shifting the position of the finger,” said Jaffir, gently.
“Rose, what's going on?” asked the guard over the PA speaker in the anteroom. Nicole hadn't seen a microphone, but didn't want to reply, anyway.
Then Hernandez's voice came through the earbuds. “You have to answer the guard. Don't sweat it if you don't see a microphone, it's probably hidden. I know you only speak Mandarin, not Cantonese, and I know they sound different, but you have to fake it. You heard Rose talk in the van. Try to fake her voice and say, Gāozuǒ lā, like you're irritated.”
Nicole looked desperate, so it was a good thing she wasn't looking at the CCTV camera. “Gāozuǒ lā,” she said, trying to sound impatient.
“Sik bak guo,” said Hernandez in her earbuds, like you're frustrated it's not working.”
“Sik bak guo,” repeated Nicole.
She knew it would look weird on camera, but she moved her left hand under the mop head and felt the wire connecting into the fake finger. The connection felt loose, so she pressed the wire into the soft, resin compound comprising the finger, then placed it again into the scanner.
Nothing happened. Fighting panic, Nicole removed the finger from the scanner and then placed it in one more time.
“Thank you, Rose Chin,” said the monotone female voice. The inner door clicked open, startling Nicole.
“Nicole, put your hand in your shoulder bag and find the gun. Then walk straight through that door with your head down,” said Hernandez. I'm coming your way right now.”
But before she made a move, the inner door suddenly flung open...revealing the guard standing there as a quizzical look swept over his face.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
Nicole stood flat-footed, trying to think of something to say.
“Nicole, the gun,” boomed Hernandez's voice in the earbuds. “I'll be there in thirty seconds.”
She reached into the shoulder bag and started fumbling around. The look on the guard’s face suggested he knew something wasn't kosher. He grabbed the door.
“Move forward! Get in there!” shouted Hernandez over the earbuds.
The guard flung the door trying to close it, but Nicole lurched forward at the last second and put her shoulder into it, and then stumbled into the room almost falling down.
The man reached for his gun, but it wasn't there. He wasn't wearing his duty belt. His eyes went wide as Nicole raised the big black pistol with the extra-long cylinder that fired shotgun shells. He backpedaled as she pointed the gun at him. But she didn't fire and couldn't hold the heavy gun steady with just one hand.
He backed away further and then turned and ran for the reception desk.
“Grant, I'm at the front door. Take a deep breath and pull the trigger,” boomed Hernandez's voice through the earbuds. “If you don't shoot that son-of-a-bitch with the rubber pellets, he'll shoot you with lead and you'll be dead.”
Fighting fear that weighed down her feet like anchor chains dropped into a troubled sea, she shuffled toward the reception counter. Shooting another human being was simply the last thing she ever wanted to have to do. Even with rubber pellets. Waves of nausea wracked her and she felt like she existed in a bubble of perception where everything slowed down. She watched with detachment as the guard stumbled while rounding the corner of the reception console, angling toward his duty station and gun.
“Stop,” she managed to utter, closing the distance between them.
He didn't. He bounced off of a cabinet, his eyes wide as saucers, and staggered toward his desk chair. His gun, radio, the whole duty belt were wedged into an open drawer.
“Stop or I'll shoot.” She spoke louder this time, but without any kind of convincing authority behind the words. She sounded drugged.
“Hold the gun with both hands,” said Hernandez in the earbuds. “Don't jerk the pull, just squeeze.”
She steadied her aim by grasping the pistol butt with her left hand for additional support. Nicole stood less than six feet from the man. He lunged for his pistol and pulled it free from his duty belt. Oh God, he's going to shoot me. Their eyes met as he raised his weapon. Grant bit down hard on her lip and yelled, “Don't!”
A loud report boomed like a cannon in the reception area.
The pistol wavered in Grant's hands as she lost strength. Breath rushed from her chest as she tried to focus. She blinked, and saw the guard fall backward. His head slammed hard into a solid wooden cabinet. He crumpled to the floor, barely conscious. The impact of rubber buckshot from a .410 shotshell fired at close range could be fatal, but Hernandez had assured her the guard would be wearing a bulletproof vest. She stared down at the prone man and saw no sign of bleeding. Thank heaven for small favors.
“Get behind the counter and buzz me in.” Hernandez's calm voice sounded in her earbuds.
She stood rooted in place, her eyes closed in silent thanks.
“Grant, there might be others,” he warned.
She snapped out of her stupor and ran behind the reception counter, suddenly free of all fear. The sick feeling evaporated, the altered perception vanished. Hyper-alert, she retrieved the guard's gun from the floor and then plopped into the desk chair. Being intimately familiar with physical security systems it only took a moment to find the door switch. She saw Hernandez on camera standing just outside the exterior door and she buzzed him in through both doors.
She pushed aside the laptop playing a TV show, and checked the sign-in sheet to see if anyone else was present. She quickly cycled through the camera views to double-check that they were alone. As Hernandez came running up, she looked at him and indicated the sign-in sheet.
“The sign-in sheet says we're alone and I don't see anyone else on the cameras.” She looked at him with a straight face and said, “What took you so long?”
Before Hernandez could respond, a soft chiming alarm sounded. Grant checked the CCTV monitors and her eyes went wide.
“Two people approaching the front door, holding smart cards!”
CHAPTER 15
18:55
CIA contract agents Chuck Wheeler and Gail Roberts stepped out of the elevator on the 23rd floor of One Pacific Place. Wearing slacks and a dress shirt, Wheeler had an oiled-canvas shoulder bag slung over his shoulder. A man with a reputation for doing the dirtiest jobs and doing them well, Wheeler had a sour taste in his mouth and felt grouchy. The fluorescent overhead lighting reflected off his waxed, bald head in a dull blueish glow. A man who constantly updated his situational awareness, his dark eyes flicked back and forth, like balls bouncing around inside a pachinko machine. His friendly acquaintances—he didn't have any real friends—who didn't know his true job, kidded him about his constant eye movement and gave him nicknames like Bouncy and Pinball. Wheeler always smiled at the monikers. Being alert had kept him alive, and he intended to live long and prosper.
At fifty-three, he was short but maintained tremendous upper body strength through rigorous daily workouts. He never wore clothing that revealed his muscular build, and his wire-rimmed glasses made him look like a schoolteacher. Hence, opponents usually underestimated him.
“Still no answer?” he asked.
“No answer,” said Roberts, his red-haired partner, as she terminated the call on her cell phone. She was a big-boned thirty-seven year-old from Colorado, dressed for success in a black Fendi business suit. Freckles splayed
out over her pale white skin from her nose to the middle of her cheeks like too much red pepper on mashed potatoes. Blue eyes ringed with crimson and droopy eyelids suggested she was running a deficit in the sleep column. Her cover as VP of software development for a Silicon Valley firm fit her well. She had the kind of cool detachment that many woman in powerful positions have. She moved with complete confidence giving a sense that she was accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. Wheeler's partnership with her was always a balancing act between two strong personalities who would never admit the other had been right.
“Trust me, we're being played,” he said. “Rice won't take our calls, and Ma tells us to check in for new orders? What, we're working for PLA military intelligence now? A commie general tells us what to do?”
“Not out here in the hallway,” she quietly admonished.
“This hallway is clean,” said Wheeler, brushing off her concern as his eyes darted about. “The Company owns the whole floor.”
“Rice is busy with the charity thing. So she didn't pick up,” said Roberts, sounding like she was making an excuse.
“Bullcrap. I've seen this kind of thing before. They're in crisis mode. They've pushed us aside. There won't be any more consulting with us, we won't be witnessing and recording any more kills. The Chinese are going to whack Grant and Hernandez as soon as they find them, wherever that might be. You saw all those new goons posted in the mall and in the Marriott.”
They moved through the small waiting area, both holding smart cards as they approached the front door.
“I don't really care if the Chinese are cutting us out. That's on them, not on us. And this thing needs to end tonight.”
Wheeler and Roberts didn't particularly like each other, and the nature of what they'd witnessed over the last two weeks—the murders of eighteen Americans—didn't help their moods any. They'd both seen some of the ugliest business the Agency had been involved in during the last fifteen years, but in a sick kind of way, the last two weeks had been the icing on the cake. Wheeler knew she wanted this job to end. More than that, she wanted a change. Roberts would never share her true desires or motivations with him, but Wheeler sensed she was looking to do something other than contract work.
“It would be nice to wrap it up tonight,” said Wheeler, “but Hernandez is long gone. He's too smart to stick around Pacific Place.”
“We both watched him take out two of Tang's killers on Tung Choi Street this afternoon, before they could kill Grant,” she said pointedly. “His file indicated he was a middle management type, but we saw a very talented solo assassin at work, didn't we?”
Wheeler suddenly understood why she was anxious for the operation to finish. “So you’re thinking Hernandez is here to kill the killers. And you think he might also want to get anyone else connected to the murders, including you and me.”
She nodded. “Somebody tipped him, that’s why he went to ground. So he knows more about this whole business than we do, which wouldn’t be hard, since we don’t know why our employer wanted twenty American citizens eliminated. It’s possible Hernandez might even know our identities.”
Wheeler paused, thinking. He wasn't about to admit he agreed with her. “Be nice if we had his real file. Then we'd know what he's all about.” If Hernandez wanted to exact vengeance on anyone connected to the whole ugly affair, so what? Let him try. The chances of him living to the end of the week were slim to none.
“The writing on the wall suggests our services are no longer required. They'll probably send us out on a red eye flight, so I'm going to pack my gear right now,” she said.
“Until we hear from Rice, we're not going anywhere. But sure, pack your gear, and don't forget to upload your video.” Wheeler was an old school gentleman, even with someone he didn't particularly care for, like Roberts, so he swiped his smart card in front of the sensor, the lock buzzed, and then he opened the door letting her go in first.
“What's that?” she said, stepping into the anteroom.
The mop head Nicole Grant had used when she held the fake finger lay on the floor. The finger itself was partially visible under the cloth fringes. The connecting wire had been pulled free from the microprocessor, and that wire was clearly visible.
“Looks like the cleaning lady dropped something,” said Wheeler, squinting.
The outer door clicked closed and locked behind them. Roberts then looked into the iris scanner. “Thank you, Gail Roberts,” was the computerized response.
As Wheeler looked more closely he noticed the wire which ran under the mop head. What's up with that? He bent down for a better look.
Roberts slid her index finger into the scanning trough. “Thank you, Gail Roberts.” The door clicked unlocked and Roberts pushed through just as he spotted the index finger.
“Roberts, wait!”
Still squatting, Wheeler reached for the .45 caliber Kimber Super Carry Ultra HD pistol in his shoulder holster when...
“Pull a gun and I blow her head off.”
Wheeler looked up to see a tall man standing in the inner doorway with a Chinese Type 67 integrally silenced pistol against the side of Robert's head. The man's appearance was completely different from earlier this afternoon, but Wheeler could see it was Ron Hernandez.
What the hell!? Had Hernandez known he and Roberts were coming in tonight? How could he? And how would he have known about this field station? They'd been shown a file on the man, but now there was no doubt it had been grossly incomplete. And if he busted in to this CIA field station then he was definitely here in Hong Kong to kill anyone involved with the deaths of the eighteen Americans. If Hernandez knew that he and Roberts were part of the operation, they were as good as dead unless he pulled his weapon and took his chances in a shootout.
“What makes you think I give a damn about her?” asked Wheeler, evenly, as his eyes zipped from Hernandez's face, to the suppressed pistol, to the back of Robert's head.
Wheeler calculated that he could get his weapon out of the holster at about the same time Hernandez could shift his aim and shoot at him. But if he went for his gun and Hernandez shot Roberts first, he'd have time to kill Hernandez, for sure.
“That's cute,” said Roberts, who stood in the doorway with her back to Wheeler, “but there are two of them. And the girl has a cannon pointed at my chest.”
Wheeler could care less if Roberts was killed, but he was not about to be taken prisoner. Just as he made the decision to go for his gun...Hernandez pivoted and fired.
Wheeler pulled the Kimber free from his holster just as a bullet whizzed past his ear.
“Don't!” said Hernandez sharply. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them.
The physical dominance of Hernandez towering over him was not lost on Wheeler. The Kimber was in his hand, out of his jacket, but wasn't pointing at anyone. But Hernandez's gun, now only five feet away, was quite definitely pointed at him.
“The first one wasn't supposed to hit you. This one will. Right between the eyes.”
Wheeler believed it. He didn't want to be taken prisoner, but at least the capture would be recorded on camera and no one could fault him. And being taken prisoner was much preferable to being shot on the floor. He had a backup gun in an ankle holster. The smart play was to surrender now and look for an opening later.
“If you so much as twitch, I'll kill you,” said Hernandez. “Very slowly, release your grip and let the gun fall to the floor.”
Wheeler closed his eyes. This contract had become a Grade-A goat rope. He dropped his gun.
###
Nicole Grant sat in a small room in the CIA field office. Looking deflated, she eased the handset of the secure phone back into its substantial cradle. She felt like she'd been gut-punched. Ernest Normann hadn't answered her call. Why? He always answered. At any hour. He knew she might be calling back, knew she was in deep trouble, but he didn't answer. She'd just gone to extreme lengths to get to a secure phone, but he hadn't answered. He'd been a father fig
ure as well as a boss, and she hadn't anticipated being dumped by a father figure.
She stood up looking dejected, then hurried into the hallway and rushed back to the guard post behind the reception counter. She had tasks running on different computers there and needed to get hands-on. She had no choice but to put the disappointment about Normann's refusal to take her call out of her mind for now.
She turned to the guard's laptop. Scant minutes earlier she'd hacked into a Hong Kong government Website to get the blueprints of Pacific Place. Those blueprints were now downloaded onto a USB flash drive. Nicole removed the drive from the guard's laptop and used adapters to connect it to her tablet computer. It took only seconds to move the blueprints onto the tablet.
Next, she turned her attention to the desktop PC at the security post, where she had Darknet and a few hacking programs running. Before attempting the phone call to Normann, she'd hacked into the security systems of Pacific Place and the Conrad, Shangri-La, and Upper House hotels. She'd spotted other hackers doing exactly the same thing and had traced them to the Marriott. She then took down most of the major CCTV systems in Pacific Place. Facial recognition software was useless without the CCTV feeds, so she felt a sense of accomplishment. Still, the hackers—she assumed they were Chinese—had locked her out of the Marriott security system.
She assumed the other hackers had “seen” her, just as she'd seen them. Neither she nor they had bothered to use many proxy servers, meaning they were in as much of a hurry as she was, meaning she was probably up against Chinese government hackers working in the field in direct assistance to the killers after her and Hernandez.
Nicole picked up her tablet computer. Using commercially available software, she attempted to remotely access her home laptop at her condo in Phoenix. This was a simple procedure that she'd performed countless times, but right now, now of all times, she couldn't gain access. A pop-up window stated that her laptop was “Offline.” Had there been a power outage or some kind of mishap? Her home laptop was offline, and that made no sense.