Of course, the burner cell phone was disconnected. She had no other way to track Jake. Kyle was the only one she could ask. She was not sure she could even trust him.
Finally, the chime sounded and the doors opened. Immediately, she could tell something was wrong. A light flickered at the end of the hall and papers littered the receptionist’s lobby.
She pulled her sidearm from beneath her jacket and leaned against the wall. She controlled her breathing and listened carefully. All she could hear at first was an electronic buzzing. She resisted the urge to cry out for Kyle.
Then she heard a groan. Hallie crouched down low and crept down the hall toward the lobby, her eyes scanning ahead. Her heart pounded in her chest.
The glass entry was broken, the glass scattered on the floor. Hallie was glad she did not take off her heels. The glass crunched under her shoes and she grimaced. She worried that whoever had attacked the office was still here. She would rather have the element of surprise.
In the back of her mind she was dreading having to use her weapon again. She knew it was necessary, but she was still recovering from the psychological scarring of taking a life. Two. She gripped the SIG Sauer tighter, confident in her ability to use it, but anxious.
Hallie ducked behind the receptionist’s desk, avoiding the glass from the entry and putting her back against the wall. It was darker here and she was afforded a great view out into the cubicles and offices beyond. No one stirred. The only lights on were the running lights along the center to illuminate the cubicles.
The groan came again. It was originating from the office closest to the waiting area. Kyle’s office. She took a deep breath and raced as quietly as she could across the carpet to the doorway. With her back to the wall, she breathed slowly through pursed lips. She used one hand to pat her handbag in her pocket. It held a spare magazine.
Hallie counted to three and pivoted quickly into the open doorway. She was immediately assaulted with the musky-pungent, iron-rich scent of blood. The floor was covered in a large pool of it.
Kyle lay draped over the desk, his face a mask of pain. He licked his lips and groaned again. A red stain blossomed on the front of his shirt and his right arm seemed twisted at an impossible angle.
Then she saw the other body at Kyle’s feet. A small man in a dark, tight-fitting outfit. One that she imagined that Jake wore from time-to-time as an assassin. His face was not visible, but she could tell by the back of his skull that he was East Asian. What appeared to be a Yakuza tattoo curled up around the base of his neck and down one exposed arm.
The blood on the floor was mostly his.
Hallie used her foot to turn him over. His eyes were glazed over and his mouth slack. The blood was coming from his head. Something had caved in the front of his skull, bone fragments and brain matter were plastered to the carpet where his head lay. Hallie tried to contain her bile. She put a hand to her mouth and began to wretch.
“No stomach for it, Monday?” Kyle asked. His laugh was punctuated by coughs and a grunt as he sat up.
He held a bloody paperweight in his good hand. The other hand was misshapen, the thumb pulled back at a sharp angle and his index finger severed. The shoulder and elbow had been broken or dislocated.
Kyle caught her staring.
“He must have thought I was right handed,” he chuckled wickedly. Coughed again. Blood spattered onto his shirt. “Ugh. I think he still killed me,” he admitted. He kicked the assassin in the chest, rolling him over onto the floor onto his back.
“We need to get you to a doctor,” Hallie said. She did not holster her pistol.
Kyle looked at her, pointed to the pistol in her hand with his eyes.
“You don’t trust me?”
She felt like crying.
“I don’t know who to trust anymore.”
“Fair enough. Do you think they would send someone like him to kill someone like me if I wasn’t someone you could trust?”
“Why didn’t you tell Jake about Camilla?” she asked. She fought the accusative tone in her voice. If Kyle was right, it would be unfair for his last breaths be spent in an interrogation.
She had to control herself. She was on the edge of crying. That would ruin it. With men, sometimes a well-placed cry could move mountains. Other times, crying was a trigger for men to dismiss everything you were saying.
He shook his head as if drugged, his eyes closing in slow motion.
“He was too vulnerable. I could not tell him yet. He was processing too much too fast. He hadn’t even come to grips with almost killing his father.” He spoke as if in a dream.
“Kyle. Wake up.” Hallie fought the urge to shake him. “Jake didn’t know that Gabriel was the President. He didn’t know it was his father. How did that not ever come up?”
Kyle opened his eyes, his body swaying. He put the hand with the bloody paperweight on the desk for support. He breathed heavily.
“Oh. Well. That explains a lot. It never came up directly. We can watch the footage again. We kept things formal out of respect. You know, called him President or Commander in Chief. Things like that. Professional. We did it all professional. Out of respect.” Kyle coughed again. He seemed genuine. He was dying. Who lied when they were dying?
“We have to get you to the hospital, Kyle. Come on.” She grabbed him under an arm.
He shook her off.
“No. It’s too late. You can’t waste any time. Jake is in danger. They have him.”
“Who? Who has him?”
Kyle closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Them. We don’t know who they are. No names. We have a code for them. Them. Very powerful. More than money. More than murderers. We think they have infiltrated the government.”
“Who is we? Infiltrated where?”
“We. We are the government. The Service. The CIA. NSA. FBI. The Senate. Even Gabriel.”
“Gabriel? What do you mean?”
Kyle coughed again. This time his body seemed to shake and he began to collapse. Hallie caught him under an arm again and lifted him up, her hand bringing his chin up so she could look him in the face.
“Kyle! Talk to me. Jake is in danger. Gabriel is one of them...”
“No. Gabriel is one of us. We. We. We might fail. We might not be able to protect him anymore. Not from Jake. Not from anyone. It is bigger than that even.”
“Do you mean the Consortium?”
He perked up at that.
“How do you know?” He asked, lucidity coming back slowly, like a body drifting back to the surface of a lake.
“Senator Swane.”
Kyle smiled. Blood stained his lips.
“There are some heroes in the world still.” He struggled to sit back on the desk. “Just let me sit for a while. It hurts too much to stand.”
“What did he do to you?”
He laugh-coughed.
“What didn’t he do? Crazy son of a....” he spit a red glob onto the floor at the assassin’s feet. “I think he broke a rib and punctured a lung, maybe more. Broke at least four fingers, my elbow.” He indicated his right arm. “Messed that up pretty well. Had me screaming my mother’s name at one point I think. Man, I am such a wimp,” he lamented.
Hallie patted him on the back.
“No. You are brave. A hero. We owe you big time, Kyle.”
He looked at her, his eyes sad and remorseful.
“You don’t owe me anything, Hallie. You were right not to trust me. We were using both of you. After Jake went dark, we used you. We shared Jake’s information. We augmented his programming ourselves.”
“Lars?” Hallie felt the old anger swelling to the surface and she fought it back.
“Yes. We were working with the CIA finally. It was supposed to be a joint operation.”
“Violet?”
“Yes.” He swallowed. “They were turned on us. The information was going both ways. We knew, but we wanted to know who was pulling the strings because it wasn’t Galbraith.”
/> “What do you mean?”
He shook his head.
“We never found out.” His chin slumped to his chest and his breathing came slower. “I guess we will never know. Please forgive me, Hallie.” He never looked up. His life just wound down slowly.
Hallie stood in front of Kyle, lifting his chin.
“Kyle! Where did they take Jake? You have to tell me.”
She watched Kyle make an effort to pull himself out of the dive. She could see the light leaving his eyes like water going down a drain.
“He put the information on a flash drive. In his pocket. I have all kinds of stuff on there about them. I couldn’t understand it all.” He said. His voice was just a whisper now. “Colorado Springs. He may be gone now, though.”
“Gone where?”
“DC. Maryland, maybe?”
“They want Jake to murder his father?”
“I guess that is easy to figure out for everyone but him. He can’t though,” Kyle said, his voice winding down like his batteries were dying.
Hallie blinked away tears. Was she crying for Kyle or for Jake? Both?
She grabbed the wrist of his good arm. No pulse. Hallie called security and exited the building under the cover of emergency personnel. Someone would have to call Maddy, Kyle’s wife. Someone would have to do a crime scene investigation. Someone would play back the recording from the cameras. She only had so much time.
It was up to her. It had always been up to her. She extracted $2,000 cash from her credit card. She would visit her bank tomorrow and withdraw the remaining $4,500 savings. She hoped that her Agency-issued card would work one last time.
Hallie was grateful when the attendant at LaGuardia allowed her to book her flight to Washington with the Agency Visa. She passed security with her badge, smiling politely at the TSA official. The smile was not returned.
Her JetBlue flight didn’t leave for three more hours so she visited Bijoux Terner and got a new handbag, a scarf, and a beret. She pulled her hair back and looked at herself in the mirror. She added some heavier makeup to hide her eye color and changed out of her blouse and discarded her blazer. The skirt would just have to do. She bought a t-shirt and a new pair of sandals from “Life is Good.” What a joke! She was tired of the heels, anyway.
Finally, she got a sandwich from Angelina’s Paninis and settled down to wait in the bright chairs, staring out into the darkness and blinking lights. She debated who she could trust to call. Should she risk everything and ask for help? Would the senator keep sticking his neck out for them? She decided it was up to her. Jake was her responsibility. She just wished she knew where he was.
She thought back to Kyle. He had died so inelegantly. Her fingerprints were everywhere. She worked there, so that would not be abnormal. But she had checked in at the desk. She was certainly on camera. Her voice surely was recorded on the security tapes when she called it in.
She could not afford to worry about those things. She tried to distract herself.
Hallie glanced up at one of several large flat screens. CNN was on. Something was happening. Further down the terminal she could hear an echo of a set that had the sound turned up. Several travelers were gathered around the set in a semi-circle.
She considered just sitting still and maybe getting a snooze, but some dark premonition made her get up and walk up to the group, her eyes taking in the spectacle on the television.
“...the embassy was attacked at approximately 6:20 am. Only service personnel were present at time. US consulate offices, CDC, and INL personnel have been taken to a secure location. The attack is believed to be orchestrated by a terrorist group tied to Islamic extremists. Connections to drug trafficking have also been suspected. US officials have no comment at this time...”
Hallie reached forward and tapped an older gentleman on the shoulder. He turned, his eyes quizzical.
“Where is this?” Hallie asked.
“South Sudan American Embassy.” He turned back to the news.
Hallie tried to do the math. Was Sudan eight hours ahead? Six?
“...No word officially from President Vine, but Niles Trent, his press secretary has hinted at a press conference perhaps in the morning. This is the third major attack this year in South Sudan. In May, Lebanese ambassador Fadi Hajjar, was attacked by Hezbollah militants in Juba, setting off a firestorm of support for Jewish residence in Sudan. Speaking for the...”
Of course, Hallie thought. A press conference. They have infiltrated the press. At least now she knew where she would be able to find Jake.
Chapter 9
Natural Born Killer
The hardest part about pretending was that part of him wanted to be here. It was familiar ground. The Marine sentry with his ridiculous rigidity. The Secret Service personnel tired, wired, and alert. The agents with binoculars and high-powered rifles on the rooftop. The smell of the roses wafting up to greet him as he entered the West Wing. The pristine whiteness symbolizing good. It was all comfort to him.
Jake flicked the press pass on his jacket and tried to smile as he was checked by yet another security personnel. Everyone seemed to go through the motions.
He had passed all the tests. Yet he still had a convoy of consortium five-v’s following him into the packed press room. It amazed him the depth of the corruption. He saw several looks of recognition and they nodded. Like they were all in on this. They knew who he was. He was fooling no one.
He wondered for a moment how this could have happened. The Agency was an elite group of men that were dedicated. He did not understand how they could be involved in a conspiracy to kill the man they were sworn to protect. He felt sorry for his father for the first time in over a decade.
Jake squeezed into the room. Gentle pushing, awkward smiles and the press of bodies was unavoidable. Camera equipment, men in ties and women in heels vied for room, for line of sight, and for front row status. He could smell hair gel, dry cleaning chemicals, and chewing gum. His stomach lurched. He had not eaten. The chemicals in his system still corrupted his bloodstream. His head pounded. He tried to concentrate. One lapse would mean that the programming would overcome his barriers.
Now that he was this close, he had no idea of how to proceed. The plan had been to follow protocol until he could assess his opportunities. He glanced around the room. He recognized some of the agents. They were studiously ignoring him.
He pulled out the recorder from his jacket pocket. It was larger than most. That was because it was also a retractable stiletto, though a short one. The length did not matter. It only needed to be three to four inches to reach the heart. Razor thin and less than two inches deep to slice the jugular or carotid (but messy). A thin wire could kill silently and quickly. Exsanguination would take less than ten seconds.
The device he held was designed to be somewhere between a stiletto and a dirk, actually. Its base was thicker, but without the stiletto’s triangular configuration. Still, it was a puncture weapon, not a slicing weapon. The dirk needed to be placed with almost surgical precision.
The typical human heart was less than three inches across. Easy target to miss. Especially on someone who was large.
He thought of these things, oddly comforting statistics he processed without effort, like a baseball player considering a curve ball in the half second it took to travel from the pitcher’s hand to the plate.
Meanwhile, he watched with heavy-lidded eyes the congested room. He wondered what his next move should be. No matter what he did, it would be akin to suicide. And, where would he go? He knew he had to do something to stop them. If he failed to murder his father, then surely they had someone else prepared to do the deed and then somehow pin it on Jake. And if he went through with it, then what? Dead, of course. Which explained the nods. They were not just going along, they were preparing for target practice. It was their turn to play hero.
How were they going to explain letting him in, though? It was obvious. Someone was already lined up to take the fall. Maybe Randy, the
new guy or Howard Ettle, the veteran. Both were on service. Neither had seen him. The deviousness of the entire operation was almost inspiring.
“It was confirmed to be the Hezbollah,” one correspondent shared with another. They both nodded. Jake tried to shut out the buzz of conversation, the constant rustling.
Jake understood that an embassy had been attacked. People had died.
It was strange to him. People died every day. Children died of disease and malnutrition. Women died from abuse and neglect. Young people died from drug overdoses. Mothers died in childbirth.
They did not get a press conference. The President did not speak for them. Yet, attack a building designated as American property on foreign soil and the press came out in droves, the President prepared a speech, and people threw their arms up in rage and despair.
Jake was prone to bouts of irony.
Then, it came to him. He knew what he needed to do and how he would do it. The room was chaotic enough that it might just work.
Jake edged his way forward, excusing himself and watching the agents as they tried to ignore his progress. Several of the press correspondents looked at him askance. He knew he was unknown among them and they wondered who the new guy was pushing forward like a rookie, overlooking press decorum. He would probably get his membership to WHCA revoked.
As he pushed forward, he wondered if the attack in Juba had been manufactured in order to get this press conference scheduled. The timing seemed coincidental. As more of the conspiracy was exposed to him, he became impressed with the strings of the marionette. So many people and events were being orchestrated. From what he could tell, only a handful of people were responsible. It was impressive and frightful.
He held the recorder in front of him, judging the distance to the podium. Several security and officials milled around the stage, turning on the media at the podium, wiping fingerprints off the plasma display to the left of the podium and generally looking busy. Two men in suits stood by the door, their right hands over their left wrists, eyes scanning the press corps.
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