by Dan Alatorre
“I wouldn’t.” Hauser’s cane fell to the floor as he limped forward, keeping his gun pointed at The Greyhound. “I’m not a killer, but I’ll make an exception if you pull out a gun.”
“You’re worse than a killer.” The Greyhound winced, fighting the pain. “You’re a mass murderer.”
“And you’re not?” Hauser smiled, inching closer. “How many people have you killed? Twenty? More?” He took another step, balancing carefully. “But you justify it because you disagree with them. You don’t like their ideas. Well, I disagree with you and your ideas.”
The Greyhound gritted his teeth, gasping as the pain pounded his shoulder.
“It’s over.” The old man took another step toward him, putting the tip of his gun to The Greyhound’s head. “You lost, and I won, because I always win.”
* * * * *
A large woman in an evening dress stood in the hallway, trembling. DeShear shouted at her. “Where’s the shooter?”
She pointed with shaking hands. “M—men’s room.”
The FBI commander squatted in the hallway, his gun trained on the men’s room door. “Team one, go.” As two agents raced to the bathroom door, the commander called down the hallway. “Team two, check the lobby for additional threats.”
DeShear took a position behind him, leaning in close. “Have somebody find an interpreter in case the shooter doesn’t speak English.”
“Carson,” the commander shouted. “Grab one of the hotel staff that speaks English.” He glanced at DeShear. “Are you armed, sir?”
“Not yet.”
“And Carson—get a weapon for the bureau chief’s friend.”
* * * * *
The gun shook in the old man’s hand.
The Greyhound winced as the pain from his shoulder throbbed. Sweat formed on his brow. “Not so easy, close up—is it? You prefer your victims small and helpless.”
The doctor shrugged. “The trembling is a byproduct of an adrenaline surge—from when you shot at me—and nothing more. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead right now.”
A bead of sweat trickled down The Greyhound’s cheek.
“It’s easy to kill a man,” Hauser said. “Killing his ideas takes time and effort. I know you have others working with you. Seeing you humiliated in public as your efforts are disgraced, that’s how you kill a movement.”
* * * * *
The agents took positions on each side of the men’s room entrance. “You! In the restroom! Throw down your weapon and come out.”
“I went into the ladies’ room.” The woman backed down the hallway, a hand over her mouth and her eyes wide. “There are two bodies in there!”
“Watkins!” The commander shouted. “We have an unidentified threat in the ladies’ room.”
Another agent raced forward, two others on his heels. “On it.”
A gravelly voice came through the restroom. “I’m Dr. Hauser. I’ve been attacked.”
“Doctor Hauser.” The commander shouted, moving to the men’s room. “Where is the gunman?”
“I shot him. He’s on the floor.”
The commander frowned, facing DeShear. “There’s a lot of bodies piling up in this hotel. How big a threat is the old man?”
“Small,” DeShear said. “Unless you’re a kid.”
The commander nodded. “Doctor, we’re coming in. Lower your weapon.”
He pressed his hand to the door and opened it. Inside, an old man with a gun stood over a younger man with blood seeping from his shoulder. “I got him,” Hauser said. “I got The Greyhound.”
An agent rushed past the commander and relieved Hauser of his gun. Two others took The Greyhound’s weapons and lifted him to his feet.
“Get an ambulance and get something to restrain that guy,” the commander said, pointing to The Greyhound. “See if any of the soldiers have handcuffs. If not, get some zip ties from the kitchen. Anything to hold him until the local police arrive.”
The men dragged The Greyhound out of the restroom and toward the lobby, leaving a dotted trail of blood along the floor. DeShear stepped to the wall so they could pass.
This was the big killer. The one we were all afraid of.
The Greyhound hung his head, staggering as the agents helped him walk.
Doesn’t look like such a threat now.
“Doctor.” An agent took Hauser by the shoulders. “Are you all right?”
Before he could answer, his own voice boomed from the speakers in the ballroom. A conversation between Hauser and another man filled the air.
“Any of these specimens not developing adequately are terminated . . .”
“Let’s get you to a hospital, sir,” the agent said, taking the doctor by the arm. “We’d like to get you checked out and make sure you’re okay.”
Hauser shook the man off, limping toward the ballroom. As if in a trance, he moved forward, frowning, his mouth agape.
“. . . others are terminated in infancy.”
“What is that?” Hauser shouted, throwing open the ballroom door.
Lanaya stood at the lectern, all the screens filled with a video—a distant image, shot between shelves and over the tops of surgical tubing and glass containers—of Dr. Hauser and the Cambodian man.
“By age five, we will have completely purged these lines of any deficiencies.”
“Stop it!” The doctor’s face turned red as he yelled at the screen. “Turn it off!”
The lecturer watched, her mouth open, as the doctor continued into the ballroom. Two FBI agents held her, keeping her from going to him.
“ . . . my understanding was you required stock that was already beyond childhood.”
Hauser’s eyes darted to every screen, his arms flailing. “No! Stop it! Turn it off.” He glanced wildly around the room, his gaze falling on the Special Assistant to the Prime Minister. “Dina! I can explain!”
She reached into her purse and took out her phone, holding it to her ear—and turning away from Hauser.
“Dina!”
Hauser limped to the center of the ballroom, viewing every screen, his image plastered on all of them. He leaned on the back of a chair, his head sagging.
The men onscreen continued their negotiation.
“Our current interest is in females. Where can we inspect these?”
“I believe what you want is at recess now, on the playground . . .”
Panting, Hauser stood upright and smoothed his shirt. “Madam Assistant, I . . . I am an important person in this country. The—the Prime Minister, he instructed you . . . to show me every courtesy.”
Dina lowered her phone and looked at the doctor.
Hauser swallowed hard. “I wish to leave Indonesia. Tonight. Right now. Earlier, you offered me a helicopter. I’d like you to take me to it.”
“What!” Lanaya shouted. She turned to Camilla. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him walk away.”
Camilla stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Dr. Hauser, but the FBI has the authority to ask you as many questions as they want, and the IRS will insist on getting those answers before you leave.”
“No, no, no.” He shook his head, waving his hands. “Forget all that. I am not on U. S soil, so you have exactly zero authority. I was willing to sit still for this ridiculous audit, but my patience has run out. By ten o’clock tomorrow morning, I’ll have my people here to put an end to your little witch hunt. Then we’ll see who has authority.” He pounded the table, pointing a finger at Camilla and narrowing his eyes. “Tomorrow morning, your so-called audit ends, Ms. Madison. And then you go back to the United States with your tail between your legs!”
Camilla folded her arms. “They’re not coming.”
“What?”
“That big army you hired to swoop in and stop us,” Camilla said. “I got a phone call from somebody who overheard a conversation in a parking garage, where you hired a bunch of killers to come here and disrupt a federal investigation. Your army of thugs got stopped at the airport in Tampa.
It seems the ATF and FBI had an issue with so many people and weapons being moved illegally out of the country, so they’re all discussing it.” She shrugged. “Well, the agents are. Your mercenaries are behind bars. And so is your lawyer—who hired killers at your direction. So, nobody’s going to be riding in like the cavalry to save the day.”
“What—who?” Hauser’s face turned white. “That’s a lie. I never told anyone—”
“Yes, you did.” Dr. Carerra stood up. “I heard it all in the parking garage, Marcus. I called the FBI, and they were kind enough to put my children in federal protective custody while I came here to watch you sweat.”
“Dominique!” Hauser gasped. “I’ll—I’ll sue! I’ll destroy you. I’ll take everything you own, and then I’ll burn it to the ground!
“I don’t think you will.” Camilla smiled. “A lawsuit would require you to set foot back in the United States—where I have a lot of subpoenas waiting for you.”
“It’s over, Doctor.” Dominique made her way around the dignitaries’ table. “Your company is over, and your power is over.” She walked past him, heading to the exit. “You’re over.”
His jaw hung open as she passed.
“But my audit isn’t.” Camilla strolled to the lectern, picking up the cell phone. Its cables swayed as she held it over the projector. “I have an agent out front hiring every cab on the hotel property, and we’re going to have them turn on their high beams and drive me to the land behind your second campus.” She set the phone down and glared at him. “I think pictures of what’s buried there accompany this little video of you and your Cambodian client.”
Hauser got to his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have no idea what’s buried out there, and I’ll deny I ever knew. You don’t decide when things are over, I do. That’s the benefit of dual citizenship. I’ll find another Third World dictatorship to park my laboratory in, and Angelus Genetics will keep going. Nothing’s going to change. In fact, I think I’d prefer living in Paris or Stockholm, or perhaps somewhere in China.”
He backed away from the table, looking at his friend Dina. “A facility in Cambodia could be open within six months, Madam Assistant.” He snapped his fingers. “But, as a friend of the Prime Minister, I’d prefer we stay here. I’ll simply have to consider my options.”
She shifted on her feet.
“Now what about that helicopter, Dina? I’d like to leave. Now.”
She put the phone back to her ear and stood for a moment, whispering. A few seconds later, she nodded and slipped the phone into her purse, looking at Camilla. “It is the wish of the Prime Minister that his very special friend, Dr. Hauser, be allowed to leave immediately.” She turned to Hauser. “My car and driver are out front. You will be escorted to the airport, where the Prime Minister’s helicopter will be standing by to take you to his private jet. You may take it anywhere in the world you wish to go.”
“No!” Lanaya screamed. “He can’t be allowed to just leave!”
“I’m sorry.” Dina’s face was firm, displaying no emotion. “Indonesia wishes no trouble, but my orders are that he be allowed to depart immediately.”
Hauser smiled, lifting his chin. “The Prime Minister’s private jet.” He limped to the door. “I think a quick trip to Switzerland may be in order.”
Lanaya turned to Camilla, tears in her eyes. “That’s it? He gets to walk away?”
“What’s buried out there isn’t going to go away,” Camilla said.
Hauser stopped, peering down his nose at her. “Of course it is. The fact is, Ms. Madison, aside from a few people in New York and Washington DC, nobody will care this audit ever happened. In a few years, most Americans won’t remember what all the fuss was about. But.” He wagged a finger at her. “Right now, millions of shareholders of Angelus Genetics have lost a lot of money—most are little people, who will feel it in their retirement accounts.” A smile stretched across his thin lips. “The Wall Street Journal has been begging for an interview. I think I’ll give them one—and I’ll make sure they know who caused all those people to lose so much money.” He turned, hobbling toward the exit. “Life has different lessons to teach us all. You learned that you are ineffective, and I learned that dual citizenship is worth several billion dollars.”
He chuckled as he passed through the door, not looking back. “Good evening.”
Chapter 37
DeShear followed Dr. Hauser down the hallway and across the ornate lobby of the Viceroy hotel. He stood by a Christmas tree at the entrance as the vehicle for the Special Assistant to the Prime Minister rolled up. The young driver hopped out and opened the car door for his “very special” passenger. The old man entered the vehicle, the door shut, and the car drove slowly down the long driveway. The moonlight illuminated the pala trees there in a silvery glow, as the car turned left and disappeared down the main road.
DeShear stood inside the hotel doors, gritting his teeth.
It was no longer his battle. He’d done what he could, from protecting Lanaya to bringing down a killer. Angelus Genetics had suffered. The Greyhound was in custody.
But it was a hollow victory. He’d learned too much in the past few days to be satisfied with these results.
Across the lobby, The Greyhound sat in a chair under a large wreath, an attendant bandaging his bloody arm while two FBI agents looked on. One pointed to a set of handcuffs being held by a nearby Indonesian army officer. “Hey, shooter—these pretty bracelets go on your wrists when he’s finished wrapping your arm.”
The Greyhound said nothing, slumping forward in the chair, his head hanging.
Siren blaring, an ambulance sped to the front door and screeched to a stop. The agents put their hands under The Greyhound’s arms and pulled him to his feet. He winced in pain.
“Serves you right,” the agent said. “I heard they found another body upstairs, a big fat guy. And the manager went missing after he met with you.” He shoved The Greyhound forward toward the ambulance. “Is that more of your handiwork?”
“Nick,” the other agent said. “Take it easy.”
“No, screw this guy, Jake.”
Nick shoved The Greyhound again. He banged into the side of the ambulance, groaning and sliding downward. He turned and leaned his back on the vehicle, his eyes closed and his head sagging.
“Hey!” Jake jumped in front of Nick, blocking him from assaulting their prisoner again. “I said take it easy. We don’t get extra points for killing the—”
The Greyhound sprung up and raised his hands high over his head, crashing them down on the back of Jake’s neck. Swaying sideways, Jake slumped to the ground.
The other agent pulled his gun. The Greyhound swung his leg in a roundhouse kick, crashing it into the agent’s forearm and sending him sprawling onto the sidewalk.
From his vantage point in the lobby, DeShear bolted toward them. “Hey!” he shouted, raising his weapon. “The killer’s loose!”
A second kick from The Greyhound landed on the side of the agent’s head. Jake’s eyes rolled back and his body went limp. The Greyhound scooped up the agent’s gun and raced down the long driveway.
DeShear sprinted out the door after him, several agents and army soldiers following.
The Greyhound was fast, covering the driveway at an amazing speed. DeShear was barely able to keep up. At the tree line, The Greyhound darted across the main road and disappeared into the darkness of the jungle.
DeShear hit the main road at a full sprint, the jungle coming up fast. A small hole was visible in the bright moonlight—a running trail. Palm fronds and brush hung low over the dirt path. Ducking his head, DeShear thrust through the wet leaves, their long green fingers slapping at his face.
“DeShear!” the agent called behind him.
“I’m on him,” DeShear yelled over his shoulder. “Split up and see where these paths come out.”
He bounded over the dark path, unable to see beyond a few feet. His heart raced, knowing The Greyhound
could be waiting for him anywhere ahead, but his gut said the killer intended to run—and running was DeShear’s game. He hurled himself down the trail, legs churning, heart pounding. The path turned and climbed, narrowing as outcrops of rocks extended from the sides. DeShear’s shoulder caught the edge of a stony outcrop, bouncing him away and nearly causing him to lose his balance. He stopped to right himself, gasping in the still night.
He held his breath until his lungs ached, listening to hear the fleeing killer somewhere ahead. Thumps and cracking branches reached his ears. The killer was still running.
Pulse pounding, DeShear lurched forward down the path. Ahead, the trees opened to a clearing. He slowed his pace. He’d be an easy target there, even for a wounded man. He couldn’t count on the killer getting tired or missing a shot.
DeShear crouched, gasping as he checked left and right. A smooth rock jutted out from the thick, wet jungle. Sweat dripped from his nose as he slid behind the rock, his eyes darting around the clearing.
He inhaled fast and hard, trying not to make much noise, then took a deep breath and held it.
No twig snaps or brush being swatted aside. The killer had stopped.
DeShear exhaled quietly, his heart thumping. Several trails met in the clearing, but a cloud had moved over the moon, making the view hazy.
Which trail had the killer taken?
A gunshot came from his left, its muzzle blast lighting the trees like lightning. Before he could react, the rock pinged next to him, ringing in his ear and covering him in grit. He threw himself to the wet jungle floor, his weapon next to his cheek, holding his breath and waiting.
Branches crashed together as the killer fled, racing down the trail. DeShear leaped to his feet and followed.
The path sloped downward now, twisting and turning, jarring his knees as the ground dropped in the dark. He crashed into rocks and trees that sprang up out of nowhere, slipping on a dirt trail that grew muddier with each passing minute. His face scratched and stinging, he raced onward, his anger and adrenaline fueling him.
The trail turned, moonlight illuminating his way. Ahead, a tall shadow darted past the trees.