The Shadow Agent

by Daniel Judson

  But standing by wasn’t an option. Stella had formed that conviction fighting by Tom’s side. And her time at Raveis’s compounds had only deepened her resolve.

  She hadn’t endured all that she had only to sit on the sidelines as others suffered and died.

  This wasn’t about just Tom and herself anymore.

  This wasn’t about finding a way to safe ground so they could live out the rest of their lives as they saw fit and in peace.

  Tom had been right when he’d warned her that her exposure to Raveis’s training would change her.

  She’d learned what men like the Benefactor were capable of doing, and she would do whatever it took to end him.

  “Hammerton and his men will get you and J. D. there,” Carrington said. “J. D. will take him out. They’ve used satellite photos to map a number of good roosts to shoot from. All you have to do is be what draws the Benefactor out into the open. If you’re afraid—”

  “I’m not,” Stella said.

  Carrington and Hammerton waited.

  Stella turned and started toward the house. “Tell everyone to get ready,” she said. “And have Slattery meet me with the change of clothes.”

  Hammerton asked where she was going.

  “I’ll be with Tom.”

  Stella was dressed in jeans, a black sweater, and boots.

  She sat alone with Tom for a few moments, holding his hand, saying nothing.

  When she wasn’t looking at his face, she was watching the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

  The sun was down, the early moon lighting the water outside the French doors.

  Hammerton entered the dark study and said, “We should get going.”

  Stella nodded, leaned forward, and kissed Tom’s cheek, then she stood, facing Hammerton.

  “I want to see her first,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Esa.”

  “There’s not much to see.”

  “If I’m supposed to pass for her, then I should at least take a look at her.”

  The state-of-the-art med bay was located in the basement.

  An oversize elevator, large enough to transport a full-size hospital bed, carried Stella and Hammerton down one floor.

  Stella tried to imagine the difficulties of retrofitting the generations-old house to accommodate such a system, but she supposed that with the kind of money the Cahill family had, anything and everything was possible.

  An enclosed surgical theater with an observation window occupied one half of the facility, and three hospital beds, with a space for a fourth, took up the other half.

  A woman was in one of the beds. Hammerton stayed back as Stella approached and stood at her bedside.

  An endotracheal tube was in Esa’s mouth, held there by sterile tape, and this obscured part of her face, but Stella had been told that wasn’t where the resemblance was.

  Their hair was the same color and cut, and they were the same height with similar builds, though Stella was leaner.

  Cahill had reported finding an empty box of hair dye in the woman’s hotel bathroom.

  Looking at her, Stella saw nothing that would help her become this woman, but despite what she had said to Hammerton, that wasn’t why she was there.

  Tom would be dead if not for Esa—a woman who two nights before had tried to kill him.

  How could Stella not be curious about a paradox such as this?

  Sandy entered and walked to Hammerton’s side.

  Hammerton asked if Cahill and the others were back yet.

  “He just texted,” Sandy said. “They’re almost at the ferry.”

  Still looking at Esa, Stella said, “What’s her condition?”

  “The blood loss was just too catastrophic, and the bullet punctured a lung and shredded her diaphragm on its way through. The hemorrhagic shock caused kidney failure. She could go an hour from now, or it could take days.”

  “But she was able to communicate,” Stella said.

  Sandy nodded. “She was determined. When speaking became impossible, she wrote things down.”

  Hammerton said, “The last thing she wrote was, ‘This ends.’” He paused. “It was her idea. The Colonel had given her a dossier on you—dossiers on all of us. She knew what you looked like.”

  Stella watched Esa, her breathing regulated by the mechanical ventilator.

  “Any idea why the change of heart?”

  “No.”

  “And she saved your life, too.”

  “Yes.”

  Stella turned to Sandy. “There was a deal made,” she said. “A promise in exchange for information.”

  “I know,” Sandy said. “But I can’t do that to a patient. I took an oath. I can’t kill someone under my care.”

  Hammerton said flatly, “I can.”

  Stella detected no pleasure in Hammerton’s voice.

  He turned to Sandy. “At least help me do it right.”

  Sandy looked at Hammerton, then back at Stella. Stepping away, she walked to a stainless-steel cabinet, opening its glass door.

  From a top shelf she removed a syringe still in its white paper wrapper, and from two shelves below that, she removed a glass vial.

  She placed the items on the foot of Esa’s bed and stepped back.

  “Thanks,” Hammerton said.

  Sandy nodded. “I’ll stay and see you through it.”

  Hammerton moved to the bed and reached for the syringe.

  Stella picked up the vial, glancing at the label.

  FENTANYL CITRATE, .50 MG.

  She handed the vial to Hammerton.

  “I’ll stay, too,” she said.

  Hammerton removed the syringe from its packaging, inserted the needle through the vial’s rubber stopper, and drew the plunger all the way back, filling it.

  It was obvious by Hammerton’s manner that he’d had some degree of medical training.

  This was even more evident when he inserted the needle into the IV port and steadily eased the plunger forward, emptying the syringe.

  Then he stood back with the others and watched.

  In less than a minute, Esa was lifeless.

  They stayed with her for another minute, and then Hammerton said, “We should go.”

  Stella nodded and turned away.

  Sandy was shutting down the telemetry monitors as Stella and Hammerton exited.

  The helicopter, an EC-135, was warming up on the north lawn, not far from the stables and the five-bay garage.

  Stella and Hammerton hurried across still-damp grass toward it.

  The side door was open, and already on board were Hammerton’s four SAS brothers, Carrington, and J. D.

  The men were in street clothes, but at their feet were gear bags that no doubt contained the tools of their trade.

  “Watch your head,” Hammerton said. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the rotor wash.

  Stella had no doubt that it caused him pain to do that.

  They boarded, took the last two seats, and buckled in. Thirty seconds later, the EC-135 was airborne, banking to the west.

  From her window Stella could see the gatehouse at the end of the long gravel driveway, a team of four armed men standing outside it.

  Similar teams, unseen to her at the moment, were walking the perimeter of the property.

  The helicopter straightened and continued west, passing over the water. A few hundred feet below was the ferry landing at North Haven.

  The dock and sloping road leading to it were empty, but as the helicopter continued westward, Stella spotted the ferry midway in its crossing.

  Cahill’s Mustang was the only vehicle on board.

  A half hour into the flight, with New York City just minutes away, a text came to Carrington’s phone.

  He looked at the display. “We’re on. One hour. But he changed the location.”

  Hammerton asked, “To where?”

  “Madison Square Park.”

  “That isn’t exactly secluded. And it’s
small, isn’t it?”

  Carrington said to J. D., “Can you make it work?”

  J. D. removed a tablet from his bag, navigated to Google Earth, and proceeded to search for the park.

  Even before consulting the satellite footage, he said, “I know that park. There’s not a lot of cover. There’s a statute of William Seward at the southwest entrance. It’s on a pedestal in a fenced-in, circular garden; there might be cover to be found there, but getting in without being seen by his men if they’re staking the place out, or even by random passersby, for that matter, will be a problem. And there’s no guarantee I’ll have a shot if I do get in.”

  Hammerton said to Carrington, “The Cahill family has a lot of real estate holdings in New York. Hotels, apartment and office buildings. Maybe they have something that would provide a position.”

  “There are no hotels or apartments that overlook the park, just office buildings. Even if they were connected to one of them, there’s not enough time to get J. D. in place.”

  J. D. zoomed in on an overhead, high-definition view of the park, studying it quickly. “It’s not a good location for us. Four entrances on each corner, no border trees, no cover or concealment. Which I’m sure is why he chose it.”

  Hammerton said, “We have to abort.”

  “With a vehicle, we could circle the park with me in the back. We might get a shot that way.”

  “We can’t push an op. I’m calling it—”

  “No,” Stella said. “We’re doing this.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “You said it yourself; it’s our only chance.”

  Carrington said, “He’ll have men, Stella.”

  “And I have all of you. The fact that the park is likely to have people passing through can work to our advantage. I’ll arrive alone, but I won’t stand still and wait, I’ll walk the perimeter. Esa turned on him, and there had to be a reason for that, so it would make sense that she’d take precautions of her own, too. Any men he has in the park will be watching me; I’ll make sure of it. Then you can approach the park from all four sides, one at a time, maybe mix in with other people passing through if you can. I mean, we’re all deep-cover agents, aren’t we?”

  “We wouldn’t be able to conceal our long guns,” Hammerton said. “We’d only have sidearms, which means we can’t provide effective cover for you at range.”

  “Then I’ll take him out myself. If we’re lucky, he won’t realize his mistake until he’s a few feet from me.”

  “We can’t let you do that,” Carrington said.

  “That’s not your call to make. It’s mine.”

  None of the men spoke.

  “I’m our only chance,” Stella said. “I’m doing this.”

  Again, the men said nothing.

  Finally, J. D. said, “She’s right. How many more people will that fucker torture and kill? We all know who he is. We all know we’re on the top of his kill list, and with no organization anymore to count on. We can spend the rest of our lives running and hiding, squandering whatever resources we have, or we can put a stop to this right now—for us, for everyone. Just get me a vehicle and someone to drive it. I’ll get him. And if I don’t, Stella will do what she has been trained to do. And so will all of you.” He paused. “Either he goes down or we all do. And if only one of us is left standing, that person makes sure the Benefactor doesn’t leave that park alive.”

  Carrington and Hammerton looked at each other.

  “Cahill has a garage in the city,” Carrington said. “Where he keeps cover vehicles.”

  Hammerton nodded. “Call him.”

  As Carrington placed the call, Hammerton’s men leaned forward and opened the duffels at their feet, gathering and prepping their gear.

  Pistols affixed with suppressors, spare mags, vests, and gloves.

  One of the men—the smallest of them—offered Stella a Kevlar vest.

  She took it, thanked him, and without hesitation pulled the black sweater over her head, placing it on her lap.

  Caught off guard, the men glanced at her briefly before looking away.

  Stella tightened the Velcro straps on the vest till it was fitted to her torso, then put her sweater back on.

  “She’ll need a sidearm,” Hammerton said to the men.

  The man next to her removed from his kit a SIG 320 fitted with a suppressor.

  The weapon was empty, its slide in the locked-back position.

  Stella took the weapon from him, and he reached into his bag and grabbed two mags along with a leather inside-the-waistband holster, offering her those as well.

  Stella thanked him and took the mags, loading the weapon with one and placing the other in the back pocket of her jeans.

  She holstered the weapon and laid it on her lap.

  Leaning back in her seat, she took a breath and let it out, then settled into a calm stillness.

  She noticed that J. D. was still as well. He sat straight in his seat, and the gear bag at his feet remained closed.

  Unlike the others, he was in no rush to prepare.

  He and Stella stared at each other for a moment. Then he nodded once.

  She returned the gesture before leaning her head back and closing her eyes.

  She stayed that way till the helicopter touched down on the West Thirtieth Street Heliport.

  Sixty

  At nine p.m. Stella approached the park from the southwest.

  Passing the Seward monument as she entered, she turned right and headed east, walking at a fast pace.

  One of Hammerton’s men had given her an operator’s cap, which she wore with the bill pulled low, making sure that as much of her dark hair was visible as possible.

  Another had given her a windbreaker, which she carried, folded in half, in one hand.

  She scanned her surroundings as she moved, taking in both the small park itself and the streets beyond it.

  Reaching the southeast corner of the park, Stella turned north, walking parallel to Madison Avenue, where there were several parked cars but currently no vehicle traffic.

  A minute later, at the northeast corner, she turned left, heading west along Twenty-Sixth Street—less well lit than Madison and just as quiet, but lined with parked cars.

  It was here that she removed the SIG from its holster with her right hand and handed it off to her left, gripping it by the barrel and draping the windbreaker over her hand to conceal the weapon.

  The transfer, completed with just a few smooth motions, took all of two seconds.

  Hidden as she was in the shadows on the park’s darker side, she was confident that no one had witnessed the act.

  The busier and brightest-lit part of the park was the northwest corner—at Twenty-Sixth and Fifth Avenue. Two blocks south of there Broadway and Fifth converged, crossing like the two lines of an X.

  Traffic was heavier, mostly speeding taxis and buses—Fifth heading uptown, Broadway heading downtown.

  Turning south at that corner of the park, Stella was now walking toward the spot where she had entered. That entrance was another minute away, give or take, and when she reached it, she had circled the entire park.

  Now she began another circuit.

  This time as she walked, though, she concentrated on the pedestrians inside the park.

  An art installation—a towering Buddha head—occupied the center of the space, and there were three people standing before it.

  Others were passing through—a man and woman holding hands, a chattering group of four hipsters walking shoulder to shoulder, and the occasional individual—but none of these people paid any attention to the woman walking at a brisk pace, though that was to be expected.

  New Yorkers were experts at ignoring the seemingly odd.

  The men she was expecting—the men she wanted to be puzzled by her actions and choice of pace—would make no effort to conceal themselves or their interest in her.

  Their presence would be obvious, as both a general deterrent and a specific tac
tic of intimidation.

  Stella was halfway through her second trip around the park when she saw what she knew was the first of the Benefactor’s men.

  They appeared in the northeast corner, entering from Madison, watching her intently as she passed. Once she had and was heading west again along the park’s north perimeter—the darker side—they followed her, but they did so without making an effort to match her pace.

  They sauntered, walking side by side.

  Toward the west, at the corner of Broadway and Twenty-Third Street, two of Hammerton’s men, one following the other, appeared.

  With strides not unlike the men behind her, they made their way toward the park.

  Looking straight ahead to the southwest entrance, Stella saw that two more men had arrived and were standing beside the Seward monument.

  They, too, stared at her, their gloved hands hanging at their sides.

  Stella shifted her focus beyond them, taking solace in the fact that Hammerton’s remaining two men were already in position across Twenty-Third. Standing by the prow of the Flatiron Building, they faced each other as if in conversation, smoking cigarettes.

  She wondered if the Benefactor’s men would even take note of any man over a certain age.

  Would men in their sixties even be visible?

  As she walked parallel to Fifth, Stella kept an eye out for the vehicle that Carrington and J. D. had rushed to retrieve.

  It was a battered Ford Econoline van that Cahill had purchased from an out-of-business general contractor, complete with a collapsible aluminum ladder attached to a roof rack and the contractor’s license number still stenciled on the driver’s door.

  The company’s name and logo were on the right side panel, though the letters and image were faded by exposure to two decades of New York City summers and winters.

  A vehicle like that would be easy to pick out among the typical nighttime traffic, but she saw no sign of it yet.

  She saw no sign of Hammerton, either, but she trusted he would be where she needed him, when she needed him.