I just hope the assholes who were chasing me didn’t call back to the mothership with my whereabouts before they blew up.
How the hell did they even find me? I’ve been so careful…
Well, no sense worrying about that now. I’ve bought myself a few hours at least. I need to get another car and track down the first name on this list. I don’t have time to waste.
4
MEANWHILE…
15:42 EDT
President Cunningham was sitting at the head of a long, polished table in the Situation Room, underneath the West Wing of the White House, meeting with members of his National Security Council. Opposite him, mounted on the wall, was a large display screen, currently switched off. He leaned back in his chair, listening to the discussion as he took a sip from his bottle of water.
On his immediate left was Elaine Phillips, the secretary of state. She was a strong woman in her early fifties with graying blonde hair. She was known for being very forthright and direct. From a political point of view, Cunningham held her in high regard. She was strong-willed, frightfully intelligent, and widely respected by both parties. He knew he couldn’t simply replace her the way he had many of the others. Consequently, he exercised caution whenever she was present at meetings because she wasn’t privy to his ongoing agenda.
Sitting across from her was Gerald Heskith, Cunningham’s chief of staff. He was a loyal and long-standing friend who had been instrumental not only in getting him elected as president, but also in helping him shape his vision for a new future. He was a little overweight, with the excess sitting primarily on his gut. He was a highly intelligent man, and many within the administration believed him to be a natural successor to Cunningham, when the time came.
Beside Heskith was the secretary of defense, Bruce Fielding. He, too, was committed to helping President Cunningham in his goal to usher in a new era of peace. He had been brought in to replace Ryan Schultz, who Cunningham had felt simply wasn’t the right fit to be included in his plans for the future.
Fielding was currently deep in conversation with General Pat Green, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table facing the president.
“I understand what you’re saying, Pat, I do,” said Fielding, his voice deep and authoritative. “But there’s no sense in sending large numbers of our troops overseas at this stage. GlobaTech Industries has it covered, and I believe our priority should be the ongoing safety of our own citizens.”
General Green was used to clashing with Fielding over issues regarding the armed forces, often feeling his advice was redundant or unwanted, despite his position and military history. But in light of recent events, he was struggling to exercise his usual level of diplomacy.
He shook his head. “I can’t fathom why you would disagree with me on this! Why sit and wait for any problems to come to us? If we take responsibility and get involved now, we can help the countries that need it. At the same time directly contributing to the prevention of further conflict.”
Both men fell silent, sensing the stalemate.
Cunningham sat forward in his chair, taking a deep breath as he contemplated both viewpoints. Despite completely agreeing with Secretary Fielding—primarily because he had told Fielding what to say before the meeting—he knew the importance of acting like any other president would to keep up appearances.
He looked to his left. “Elaine, what do you think?”
Secretary Phillips was slightly taken aback. “Mr. President, it’s not really my place to comment on matters relating to our country’s armed forces. I—”
Cunningham held up his hand. “As my secretary of state, I’m asking for an informed opinion on the current state of foreign diplomacy as a whole. Will sending our troops overseas make any significant difference, in your opinion?”
She nodded and took a breath. “At the moment, I think GlobaTech is doing a fantastic job. Aside from the foreign aid and security it’s providing, it’s the PR equivalent of celebrities visiting an orphanage on Christmas Day. With both China and Russia so drastically affected by 4/17, the UN peacekeeping force has been crippled. Forgive my frankness, Mr. President, but the way things are right now we might as well privatize the entire United Nations and give GlobaTech the contract. It’s representing this country, and we as a nation are pretty much exclusively rebuilding the world. I don’t know what kind of threats our country might face in the future, but I don’t see that our immediate involvement would make enough difference to justify it, sir.”
Fielding smiled, and Phillips cast a quick, apologetic glance to General Green, who looked even more deflated now that his point of view had been debunked by another member of the council.
Cunningham nodded slowly, taking the comments on board. Secretly, he was happy that his gamble had paid off and that someone independent to his cause had agreed with his most recent move.
“General Green, I appreciate your concerns and your advice,” he said, looking across the group. “But I will not send any of our armed forces overseas at this time. GlobaTech Industries has the full backing of the White House, and I personally have every confidence it can provide the necessary assistance needed by the affected nations while using its not-insignificant security forces to maintain peace.”
Green went to say something but stopped himself. The president had spoken, and everyone knew that was the end of the matter. He sat back in his chair and nodded. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“Thank you.” He paused, looking at the man sitting to the left of Secretary Phillips. “General Matthews, I’d like you to stay for a few minutes to discuss some intelligence reports.”
Matthews nodded. “Of course, Mr. President.”
“The rest of you, thank you for your time. We’re done here.”
Heskith remained seated but the others stood, thanked the president for his time, and made their way out of the room. Only when the door was closed did anyone speak.
General Matthews leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk. “Mr. President, I—”
“Tom, let me stop you there,” said Heskith. “Now isn’t the time for excuses or apologies or anything else, do you understand? The president has given you one task, and that’s all we’re interested in.”
Matthews went to reply but refrained. He knew Heskith spoke for the president, and despite feeling undermined, he accepted the fact he was out of favor right now, which was likely the reason President Cunningham wanted to keep any direct communication to a minimum.
“Of course,” he replied. “Mr. President, for the last forty-eight hours my team has been using the Cerberus network to locate and track Adrian Hell. A unit intercepted him in Bangor, Maine, less than an hour ago…”
Cunningham sat up straight in his chair, suddenly a lot more interested in the words coming out of the CIA director’s mouth. He exchanged a glance with Heskith. “You have him?”
Matthews shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sliding a finger between the collar of his shirt and throat—a subconscious effort to get more oxygen. “Ah… not exactly, sir, no. He managed to escape, but we’re confident we’ll relocate him any time now. There’s only so far he could’ve—”
Cunningham held up his hand for silence before resting his head in it and massaging the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. He took a couple of deep breaths trying to summon a hidden reserve of patience. “So, let me see if I understand this… After that clusterfuck in Prague a few days ago, I—against my better judgment, I might add—gave you full control of the Cerberus satellite with the sole purpose of finding one man and killing him. You found him and sent a team to take him out. Not only did he manage to escape, you’re now telling me you can’t find him again? Is that about right?”
Matthews sighed and nodded. “At the moment, that’s where we’re at, sir.”
Cunningham looked at Heskith, who silently raised an eyebrow. He took another sip of water before turning back to Matthews. “
Okay, here’s what’s going to happen… Get a unit over to his last known location. Remove any traces of the CIA’s involvement in whatever the hell happened that led to him escaping. Then find him again. The next time we speak, Tom, you’re going to tell me Adrian Hell is dead. Are we clear?”
Matthews nodded again.
“Good. You don’t need me to tell you how close we are to the next phase, Tom. Adrian Hell is the only thing that could potentially stop it from happening, and I can’t allow that.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Cunningham nodded. “Okay, we’re done here.” He looked at his chief of staff. “Gerry, I want you to sit in on this conference call, okay?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” he replied.
Matthews stood. “Thank you, Mr. President.” He left the room and the door was closed again behind him.
Heskith got to his feet and walked to the end of the table, picking up a remote and turning on the large screen facing them.
“Are we good to go?” asked Cunningham.
Heskith pressed a few buttons, looked at the president, and nodded. “We’re good, sir.”
He sat back down in his seat, and after a moment the screen flickered into life. A man sitting behind a desk appeared on the screen. He was wearing a brown military suit, with medals adorning the left breast. Behind him was a North Korean flag.
“Mr. President,” said the man in a broken English accent. “It’s been too long… my friend.”
5
ADRIAN HELL
19:48 EDT
I left Case’s Audi in the parking lot outside a grocery store and borrowed an old brown truck that was sitting next to it. I made it to Manchester without further incident and found a no-name, low-rent motel for the night.
New Hampshire is similar to Maine in that you can walk pretty much anywhere and it will always feel like autumn. The sun’s beginning its descent, and the deep orange glow is lighting up the early evening sky.
I’m standing on the street corner near the motel, trying to get my bearings. The last known location of the first name on my list is a hospital close to the Notre Dame Bridge, not far from the banks of the Merrimack River. According to a local, who I asked for directions, it should be on the opposite side of Lafayette Park from where I am now.
Bit strange, though—a hitman working in a hospital.
My spider sense is all over the place. I don’t doubt the information Case gave me for a second… Maybe I’m just a little shaken from the unexpected run-in with the CIA? Still, it’s not as if I have any alternative options, so I guess I’m going to see the doctor…
I set off walking, making my way through the park and coming out the other side face-to-face with a Dunkin’ Donuts. Seriously, I saw, like, eight of these things as I drove through town earlier… I’m astounded there aren’t more fat people in New Hampshire!
I can see the hospital up ahead on the other side of the street. I take a seat on a bench and study the building. There’s a semicircular driveway in front of the entrance designed for ambulances to get close to the doors in an emergency. To the left is the parking lot, which looks full—typical of most hospitals nowadays. I can see some staff loitering outside, having a quick cigarette on their break by the looks of it.
The driveway is under cover where it meets the main doors, and I can just about see the curve of a black dome fixed to the brickwork, which houses the security cameras. They’ll have a full three-sixty degree view. No way am I getting inside without being caught on camera. It’s not worth the risk to just play it cool and stroll through, because I can guarantee every security feed west of Maine will now be monitored around the clock by the CIA—and probably the NSA and Homeland, too—following my altercation on the interstate earlier.
No, I need to be discreet if I want to get in there. And how do I find the guy once I do? I doubt he’ll be wearing a nametag… I sigh, wishing to whatever god might be watching that I could call Josh and ask him for help. I’m useless on my own when it comes to shit like this.
Ah, screw it.
I cross the street at a casual pace and head through the main entrance, trying to make it look natural as I turn away from the camera so my face isn’t totally visible. If they’re running any kind of recognition software, a partial scan will take longer to get any hits, which buys me some time.
Inside, I come to a reception area. The vanilla tiling on the floor stinks of disinfectant—that awful smell that always reminds you of hospitals. I think every hospital in the world must use the same brand, so they get that same stench. They must’ve recently cleaned the floor, too, as the odor is strong and stinging my nostrils.
My footfalls are amplified by the heels of my boots as I walk up to the front desk, which runs along most of the left side. Opposite, rows of interlinking chairs form the waiting area, which is currently half-empty—or half-full, depending on your point of view. It’s the usual collection of people with visible lacerations, people who look like shit, and people who look fine—which always makes you wonder what they’re actually here for.
The desk is staffed by two nurses, both wearing navy blue uniforms with name badges clipped to a strip of material just above their left breast. One of them is talking calmly into a phone; the other is tapping away at a computer.
“Excuse me,” I say.
The one at the computer looks up—no smile, no courtesy, just the weary disinterest of someone who’s probably been sitting here for the last ten hours earning minimum wage.
I smile. “Hi. I was hoping you could help me. I was told an old friend of mine works here. Jonas Briggs? Do you know where I could find him?”
She frowns, as if thinking about it, and shakes her head. “No, sorry. Don’t know anyone by that name who works here. Although, I work the day shift—he might work nights…” She looks at the computer and presses a few buttons on the keyboard. “No, nothing showing on the staff directory, either…” She spins around in her chair and looks at her colleague, who has just come off the phone. “You know a Jonas Briggs?” she asks her. “Works here, apparently…”
The other nurse, a portly woman, maybe late forties, shakes her head. “No… nobody here by that name. Certainly not on my shift, anyway.”
I sigh, unable to hide the frustration. It’s not a good sign, falling at the first hurdle like this. Maybe Briggs uses a fake name while he’s working… or maybe Briggs is a fake name, I don’t know. But regardless of what he calls himself, being here’s a bust.
“Okay, thanks for your time, ladies.” I turn and head back out the main entrance. I stand on the sidewalk next to the driveway, glancing both ways along the street.
I pause, then look up and stare straight into the black dome of security cameras. I wait a moment, then walk off across the street, back through the park, and into my motel room.
Just playing a hunch.
April 27, 2017
01:51 EDT
My eyes snap open as I’m ripped from my sleep by the quietest of noises. The slightest disturbance in the air around me and my subconscious body takes control. Years of training, honing my mind to be as much a weapon as the guns I carry with me.
I feel a sharp pressure on my neck, pushing against the skin without breaking it. I glance to my left and see a dark figure looming over me holding a hypodermic needle to the side of my throat. In the darkness, I can’t make out his features. I can just see the whites of his eyes staring at me.
It’s actually a little freaky, like something out of a horror film.
But it looks like my hunch paid off… I figured if this guy was smart enough to use a fake identity for his day job, to protect himself from anyone in my world finding him, chances are he probably had some way of finding out if anyone came looking, too. To do that, I thought he either managed to hack into the security feeds at the hospital, or he had some kind of flag in place so he could tell when somebody searched for his name in the system.
It’s why I looked at the camera before I l
eft, so he could see me if I happened to be right. I know it was risky, but the way I figure it, it’s more important right now to get people on my side. Even if I’m right about security feeds being monitored by the CIA, I’ll be long gone by the time anyone tracks me here. Plus, there’s no way they would think anything of me being in a hospital besides possibly being injured. They won’t know I’m recruiting.
It was a calculated gamble, which apparently paid off.
I tilt my head back and to the side, trying to alleviate some of the pressure from the needle. “Jonas Briggs, I presume?”
“Who the fuck’s asking?” he replies. “And, before you think about lying to me, pay close attention to the needle. It contains a little cocktail of my own design. Completely undetectable in any blood tests and extremely lethal.”
I smile. “Well, at least I know I’ve found the right person…”
“Who are you?”
“Jonas—assuming that’s your name… Needle or not, it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to lie to you. But for the sake of full disclosure, I want you to go ahead and lift up the duvet next to your leg.”
He’s silent, but after a moment of hesitation, he does. Even in the gloom he can see my hand holding a Beretta, which is aiming, quite accurately, at the left side of his stomach.
I feel the needle move away from my skin.
“You stick me with that thing, I’ll make sure you bleed out in an agony you can’t imagine. But that’s just me being honest with you. I’m not here as an enemy.”
Slowly, he moves away to stand over by the table at the end of the bed. I reach across and flick the light on at the side of me, bathing the room in a bright glow that forces me to squint.
Once my eyes adjust, I take a good look at him. He’s a short guy, maybe five nine. He has a thick neck and looks well put together, treading the fine line between muscular and fat. He’s bald, and his head is round. The skin around his cheekbones is tough and pockmarked.
A Necessary Kill Page 3