BOX SET of THREE TOP 10 MEDICAL THRILLERS

by Ian C. P. Irvine

  Yes?"

  A fat teenager with long, unkempt hair stood outside. Kerrin couldn't make out whether it was a boy or a girl.

  "Ma wants to know if you're staying another day. It's twelve o'clock, and you only paid for one night…it's time to check out otherwise, and someone else wants your room…"

  "Okay…sorry…I slept in…I'm checking out…give me ten minutes, okay?"

  "Okay."

  'It' smiled, then turned and walked back to the motel office. Kerrin closed the door, tossing the Glock onto the bed. Looking around the room, he couldn't believe that anybody else would 'want the room', as 'it' had just insisted. Still, if they did, they were welcome to it.

  After what loosely passed as a shower, Kerrin gathered together his stuff and drove to the nearest diner, where he ate a hearty all-day breakfast and planned his day ahead.

  The first stop he had to make would be at a fancy-dress shop. He wanted to pick up a disguise, just in case somebody might be keeping an eye out for him at the airport. Luckily, since Las Vegas was the biggest party town in the whole of America, finding one wasn't exactly hard.

  After trying on numerous facial accessories he settled for a black beard, a pair of ridiculous heavy brown framed glasses with thick glass lenses, and a black haired wig. When he looked in the mirror he realized with horror that he looked almost believable. Totally unrecognizable, but believable. Could he really look like that?

  He paid the woman behind the shop counter, took the bag containing his new identity, and left.

  Next stop was the nearest ATM. He slid his credit card into the machine, nervously expecting it to instantly snap the card up and retain it. However, a few nerve-ridden moments later, the machine asked him how much money he wanted, and he borrowed the maximum amount. It was a good sign. It looked like he was still ahead of the game, and the people in Carmel either hadn't found out his alias yet, or if they had, the banks had not yet been alerted.

  Kerrin knew that Mark Twain was living on borrowed time. It would not be long before they found out who Mr. Twain really was and terminated his credit card. And then he would be broke. How long could he and Dana survive without a steady stream of cash?

  Realizing that the bank was still extending credit to Mark Twain, he hit upon another idea. It was important to get hold of as much cash as possible, before the well went dry.

  The lady behind the counter at the large new Russian themed Casino looked up and smiled at Kerrin.

  "How much would you like?" she asked as Kerrin slid the credit card over to her through the metal tray underneath the bullet proof glass.

  "How much can I have?" he replied innocently.

  "Let me see sir…" The lady swiped his card, and typed his name onto the computer, checking to see if he had been blacklisted by the Casinos or the banks.

  "According to your bank, your limit is $10,000. But I can’t give you that much. You’ve already got expenses of $1300 pending against that limit. I can only give you the balance."

  "Fine. That sounds good."

  "How would you like the money…cash or chips?"

  "Cash please."

  Walking out of the casino, Kerrin could imagine what it must feel like to win a small fortune on one of the roulette tables. In total he was now carrying just short of $9000 in cash. That should last them both for a couple of months at least.

  Avoiding the centre of downtown Las Vegas, he drove through the side streets and headed out to the airport, parking the rental car in the long term parking lot.

  Wearing his new disguise Kerrin walked into the airport and booked himself onto the next plane to Washington D.C. After a very nervous hour, constantly looking over his shoulder and expecting to be arrested at any moment, he finally made it onto the plane. At 6.20 p.m. the plane touched down in Washington D.C. and after picking up his luggage he walked out of the airport and found his other rental car in the long-term parking lot.

  He had left it on the third floor, deliberately choosing a dark, almost empty area at the back of the parking lot. As he opened up the trunk, he scanned the rest of the floor. There were about thirty other cars parked around him, and he was the only person there that he could see.

  Looking up at the roof he scanned the ceiling for security cameras, but noticing only one, about twenty yards away and pointing in the opposite direction, he focused his attention on the other cars parked near his own.

  Dropping his stuff in the trunk of his car, he searched through his luggage and pulled out his red Swiss Army Knife. He looked at the multiple blades that the knife offered, and selected the small screwdriver.

  He looked around him again. There was still no one else on his floor.

  Walking past five cars parked against the wall, he selected a new looking Ford and slid into the gap between the wall and the front bumper. Working quickly, he knelt down and using his screwdriver, he removed the front registration plate from the car.

  Standing up straight again, he slid along the wall until he came to another Ford which had similar plates to the one he had just taken off. Like the other car, this one was also registered in Pennsylvania. He knelt down again quickly and removed the front registration plate of the second car.

  Walking back to his car, he threw both plates into the trunk, closed the lid and drove out of the parking lot.

  So far so good.

  He had thought about it a lot on the plane, trying to come up with another way of safeguarding his new found identity. The last thing he wanted to happen was for him to be spotted in his car, and his new alias to be tracked down from the rental records at Hertz. The best solution seemed to be to put false number plates on his car, but the question was where could he get them from?

  The streets in the suburbs of Philly were littered with wrecks of cars, either stolen or abandoned, but it wouldn't be a good idea to take those plates just in case some policeman noticed the plates belonged to a stolen car and stopped him.

  On the other hand, he could buy a second hand car from a wreckers yard, and take the plates from that, but he would probably need identification to buy it, and he didn't want to connect his new ID to the purchase.

  After a lot of thought, he realized the best option would be to simply steal a single number plate from two different cars. It seemed a safe bet that anyone noticing that a single number plate was missing from their car would assume that it had either fallen off, or that it had been stolen by some kid who wanted to hang it on the wall in his den. It was unlikely that anyone would report it. And once he had put them both onto to his rental car, the chances of anyone spotting that his car had two different registration plates was minimal. People simply didn't notice things like that.

  At least, he hoped they didn't.

  --------------------

  Day Twenty-Two

  Carmel

  The FBI agent smiled. At last, after a whole day's searching, they'd found the motel the suspect had stayed at for the past few days.

  "So you definitely recognize the man?" Agent Walker asked the talkative woman behind the reception desk, holding up the photograph of Kerrin in front of her face.

  "Absolutely! He was a strange man. Not too friendly…Kept himself to himself…yeah, that's him! He had a parcel delivered…Yeah…I remember! What's he done…anything bad?"

  The woman looked up at Agent Walker, her eyes glistening. This was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in ages. Even better than when the man in Room 302 had killed himself last month.

  "I'm afraid I can't say. Tell me please, what room is he in and what is his name?"

  "Oh,…he checked out yesterday…Just missed him, you did. If you'd been here yesterday you'd have got him.…"

  "So, what was his name?"

  "A funny name…German I think…here, let me check the system…"

  She turned to the computer and typed away at the keyboard, scrunching her forehead up in an act of intense concentration.

  "Here it is…Room 506…there you go…told you it
was a German name…Sonderheim… David Sonderheim!"

  Agent Walker thanked the woman, and walked back out to the car.

  His partner looked up at him expectantly, handing him back his coffee as he sat down.

  "Bingo…found him. But he left yesterday…"

  "So what's his name?"

  "David Sonderheim."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Why? Of course I'm sure…I saw the computer entry myself."

  "Fine… It's just that, I'm sure that that's the name of the guy our suspect tried to shoot and kill over in the big house on Millionaires’ Row…I think someone's playing games with us!"

  --------------------

  Day Twenty-Two

  Sunshine Villas

  Cherry Hill, New Jersey

  "Who's there?" Dana asked anxiously from inside the motel room.

  "It's me…I'm back!" Kerrin whispered against the doorframe, smiling at the sound of her voice.

  The door opened a crack, and Kerrin pushed it slowly open. Inside, Dana moved back a few inches to let Kerrin in, balancing on the tops of her crutches. Tears were beginning to stream down her face, and a smile was fighting against the sobs which welled up from within her chest.

  "Oh, Kerrin! Thank God you're back!" she cried, dropping the crutches to the floor and falling into his open arms, wrapping her hands around his neck and burying her head into his chest.

  Kerrin reached down and swept her legs up, cradling her in his arms. Kicking the door closed behind him, he walked towards the bed, and turned, falling backwards onto the mattress, cushioning Dana on top of his body as they fell.

  They made love, slowly and passionately, their tears intermingling with smiles and the sounds of their pleasure.

  Afterwards, Dana engulfed herself in his presence, imbibing her senses in his smell, his warmth and his steady, strong heart-beat, her head lying flat and still against his chest.

  They lay silently beside each other for a long while, Kerrin stroking her long hair, and caressing the side of her face, his hand sweeping over her head and down the contours of her cheek.

  At last Dana spoke.

  "I was so scared. I felt so alone. And if I had to spend another day in this horrible smelly motel room by myself, I think I would have gone mad!"

  "I'm sorry. I hated the idea of you being here by yourself. I wanted to get back as soon as possible." He replied softly. "Did you leave the room much?"

  "Only to the mall to get some food…oh, by the way…two parcels arrived for you about an hour ago. I signed for them…"

  "What name did you sign?"

  "Mrs Sonderheim. I didn't forget."

  "Well done. Where are they?"

  Dana pulled out two parcels from under the bed. Kerrin was happy to see that the Glock pistol and his own Beretta had already arrived safe and sound. It was amazing how fast UPS could deliver parcels interstate.

  "Talking about Sonderheim…" Dana started to speak, then hesitated. She had to know. She had to ask him…"Kerrin…did you …did you…?"

  "Did I kill Sonderheim? Is that what you want to know?"

  "Yes…did you?" she lifted herself up onto her elbow, her head inches away from his, looking deep into his eyes searching for the truth of the answer.

  "No I didn't. I thought I was going to…but someone tried to kill him before I got round to it…"

  He told her the whole story, about the trip to Purlington Bay, the meeting with Sonderheim, and then the trip to Las Vegas. She laughed when he showed her his new disguise, but told him to take it off immediately. She preferred the Kerrin she knew.

  He told her about the discovery that the Gen8tyx Company had made, and she looked on in disbelief as the true meaning of it all sunk home.

  "So what do we do now?" she asked.

  Kerrin had been dreading her asking that question. He had gone to California to confront Sonderheim, and had come home empty handed.

  He wished he could take her home, back to their house, back to their real life. He wished he knew how to answer her, so that she could believe that an end was in sight. But he couldn't tell her that. So he lied.

  "I'm meeting Fiona tomorrow. She has something new. A new idea. Something big! Don't worry, it's all going to be fine…Just you see!"

  He bent forward to kiss her, but she turned away.

  "What do you think I am? A kid? Don't 'just you see' me! Kerrin, these guys are serious. If we don't come up with a plan soon, and I mean a proper plan…it's only a matter of time before they find us…and then, we both know what's going to happen to us!"

  Kerrin looked at his wife. The smile slipped from his face and when he spoke, this time his voice was calm and determined.

  "Dana, I won't let them touch you. I don't know what is going to happen, or how we're going to get out of this, but I promise you…I swear on my life, that I'll get us through!"

  Looking at him as he said it made her feel a little better, but in reality, they both knew that if he didn't come up with something soon, Kerrin would soon have no life to swear on.

  --------------------

  Sector Nine Alpha

  Day Twenty-Two

  Fort Dixon

  NSA American Surveillance Centre

  Technically Agent Johnson had not done anything wrong. The report he had given to his superiors, indicating that Kerrin Graham was going to fly to England, was based firmly upon the data he had recorded. He had made no mistake.

  Yet, when Kerrin had not turned up for the flight as predicted, his boss had reprimanded him severely.

  "Do you realize that we had thirty people staking out the airport, as well as people on alert in England? For fuck's sake Johnson, something went wrong. What? Why didn't he turn up?"

  His boss was an asshole at the best of times. Even more so when things didn't go according to plan.

  No, it had not been Agent Johnson's fault, but he had been made to take the rap, and he had not enjoyed it one bit. Whoever the man was, he hated Kerrin Graham with a passion. It was Graham's fault, and now it had become personal. No matter how much effort it took, Johnson was going to find the man and bring him in.

  All he really knew about Graham that could assist in the search was that he worked at the Washington Post. His personal file gave him a lot of other information, but nothing else that would immediately help track him down. Graham had already stopped using his cell phone, and it was obvious he had gone to ground, so finding him would not be straight forward. Still, it was a challenge. Him versus Graham.

  He decided that he would start by searching through all the phone conversations and emails made from or to the entire workforce of the Washington Post during the past two months, looking for any mention of his name. After a bit more thought, he realized that the search would yield up hundreds of files, each of which he would have to go through individually. Without getting other people allocated to helping him, this would take too long. No, he had to be smarter.

  He needed better keywords.

  If only he knew what the story was the reporter had been chasing at The Post, then it would be easy to search through all the communications for reference words relating to the subject matter of the article he was working on.

  The last thing he wanted to do was to go and ask his boss for help, but if he was going to track the Graham man down, he needed more information. In the end, the anger he felt towards Graham weighed heavier than the negative feelings to his superior.

  "Okay, I'll see what I can do," was all 'the asshole' had said, when Agent Johnson had explained to his boss what he needed.

  It didn't look hopeful, but an hour later he walked over to Agent Johnson's desk, and without saying a word, his boss slipped a piece of paper onto his keyboard. There were two words written on it: 'Chymera Corporation.'

  It took two hours for George to run through all the emails and phone conversations made to or from the Washington Post over the past two months, searching the contents of all the communications for any mention of 'Kerrin' or
'Kerrin Graham' in combination with the other keywords 'Chymera Corporation'. Yet, when the run was complete, Johnson was no better off. No communications had been found that simultaneously combined both sets of keywords.

  Frustrated and tired, Agent Johnson decided to sleep on it. It was late. Time to go home.

  The next morning he returned, determined to try again and kicking himself for not having done the obvious the night before: why had he not just initiated a search on the two keywords in isolation, searching only for any voice conversations or emails that contained the words "Chymera Corporation" by themselves without the connection to Graham.

  He looked at his watch. It was 8 a.m. It would take another two hours to run the search again. That would take him to ten o'clock.

  If that search didn't turn anything up, then he would repeat both searches, increasing the search period from two to four months.

  He edited the program to include the new keywords, pressed the return key on his keyboard executing the search program, and went to get a fresh coffee.

  --------------------

  11.30 a.m.

  Day Twenty-Three

  Washington D.C.

  The phone rang twice before Fiona picked it up.

  "Hi. Back from holidays. How's the weather?"

  "Fine. But I'm busy. We'll talk later."

  Kerrin watched from across the road to make sure that Fiona wasn't being followed, checking the cars and pedestrians around her for any covert surveillance as she walked into the pizza restaurant. Everything seemed fine. Nothing unusual, and no men in long, brown leather coats following in her footsteps. Of course, these days the FBI weren't anything like their stereotypical public image, so what exactly he was looking for Kerrin couldn't say…just something different…

  When he walked into the restaurant after her, he sat down in the booth next to hers and was pleasantly amused to see that Fiona hadn't recognized him in his wig, glasses and false beard.

  He stared at her.

  After a few moments, her head turned towards him and she looked across at him briefly, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, before turning her attention back to the phone sitting on the edge of the counter, willing it to ring.