Surveillance (A Chris Bruen Novel Book 3)

by Reece Hirsch

  Ian felt another wave of nausea. He bent over and dry-retched over an empty row of seats. Two men drinking from a canvas canteen stared at him disgustedly until he removed himself.

  His thoughts were confused as he climbed the steps to a tunnel and entered the shade of the inner stadium. He gazed up and down the walkway for a sign of Corbin or Chris. Seeing neither, he began walking.

  Ian wasn’t quite certain whether he was fleeing, following the killer, or following his prey. The only thing he was certain of was that he was heading toward an ending as unavoidable as the one in the bullring below.

  44

  Zoey exited the elevator on the third level of the stadium, and as she walked she stared at the bars on her cell phone, attempting to reestablish a connection with her would-be savior, Josh, by concentrating all of her anxiety on the tiny screen. She knew that the cartel hit man was probably bounding up the stairs, drawing closer by the second.

  Zoey headed toward the side of the stadium that was farthest from the elevator, skirting the railing and holding her phone aloft in hopes of catching a signal. She was about to take a set of stairs down, but she wished she had Josh’s eyes to tell her whether she was heading directly into the path of the killer.

  The phone rang.

  Zoey answered instantly. “Josh?”

  “I thought I’d lost you.”

  “I thought I’d lost me too. Where should I go?”

  “They’re very close now.”

  “Who’s close?”

  “Everyone. I don’t have time to explain—just do exactly what I say. Keep going down the walkway in the direction you were headed. Quickly!”

  Zoey rounded a bend in the stadium walkway and saw Chris about thirty yards ahead. He was also wearing earbuds and speaking into his phone. He looked up, caught her gaze, and stopped talking.

  “I see Chris!” Zoey said.

  “Go to him, and hurry. When you get to him, you both step to the left and into the utility closet. No time for a reunion.”

  “Won’t we be trapped?”

  “Just do it. I have blueprints for the stadium.”

  Chris had taken a few quick steps toward her, then was brought up short as he listened to a message like the one that she had just gotten.

  They ran to each other. Chris got to the utility closet first and opened the door.

  “Hi there,” she said as she jumped inside the small, dark room lined with circuit boxes. Chris barreled in after her and slammed the door shut behind them. He gave Zoey a quick but enthusiastic squeeze that literally took her breath away.

  Zoey, following the instructions she’d been given, groped along the wall until she found a handle and opened a door at the rear of the closet. On the other side of the door was an unoccupied and nondescript office with the lights out.

  Before they could step through the door, gunshots erupted. Repeated gunshots, and so close that her ears rang.

  Zoey jumped, and so did Chris. It took them a moment to realize that they weren’t the target—yet. The door that they had just shut behind them wasn’t riddled with bullet holes. Some sort of gunfight was taking place outside. After the shots Zoey heard the sounds of a crowd moving with an urgent, murmuring sound like a flock of birds taking flight.

  Chris pushed her forward into the next room.

  “We don’t have eyes on this room,” Josh said. “You two need to keep moving.”

  “Who’s doing all the shooting out there? Besides the cartel guy?”

  “I’ll explain later. Go through the door on the opposite side of the office.”

  As they passed through the empty office, another burst of gunfire sounded from outside. Chris and Zoey exchanged a look as Chris opened the door. On the other side was a small room that led to an emergency exit stairwell that presumably led back out to the stadium’s main walkway—where all of the shots had been fired.

  Zoey tried the doorknob, but it was locked. “Who locks an emergency exit?”

  “Shh,” Chris said, nodding at the exit that led to the walkway. If anyone was still alive out there, they were probably very close, perhaps on the other side of the door.

  Zoey heard footsteps. The clatter and scrape of a metal object sliding across concrete, the sound of someone kicking a gun away from a body.

  They both held their breath and stared at the door, hoping that it wouldn’t open.

  45

  Rajiv stared at the grainy black-and-white video feed of the stadium walkway. He didn’t notice it at first, but then he saw the figure that kept appearing at the edge of the screen. When Cardenas, the cartel’s hit man, stopped, the man stopped. When Cardenas walked on, so did the man. Someone was trailing Cardenas, and Rajiv had no idea who it was.

  Josh stood over his shoulder, watching the video. They both still had their headsets on, with audio links to Bruen and Doucet. Rajiv pointed to the figure of a Caucasian male in his midthirties who was keeping an even distance between himself and Cardenas. He had the calm, watchful demeanor of a law enforcement professional.

  “Who’s that guy?” Josh asked in a whisper.

  Rajiv looked furtively for Sigrid, then shook his head. “I have no idea, but look at the way he just touched his jacket. He’s got a gun. I know it.”

  “What do we do?”

  “There’s nothing to do. We stick to the plan.”

  “Just what we need,” Josh said. “A wild card with a gun. I don’t know if I can watch this.”

  “What, are you worried what’s going to happen to Cardenas? Or Corbin?”

  “No, but I don’t like creating a situation where there’s going to be a shoot-out in the middle of a crowded stadium.”

  “I can’t think of another way to get Bruen and Doucet out of there alive.”

  “You’ve got that muted, right?” Josh asked, pointing at Rajiv’s headset.

  “Yeah, they’re freaked out enough already.”

  Bruen and Doucet followed their instructions to the letter, coming together and immediately ducking into the utility closet. As they did so, Cardenas and Corbin rounded bends in the stadium walkway and faced each other, guns already discreetly drawn and at their sides as both expected to close on their prey.

  Rajiv gripped the sides of his keyboard and stopped breathing.

  Both men seemed to quickly recognize what was happening and whom they faced. With little hesitation, Cardenas and Corbin drew down and began firing, heedless of the crowd that surrounded them.

  The murky, low-resolution black-and-white video somehow made the images of what happened next all the more horrible. Flashes sparked from muzzles as Corbin and Cardenas blasted away at one another. Moments later the stadium walkway was littered with bodies, some of them bystanders.

  It seemed strange to watch the shoot-out with only the tinny, distant audio from Bruen’s and Doucet’s phones, because Rajiv could imagine the deafening noise of the shots, and he winced and pulled back as if he were there. Josh did the same.

  A moment later the image on the screen settled down. No more muzzle flashes. No figures running out of frame.

  The image flickered as Rajiv and Josh leaned in close to the monitor, trying to determine who was dead, who was wounded, and who remained standing.

  “Can you tell what happened?” Josh asked.

  “Cardenas is down.”

  “Corbin is still standing. Damn.”

  “I can’t tell if Corbin’s been hit,” Rajiv said. “Do you see anything?”

  “Look at the way his left arm is hanging at his side,” Josh said. “Corbin’s been hit.”

  “Who else is down?”

  “I see three bystanders. Two men and one woman. They’re all moving, though.”

  “That’s on us . . .”

  “You can’t think like that, man. We saved Bruen and Doucet, didn’t we?”

  Rajiv was still poring over the image on the monitor. “But where’s the third man?”

  When the first shots were fired, Michael Hazlitt didn’t
know what was happening. As he rounded the bend in the walkway, he saw Cardenas drop to the concrete as the gunshots continued to boom and echo in the passageway.

  Hazlitt went for his gun, but before he could take aim he felt the impact of a bullet in his right thigh. He went down on one knee.

  Fighting pain and shock, Hazlitt tried to analyze the situation. Cardenas had fallen hard and without any attempt to protect himself. Hazlitt knew the hit man was gone before he hit the ground. His pistol lay next to his hand, but Cardenas made no move for it. If a killer like Cardenas didn’t reach for his gun, then he had to be dead.

  Anton Corbin, the federal agent who worked for the organization known as the Working Group, had taken Cardenas down, but he hadn’t noticed Hazlitt yet. Hazlitt had been directly behind Cardenas and had been hit by a stray bullet from Corbin’s gun. Bad, bad luck.

  Fleeing bystanders rushed past Hazlitt, nearly knocking him over, and Corbin followed in their wake. The first thing he did was walk briskly over to Cardenas and kick his gun away across the concrete walkway. Then he put another bullet in Cardenas’s chest and moved away.

  It was then that Corbin saw him.

  Hazlitt had sunk to one knee in intense pain, but he’d managed to raise his gun. When Corbin locked eyes with him, Hazlitt already had him in his sights.

  Maybe it was the fact that he was down on one knee at an awkward angle. Maybe it was the blinding pain in his leg. Maybe it was just Hazlitt’s day to die.

  Whatever the reason, the shot missed Corbin and caromed off a concrete post. As he gazed at Corbin in that final moment, Hazlitt knew how the bull in the ring felt staring up at his killer in bloody bewilderment, anger, and humiliation.

  Corbin shot Hazlitt in the gut, knocking him backward onto the concrete floor. The air fled his lungs like it had never been there.

  Hazlitt closed his eyes to the sounds of the crowd at the bullring as they murmured, whistled, and shouted, passing judgment on the quality of a death.

  46

  Chris stared so intensely at the door that led to the stadium walkway that he might have been practicing telekinesis. If the killer opened it, they would have nowhere to run. He drew Zoey behind him and clenched his fists.

  Like that would do any good.

  Maybe they would be better off retreating to the office they had just left and looking for a hiding place, but he didn’t dare move. Judging from the sound they had just heard—a metal object being kicked—the shooter was very close. If there weren’t an iron door between them, they would probably have heard his breathing.

  Three gunshots erupted. Three deafeningly loud gunshots. Just on the other side of the door.

  Zoey seized his hand. Or maybe he seized hers.

  Chris still had his earbuds in, and Rajiv whispered to him, “Corbin’s alive. He just shot some guy right in front of your door. Don’t say anything. He’s too close.”

  He looked over at Zoey. Her gaze was in the middle distance as she received similar information through her earbuds.

  Rajiv continued. “I don’t have eyes on you, but I have eyes on Corbin. He’s looking around. He’s wondering where you and Zoey went.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Oh, shit. He’s heading for the door to the utility closet. You need to get out of there.”

  “How are we supposed to do that?” Chris said.

  “You need to climb up into the ventilation duct. If you do it now, he might not hear you.”

  Chris looked up at the vent and saw that Zoey was already doing the same.

  He reached up and tried to pry off the vent’s grille with his hands. Zoey pulled a knife out of her pocket, stuck the blade under the edge of the vent, and popped it off. Chris caught the grille in his hands before it could clatter to the floor.

  “You carry a knife,” he said.

  “It’s really more of a screwdriver, but yeah.”

  “Good to know.” Chris made a cradle with his hands. “Here, I’ll boost you up.”

  “No, you go first,” Zoey said. “You’ve got the upper-body strength. You can pull me up. I could never pull you up.”

  “Nobody’s pulling anybody up. The only way to climb in is headfirst. I’ll get you up there, and then I’ll go back into the office and find something I can stand on.”

  “There’s no time. Do it now before Corbin gets to the office. That’s the only way we both make it.”

  Chris knew that Zoey could make it alone but that if they tried to get out together using this approach, they could both die. Chris looked at her for a beat, saw that she wasn’t going to budge, and then returned to the office.

  Rajiv was in his ear. “Are you in the vent? He’s almost in the office.”

  Chris pushed open the door, took a single step inside, grabbed a file box by the hole in the side that served as a handle, and pulled it back into the emergency exit. He shut the door behind him, careful not to make a sound as the latch clicked into place.

  Chris thought he heard the front door of the office opening.

  “Are you in the duct?” Rajiv asked.

  Chris tossed the box under the vent, and Zoey stepped up on it and got her arms inside. He boosted her up, grabbed her feet, and pushed her forward into the duct. Then he carefully put the grille in behind her and followed.

  “He’s in the office now,” Rajiv said. “He’s looking around, he’s looking. Okay, he knows you’re not hiding in there. He sees the door to the emergency exit. He’s going to it.” After a pause Rajiv added, “Christ, say something. I hope you’re not still there.”

  “We’re in the vent,” Chris said, gasping a bit from the exertion of sidling quietly over the grille—he couldn’t possibly turn in the narrow space to replace it behind him—and struggling to catch up with Zoey.

  “Thank God,” Rajiv said. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Where do we go now, Josh?”

  Chris watched Zoey’s sneaker-clad feat scrambling in front of him in the vent. She was smaller and faster, and it wasn’t easy to keep up with her.

  “There should be a branch off to your left up ahead,” Rajiv said. “Take that.”

  Chris relayed the instruction to Zoey.

  A few minutes later Zoey said, “We’re there. I’m going left.”

  After ten or twelve more yards of sweaty flailing through the dirty aluminum duct, he heard the sound of Zoey punching out a grille. First Zoey, then Chris dropped into the room.

  They found themselves surrounded by about twenty picadors wearing cartoon-red shirts and caps. They all looked at Chris and Zoey apprehensively. They’d clearly heard the gunshots and decided to lie low.

  Chris raised his hands and patted himself down to show that he was unarmed. Zoey followed suit. Chris didn’t speak Spanish, so he held open hands in front of him and said in English, “We’re as scared as you are. We’re just trying to escape.”

  He wasn’t sure if they had understood him, but there were some nods and they went back to talking anxiously among themselves, probably trying to decide whether it was safer to stay in place or leave the stadium.

  Rajiv was in his ear again. “Where are you now?”

  “In a room full of picadors.”

  “I don’t know where that is. Go out onto the main walkway, and I’ll be able to spot you again on the security cameras.”

  Chris and Zoey stepped outside.

  “I’ve got you.”

  “Where’s Corbin?”

  “I lost him. Probably crawling through the ducts behind you. Or maybe . . . Wait.” Rajiv paused. “I think he’s on the main concourse again. It looks like he’s taking out the security cameras as he passes them. Oh, shit, that means he knows we’re helping you by accessing the feeds.”

  For a moment he heard a panicked conversation between Rajiv and his partner about whether Corbin could know that they were the ones aiding Chris and Zoey.

  “Where should we go?” Chris asked, loudly enough to draw their attention.


  “Sorry, man,” Rajiv said. “You should leave the stadium now. If you stay in one place, he’ll find you. Go left and take the first ramp down.”

  Chris and Zoey emerged on the walkway, which was deserted. While people had fled that area, the sounds of the bullfight continued. The stadium was not being evacuated.

  The curvature of the walkway meant that every moment there was a chance that Corbin could appear around the bend in front of or behind them. They walked quickly to the ramp and took it down to the second level. There were more people there, but the crowds weren’t dense. Those who had heard the gunshots had found places to hide or taken shelter in the stands.

  Three blue-uniformed security guards ran past them up the ramp they had just exited, guns drawn.

  A hot, dry wind blew through the walkway. Over the railing he could see the Mexico City skyline and the surrounding streets. No police cars were approaching yet. There were no sirens blaring.

  Chris and Zoey walked purposefully toward the ramp that would take them down to street level and out of the stadium.

  “We shouldn’t run,” Chris said.

  “That’s right,” said a voice behind them. “Best not to run. Don’t turn around either.”

  “Corbin,” Chris said.

  The tall man approached them with his gun held tightly in front of him. One at a time, he patted them down one-handed for weapons. He found Zoey’s knife and tossed it away.

  In the ring the bullfight was reaching its climax. The crowd murmured “¡Olé!” at rhythmic intervals, like the unison prayers of a congregation. There was a small TV screen above them in the rafters that displayed the scene, the matador working himself in close in a ballet of feints and flourishes of the cape until the sword was raised with a dramatic pause above the great beast’s sweat-matted, muscled neck.

  “Now just stand still for a minute.” Corbin yanked out Chris’s earbuds, interrupting Rajiv, who had stopped giving directions and had now resorted to panicked cursing.

  “Hand over the phone,” Corbin said to Chris. “Don’t turn it off. Just hand it to me.”