Reckoning
Page 26
Nathan had the man in his crosshairs. “What the fuck?”
It was Mark Mahoney.
Seventy-Six
The ambulance dropped off Deshi two blocks from the hospital. Her heart rate was hiking up a notch every step she took toward her goal. She gripped the handle of the black leather medical bag as she strode toward the hospital. As she got nearer, she saw the crowd. Her brother had been dropped off a few minutes earlier a mile away. His job was to head to the hospital and await instructions.
Her earpiece crackled into life. “Deshi, an update on your brother.” The voice of her handler. “He has ditched the white coat so he can blend in among the crowds. We now have a second target.”
“Copy that,” she said into the name badge on the lapel of her doctor’s coat.
“We have someone he needs to take care of. So you will now handle stage one and stage two.”
“Copy that.”
“Do you understand what that entails?”
“Absolutely. Affirmative.”
“Good.”
“So, stage one. Are you clear?”
“Yes.”
“Then on to stage two immediately.”
“I’ve got this.”
“Make sure you do.”
Seventy-Seven
The crowds outside the hospital were beginning to swell. Nathan felt more agitated as he stared at Mahoney through the crosshairs. He was talking into his cell phone. Standing beside him was a photographer, probably from the New York Times, and flanking them were two Fed types.
Fuck.
Nathan began to scan the rest of the crowd. A few kids in wheelchairs near the front. He wondered what the hell Mahoney was doing there. It was dumb. After all that had happened. What was he thinking? Shit.
The more he thought about it, the more he wondered why the Feds hadn’t dissuaded Mahoney from coming here. Why the hell hadn’t they just taken him into protective custody, out of sight? As it was, Mahoney was putting himself directly in harm’s way.
Nathan knew better than anyone that the operatives might very well discover he was there. He knew there’d be extra eyes and ears, electronic surveillance, in and around the hospital. They’d be scanning police channels.
Fuck.
Nathan observed the crowds dotted around. A lot of happy kids and parents and staff.
Slowly, in his peripheral vision, a trio of black SUVs turned into the road outside the hospital.
A terrible sense of foreboding washed over him.
Seventy-Eight
Deshi pulled out her cell phone as the prime minister’s car approached. Her heart was now racing. The adrenaline rushed through her body. She felt wild. Focused. Suddenly clear of thought.
The sight of his expensive black leather shoes as he stepped out of the middle car. Bodyguards flanking him. The prime minister was only yards away, shaking hands. She watched as he kneeled down and spoke to a girl in a wheelchair. A girl not unlike his own daughter, who had been saved in the same hospital.
Her lines had been rehearsed. He was shaking hands with a nurse.
Deshi leaned forward. “Prime Minister, a photo for my daughter?”
The prime minister smiled, instinctive and natural. “Not a problem, Doctor.”
Deshi held up her cell phone, and he put his arm around her as he smiled at the camera. She pressed the home button hard.
Blinding strobe lights flashed on the screen.
He loosened his grip and fell backward, hitting his head. Then he broke into a violent epileptic fit.
Screams erupted as his handlers moved in.
“I’ve got this,” she said.
Deshi kneeled down and jabbed the EpiPen into the prime minister’s neck. His eyes were shut as he began to foam at the mouth. Then he stopped breathing.
Seventy-Nine
Nathan recognized the woman in the white coat through the crosshairs. It was the Chechen. She was surrounded. She appeared to be helping the fallen PM. But he knew that was bullshit.
For a split second, the Chechen woman was isolated as pandemonium and chaos gripped the crowds, people running in all directions.
He felt the cold metal trigger. He squeezed. A shot rang out. The Chechen woman collapsed, bullet in the neck.
Everyone turned and pointed in his direction.
Nathan stayed put. Panic reigned as people ran in all directions. Then he saw the second Chechen on the periphery, walking calmly toward Mahoney. The journalist was on his phone, finger in ear.
Police were running in Nathan’s direction.
Nathan ignored them. He blocked it all out. He focused on the second Chechen. But there were people in the way of his shot, running in terror.
Fuck.
He waited for a split second. Then a gap appeared.
Suddenly, the Chechen was within ten yards of Mahoney.
Nathan watched as the man in the white coat pulled out a gun. Nathan aimed and pulled the trigger. The jihadist fell to the ground.
Other cops in the crowd threw themselves on top of Mahoney as mayhem escalated.
Nathan quickly dismantled the rifle. He threw the parts into the backpack and drove off, dropping it in a trash can fifty yards away. He headed down the winding parking garage and aimed for street level just as some cops and plainclothes security headed up the stairwell.
A short while later, Nathan was on the freeway. He drove south. He ditched the RV in a small town near the border. Hitched a ride on a truck to the border crossing.
His fake ID and passport were inspected.
He was waved through and was soon on his way to Buffalo.
There, Nathan abandoned his ride and headed to the bus station. Caught a Greyhound to New York, where he got a room at a seedy motel, locked his door, lay down on the bed, and closed his eyes.
Eighty
Forty-eight hours later, Nathan arrived at the psychiatric hospital near the Everglades. He was shown to a special visitors’ room, where his sister was patiently waiting for him, smiling, hands folded.
“Oh my God, thank you so much for coming, Nathan,” she said.
“I promised, didn’t I?”
Her eyes were sparkling. She was loaded on lithium and all manner of antipsychotic medication.
Nathan hugged her tight. “I told you I’d be back. I’ll never leave you. You know that.”
She sat down and stared at him, arms folded.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you in advance about my friends looking after you for a while.”
“They were really sweet. And you know the great thing? They must’ve known how much I like ice cream, because they made sure there was plenty!”
Nathan looked at his sister. “Did they give you your medication there?”
“They did, so my mood was super.”
“Do you know where my friends took you to look after you?”
“It was pretty cold, I know that.”
Nathan took a few moments to contemplate that. “And my friends, they were all American, right?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I especially liked the doctor.”
“You met a doctor. Did the doctor talk to you a lot?”
“Oh yeah, he was real nice. You must’ve known him real well because he knew all about how we grew up in New York, but he hadn’t seen you for a while. And he was superinterested to know everything about you. Said he’d met you recently. But he also seemed to know a lot about me too.”
“He did?”
His sister looked off into the distance, as if for inspiration. “Yeah, he knew what medication I was on, the dosage, and he said he’d met you the day before. Said you were a really interesting person. But he also said he’d like to get to know me better. Wasn’t that nice?”
“You wanna go back a sentence or two? He said he’d met me the day before?”
His sister was smiling and singing an old show tune.
“Did he have a name?”
“His name was Mark. Dr. Mark.”
“I think it was Berenger . . . Yeah, Dr. Mark Berenger. How long have you known him, Nathan?”
So it was true. Berenger was now embedded within the facility. He had a greater role than Nathan had imagined in the operation. He wasn’t just a psychologist talking face-to-face to determine whether Nathan was fit to carry out the job.
Berenger was aware of his sister. Had even spoken with her.
And that had to mean his sister had been held at the Canadian facility. It made sense. It was secure. A controlled environment. Out of sight. And out of mind.
As of now, Nathan was just glad his sister was safe and sound and back in the psychiatric hospital she called home. But how long would that last? Would she be disappeared for a second time? Maybe next time she wouldn’t come back. She’d be neutralized as a punishment. His punishment.
Helen closed her eyes and began to rock back and forth. “Don’t ever leave me, Nathan. Promise me.”
“Trust me, I’ll never leave you.”
She opened her eyes, tears streaming down her face. “Will you always be here for me?”
Nathan reached over and touched the back of her hand. It was warm. Just as he remembered it all those years ago on the Bowery. “You were there for me. And I’m here for you. That’s the way it works, right? Together. Always.”
Epilogue
Three months later, as night fell, Nathan was driving on the Overseas Highway through the Florida Keys. His cell phone rang.
“Nathan, are you there?” It was his sister.
“Of course I’m here. I’m always here. Whenever you need me. Did you get the birthday cake I sent you?”
“Nathan, that was so nice.”
“Don’t eat too much, though, not at once. You don’t want to get sick.”
“Nathan, thank you so much for the cell phone. The nurses say I can use it with their permission.”
“That’s perfectly fine and reasonable. It means if you want to call me, or talk to me, I’ll be here. So, you ready for bed?”
“Almost. I’m so lucky. I also got flowers.”
Nathan wondered if he’d heard right. “Flowers? Who sent you flowers?”
“They didn’t say. There’s a note with it.”
“What does it say?”
“It says . . . ‘Happy birthday, Helen. Pass on my regards to Nathan. Tell him to give me a call.’”
Nathan felt his stomach tighten. He sensed something was wrong. No one other than Nathan cared about his sister or visited her. Ever.
“Did they give a number?”
“Sure.” Helen repeated the number slowly.
Nathan made a mental note and repeated it back to her.
“Is that one of those friends of yours maybe, the ones I stayed with?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“They were so nice.”
“Helen, why don’t I call you tomorrow, maybe about ten o’clock? What do you say?”
“That would be great, Nathan. Tell your friend the flowers are beautiful.”
“Will do, Helen,” he said. “Night, night.”
Nathan ended the call. He pondered whether to call there and then. Nearby, herons took flight in the near-black sky. He dialed the number. It rang five times before someone answered.
An electronically distorted voice said, “Check out Fox News, Stone.”
Then the call disconnected.
Nathan’s heart hammered in his chest. He pulled off the highway in the Lower Keys and went to a tiny bar. He bought a cold beer and asked them to turn on Fox News.
“And the breaking news tonight is that a man, thought to be New York Times journalist Mark Mahoney, has been found dead at his apartment in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan. It is believed the award-winning writer had a heart attack. There are no suspicious circumstances. Friends close to the family say they are devastated at losing Mark at such a young age. The editor of the New York Times described him as an exemplary old-school journalist.”
Nathan stared at the TV. It showed pictures of the Mahoney family smiling on a vacation to Disneyland.
Nathan drank the beer in one swig.
The bartender said, “When it’s your time, it’s your time.”
Nathan nodded and paid for his beer, headed out to his car, got back on the highway, and headed south.
His cell phone rang.
The electronically distorted voice said, “Sad news.”
Nathan said nothing.
“Did you think it was over, Stone?”
Nathan continued in silence.
“You see, Stone, this isn’t personal for us. It’s business.”
“What do you want?”
“I just wanted you to know that you should’ve killed him when we asked you to.”
Nathan felt a dark anger welling up in him.
“Oh, and we finally managed to access Mark’s encrypted files. But apparently the Justice Department seized all records associated with three phone lines, including Mahoney’s and those of two other senior members of the paper. The Feds and the NSA have also visited the paper three times in the last month. And they have court orders prohibiting the paper from publishing anything about what they know. Espionage Act, or so I’m told. If that’s not enough, they accessed all the encrypted files on the New York Times’s cloud servers. They’re citing national security. So no journalist will be able to access this information now or ever.”
Nathan said nothing.
“I’m hearing that those encrypted files will be bleached pretty soon. Wiped clean. Accidental of course. So, just to let you know, we don’t exist, none of this exists, everything that happened didn’t happen . . . All that work has disappeared.”
“So why are you telling me this?”
“We’re coming for you next. We’ll decide the time and place. Take care, Stone.”
The line went dead.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my editor, Jack Butler, Jane Snelgrove, and everyone at Amazon Publishing for their enthusiasm, hard work, and belief in the new American Ghost thriller series. I would also like to thank my loyal readers. I’d also like to thank Faith Black Ross for her terrific work on this book. Special thanks to my agent, Mark Gottlieb, of Trident Media Group, in New York.
Last but by no means least, my family and friends for their encouragement and support. None more so than my wife, Susan.
About the Author
Photo © 2013 John Need
J. B. Turner is a former journalist and the author of the Jon Reznick series of conspiracy action thrillers (Hard Road, Hard Kill, Hard Wired, Hard Way, and Hard Fall), as well as the Deborah Jones political thrillers (Miami Requiem and Dark Waters). He loves music, from Beethoven to the Beatles, and watching good films, from Manhattan to The Deer Hunter. He has a keen interest in geopolitics. He lives in Scotland with his wife and two children.