by Jason Dean
Bishop waited. And listened. He couldn’t hear anything except muffled conversation.
He was about to poke part of his head round when the footsteps started up again. Two sets this time. And they were moving away from him. Bishop chanced a look and saw an overweight man in deep conversation with the man beside him as they walked back down the hallway. This one was wearing a dark shirt and pants and looked in much better shape. He wasn’t wearing a sidearm, either. Bishop thought this could well be Hallaran. He had an air of authority about him that was hard to fake.
Bishop watched for a couple more seconds, absently fingering the trigger of the Sig as he weighed the pros and cons of direct action. But he quickly discounted it and ran across the passageway and entered the opposite corridor. There were six doors along here. Three on each side, and no windows. Another fire pull station at the end. One for every corridor, he guessed. But still no extinguishers in sight.
The first door on the left had the number 9 stamped on it and two heavy duty, steel fence latches at the top and bottom. No locks. So everybody had easy access to the victims whenever they felt like it. With beautiful women behind every door, that kind of arrangement was open to abuse. And from what the sentry had said, some of the men in here were happy to make the most of the situation. Maybe all of them. Bishop stored that thought away.
The door opposite was Abraham’s old room. It had no markings and a deadbolt lock in addition to the steel latches. These were probably added once Patricia Tatem took residency. She and Vallejo were possibly in there right now. Maybe just a few feet away from him. He fought the urge to unlock the door and kept walking down the passageway. He passed rooms 8 and 7 and two unmarked doors. At the end, he saw what looked like another corridor running along the hangar’s east wall. Neeson hadn’t mentioned that, either. He peered round the corner and saw it travelled the entire length of the building. So all the rooms on this side of the building could be accessed from this corridor. That was useful to know.
Bishop walked back to the last unmarked door and took a look at the lock. Another deadbolt. Well, there were ways around that.
From one of the pockets of his combats, he pulled out the manual lock pick gun and double-ended tension wrench he’d also picked up in Phoenix. The gun worked on the same principle as the bump keys, but could access a much wider variety of locks. Like deadbolts. With one eye on the kitchen doorway at the other end of the passage, Bishop carefully inserted the tension wrench into the keyhole. Then he inserted the needle of the gun just above and kept pressing the trigger, applying rotating pressure to the tension wrench with his thumb. On the fourth attempt, he felt the pins jump into the hole casing.
Pocketing his tools, Bishop carefully turned the handle and opened the door.
EIGHTY-TWO
Inside, the lights were on. Sweeping the room with his gun, Bishop quietly shut and locked the door behind him. He was in a large living area with some futuristic-looking leather furniture in the centre, a home theatre system at one end and a pool table in the corner. It was a mess. The whole place stank of stale food. Books, magazines and dirty clothes everywhere. But no Ryan. And no sounds other than his own breathing.
There was an entranceway to his immediate left. Bishop stepped through into another similar sized area. And just as messy. There were unwashed clothes on the king-sized bed and more all over the floor. Against the wall was another widescreen TV and there was an en-suite bathroom to the right. But straight ahead was a set of heavily tinted glass sliding doors running from one side of the room to the other. Behind these was another large room, the centrepiece of which was a large conference table filled with hardware of some kind. Bishop could see somebody sitting at the table with his back to him, working on a computer. That had to be Ryan.
Keeping his gun aimed at the man’s back, Bishop edged over to the bathroom and glanced inside. It was empty. Then he crossed the bedroom, grasped the handle of the central glass door and slowly slid it to the left. He heard the air conditioner blasting away inside first, followed by the sound of fingers tapping rapidly on a keyboard. Ryan, a long-haired, skinny guy in T-shirt and shorts, sounded as though he was going for a speed record. Computers of all sizes, monitors, scanners, hard drives, cables, and various other accessories covered every inch of the table, with even more stuff stacked underneath. There were box shelves against one wall, containing a mass of manuals and yet more paraphernalia.
Bishop stepped inside and walked towards the programmer, not caring if he was heard or not.
When he came abreast of Ryan, the younger man looked up from his screen and shrieked. He jumped off the seat and hit the floor just as the seat toppled over and landed next to him. Staring at the gun aimed at his head he raised a hand and shouted, ‘Don’t shoot. Please. Who are you? What do you want?’
‘My name doesn’t matter,’ Bishop said. ‘And what I want is for you call up the files of every woman you people have snatched since you started. I want current locations, names of family members you had killed, everything. And if I hear the words “I don’t know what you’re talking about”, I’ll shoot you right now.’
Ryan blinked at him. His mouth moved but no words came out. Finally, he said, ‘Look, whoever you are, I don’t know what you been told, but we don’t hold on to that kind of information. It’s too risky. Each time we finish a deal I wipe everything. That’s the truth.’
Bishop smiled for the first time. It wasn’t a friendly smile. ‘A smart guy. I knew it as soon as I saw you. I really like smart guys. Their instinct for self-preservation is second to none. And I figure a smart guy would keep a copy of everything tucked away on one of these hard drives, or email it to himself, just in case he ever felt vulnerable. Am I right?’
‘You got it all wrong, man. Hallaran watches over my shoulder when I delete the stuff and always makes sure there’s no trace left on my server. I’m not lying to you.’
Bishop nodded and set the chair back on its wheels. ‘Okay, sit down with your back perfectly straight, facing the computer.’
‘Huh?’
Bishop pulled back the hammer and said, ‘Want me to repeat myself?’
Ryan swallowed and stood up. He sat on the chair and straightened his back until it was at a ninety degree angle to the floor. Bishop then gripped the man’s right shoulder tightly with one hand, keeping him in place. With the other, he pressed the barrel of the gun against the top of Ryan’s spine, between the first and second cervical vertebrae. Pointing straight down.
‘What are you doing?’ Ryan asked. He was shivering now, and Bishop didn’t think it was because of the air conditioning.
‘Making sure I’ve got the angle right. I’ve done this before, and if you twitch at the wrong moment it could pierce your heart. I only want to sever your spinal column so I need you to take a deep breath and keep your body completely still. Ready?’
Ryan swivelled his head round and stared wildly up at Bishop. ‘Jesus, no. I’ve got it all hidden away, like you said. I sent them to different accounts in pieces. I’ll show you. Just take the gun away. Please. I’ll do it now.’
Bishop narrowed his eyes and looked at his watch. 00.49. Then he reached into a pocket, brought out two flash drives and dropped them on the desk. ‘Okay, copy the information onto both of these. You got three minutes.’
Ryan nodded eagerly and rolled the chair over to the largest monitor and switched it on. Then he unrolled a silicone rubber keyboard and got to work. Once Bishop saw the home page for an email service, he turned away and studied the other items on the desk. Most of it was beyond him, of course. But then, he’d never exactly been computer literate. Sometimes he thought he’d been born in the wrong century. Most of the time, in fact.
He looked up. Sprinklers in here, too. And the bedroom. Everywhere, it seemed. Hallaran really was the obsessive type.
But there was something else bugging him. Anomalies always did that. ‘Hallaran has an office a few doors down, right?’ he said. ‘Next to the medical
room?’
‘That’s right.’ Ryan was scrolling through a list of emails.
‘Why? He could convert a room in his living quarters like you. And it’s three times the size of this place.’
Ryan shook his head. ‘How should I know? Maybe that’s what he did. I know he doesn’t use that office much these days.’
‘He doesn’t, huh?’ That was interesting. Bishop rubbed a palm over his head as he considered Hallaran’s working methods. So far, he’d proved he was all about preparation. So why would a person like that build an office he knew he’d rarely use? There had to be a good reason. After Bishop was done here, it might be worth checking that room out. He had a hunch it might hold some answers.
When he checked his watch again, it was 00.51. ‘Time’s almost up.’
‘I’m nearly done. Just this last folder to detach and then I’ll drag them onto the flash drives.’
‘I want to look one over before you do it.’
Ryan nodded. Bishop waited as he finished up, then quit out of the internet browser. Bishop saw the desktop contained seven untitled folders that hadn’t been there before. Ryan turned to him and said, ‘Ready.’
‘Move aside,’ Bishop said.
Ryan rolled his chair to the right. Bishop came over and clicked on the third folder down. Inside were about thirty files categorized by date. Each one had a woman’s name as its title. Bishop clicked on one of two named Victoria. A page opened up in the format of a purchase order, giving the amount paid, the woman’s full name of Victoria Elizabeth Connor, and the name of the new owner. As if she was a piece of meat. The sheer arrogance of the thing made him sick. And angry. He scrolled to the next page and saw a list itemizing the surgical procedures undertaken by Tatem. The third page gave names and addresses of family. The fourth showed before and after photos. There was more, but Bishop had seen enough.
He closed it off and went through each of the other folders until he found Selina’s file in the very last one. He dragged that file to the trash and was about to close the folder when he noticed the very last file: Expenses. Bishop clicked on it and a spreadsheet opened up. It listed outgoings on a month-by-month basis. Fuel. Food. Electrics. The usual. Except there was also a listing for Police.
And underneath that was a name. But not the one he’d expected to see.
Levine.
So he’d been right about the inside man, but wrong about Shaw. It was his senior partner with the heavy-lidded eyes and the relaxed manner. And with the money he was being paid on the side, why shouldn’t he be relaxed? Levine must have entered Rutherford’s place first and closed the windows again to make it look like suicide while Shaw called it in. Another riddle solved. No doubt Kate would find this all very interesting. He’d give her one of these flash drives later for her story. Assuming he got out of this alive. But then you had to stay positive, or what was the point of anything?
‘Okay,’ Bishop said and moved out of the way. ‘Finish up.’
Ryan rolled the chair back and Bishop waited as he transferred everything over to the first flash drive. He repeated the process with the second, then handed both sticks to Bishop.
‘Whatever you’re here to do,’ he pleaded, ‘maybe I can help.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Bishop said, and struck Ryan on the base of the neck with his gun. The man fell forward in the chair, unconscious. ‘But thanks, anyway.’
EIGHTY-THREE
Bishop entered the ‘office’ and carefully locked the door again behind him. The deadbolt had given him about as much trouble as the last one. He found the light switch and saw he was in a big, cavernous room, about fifty feet by fifty. There was a massive oak desk against one wall, with a computer, monitor and telephone on the surface. Three director’s chairs surrounded it. Another one behind it. That was all. The rest of the room was empty. Every movement of Bishop’s caused a minor echo. He looked up and saw eight circular lights. And no sprinkler. How about that?
He checked the time. 00.53. Three minutes left before the guard, Lane, reported in. If he hadn’t already.
Bishop walked behind the desk and moved the chair out of the way. This would be the best place to put it. Where nobody was likely to discover it by mistake. He knelt down and studied the carpet tiles. They were about twenty-four inches by twenty-four. He took the Ka-Bar knife from his ankle holster and inserted it in the one of the cracks and lifted a little. He levered the rest of the tile up with his fingers and put it to one side. Underneath was standard concrete flooring.
It took five more tiles until he found the trapdoor. Bishop smiled. The steel panel was exactly the same size as the tile above and perfectly flush with the floor. The surface was featureless except for two recessed hinges on the left and a quarter-inch hole on the right of centre, about a half-inch deep. He got up and stepped over to the desk. There were two large drawers at each end. The first one he tried was unlocked. It was also empty. He tried the second drawer, but this one was locked. He had it open in less than five seconds.
It was full of keys, like Neeson said. Mostly car keys from the looks of it. There was a strip of white plastic attached to each key ring with a vehicle make and licence number written in marker. Only the keys for the limo were missing. But he kept sifting through until he found what he was looking for. A five-inch long iron key with a triangular handle and a rectangular-shaped end. The kind of tool used to prise open light-duty manhole covers. Or trapdoors set in the floor. He’d expected Hallaran would keep a spare. The man was nothing if not thorough.
Bishop went back, inserted it into the hole and turned it clockwise until it clicked into place. He then pulled the trapdoor all the way open until it rested against the floor. He also saw a large locking bar connected to the inner part of the door, allowing it to be opened and locked from the inside.
Inside, there was a steel stepladder leading down to a narrow, makeshift clearing seven or eight feet below. Bishop took out his Maglite, descended a few steps and shone it around the interior. It was a tunnel. Or the starting point for one.
Hallaran’s personal escape route.
Like he’d suspected. A thorough man would always have a Plan B in case everything went down the crapper. One only he knew about. And this was Hallaran’s.
The tunnel was about five feet wide and pointing north, with concrete foundation pillars every few feet. The Maglite only let him see so much before darkness took over. But it probably led to a grille somewhere beyond the perimeter fencing. No doubt safely camouflaged from accidental discovery. Bishop also saw three heavy-duty flashlights and a large plastic water jug on the ground. And one other item: a bright orange, twelve-gauge flare gun with a spare cartridge affixed to the side.
Bishop took the flare gun and came back up. It all made sense now. Everything. Including this. He was just confirming it was loaded when he caught sight of his watch. It was 00.56 already.
Shit. He was out of time. He had to get to Vallejo, fast.
Then he heard the sound of a key in the door.
EIGHTY-FOUR
Bishop moved quickly, edging along the wall until he was halfway along. He was side on to the door, which meant they’d have to enter the room before they saw him. Bishop heard the key turn in the lock and cocked the flare gun’s firing pin. Aimed the flare gun at the door.
The door opened part of the way and a man wearing a light blue shirt and jeans stepped into the room. The same man Bishop had seen in the kitchen. His eyes landed on Bishop and he immediately reached for his shoulder holster.
Bishop pulled the trigger. There was a brief flash, accompanied by a sharp pft sound, and then the flare was embedded in the man’s chest. He fell back against the wall making ‘uh, uh’ sounds, while his hands scrabbled for purchase on the incandescent, 1100-degree candle burning though his shirt. Dropping the gun, Bishop sprinted forward, closing the distance in less than a second. He gripped the sides of the guard’s skull in both hands and violently twisted it clockwise until he heard the snap.
>
The man immediately went limp. Bishop checked his pulse and felt nothing. After a few more seconds the flare went out, too.
Bishop breathed out. So much for making plans, he thought. Still, they were a man down now. Two, if you counted Abraham. Three, if you counted Ryan, currently bound and gagged in his bathroom.
Bishop got up and shut the door. Then he came back and searched the man’s pockets. The billfold contained a driver’s licence for Patrick Baldwin, one of the rapists Neeson had name-checked at the gate. He put it back and pulled the gun from the holster. It was a black Walther PPS. Looked fairly new. He ejected the magazine and counted fifteen rounds. The holster also held a spare magazine, so he took that, too. And the Midland two-way radio attached to his belt. Then Bishop got up and dragged Baldwin along the floor and dropped the body through the trapdoor. He closed it up and slipped the key into his pocket, reloaded and pocketed the flare gun, then ran to the door.
He opened it a crack, heard nothing, and slipped out. Crouching as he passed the comms room window, he heard the guard in there speaking to somebody on the radio. The plane had to be close to landing now. He checked his watch again. 00.59. He didn’t have much time. He checked the main corridor was clear and dashed across.
Standing in front of the door to Abraham’s apartment, he carefully slid the latches across. After using the pick gun on the lock, Bishop opened the door and quickly entered the room.
The lights were on in here, too. He saw Vallejo sitting on the couch. A woman with the same face as the one in Tatem’s photos sat in an adjoining chair. Both were looking at him. Bishop raised a single finger to his lips as he shut the door, then Vallejo was up off the couch and jogging over to him, a grin plastered over her face.
