A bell rang as the elevator neared their floor.
“So that’s it, then. Just a clean bullet wound and a cut on his head?”
Taylor held up a hand. “I didn’t say that. If he hit his head like I think he might have, he could have a subdural hematoma. If it was more of a glancing blow and merely a laceration, he’ll be fine. The CT will tell us all we need to know.”
The elevator stopped abruptly and the doors slid apart. “In English,” Knox said.
“The blow to the head might have caused some internal bleeding around his brain. If that’s the case, we have to relieve the pressure immediately or we could lose him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to radiology.”
Taylor stepped out of the elevator, leaving Waller and Knox standing there, staring at the closing stainless steel doors. Then, Knox turned to Waller, his face contorted into a hideous Halloween mask of anger. “How the hell could you have let this happen?”
64
Nick Bradley walked into the bar near his motel and ordered a Scotch, straight up. He buried his head in the crook of his elbow and exhaled deeply while the bartender prepared his drink.
When the man placed the glass on the counter in front of him, Bradley lifted his head and then peeled a couple of bills off his money clip. His eye caught an image on the news playing out on the television mounted above the far end of the bar.
“Hey, can you turn that up?” Bradley asked the barkeep.
The man reached below the counter and pointed a remote at the TV. As the volume rose, Bradley could hear the news reporter setting the scene.
“...and it appears as if the government’s case against Anthony Scarponi could be in significant jeopardy, unless their key witness, former FBI agent Harper Payne, makes what would appear to be a miraculous recovery...”
Bradley’s gaze remained locked on the TV as images of the street in Fredericksburg flashed across the screen. An officer-involved shooting team was examining and documenting the scene behind the reporter as she babbled on about the Scarponi case.
“We have Ray Jamison standing by at Colonial General Hospital, where Agent Payne was brought a little over an hour ago.”
Bradley threw another mouthful of Scotch down his throat, the burn bringing his mind back into focus. His placed the glass back on the bar and grabbed for his cell phone, which was now ringing. He answered it with his eyes still fixed on the TV.
His back straightened. “I’ve been trying to reach you, where the hell have you been?” He paused, waiting for the answer. He shook his head, then slid down off his stool. “Did you see the news? This wasn’t supposed to happen.” He listened for a second, then broke in. “No. Absolutely not.” He turned and glanced around, realizing his voice had been a little too loud. “We need to meet,” he said as he pushed through the bar’s front door. “Right now.”
65
The birthing room was decorated with primary colors, children’s hands of all shapes and sizes splashed across the walls. It was a comfortable environment, with a couch, chairs, and plenty of room to stretch out and relax with your newborn.
Presley Jane Archer, a seven-pound-five-ounce, pink bundle of delight had just been brought back into the room to see her mother after being examined, scored, and foot printed.
Hector DeSantos stood in the doorway as the baby was reunited with Trish, whose attention was so focused on the newborn that she did not even see him standing there. The nurse smiled at him on the way out, then closed the door behind her.
After Archer had gone down in the streets of Fredericksburg, DeSantos went on a hunt, sniffing out his prey in every way he knew how. But he had come up empty. Anthony Scarponi had gotten away. But DeSantos knew that sooner or later—preferably sooner—he would bring justice to the grave of Brian Archer. Zebra 59, his partner’s dying words, meant that DeSantos’s sole focus would be to track down and settle the score with Archer’s killer.
DeSantos had walked through the hospital corridors, fresh with the knowledge that Trish had given birth to a healthy girl, trying to wipe the anger, the depression, the terror, off his face. He had stopped at a restroom and stood in front of the mirror, attempting to smile, attempting to hide what was in his heart. As he had done so many times in the past in so many dire undercover situations when he needed to, he was actor first, commando second.
Now, as he stood in the doorway, his heart pounded fiercely against his chest, not out of fear, but out of sadness because of what he was about to do. He had to take a mother’s most blissful moment and turn it into a nightmare. But there was no other way. He knew that as the hours passed and Trish did not hear from her husband, she would begin to worry, and then ask questions. And the person she would call would be him.
And that’s the way it should be; that’s the way he and Brian had always wanted it.
He forced a smile across his face and held out the modest bouquet of flowers he had picked up in the hospital gift shop on the way up. Pink and yellow roses with a smatter of baby’s breath. How appropriate. Trish looked over and smiled.
Her face was haggard and her complexion pale. It had no doubt been a difficult labor. But then again, in his limited experience with pregnant women, he had never heard of an easy labor. Only ones less difficult than others.
“Where’s Brian?” Trish asked.
“We were called away and were in the middle of a mission when the page came through,” DeSantos said, maintaining the phony smile. “He wanted so much to be here, you know that.”
Trish smiled. “Of course, he wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
DeSantos felt his stomach seize up on him but he forced himself to hold it in, to choke off the emotions. “So, this is Presley?”
Trish turned the baby around to face DeSantos.
“Say hi to Uncle Hector,” Trish sang.
DeSantos touched the newborn’s soft facial skin with the back of his forefinger and felt a surge of emotion well up in his throat. He fought back tears and summoned the strength to say, “She’s beautiful.”
“I see Brian in her eyes, don’t you?”
DeSantos smiled. “Yup. And her mother’s beautiful face.”
Trish planted a kiss on the baby’s cheek, then said, without looking up, “So when’s Brian coming?”
DeSantos knew the question was going to come; it was just a matter of when. He was going to tell her what he had prepared himself to say in the car, that he was sorry, that Brian had died in the line of duty, that his last thoughts were of mother and daughter, that he, Hector, was to look after them. And that he was going to get the son of a bitch who had killed her husband.
But he knew that as soon as he started to speak, Trish would know. It would click in her mind and that would be it. Brian was dead. That would be all that mattered to her. But to DeSantos... what mattered to him was making sure Anthony Scarponi paid for what he had done.
DeSantos pulled up a chair and set it next to her bedside. “Trish... about Brian.” He looked down, but the tears started to trail down his cheek until he tasted the salt on his lips. He picked his head up, unable to hide it anymore, and saw that she knew.
She shook her head. “God, no, please. No.” A tear ran down her cheek and dripped onto Presley’s knit cap. Trish’s pale face turned beet red and she began to sob, and the baby began to cry, and he leaned over to hug both of them.
66
The pressroom at Colonial General was crowded with tripod and shoulder-mounted television cameras, reporters, and support personnel from the Washington media corps. A continuous white noise of chatter had poured from the journalists ever since they were herded into the room twenty minutes ago.
With the babbling growing louder and the news people becoming restless, the side door swung open suddenly and two men entered, followed by a contingent of suited security-detail agents. The embroidered name above the vest pocket on the knee-length, white lab coat of the first man read VANCE TAYLOR, M.D. The doctor introduced himself and allud
ed to the presence of FBI director Knox, then addressed the press corps.
The doctor’s face was long and his shoulders were rolled, as if he had just been through a harrowing experience. He paused, placed both hands on the lectern, which was emblazoned with the hospital logo, and sighed.
“As you know, Special Agent Harper Payne was involved in an accidental shooting in Fredericksburg a little over two hours ago. Unfortunately, despite our best efforts, he suffered a subdural hematoma, which resulted in uncontrolled bleeding in his brain. We attempted to relieve the pressure but were unsuccessful. Agent Payne died on the operating table thirty minutes ago, at nineteen hundred hours.”
A noticeable murmur rose from the reporters.
“Director Knox has a statement and then I’ll answer questions.” Taylor turned to Knox, whose tie was loosened at the collar.
Knox kept his gaze on the lectern as he spoke. “As all of you know, Agent Payne was pivotal to the case we had against the well-publicized assassin Anthony Scarponi. I can only assure you that the FBI will do everything in its power to bring justice to the people of this country, in spite of tonight’s events.” Knox looked up at the stunned faces standing before him. He cocked his head and with a choked voice said, “As for Agent Payne, may his soul rest in peace. I can only say that his courage, fortitude, and service to this country have not and will not go unappreciated. Thank you.”
Hands sprang up from nearly every reporter in the room. Knox turned away, giving them the clear sign that he had no intention of answering their questions. He stepped back and allowed Vance Taylor to take the lectern, then hurried off through the exit.
67
Nick Bradley sat in his darkened motel room holding his nine-millimeter in one hand and his cell phone in the other. For ten minutes he struggled to find the right words. It would be a fast call, he figured, just long enough to hook Scarponi and keep his attention. He would drop the bomb, then back away.
The television, turned down to a barely perceptible level, droned on about the death of Harper Payne. Another investigative special, more legal analysis, and higher ratings for the networks. All the interest of a high profile trial or political scandal, but in a condensed version. It would draw viewers for a week at most, and then fade from the public’s mind—but for those seven days, the story would dominate the airwaves. Because viewers brought money to the networks’ bottom line, and the bottom line drove the news.
The female reporter was holding an umbrella in front of the FBI’s Washington Field Office and caressing the camera with her large brown eyes. “Services for the deceased agent will be private, at an undisclosed location, the Bureau announced this afternoon. Agent Payne’s former wife and daughter, both of whom he had not seen since going underground in the Witness Protection Program six years ago, are expected to attend. Attempts to locate his current wife have thus far been unsuccessful. As you can imagine, the mood was somber at the FBI field office where Agent Payne was stationed, but it was business as usual...”
Bradley turned off the television and stared at the phone. With his plan now completely laid out in his mind, he realized it was time. He placed the call and left a cryptic voicemail message, designed to motivate Scarponi to call him back without delay.
For ten minutes he sat by the phone. Although he was confident Scarponi would return the call, the waiting was difficult. Finally, the phone rang. Perhaps appearing too eager, he pounced on the handset.
“You didn’t wire the funds,” Bradley said, starting the conversation with an aggressive stance.
“You’ve never called me before.”
“You’ve never stiffed me before.”
“Fair enough,” Scarponi said. “Fair enough. Well, it’s this way, my friend. I don’t need your services anymore.”
Bradley could tell from the tone of the man’s voice that he had already heard the news of Payne’s death. “You’ll want to hear what I have to say,” Bradley said, hoping that Scarponi would not disconnect him.
But several seconds passed without a response.
Bradley realized it was now or never. Scarponi, guarding against any possibility this was a setup, would not remain on the phone long enough for it to be traced. “Harper Payne is not dead.”
Scarponi laughed. “This is a joke, right?”
“No joke. Payne is alive.”
“What are you talking about? The news—”
“Designed just for you. Disinformation released by the Bureau to keep you from gunning for Payne while the feds forge ahead with their plans for the trial. They’re confident they’ll eventually find you. Every allied country is on high alert. Borders are tight. Interpol is coordinating the effort. And the CIA has made it their goal to bring you back to trial. You’ve made them look like fools.”
“You’re just trying to prove your worth, prevent the cash cow from taking his milk elsewhere.”
“Have you ever had reason to doubt my sources? After everything I’ve given you over the years, has my intelligence ever failed you?”
“Maybe you’re due. Maybe you’re now working with the feds against me. Maybe they’re onto you and they’re using you to pass on bad information.”
“If you think Payne’s dead, you stop gunning for him. Don’t you get it?”
Scarponi was silent again. Bradley knew the Viper understood what the feds had done. It was a good move on their part, and Scarponi no doubt respected them for it.
“Do some digging and find out for yourself,” Bradley said. “Verify what I’m telling you. Then call me back. I’ve got some more information you might be interested in.” With that, Bradley pressed END and severed the connection.
He sat there in the dark tapping his foot. Scarponi was, by design, extremely unpredictable, and not knowing how he was going to react bothered Bradley a great deal. At the least, the assassin would attempt to confirm what Bradley had told him. But there would be no way to do that, not unless other well-placed moles were on his payroll.
Bradley closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly. Stressing out about it wasn’t going to help him any. The best thing he could do would be to keep his mind busy with other matters.
But there were no other matters. None that had any significance. This was it.
The SIG remained in his hand, warm and at the ready, just in case it was needed. If someone burst through his door, they wouldn’t get one step before having a meal made of lead.
His eyes kept following the second hand around the dial. It had circled more times than he cared to count—but fifteen minutes later, the jarring chirp of the cell phone made his heart skip. He stood up and forced himself to walk slowly across the room, where he had left his phone. He didn’t want to appear too anxious to answer the call. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax while he waited for the fourth ring.
He pressed SEND and, in a low voice, said, “Yeah.”
“You said you had more information. I’m listening.”
Bradley brushed a sleeve across his wet forehead, then began laying out his terms.
Nick Bradley slipped the cell phone into his pocket and realized that what he had just set in motion was irreversible. He had told Scarponi about the plans the Bureau had to move Payne to a military hospital on the outskirts of D.C., outlining the specific route the ambulance would be taking. As far as Scarponi was concerned, the information was worth far more than the $10, 000 he had promised to pay.
Bradley walked into the bathroom and splashed his face with cool water, then, while toweling off, heard a car door slam outside his room. Could Scarponi have found him? Now that he had the information he needed, was Bradley merely an expendable part, worth no more to him than a disposable razor?
Bradley stood in the bathroom, his torso wet from an instant mat of perspiration. He crouched down and scampered across the room to the curtained window. If they were going to fire on him, they would aim for his chest, five feet off the ground. Keeping below their line of fire was an old t
rick he had learned two decades ago in the marines.
Bradley heard a room door close, then carefully parted the drapes and saw a taxi pulling away from the curb. No one was in the vicinity, though it was difficult to see in the stark lighting of the parking lot. Could it be Lauren?
The SIG still in his hand, crouched down low, he cracked open the door. All was clear. He moved outside, dressed only in pants and a cotton shirt. The cold night air stung his skin and induced a shiver as he stayed low, his eyes combing the parking lot.
He tried to slow his breathing, as he was blowing very visible wisps of vapor into the air. This not only drew attention to his presence, but to a sharp assassin, it was an instant tip-off that he was crouching.
With his left fist, he rapped on Lauren’s door. His placed his ear against the cold metal and listened intently for any signs of movement. There was nothing. He rapped again and thought he heard something—a hard object dropping onto a carpeted floor.
He moved to his right and stood up, his right shoulder leaning against the stucco wall. He stepped back, then coiled his leg and thrust it quickly into Lauren’s door. It burst open, the wood jamb splintering apart. He quickly ducked back, to the left, out of sight.
The dim light from the parking lot spilled into the room, which was otherwise dark. He waited a second, crouched down, and swung around square with the interior, his gun out in front of him.
Before he could react, he saw Lauren standing in muted light, at the far corner, her Colt aimed at him. Her eyes were narrow slits and her mouth was tight.
“It’s okay! It’s me, it’s Nick,” he shouted. He dropped his arms and waited for a look of recognition. But her body remained rigid.
He stood up in a gradual, measured fashion, keeping his arms—and his weapon—at his side. “Lauren, honey, it’s okay. Are you all right?” He moved toward her slowly, slowly, slowly, until her gun was pressed up against his body. Suddenly, she burst out crying and buried her face into his chest.
The Hunted Page 33
