He got off the table. He almost took Serafinaʹs arm to lead her away as he had before. Stopped himself. She was looking at him with confusion, maybe fear. What if she shrank away from him?
He was surprised how much that mattered. How much even the possibility of that hurt.
He had no past. Nothing before the moment he woke up wounded–but strangely not–in a hospital bed. So how could he care about the future?
About her?
About the mission.
ʺCome on,ʺ he said. It was a request, not a command.
She nodded. They left the room. She led the way down the hall. Turned left, then through some double doors.
Serafina had been right not to let him hold her arm. She nodded to five different people on their short walk. Two nurses, one doctor, and a pair of patients all out for late-night walkabouts. They all waved and called to Serafina by name: apparently she was well-liked. John wasnʹt surprised.
The nurses and doctors said hello but did not stop what they were doing. They were all busy, all walking as fast as or faster than John and Serafina. Indeed, after the doctor waved to Serafina he got a page and after looking down he broke into a run and was gone. He bumped into a pair of people in his hurry, almost knocking them down. The pair appeared to be late-night visitors, though both wore hospital masks as though to protect others–or themselves–from contagious disease. One started screaming about lawsuits.
The doctor didnʹt seem to care. He kept running.
The hospital was a busy place, all around.
John wondered how long it would be before the bodies were discovered in the elevator. Even in the middle of the night it would have to be soon, and the higher-than-average levels of activity around here would shorten their window of safety. He increased his pace a bit.
At the next turn there was a door with a red sign indicating stairs with an emergency exit. Serafina took them in and led them to the right, up the stairs.
An echoing scream, like that of a ghost that has just discovered the reality of its forever-doom, wafted down to them.
John shared a look with Serafina. Someone had discovered the bodies.
They abandoned stealth and ran.
There were only a dozen or so stairs, then a landing, then another dozen. Even so, John felt the hairs on his neck prickle and begin to stand. Any confederates of the assassins would be alerted by now. They would have a general area to work with; would know where to concentrate.
He felt a noose tightening around them. One not merely of rope, but of barbed wire, vicious hooks that would gouge their way into flesh and never let go.
The next landing led to the third floor. Two doors: one to the hall, one that said EMERGENCY USE ONLY in thick red block letters.
Serafina looked at him. ʺThis is going to set off alarms all over the hospital,ʺ she said.
ʺI think that ship has sailed.ʺ
She nodded, smiled a quick smile that lit up her face, then slammed into the crash bar on the door.
A pealing alarm shrieked out at them, but got quieter the instant they went through the door.
John realized he had failed to pick up any of the guns the men in the elevator might have held. They were still weaponless.
Careless.
Iʹd been out of a coma for all of ten minutes.
Still careless.
No help for it now.
The roof was ugly, industrial. Gravel crunched underfoot and hulking air conditioning units buzzed and hummed every few feet, a couple electrical boxes interspersed here and there. Pipes and conduit ran between all of them at shin height, converting the area to an obstacle course.
ʺThat way,ʺ said Serafina, pointing to the right.
She was off before he could move, a colorful blur in the night. She hopped over the white-painted tubes that gridded the roof as though she had practiced for just this eventuality, and John admired how fleet she was.
The exterior stairwell was marked by a square sheet of steel that hung over the side of the roof. It was partially enclosed by a white railing at waist-height, and three steps led to it from the roof. Other steps disappeared down the side of the building, presumably emptying out near the parking lot area beside the ER.
That was excellent news.
John took the lead now. Serafina seemed to sense that he was in his element, falling back to let him go first.
The stairs clung to the side of the hospital wing, an easy incline with wide stairs that would be simple to navigate. Clearly whoever designed them had a real concern for the ability of sick people and those barely operating under their own strength to get out and get down.
John was operating under his own strength. A strength not only beyond what it should be but growing greater by the moment. He felt energized. Alive.
The stairs emptied about ten feet from the corner of the building. Just a quick run and a turn and theyʹd be in front of the building. John assumed the emergency room entrance would be nearby, and the obligatory parking lot in front of that.
They were almost down the stairs when a man rounded the corner of the building. The same dark suit. The same no-nonsense movement.
Another one.
He spotted them only a fraction of a moment after John spotted him. He had a gun in his hands. Raising it fast.
Not fast enough.
John threw himself down the stairs so fast the last treads were a blur under his feet. He grabbed the rails on either side at the last second, halting the inertia of his upper body just enough that his legs swung out from under him. Legs snapped forward with the kinetic energy of all his weight. One hundred eight-three pounds of muscle.
He knew that was his weight. Exactly.
His heels caught the man in the center of the face. A sharp crack, a duller crunch. The man crumpled.
His gun flew into the grass to the right. Another weapon lost, and John knew they didnʹt have time to look for it.
He spared a glance back. Serafina was still barreling down after him. She hadnʹt stopped running. Apparently she had either decided she had nothing to lose by continuing, or she had trusted that he would handle the gunman.
John turned forward and ran as well. He jumped over the gunman. The man was dead. John did not mind that. Not only had the man tried to kill him, but he thought it likely that he was….
Bad.
Yes, that was it.
He had to be bad.
Because John himself was good. And only bad men would try to kill a good one.
Only…only how did he know? He had no memory of himself.
What if they were good? What if he was the killer, and they only police or other men trying to stop him from whatever nefarious goal he had to reach?
No.
He couldnʹt accept that. He couldnʹt accept a view of himself as an evil person.
Besides. It gets in the way of what you have to do.
He tossed that thought aside for now. No time for it. Or he didnʹt want to think about it. Same thing, really.
No, itʹs not. And you know it.
They ran to the parking lot. John took Serafina to the third row of cars and hunched down so he was out of sight of the front entrance of the ER, which seemed busy for this time of night.
ʺWhat now?ʺ whispered Serafina. The words came between gasps.
ʺWe steal a car.ʺ
ʺYou know how to hotwire one?ʺ
John did. ʺHopefully we wonʹt need to. Most people at the ER are worried about whoeverʹs sick. Not automobile security.ʺ
Serafina nodded and immediately grabbed the handle of the closest car door and pulled it. John let her, but stopped her before the next one. ʺWe want an older model car, mid-eighties or before, not a classic, kind of dumpy. Either that or a BMW thatʹs around five years old with a window cracked.ʺ
Serafina looked confused, but she nodded. Both of them peeked over the roof of the car they were hiding behind, looking around the lot. Serafina spotted something first. She grabbed John and hauled him
down.
ʺFound one?ʺ he asked.
She shook her head. ʺNot a car. Another one of them.ʺ
She poked a thumb in the direction she had been looking. John nudged his head over the top of the car they were hiding behind–a late-model Mercedes that looked like it probably belonged to a doctor–and looked.
Another suit, walking between the rows. He was murmuring into a walkie-talkie and frowning. Probably wondering why the guy at the stairwell wasnʹt answering.
John dropped back down to Serafina. ʺWe donʹt have much time,ʺ he said.
ʺWill he spot us?ʺ
ʺNot if weʹre careful.ʺ John led her away from the man and hoped Serafina didnʹt hear the words he left unsaid: I hope.
There were an unknown number of men around them. Probably a lot. Certainly more than John could handle if they descended on him and Serafina en masse.
They had to get out of here.
They found a BMW with its window open. Not far, just enough for John to get his fingers through.
ʺHow does that help–oh.ʺ John answered Serafina with action. He rocked the window back and forth, careful not to rock the car enough to trigger any alarm but with determination and firmness. The window suddenly slid sideways and forward as it tumbled off the track that kept it seated in the power window mechanism. He shoved it down further, until he was able to get his upper body into the car.
He risked a quick peek to the front of the parking lot.
The man, the agent, the killer, whoever, had moved a row closer to them.
John leaned in and fumbled beside the driver seat.
ʺI get the older cars,ʺ whispered Serafina. ʺNo car alarms, right?ʺ John nodded. ʺWhy the BMW?ʺ
John found the switch he was looking for. Pulled it. The trunk popped open with the near-silence of excellent design embodied in a quality automobile.
It sounded like a gunshot in his ears.
He looked over the top of the car again. The suit hadnʹt noticed. Hadnʹt appeared to, at least.
He moved to the trunk. The left side had a panel designed for removal. He popped it open. Inside was a tool box. He opened it. Hoping for what they needed.
ʺBMWs tend to be owned by people who arenʹt interested in doing their own repairs. A lot of them never open the tool box. So a lot of them never know about a feature some BMWs have.ʺ He found it. Held it up with a smile.
It was a valet key. It couldnʹt open the trunk or the glove box. But it could open the doors and start the car. And if the owner hadnʹt activated the alarm, they could get out of here.
John circled to the driver side, Serafina to the other. He stuck the plastic key in the car door and held his breath. Serafina was peering at him, only her eyes visible over the top of the car. ʺMoment of truth,ʺ she whispered.
He nodded. Turned the key.
No alarm.
He opened the door and got in, then leaned over and unlocked the passenger door for her. She was in almost instantly, buckling her seatbelt even before he managed to slip the key into the ignition. They worked silently, well-coordinated.
ʺWe should take this show on the road,ʺ she whispered.
ʺThe thieving nurse and the man with no name,ʺ he agreed.
ʺI was thinking more Beauty and the Bonkers.ʺ
He rolled his eyes. Started the car.
The lights came on automatically.
Illuminating the agent who stood right in front of them, pointing a loaded gun at Johnʹs face.
AND THE SIMPLE WILL BEWARE
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 3:18 AM
Subject: Intnl Crisis
Russian minister called. The outbreak has been found in Asia. Managed to convince him to clamp down on media coverage. For now. Heʹs a bastard but at least heʹs a bastard on our side.
I donʹt know what youʹre talking about. Patricia Radcliffe and I have nothing but a professional relationship.
From: X
To: Dicky
Sent: Friday, May 31 3:18 AM
Subject: RE: Intnl Crisis
Bastards are the most helpful. Easy to understand. I have my own people in Russia as well. Theyʹll lean on him and heʹll do whatʹs necessary.
Iʹm sure you and Patricia have nothing but professional interests. She gets paid about a quarter-million a year, doesnʹt she?
***
Isaiah couldnʹt put down the paper he still held. His thoughts spun around, a whirlwind that picked out bits of past, present, and possible futures, presenting them in orders that seemed constructed to cause the most possible terror.
Nicholas dead.
A weapon loose.
Katherine captured.
A rogue soldier, made all the more dangerous for what he had stolen and intended to use.
Men with no qualms about killing and hurting others if it meant they could achieve their aims.
And Isaiah…Isaiah would go along with it.
Not because he was afraid. He was, and someday he would find every one of those men and kill them all. The skeletal agent. Dominic would be last…
…and would last the longest.
But for now he would be their pawn. He would not sell his soul to these devils–he had long ago done that deal with the real thing–but he was sure a sublease was in order.
And still he did not move.
Movement was important. Movement was action, and without action there could be no achievement. He had learned that as a young priest. Learning about faith had actually taught him that: had taught him that to pray was fine and dandy, but the Lord preferred a man who prayed five minutes and then worked the rest of the day to one who worked five minutes and then prayed the remainder.
God helped those who helped themselves.
And the same held true of the devil.
But there was action for its own sake and action for the sake of success. Isaiah preferred the latter. It was what made him good at his job. Not as a priest, but as a killer.
So he paused and thought.
After a moment he picked up the phone. Held down the ʺ1.ʺ
A voice answered. A woman. ʺYes, sir?ʺ
ʺI need weapons.ʺ
ʺCheck the trunk. Call back if you need anything else.ʺ
Click.
Not much for small talk.
That suited him. Isaiah wasnʹt, either.
He popped the trunk. Went to it.
Inside was a single syringe and some rubber tubing. He understood what it was, and why it was needed. He didnʹt trust the information in the envelope, not completely. But he also knew that it would be ridiculous for Dominic and his cronies to recruit him and kill him all in the same motion. And just as ridiculous for him not to take precautions against something as deadly as John.
No, not just John. The thing John is carrying around with him.
So he rolled up his sleeve and injected himself with what could only be a vaccine to the disease he was trying to stop. He knew how to administer it–part of killing was knowing how to heal.
Other than that the syringe and tubing, the trunk was empty.
Or at least seemed that way.
He felt around the corners. Nothing on the right, but on the left he felt a click and the carpet suddenly loosened. The floor panel lifted up. The trunk had a compartment built into the bottom, hidden unless you looked for it.
In the compartment: foam rubber molds that cradled enough weaponry to attack most small countries. A Steyr AUG M203, an Atchisson Assault Shotgun, two Glock 34 handguns.
It even had two claymores and a line of grenades tucked like angry Christmas ornaments into the dark foam rubber.
That and the fact that the Steyr had the grenade-launcher modification, and the AAS had several box mags that looked to be loaded with FRAG-12 High-Explosive ammo made Isaiah feel a bit ridiculous.
Then it made him afraid. Beca
use it drove home the probability that what the packet said was true. At least about the nameless manʹs skills and how hard it would be to kill him.
Isaiah picked up one of the Glocks. It was loaded. He tucked it in his belt. The larger items could stay back here until he needed them–no matter what Dominic had said about his legal immunities, Isaiah didnʹt feel like getting pulled over with an arsenal on his front seat.
And he didnʹt want to look at them. Didnʹt want to deal with the possibility–if not likelihood–that he was going to fail. Because then Katherine would die. Horribly.
She might well die anyway.
But his only chance to save her would be to do this thing. And so he would do it. To save her, to help her, he would kill who he had to kill.
He would kill the world, if necessary.
He got back in the car. The phone was blinking. There was a message on it: the name and address of a hospital he knew well. Under the address: TARGET LOCATION.
He started the car. Pealed out.
He drove over the small bits of blood that marked the defiling of a good woman and the murdering of his only friend. It was the fastest way to the main road.
Nicholas had been the only truly good man Isaiah had ever met. When Isaiah was doing his second stint in juvie–possession of drugs, assault, attempted robbery–Father Nicholas had been younger, but no less dedicated to righteous ideals. He worked every Wednesday at juvenile corrections. Not preaching, just…being there. Being someone–a first someone, for most of the boys–who wanted nothing, who offered nothing. Nothing but respect. And that was the only thing some of them needed.
ʺIʹll not bother telling you youʹre a child of God,ʺ he always said. ʺYouʹre a person. And people deserve respect. Simple as that.ʺ
Simple as that.
He always said that, and because he meant it many believed.
Isaiah got out of the gang. Not immediately, and not without struggle. But he did. He got out, and graduated high school–a bit older than most–and went on to college and later to follow his first and best teacher.
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