by L. T. Ryan
If this was a setup, it was going down now. That's why he moved. Got out of the way to make space for the fight that would ensue. Paolo stepped to the side and glanced back at the door. Through the small window he saw nothing but the guard. He faced the opposite way.
"Relax," said Hood. "It's just us. You're safe in here. Safer than you think. I practically run this place now."
His words did little to comfort Paolo. Everyone he knew was a pathological liar, a crook, and a killer. Hood was no different. He'd get the information he wanted out of Paolo, then have him killed. If that was his intention.
"Why?" Paolo asked.
"Why what?"
"You said you never liked me. Just curious why."
"I did at one time. But once the Old Man passed, the line was drawn. You were on the other side. For a while, I thought I was going to win. It wasn't a matter of being anti-Charles. No, more to it than that. They were going to put me in charge once we took him down. Obviously that hasn't happened. Yet. I'm biding my time in here. Building resources. Making connections. You wouldn't believe the corporate power in here. When I get out, I'll have enough to start my own thing if need be."
"Charles has more connections than you can make in here. He'll have you killed if you try and move in on his territory."
"The people outside the organization will side with who they think is most powerful, and who they feel can benefit them most. I think they'll quickly realize that I'm the right guy."
There was no point debating him. Paolo had more to gain by agreeing with the guy, however disillusioned he was, getting the information he needed, and then moving on.
"Perhaps you're right," Paolo said.
"I know I'm right." Hood crossed his arms and grinned, the cigarette dangling from his lips.
"I want to know about the tunnel."
"Which tunnel?"
"Under the compound."
"Don't know what you're talking about."
"I've got no other way in. And to take Charles out, inside the compound is the best bet. Yeah, the place is crawling with goons, but his guard is most down there precisely for that reason."
Hood dropped his cigarette on the floor and crushed it out with the tip of his shoe. He stood there for a moment, focused on Paolo. Finally, he nodded and waved Paolo over to the table. Hood reached into his pocket, pulled out a pen and some paper.
"Only two people know about what you speak of," Hood said. "Well, I guess you make three now. Not even Charles knows the truth. The Old Man didn't trust him enough. Feared the guy would use it to bring him down in some way. To most guys, it was a legend. How can something you can't see be real, right?"
Paolo nodded. He felt that way up until this moment.
Hood continued. "It runs about a mile and a half. You enter through the sewer. There's lots of ways. Was done like that so you had options if it was necessary to escape, or if you had to bring someone in and one of the entry points was inaccessible for whatever reason."
"So where do I enter?"
Hood gave him the locations. "There's a false entrance and the real entrance. See, takes a code to get into the tunnel, but you can't stick a security box in the sewer. So, you go through the first entrance, which is hidden and you're going to need the schematics because I know it by feel, not really distance. Once inside, you travel another fifty yards and you reach the security check point." Hood repeated the access code. "Since Charles doesn't know about this, I'll assume it is still the same. At the other end, enter the code in reverse. You'll come up into the last cell on the left. But first, check the box right of the ladder. There should be an access card there that gives you override to all doors, even the ones with the fancy locks."
"I'm cleared for those anyway."
"You think you still are? After what happened?"
Paolo said nothing as he considered this. Hood was right. Charles would have deactivated Paolo's access card, and erased his biometric scans. At least after the front door. He wouldn't have any issue with Paolo getting inside so long as he never reached the interior.
Hood had been making notes on a sheet of paper. He scribbled one last note that appeared to be a series of numbers, and slid it over to Paolo.
"That's your contact. You don't know him, but you can trust him. He was an associate of the Old Man's. He didn't have anything to do with what happened after Feng's death, but he was against Charles. Don't tell him what you're doing, only that you need the schematics for the tunnel. Tell him I sent you. He'll hook you up."
Paolo folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. One step closer, so long as Hood didn't sell him out.
"Do this right," Hood said, "and I'll make you my number two when I get out of here."
Paolo rose, smiled, extended his hand. No, he thought, you can be mine.
SCOTT HOOD LOOKED at the guard with surprise when he was informed he had another set of visitors.
"I thought visiting hours were over?" Hood said.
"Come on, Hood," the guard said. "I'm off shift in five minutes. I don't have time for your talk."
Hood stretched out on his bed, glanced at the television. He was one of the few in the place with his own room. Extra privileges paid for with a stack of fake money.
"Hood, now. I can report you, you know."
This made Hood laugh. "Sure you can. But you won't. Just hold that door for a moment while I take a piss."
CLARISSA WATCHED THE man step into the room. She recognized him right away. He'd been a patron of the bar she ran years ago. Back before Hood and Charles had reached the next level of the Old Man's organization.
Judging by the look on Hood's face, she wasn't even a distant memory to him. Though Beck had told her it was safe to use her real name now and that she had moved up to a highly restricted level of security clearance required to access her files, she knew there were men out there that didn't care about such things. If Charles had a price on her head, she was dead.
Beck took the lead. "I'll make this short and simple. My name is Beck. I'm with the Secret Service, and I'm here to make you a deal."
He explained who and what they were after. Hood smiled at the mention of Charles DeCosta. Five minutes later, the smile hadn't faded.
"Give me everything you know," Beck said. "And if it all checks out and gets us a conviction, you'll have your sentence reduced to thirty-six months, with a day for day good behavior incentive."
"And what would it take to get the rest of that time reduced?"
"There may be options with the FBI," Beck said.
Shaking his head, Hood held his hand up and cut him off. "Fuck them. I deal with you and only you."
"Can you give us any other names? Perhaps someone that could help us bring up even more charges?"
"I do this and you knock off the remaining three years?"
Beck nodded. "So long as it leads to what we expect."
Hood smiled, leaned back and spread his arms. He let his hands collapse on his stomach. And he gave them everything he had on Paolo Almeida, including the man's plans to infiltrate the compound.
"Sounds like the perfect candidate," Beck said. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Hood."
Chapter 73
Washington, D.C.
BRETT LEANED AGAINST the wall next to the window watching the falling rain. Lightning exploded and thunder clapped. The sidewalks below, for once, were deserted. Water pooled on his porch. Happened every time it rained. Sometimes it took an hour for it to drain.
He'd been back for two weeks. His first visit had been to Ballard. The man took the news of Jack's death at Brett's word. Then he asked about Noble's associates. Brett recalled the conversation.
"Logan is off the grid," Brett had said. "I can't locate him."
"We'll keep trying, then," Ballard had said. "What about the others?"
"I suppose I can go after the woman, Abbot, if you'd like me to."
"No, she's off limits. Just forget that name. Forget she ever existed. In fact, erase Jack Noble and e
verything you know about him from your memory. We're moving on."
With that, Ballard had assigned Brett to kill an active member of the SIS. A man named Turner. There was nothing dramatic about the operation. Brett had followed the guy home and shot him while he watered his lawn.
The next set of instructions had advised Brett to wait. They wanted to monitor for Frank Skinner's reaction. By now, the man had to be wary that something was going on. Before long, he'd close up. Or flee.
The last communication from Ballard had been five days ago. Brett had pushed him on each call to reveal more about what was going on. The names of other targets. The names of the main players. Ballard revealed nothing. But he wasn't the kind of guy that Brett figured would hold up under intense stress. So, when it came time, he'd place the guy under it.
Brett's phone buzzed on the kitchen table. He glanced at it. Decided to ignore it. Turned his attention back to the rainy streets for another five minutes.
Then his phone rang again. This time he answered.
"Brett? Is that you?"
It wasn't tough to place the female British voice.
"Hello, Sasha," he said. "I've been waiting to hear from you."
"Our friend reached out. The package has been delivered."
"Where can I pick it up?"
"Stand by and you'll receive further instructions."
"I can assure you that this is a secure line."
He heard her breathing through the phone while she paused. "Nothing is secure right now. We'll be in touch once you've picked up the package."
The line went dead, and Brett's frustration level rose. Two weeks he'd been waiting, and that was all they could communicate to him. He'd risked his life for this. He could have completed his job and killed Jack. Sure, he might've been shot in the process. But there was also a chance that Mason wasn't a quick shot. The guy had the look of a desk jockey. Two shots. Two men dead. And Sasha would have been simple to deal with.
He brushed the thoughts aside. Things hadn't gone that way, so there was no point in dwelling on them.
She said they'd be in touch once he rendezvoused with Jack. But he had no idea where that would be.
A few minutes later, an encrypted message came through. It took him a few minutes to work out the string of numbers. He determined they were coordinates. He dialed them in. They revealed a location north of Charleston, South Carolina.
Another message went to his personal email. It contained five digits. He then received a text with another series of numbers. Putting them together revealed a UK telephone number. He had a hunch the line would go right through to Jack when called.
Brett left his apartment and went to the nearest drug store. He purchased a throwaway phone and some minutes. He returned to his building, but went to the top floor instead of his own. The eastern stairwell led to the roof. The rain fell heavy, but a canopy provided enough relief that he could make the call.
Jack answered almost immediately. "Who's this?"
"It's Brett. Our friend put me in touch. She gave me some coordinates, too."
"I arrived a few hours ago. Got a house to check out down here."
"I'm coming down. Should take me about seven or eight hours to reach your location."
"What's the world think about me?"
"You're dead."
After ending the call, Brett returned to his apartment and packed a bag. He stored an extra pistol, some cash, and another secure phone for Jack. He considered bringing a false identity for Jack to use. The driver's license and passport photo were of Brett, though. He brought them, but for his own use.
Bags in hand, he left the building and hailed a cab. Had the driver drop him off three blocks from a Hertz where he rented a full-size sedan. No point in driving in a vehicle the government could track. He paid for the car with a credit card under the name of his false identity.
Thirty minutes later, he was out of town on I-95, headed for South Carolina.
Chapter 74
Nevers, France.
She lay still as the boy entered her room. He was older than her. Fifteen or sixteen, she figured. Her foster parents had taken to calling her Madeline. It felt almost right, but not quite. Now the boy whispered her adopted name over and over. Closer and closer.
She pulled the sheets tight across her face. Pinned them down with her feet. Lifted her body in an attempt to secure the rest of the bedding under her body.
And it didn't matter when the boy yanked them off the bed.
Her feet and body offered little resistance. She managed to hang on with her hands for a moment, but a second yank by the boy freed them.
She remained still. Hopeful that if she didn't put up a fight, he'd move on.
He didn't.
The streetlight cast a bar of light into the room. The boy passed through it. He was stripped down to his underwear. She saw that he wasn't much bigger than she was. He lunged onto the bed. Pinned her arms down with his hands.
He might not have been much bigger, but he seemed stronger.
She fought anyway.
He let go of her left arm. For a moment, she thought he was giving up. Then he struck her. But before she could cry out in pain, he placed his hand over her mouth.
Seize any opportunity to hurt your opponent.
The voice in her head, so familiar, yet unknown. It barked commands at her. She had an opportunity, and she took it.
The girl bit down hard on the boy's hand. He yanked it back. Pulled his other hand away and wrapped it around his bleeding palm.
"You bitch," he said as he released his injured appendage and swung for her face.
She saw his fist passing through a finger of light. Without thinking, she moved her head. His punch connected with her pillow. It wasn't much further than her face would have been, but it offered an entirely different stopping resistance. The boy lost his balance and tumbled to the side.
Know the weakest points on a man's body. Strike fast and hard. Strike two or three times. Do what you have to until he is neutralized.
She swung her right arm in an ark, formed a fist, connected with the boy's neck.
He continued to slide off her.
She wriggled to her side and swung again, unsure where her blow connected. Her knuckles cried out in pain, and it didn't seem to affect the boy as much.
He rolled off her and the bed and got to his feet.
"Come on," he said. "Fight me."
She swung her legs over and stood, leaving the bed between them, and nowhere for her to go. He had the door behind him. She was trapped. A smile crossed his face. He realized it too.
Use any and all assets available to you.
He hopped on the bed, effectively cutting off any escape route. She backed up to the corner of the room and brought her hands to her face and started to cry.
His laughter told her that he'd bought the act. His feet thumped on the floor as he hopped down in front of her.
"Got any more fight in you?" he said.
She sobbed some more.
He reached out and grabbed her shoulder. "Why don't you get back in that bed and let me do what I want with you."
She removed her hands and lowered her head. With eyes out of sight, she nodded. He was close. Maybe a foot away. She could smell his body odor.
Another step, you little bastard.
The overhead fan ticked and whooshed. She felt the cool air on her sweat-soaked skin. She became aware of the heat from the boy's body as he stood inches from her. His hand fell upon her shoulder. It wasn't soft or gentle. He squeezed. Dug in with his nails. He chuckled softly. A sinister sound.
Weakness! Attack the weakness!
He had both hands on her now. One clutching her shoulder still. The other wrapped around the back of her head, tightening around her hair. He wrapped it around his wrist. He pulled her closer.
Her forehead touched his chest. He drew in a sharp breath.
So did she.
And she brought her right knee up with a
ll the force she could muster. Her kneecap connected with his groin and the boy let out a hollow howl. Sounded like steam escaping, without the whistle.
But he didn't go down. And he didn't let go. His right hand dug deeper into her shoulder. The left yanked her head left and right.
So the girl struck again. Her knee carved through the few feet of air, building power and momentum. It struck between his legs, crushing his testicles.
This time, he released her and bowed over. His hands disappeared between his legs.
The girl didn't hesitate. She grabbed him by the back of his head, yanking his hair upward then forcing his head down as she delivered another strike with her knee. She heard the crunch of cartilage. The sickening muffled scream and then the boy choking on his blood.
She could have left it at that. She almost did. But he had intended to do her far worse harm.
Plus, he was still standing.
So she pulled his head up, then yanked it down in time to meet her knee a second time. The thud wasn't quite as satisfying as the crunch. He didn't scream this time. Instead his body went limp. He dropped to the floor. She held him up by his hair.
The girl let go and backed up a foot. Perched on his knees, he swayed side to side.
"Fall down," she whispered.
He didn't.
"Do it," she said.
He still didn't.
She backed up another foot, then lunged forward and struck with her heel to his throat.
The boy collapsed backward. Landed with his feet pinned next to his hips.
She stepped over him, changed into shorts and a shirt, grabbed a few additional articles of clothing and stuffed them into the small bag the hospital had given her. She glanced back at the boy. He still hadn't moved. Was he even breathing? She didn't care. She stepped over him again, slid the window open, and disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter 75
New York City.
