by Eric Bernt
His tone did not waver. “RAISE YOUR HANDS AND KNEEL, OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE.”
There was no question in Skylar’s mind that he and his associates would follow through on the threat. So she complied. The echo box and laptop supercomputer tumbled from Eddie’s grip, falling to the street as he started seizing violently. He collapsed near his precious devices, SLAPPING himself as hard as he could. Ten times. Twenty times. There would be no stopping it this time.
Skylar looked on helplessly as the agents closed in. She pleaded, “He needs to be restrained!”
The agent was now standing directly in front of her. “Happy to oblige.” He smirked. “I’m Agent Kendricks.” He nodded to one of his subordinates, who cuffed her left wrist, and then her right, behind her back. It was the first time Skylar had ever been in restraints, but all she could think of was Eddie.
He had slapped himself almost fifty times by the time the agents managed to restrain him. His face looked raw. His cheek was bleeding. It took four agents to hold him down long enough to get his arms behind his back and cuffs around his wrists.
Skylar tried to sound reassuring. “Eddie, I’m still here. I’m right here with you. Try to focus on my voice. Pretend that I’m still holding you.”
He continued writhing helplessly in the middle of the street, even after they had released him. The handcuffs dug into his wrists. The silver cuffs quickly became stained with blood as the metal bit into his skin. He couldn’t stop himself, seemingly oblivious to the pain.
Skylar struggled to keep from crying. Her eyes welled with tears. “Eddie, can you hear me? You’re hurting yourself. Stop. Please, stop . . .”
And then, without warning, he did. Eddie stopped moving altogether. He was no longer even blinking.
Agent Kendricks immediately moved to him, getting on his knees, checking Eddie’s pupils. They were dilated. “He’s gone into shock.”
“Take his goddamn handcuffs off!” Skylar screamed.
Kendricks did so. Eddie just lay there limply.
Skylar pleaded, “Please, let me help him. I won’t go anywhere.”
Kendricks rebuffed her without emotion. “He is no longer a danger to himself. An ambulance is on its way.” A siren could be heard approaching in the distance.
“Where are you going to take him?”
“That’s none of your concern.” The agent’s tone was authoritative.
“Like hell it’s not! Where are you going to take him?”
He eyeballed her. “If I were you, I’d be more concerned about where we’re taking you.” She eyeballed him right back.
He then turned to one of his subordinates, who was bending down to pick up the echo box. “Sir, what should we do with—”
Kendricks suddenly drew his weapon and took direct aim at his fellow agent. “Back away! NOW!”
The young agent jumped back, bewildered. “Sir, I was only trying to—”
“Our orders are that no one touches either machine. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” The young agent took several more steps away from the echo box, assuming that contamination might be a factor. He was only too happy to get the hell away from the thing.
Skylar kept her eyes glued to Eddie as the ambulance arrived on the scene. Its siren was deafeningly loud. She realized that if he hadn’t gone into shock, Eddie would now be in tremendous pain. Several agents surrounded the paramedics as they tended to him. Skylar no longer had a clear view of what was being done to him. It was killing her. “I’m still with you, Eddie.”
“He’s in shock,” said one of the paramedics. “He can’t hear you.”
“You have no idea what he can hear!” she snapped.
Every agent immediately turned his or her attention to Philadelphia Director of Homeland Security Albert Shoals, as he arrived. There were four other agents with the director, two on each side. One of each pair carried a large metal case handcuffed to his right wrist. Shoals approached Agent Kendricks. “Where is the device?”
Kendricks moved to the echo box and supercomputer lying in the street. “Nobody has touched either item since we apprehended the fugitives, sir.”
Director Shoals studied them. “They look like they were dropped.”
“They were, sir. The fugitive Edward Parks dropped them when he was surrounded.”
“Whatever the hell this thing does, you better hope it still does it.” Shoals nodded to the men with the cases, who approached the echo box and laptop lying in the street. One unlocked his case, placed the echo box inside it, locked it, and gave the key to Director Shoals. The other agent did the same with the laptop, locking it up and giving the key to the director.
The five men left as abruptly as they had arrived, and in the exact same formation. The men with the cases remained on either side of Shoals. The second agent in each pair flanked them on the outside, remaining a half step behind their counterparts. They got into a waiting blacked-out Suburban, the middle vehicle in a caravan of three. As the vehicles sped away in close formation, Skylar was certain that neither she nor Eddie would ever see the echo box again.
She turned back to Eddie as the paramedics moved him onto a gurney and started wheeling him toward the ambulance. “Eddie, I promise I will find you.”
He did not respond. Eddie had already been sedated. The gurney was placed in the rear of the ambulance. The doors were closed. And the ambulance sped off. Skylar did not look away until it was completely gone from view.
And all at once, Skylar felt as alone as she’d ever felt in her life.
Agent Kendricks stepped toward her. “Follow me.” He led her to a waiting vehicle.
“Please tell me where they’re taking him.” The agent did not respond. She quickly grew frustrated. “What harm will it do to tell me?”
He paused outside the vehicle. “The more accurate question is, Doctor, what good will it do? My understanding is that you’re never going to see your patient again.”
CHAPTER 93
Michael Barnes’s House, Swedesboro, New Jersey, May 28, 1:19 a.m.
Michael Barnes’s cell phone vibrated, sliding around the tan Formica counter of his small kitchen as the device rang and rang, just like it had the dozen other times Fenton had called recently. Once again, the call went through to voicemail. Barnes did not answer the phone because he could not hear it. He was busy with a shovel in the storage shed at the rear of his property, digging up the second of two storage containers he had so carefully packed years ago.
Barnes had purchased the home when he first started working for Dr. Marcus Fenton, because it was cheap, it afforded him the privacy he required, and Swedesboro and Woolwich Township were close, but not too close, to Woodbury and Harmony House. Seventeen minutes, door to door, and there was never any traffic. It didn’t bother him that the place was a dump.
The property was dimly lit by design. Barnes liked it that way. It gave the impression that the home’s resident was careless, and gave him a tactical advantage against most types of threat. The only light at the rear of the property came from the temporary work light Barnes had strung up across one of the storage shed’s beams. He had backed his Impala to the shed’s sagging entrance in part to block any view of his activities, as well as to reduce the distance he’d have to carry the unearthed containers. The first box was already in his back seat. The container had just barely fit, which was no coincidence. It was the largest container that would fit through the door. The second box would similarly squeeze into the vehicle’s trunk.
Barnes was sweating as he hoisted the second container out of the ground. It had only been buried two feet beneath the ground’s surface, and the box weighed no more than 150 pounds, but it felt to him like twice that much. Barnes thought to himself that maybe he really was getting too old for this shit. Given how radically his life was about to change, he found the notion reassuring. He had made this choice because it was his only choice. In a universe of one option, you take it.
Barnes dragged the container
to the rear of his car, and paused to take a breath. That was when he saw it: a single, partial boot print in the driveway dirt, which had never been paved for exactly this reason. He had visitors. Barnes’s tactical neural computer instantly cranked up to an uncountable number of calculations per second, and went something like this: The print was the right heel of a combat boot made by Altama or Belleville, both of which were military approved, AR 670 compliant. The size was approximately twelve, which meant the size of his enemy was approximately 6’1” and 190 pounds. The adversary most certainly had training similar to his own, which meant he wouldn’t have come alone. He had at least one associate with him, and possibly more. Barnes was outnumbered.
These were elite hired professionals working in a clandestine service few knew existed. And at least one of them could see him at this very second. The only piece of the equation that didn’t add up was why he was still alive. It was a matter that would be resolved in the next three seconds.
The target looked like a greenish apparition through the Leupold Mark 6 tactical night-vision scopes trained on him from opposite sides of the property. The National League East fans had arrived shortly after the home’s owner had returned, but it had taken them longer than expected to get into desirable firing positions. The property was a ramshackle obstacle course: storage bins, stacks of tires, a dilapidated greenhouse, rusting lawn furniture, and a broken-down canned-ham trailer that looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. There were old strings of Christmas lights strung up around the property, some sagging so badly they almost touched the ground. It was all so haphazardly scattered about that there was no way they could possibly know that everything had been placed for very specific reasons known only to the maze’s designer.
The baseball fans, however, would find out soon enough.
Thirty yards from his partner, Murphy whispered into his bone-induction tactical headset, gently applying consistent tension in preparation for squeezing the trigger of his SR-25. “One.”
Giles pulsed his trigger finger on his identical weapon. “Two.” As the two men fired in perfect unison exactly one second later, something unexpected happened. Barnes ducked. He dropped to the ground as if his legs had suddenly given out, collapsing right behind the storage container, which was bulletproof. Barnes’s instincts had saved his life, but hadn’t saved him from being wounded. Murphy’s .22-caliber bullet clipped Barnes’s right ear, removing the upper portion of it, which fell to the ground like an undercooked piece of chicken sausage. Giles’s hollow point ripped through Barnes’s left shoulder, causing enough structural damage that replacement would be his only option for returning to full function. That was, if he survived the night. But it was his nonshooting shoulder, so at least he had a fighting chance.
The National League East fans watched him hide behind the storage case, which was large enough to conceal his body. Murphy said quietly, “Son of a bitch got lucky.”
Giles never blinked. “Not for long.”
Murphy carefully scanned for a glimpse of the target. “We have that same case.”
Giles recognized it, too, remembering that the reason they had selected it was the reason it was being used now. “No point trying to shoot through it, then.”
Neither took any action. In this game of chess, it was their opponent’s move.
Barnes was in excruciating pain. But the searing sensation only seemed to further sharpen his senses. The game was on, and it was being played on a field of his design. He had a true advantage. He knew exactly where on the property grid the two shots had been fired from. He also knew exactly how best to approach them.
Barnes’s first order of business was to neutralize their night vision, which he assumed they were using, because it was what he would do. Employing the storage container as a shield, he pulled it with him as he crawled backward, deeper into the shed. Reaching the rear wall, he grabbed a section of pipe from a stack of them, and used it to reach up and flick an old light switch. With the click of the mechanism, the entire property lit up like a Christmas tree, quite literally. The old, sagging strings all worked perfectly. They might not have been stadium lights, but they were enough to temporarily blind anyone not expecting them. Barnes took out his handgun.
By the time the National League East fans had adjusted their eyes, Barnes could no longer be seen. “Target’s on the move,” said Giles. He scanned his half of the property, knowing his partner would be doing the same on his side.
“Copy.” Murphy scoured the rear of the property. There was no sign of Barnes. So he closed his eyes and listened. There was no indication of movement. Crickets were chirping, but that was about it. The air was still. Tense. “He’s good.”
“We’re better.” Giles continued scanning around him, methodically looking from left to right, then back again. He was a machine. Patience was the key. And they could wait all night. Sooner or later, the target would reveal himself. And if he could see them, they could see him. It was their advantage, two-to-one.
What the National League East fans hadn’t counted on was how well Barnes knew his property, which had more in common with a paintball combat zone than a traditional backyard. He literally knew every angle. Which meant he was playing chess and his hostiles were playing checkers. If either one of the shooters had moved, Barnes would have heard it.
The shooter on the west side was closest to him. The hostile had taken his shot from behind the canned-ham trailer, which was located twenty yards from Barnes through poorly tended hedges. This shooter’s bullet was the one that had removed part of Barnes’s ear. That meant the shooter had probably been standing. Barnes guessed the assassin was still within six inches of the trailer corner he had used to steady his sniper rifle.
The trailer walls were a combination of clapboard and aluminum siding. A bullet’s trajectory would deviate less than one degree if fired through it. The hedges wouldn’t affect the projectile’s trajectory at all. Barnes decided to fire three shots in quick succession. Each would be six inches apart horizontally and twelve inches apart vertically, because it was possible the target had decided to kneel. Barnes rehearsed the quick three-shot several times, and then fired without pause. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Giles, whose position was between a stack of tires and a swing set, could see the muzzle flashes in the distance, and immediately returned fire. He would soon learn none of his shots had found the mark.
Murphy, however, never saw the gunfire, because the trailer blocked his view. The three shots ripped through the wood and metal siding like it was Swiss cheese. The first bullet missed him, but the second and third did not. The second shot punctured Murphy’s abdomen, perforating his descending colon and shattering his pelvis. The third shot hit him in the leg, obliterating his right femur, along with his quadriceps and adductor muscles. He collapsed instantly. He grimaced, clenching his teeth. “I’m hit.”
“How bad?” his partner asked urgently.
“Doc’s gonna earn his pay.” He was referring to the emergency-room doctor they had on retainer. First, they needed to reach him, but there was no way Murphy would be able to move on his own. All he could do was lie there, writhing.
Giles needed to help his partner, but couldn’t until Barnes was neutralized. He knew this was no time to get emotional. He needed to think clearly and strategically. His enemy would expect him to give his partner aid. That was why he couldn’t. But what wouldn’t Barnes expect? Giles quickly considered his options. Then dialed 911.
Barnes had no way of knowing the severity of his opponent’s injuries. He heard the body collapse behind the trailer, so he knew at least one of his shots had found its mark. He got into position in case the second shooter attempted to help his partner, and then waited for his enemy’s next move.
Barnes liked his odds better now that it was one-on-one, but he was injured, and his remaining opponent wasn’t. He couldn’t afford to be as patient as the other shooter could. His advantage was his knowledge of the terrain, and Barnes needed to
capitalize on it while he still could. As he devised his strategy, he heard a siren in the distance. Then two. And more. They were getting louder. Son of a bitch, he thought. Now that was clever. He had to give his opponent props. What was once an open-ended game would now be decided in less than sixty seconds.
He thought fast. Ghosts weren’t supposed to draw attention to themselves, but this one just did. Whoever was employing these two wouldn’t be pleased. Even if they completed their assignment and he didn’t survive the night, this would be viewed as unacceptable. It might even mean the end of their chosen careers. In fact, the more Barnes thought about it, the more sure he was they had decided this was their swan song. Which meant they were in the same situation he was. They would disappear before the night was over. The only question now in Barnes’s mind was how much pride they took in their work. He was about to find out.
Barnes retraced his steps, moving quickly toward the Impala. Using only his right arm, he stood the storage container on its narrow side, leaning it against the open trunk of the car. He somehow ignored the searing pain shooting through his left shoulder and used the vehicle as leverage to lift the back end of the heavy container and slide it into the trunk; it just barely fit. Keeping his eyes on the driveway in front of him for any movement, he hopped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He saw no movement through the windshield. Are they actually letting me go? It didn’t matter. Barnes did not intend to exit via the driveway, anyway. Behind him, along the rear of his property, ran an old wooden fence about six feet high that kept the neighbors from getting too curious about what he did back there. It also created an emergency exit if the need ever arose. Barnes put the transmission in reverse and slammed his foot on the gas.
From the moment the assassins had arrived and seen what Michael Barnes was unearthing inside his storage shed, they knew they needed to have a Plan B. Plan A was a repeat of their performance from earlier that night. But Michael Barnes was most certainly well armed, and one slight misstep could lead to a messy firefight. That would lead to a thorough investigation, and their employers would not like that. Plan B would be similarly displeasing to their bosses, due to the attention it would later bring, but it would have the benefit of a plausible explanation. Emergency kits such as Barnes’s always contained six things: a variety of clothing, freeze-dried foodstuffs, a water-filtration system, medical supplies, a large amount of cash, and an even larger number of weapons. This often included explosives. After all, theirs did.