Greene's Calling: Seventeen Book Three (A Supernatural Action Adventure Thriller Series 3)

by AD Starrling

  She skidded to a halt in the corridor outside and whirled around. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

  Conrad slowed, his gun in hand. He had followed her out of the room. ‘I haven’t come this far just to sit back on my ass now!’ he retorted. ‘Besides, I have a bone to pick with these guys.’

  Laura opened her mouth, hesitated, and let out a snort of disgust. ‘Fine! Just don’t get in our way!’

  They met up with a company of agents in the stairwell next to the lifts and divided into three groups. Laura introduced Conrad briefly and gave out his description over the agency’s coded frequency so he wouldn’t get targeted by friendly fire.

  ‘We’ll take the third and fourth levels,’ she commanded. Her eyes moved to Conrad and the four armed agents with him. ‘You take the first.’

  Conrad led the two men and women down the steps. A long-forgotten emotion coursed through him as they raced along the main concourse in the direction of one of the three possible locations of the assassins. It felt good to be part of a team again.

  They slowed when they reached one of the corner end seat sections on the lower level. Here, the sound of the crowd was almost deafening.

  ‘The subject will very likely be somewhere at the back,’ said Conrad. ‘Look for anyone with a bulky jacket. They’ll be on their own.’

  The agents bobbed their heads. Conrad checked his gun, gripped it low in his hands, and entered the stadium. The noise almost rocked him back on his heels. He did his best to ignore it and spread out along the rows with the other agents.

  The killer listened to the information streaming across the US Secret Service coded frequency through a tiny earpiece and smiled at the swarms of people strolling past on their way to their seats.

  ‘Good morning. Thank you for coming. Here’s a complimentary discount voucher for our concession stands for your next visit. Have a nice day.’

  Most smiled back as they took the flyers the killer offered.

  It was Conrad who spotted the man first. His clothes and hands gave him away.

  Whereas the majority of spectators ambling and standing along the seat rows had their arms bared to the warm weather, the suspect wore a long-sleeved, quilt-lined, hooded jacket branded with the word “Staff.” His tanned skin and features suggested a Middle Eastern or Mediterranean origin. He was dispensing leaflets to the Redskins fans, a ready smile on his face; there were band-aids wrapped around the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

  Conrad stopped fifteen feet from the suspect and studied him for a few seconds. He looked around, caught the eye of one of the female agents, and cocked his head slightly toward the man in the long-sleeved jacket. The woman lowered her head and shifted to speak discreetly in her microphone.

  Conrad caught movement on the skyline to the right and saw sunlight glint on the scope of a rifle as a Secret Service sniper swung his weapon in their direction. Then, two gunshots erupted from the opposite side of the field. Had he not been listening out for the sounds, he would have mistaken them for the stick balloons filling the air with their explosive racket.

  He scanned the stands on the northwest side of the stadium and saw a commotion near one of the doors on the third level. From the distance, it looked like several Secret Service agents converging on a figure on the ground. Laura and her team had caught the first killer.

  The assassin heard the distant blasts of gunfire, looked around, and moved.

  Conrad saw the killer glance at the disturbance on the other side of the stadium. The man turned, spotted the two agents closing in on his left, took a step back, and dashed down the aisle toward the field. He threw the stacks of brochures in his hand up in the air and reached inside his jacket. Flyers rained down like confetti on the heads of spectators as he pulled out a pale, shiny gun. Conrad bolted after him.

  The man looked over his shoulder, pointed the pistol, and squeezed the trigger twice. The immortal ducked. The shots went wild and zinged off a concrete wall and a metal railing. Alarmed cries erupted across the section as the crowd started to panic. Conrad saw the guy smirk as he sprinted along one of the rows toward an exit.

  ‘Oh no you don’t, you bastard!’ the immortal hissed.

  He shoved his gun in his waistband and slipped the staff weapon out as he ran past the fleeing fans. He bounded onto the top of a seat backrest and vaulted precariously from row to row toward the running figure. Eight feet from the killer, Conrad took a flying leap in the air.

  The assassin spotted his swooping shadow and started to turn. The immortal slammed into him and took him to the ground.

  The gun clattered out of the killer’s hand and was lost in the footfall of the press of people streaming toward the exit. He slipped out from under Conrad, rolled over, and flicked a pocketknife out from under the wrist of his jacket as he jumped up.

  Conrad sprung to his feet and rotated the first ring on the gilded staff. The spear blades sprung out at the ends. The killer’s eyes shrunk into narrow slits. He moved, the sharp end of the knife flicking toward the immortal’s groin.

  Conrad hopped back and spun the double-bladed spear in a series of rapid strikes. The first one smashed the killer’s nose. The next two broke his right wrist and shattered his left patella. The knife fell from the man’s grasp and a choked cry escaped his lips.

  Conrad kicked him in the face, dropped down knee first onto his chest, and pinned him to the ground with the staff wedged against his neck. The assassin’s eyes rolled back in his head and he let out a throaty gurgle.

  Running footsteps rose to his left.

  ‘I think you broke his jaw, Batman,’ drawled a blonde female agent as she jogged down the aisle toward them.

  Conrad looked around. The Secret Service agents had cleared most of the seats in the adjacent stands on the lower level. Uniformed police stood at the exits and calmly guided the agitated crowd to safety.

  ‘Did Laura—?’ Conrad started to ask.

  ‘Yeah. Hartwell got the other killer,’ confirmed the blonde agent. Two of her colleagues rolled the assassin onto his stomach and cuffed him.

  The immortal rose to his feet and twisted the ring on the staff. The spear blades disappeared with a slick, metallic noise. He gazed toward the other side of the field and let out the breath he had been holding. Incredible as it seemed, he had made it in time to avert the assassination attempt on Westwood’s life.

  ‘Those were quite some moves you pulled there.’ The female agent was staring at the gilded weapon in his hands. ‘I’ve never seen a spear staff like that. Where’d you get it?’

  Conrad hesitated. ‘It’s...a family heirloom.’

  ‘Cool,’ said the agent. She smiled. ‘It’s Conrad, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ He saw the blatant invitation in her blue eyes and looked to where the assassin was disappearing in the midst of a group of agents and state troopers. ‘Shall we head ba—?’ A gasp interrupted him. His gaze shifted to the female agent. He froze.

  She stood motionless, her face ashen as she stared blindly past him. She raised a trembling hand to her earpiece.

  ‘What?’ said Conrad harshly. He took a step toward her and scanned the other agents’ faces. They were similarly pale and stood transfixed as they listened to words he could not hear.

  A sudden foreboding made the immortal’s heart accelerate. ‘What’s happening? Talk to me, goddammit!’ he snapped. Conrad grabbed the female agent by the shoulders.

  The action jolted her out of her state of shock. ‘The president is down,’ she said shakily. ‘He’s been shot!’

  The assassin lowered the custom-made, carbon-fiber-reinforced plastic rifle and scope, dismantled the weapon, and placed it on the ground. She stripped off her FedEx Field usher uniform, slipped on a Redskins jersey over her running shorts, and tucked her long, glossy black curls under
a sports cap.

  She collected the weapon parts and exited the four-and-a-half-foot-wide, triangular space enclosed by a flexible banner stand advertising the Redskins’ premium club membership. The location was perfectly positioned to target the president’s evacuation path. The fatal strike had been delivered through a small, resealable flap in the vinyl wall facing the exterior of the stadium.

  The assassin merged with the hordes of people racing for the exits on the second level concourse and discreetly tossed the pieces of the sniper rifle beneath their panicked, stampeding feet.

  The firearm and its ammunition had been specially manufactured in Europe and cost millions of dollars. Along with the rifles and guns that had been successfully delivered to the other assassins, it was never meant to survive more than a few dozen rounds.

  The weapons had been made for only two purposes: to evade detection by metal sensors and to be accurate enough to take out the president of the United States and any bodyguards who stood in the way of the bullets.

  Soon, the assassin was just another Redskins fan in the rapidly moving crowd.

  Conrad sprinted along the concourse, the female agent close on his heels.

  ‘Where?’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  ‘To your left!’

  He took the corner and pounded down a corridor in the basement of the stadium, anger and self-reproach warring inside his heart.

  The enemy had never meant for there to be just three assassins. They had always planned for a fourth one. And it was that last assassin who had delivered the deadly shots that had killed two US Secret Service bodyguards and almost certainly fatally wounded the president just as they extracted him from the north field tunnel to the waiting motorcade.

  Conrad scowled. Had the coordinates of the fourth assassin’s position been in the haiku?

  There was no more time to think. He saw the crowd of agents and police amassed in front of the mouth of the passage twenty feet ahead and barreled toward the sunlit opening.

  The county police Deputy Chief stood outside, her gaze frozen on the two agents lying on the ground a few yards away. The paramedics had stopped working on the men and were sat back on their heels, their expressions as stunned as everyone else’s. The roar of sirens faded to the north.

  ‘So much blood,’ the Deputy Chief whispered.

  Conrad grasped her shoulders. ‘Which hospital are they taking him to?’ he demanded, desperation hardening his voice. For a second, he thought she hadn’t heard him.

  ‘The—the Prince George’s Hospital Center, in Cheverly,’ the policewoman finally stammered, her gaze shifting from the dead men on the asphalt. Tears brimmed in her eyes. ‘Oh God, there’s so much blood!’

  ‘Conrad!’ someone shouted from behind.

  He spun around and saw Laura racing out of the tunnel.

  ‘I need to get to him!’ he yelled, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs.

  ‘I know!’ she replied, her expression grim. ‘I’m already on it!’

  The squeal of tires rose from the left. A black Suburban raced down the road and pulled up sharply next to the curb. An agent leapt out from behind the wheel and tossed the car keys to Laura. She snatched them from the air and dashed around the hood to the driver’s side. Conrad yanked the passenger door open and leapt inside a second before she floored the gas pedal.

  The Suburban shot down the stadium’s main avenue, lights flashing and siren blaring. The fast lane had been cleared by the passing motorcade, and they rapidly overtook the stationary traffic on the right.

  Conrad glanced at Laura. ‘You catch your guy?’ he asked tensely.

  A muscle jumped in her jaw. ‘He resisted arrest. He won’t survive the gunshot wounds.’

  Conrad frowned. Three miles later, he braced himself against the dashboard and roof of the vehicle as she took a sharp left onto a highway. The tires on the passenger side lifted off the blacktop briefly and dropped back down with a jolt.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Laura suddenly shouted. Her fist slammed repeatedly on the wheel, underscoring her cries.

  ‘What?’ snapped Conrad.

  Laura had gone pale. Sweat beaded her forehead as she listened to the stream of communication coming through her earpiece. ‘He’s bleeding out.’ Her lips pressed tightly together. ‘His pulse has slowed right down. He’s about to arrest.’

  Conrad stared at the road, his knuckles whitening on the dashboard. Lights flashed in the distance. They were about a minute behind the motorcade.

  Twenty seconds later, Laura’s grip slackened on the wheel. Her breath hitched in her throat. Up ahead, the town cars and Suburbans making up the rear of the convoy were coming into view.

  ‘Laura?’ Conrad asked in a low voice.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she whispered. Her voice shook. ‘Oh God, he’s dead.’

  Fear squeezed Conrad’s chest and contracted the air in his lungs. He inhaled sharply and yelled, ‘Get me to him!’

  Laura looked at him dazedly, confusion replacing the distress on her face. ‘Didn’t you hear me? He’s dead! There’s nothing you can do!’

  ‘Yes, there is!’ Conrad barked. His nails dug into his palms. ‘Just get me there, Laura!’

  She observed him for a stunned moment, her hazel eyes filled with anguish and uncertainty. She dipped her chin sharply, gripped the steering wheel, and spat out a terse message into her microphone to all the agents, state troopers, and county police officers in the motorcade.

  ‘Clint, pull over!’ she ordered. ‘I have an urgent package to deliver.’ She broke off for a beat. ‘Yes!’ she shouted. ‘I know he’s dead, but please, just do this, Woods! We have nothing to lose!’

  A couple of seconds passed. Laura’s shoulders sagged. She closed her eyes briefly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered in the mouthpiece. She seemed to recall something and suddenly stiffened. ‘Who else is in the car with you?’ Her face cleared when she heard the answer. ‘Good.’

  The Suburban darted past the line of speeding vehicles. The heavily armored presidential limousine came in sight in the middle of the convoy. Laura maneuvered the Suburban behind it and flashed her headlights. The Cadillac responded by pulling off the highway and rolling to a stop in a lay-by overlooking an empty, overgrown field.

  Laura followed and braked inches from the vehicle’s bumper. ‘Form a security perimeter around us!’ she instructed through the microphone.

  Conrad bolted out of the Suburban and ran toward the limousine. The rest of the motorcade screeched to a halt around them and blocked off the lanes of the highway. He reached the Cadillac and yanked open the armor-plated back door. The fresh, coppery smell of blood hit his nostrils. He lowered his head and looked inside.

  ‘Shut down all the roads, stations, and airports!’ Woods was bellowing into his radio unit from the front passenger seat. ‘Goddammit, I don’t care what you have to do! I want this state in lockdown! These bastards are not getting away!’

  The glass partition that separated the back of the limousine from the driver’s compartment had been lowered. President Westwood lay in a pool of blood on the rear-facing seats below it.

  A woman in her forties with shoulder-length blonde hair and what would normally be a charismatic face kneeled next to his head. Scarlet blotches darkened her gray dress suit. She held an oxygen mask between her crimson-stained fingers, her expression numb.

  An equally blood-splattered agent sat paralyzed to her right, a used adrenaline pre-filled syringe discarded on his lap. His fingers were still clenched around the blood pack connected to an IV line in Westwood’s right arm. An empty bag floated in the congealing puddles covering the floor of the limo.

  A middle-aged man with a receding hairline slouched, slack-jawed, where the president normally sat. The other seat had been pulled
down to access the emergency blood bank and resus equipment routinely stored in the trunk of the presidential limo.

  Conrad climbed inside the vehicle and gently pushed the shocked agent out of the way. He knelt by Westwood. His presence seemed to bring everyone out of their stupor. The agent looked up sharply and automatically reached for his gun.

  ‘It’s all right, Harry. He’s with me,’ said Laura.

  The agent looked over his shoulder to where she stood in the doorway of the limo. He gulped and nodded shakily. Conrad studied the still, waxen features of the president. He raised his left hand and placed it on the dead man’s chest.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ barked the middle-aged man in the back. Out of the corner of his eye, Conrad saw the guy’s head turn sharply to Laura and Woods. ‘What’s that man doing?’

  ‘Shut up, Bill!’ snapped the woman in the gray suit. She ignored the older man’s shocked gasp and scrutinized Conrad. ‘Is he one of you?’ she demanded, glancing briefly at Laura.

  Laura hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  It was Woods’s turn to gape between Laura and the woman in the suit. ‘One of who?’ His eyes locked onto Conrad’s hand. ‘What the hell is he doing?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Laura softly. ‘I really don’t know.’

  Conrad closed his eyes and tuned them out. In the seconds since he had laid his fingers on Westwood, he had identified the extensive damage caused by the bullet that had penetrated the man’s left armpit and punched through his lung and aorta before lodging just beneath his fourth rib.

  The immortal’s healing powers sparked down his left arm and flashed along the body of the snake birthmark before streaking out of its forked tongue toward his fingertips. He steered the unearthly energy inside the dead man and slowly pushed the bullet back along its path of entry until it plopped out from under his arm.