Hunter's Games

by James P. Sumner

  We laugh again and I realize just how much I miss him when he’s not around.

  “So, what do we think Pellaggio’s plan is?” he asks.

  “I’m hoping to get something from Manhattan when he wakes up,” I say. “Right now, I have no idea.”

  “He’s still got most of the weaponry he bought from Turner, right?”

  “We assume so.”

  “I imagine he’ll be looking to use it then.”

  I nod in agreement, before changing the subject. “So, anyway, when are you getting out of here?”

  “I knew you’d missed working with me!” he says, chuckling.

  “I wouldn’t say missed, but I definitely seem to get blown up slightly more often on my own than when I have you talking in my ear…”

  “Well, I feel pretty good, all things being considered. Wouldn’t mind getting out of here and getting something to eat.”

  “Shall I see if they can fix you up a plate of delicious hospital food?” I ask him with a smile.

  “Oh boy, would you?”

  I raise my eyebrow, questioningly.

  “Oh, sorry,” he says. “I forget that you’re still learning the fine art of sarcasm. It’s always been more of a British thing, hasn’t it?”

  “No... has it?” I say with a wry smile.

  He laughs and claps his hands like a child. “You’ve been practicing!”

  I bow gracefully. “Been saving it for a special occasion,” I say.

  We laugh again. Everything doesn’t seem so bad now. I know I’m guilty of forgetting many of the rules I operate by, because of everything that’s happened recently. But an important rule is: don’t think too much. I’ve been thinking an awful lot about everything lately, because my mind hasn’t been able to focus. Thinking about something too much leads to second-guessing, doubt, and hesitation. All of which will get you killed. You need to just do whatever it is, like a reflex or an instinct, and think about it later. After speaking with Josh, I feel like it’s finally time to start doing, and stop thinking.

  My phone rings. “Yeah?” I say as I answer.

  “Adrian? It’s Wallis. You alright?”

  “Yeah. Josh is awake so I’ve just been catching him up.”

  “He is? That’s great news. Pass on my regards.”

  “I will, thanks. So what can I do for you?”

  “Just thought you might want to know, we’ve had word from the hospital and Jimmy Manhattan’s awake, too.”

  “Really? I’ll head up to his room now.”

  “Oh, and Adrian? Agent Chambers has asked me to remind you that Mr. Manhattan needs to stay alive...”

  I smile. “He will, don’t worry.”

  “But between me and you, feel free to punch the bastard a few times if he doesn’t talk.”

  We both laugh.

  “You’re alright, Wallis,” I say.

  “Take care,” he replies before hanging up.

  “Good news?” asks Josh, as I put the phone back in my pocket.

  “Agent Wallis is glad you’re not dead,” I say. “Oh, and Manhattan’s awake. Are you up for paying him a visit?”

  “Just try and stop me,” he says.

  He throws the bed cover back and swings his legs over the side, slowly putting his weight on them and easing himself to his feet. He pulls the wires off his chest, the clip from his finger and the IV out of his arm. Everything starts beeping and within seconds, a team of nurses burst through the door with practiced efficiency.

  He’s a little uneasy on his feet, but seems to be managing well enough. He holds his hands up to try to calm them down, as they’re all shouting over each other to try to tell him to get back in bed.

  “Ladies, ladies, don’t panic, I’m fine,” he says.

  They all go quiet and start trying to fuss over him, but he waves them away.

  “Can someone please just find me some pants?”

  I move over to the door so I don’t get in everyone’s way. “I’ll give you a minute,” I say, smiling.

  I walk out of the room and down the hallway toward the main waiting area. It’s a large, open plan area with two main corridors branching off opposite the one I’ve just come from. On the left is a circular desk area with clerical and nursing staff busying themselves behind it. On the right, across from the nurses’ station, is a seating area with rows of chairs linked together by the legs and laid out in a small grid. There’s a TV mounted on the far wall, just to the right.

  I walk over to the desk and signal to one of the nurses to get her attention. She’s quite a big woman; dark skin like coal. She has big brown eyes and long black hair that’s tightly dreadlocked and pony-tailed. Her uniform struggles to stretch over her frame. But her smile is infectious.

  “Hi,” I say. “Could you please tell me where a friend of mine is? He came in a few hours ago with gunshot wounds. His last name’s Manhattan.”

  “Jus’ lemme check, sugar,” replies the nurse. She walks over to the computer on the other side of the desk and taps away at the keyboard. After a few moments, she walks back over.

  “He’s in Room Five, B wing—one floor up,” she says.

  “That’s great, thanks for your help.”

  “No problem sugar,” she replies with a more flirtatious smile this time.

  I smile politely back and make a hasty retreat to Josh’s room, where he’s just finished getting dressed.

  “Alright?” he asks.

  “Yeah, just found out Manhattan’s room number. You ready?”

  He nods and gestures for me to lead the way.

  He walks gingerly at first, but he soon loosens up and, despite some obvious discomfort and a slight limp, he seems fine. We walk side by side through the waiting area again. As we walk past the desk, the nurse I’ve just spoken to smiles and waves coyly over to me, which Josh picks up on instantly.

  “You been making friends, you sly dog?” he asks with a grin.

  “Screw you, Josh,” I reply.

  “What will Agent Chambers say...?”

  “Do you wanna be manually put back into a coma?”

  He smiles and motions that he’s zipping his mouth closed and throwing away the key.

  I smile. “Asshole...” I mutter.

  We walk down the left hand corridor across the waiting area and turn right toward the elevator. I press the button and we wait for the doors to open. My mind quickly flashes back to Turner’s apartment building, which is the last time I was in an elevator. Well, an elevator shaft, anyway. I hope this won't end as dramatically as that did.

  The doors ding, open, and we step inside. Josh pushes the button for the floor above. Just as the doors are closing, a man rushes over and puts his hand on them to keep them open. He smiles apologetically and steps inside, standing in front of us. He’s a nondescript guy: plain clothes, generic style. Short hair, no beard. He glances at which button is lit up and waits silently for the doors to close.

  It’s a short ascent, and the doors open again almost as soon as they close. The man steps out and turns right. We follow him out, looking at the sign on the wall directly in front us to figure out which way we need to go.

  “It says B wing is off to the right,” says Josh.

  We set off down the corridor and after a short walk, it split into a T-junction, with another sign mounted on the wall.

  “Rooms One to Five, left” I say.

  We turn and head left. The guy from the elevator is just up ahead. He’s walking purposefully and after a moment, stops at the first door on the right. He looks both ways, seeing us but clearly not giving us a second thought, and then enters the room without knocking.

  His body language was strange and he looked very conspicuous...

  I won’t say anything—I’m probably just being paranoid.

  We walk on, looking for Manhattan’s room. We pass the first door on the right.

  Room Five.

  I raise an eyebrow and look at Josh.

  Maybe I’m not being paranoi
d.

  We nod at each other, clearly coming to the same conclusion.

  “Hitman?” he asks, quietly.

  “Hitman,” I whisper.

  20.

  08:29

  WE POSITION OURSELVES either side of the doorway, listening intently for any sound or movement from within. I motion to Josh that I’ll go in and he should wait outside. He frowns, silently questioning my decision, but I point at him with raised eyebrows, addressing the fact he’s in hospital and therefore not exactly a hundred percent. He rolls his eyes and makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if to say yeah, yeah… fine!

  I count down from three and burst through the door.

  Jimmy Manhattan is lying in bed, hooked up to various machines and tubes, with an oxygen mask on his face. The man we’ve just seen entering the room is standing over him on the far side of the bed, facing us. He’s preparing to inject something into the drip.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” I shout as I dash over and reach across the bed, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it sharply, causing him to drop the needle. I let go long enough to make my way around the bed and get a better hold of him. He’s not really had time to react yet, and I grab his throat with my left hand and drag him away into the corner of the room.

  I hear Josh walk in behind me and shut the door before standing at Manhattan’s bedside.

  I’m pinning this guy to the far wall by his throat—my arm fully extended and standing almost side on as I hold him, making my body a smaller target and harder for him to get at.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I ask. “And why are you trying to kill Jimmy over there?”

  The guy’s breathing heavy, struggling against my grip. Both his hands are around my wrist, but I can squeeze like a vice when I need to, so he’s not moving unless I allow it.

  “Answer me!” I say.

  “Adrian, you’re crushing his windpipe,” says Josh behind me. “He can’t answer you…”

  I glance back at him. “Fair point, smartass.” I look back at the guy and loosen my grip a little. “There… now, answer me,” I say.

  “Mr. Pel-Pellaggio sent me,” he stutters with spittle forming on his lips.

  “Why?”

  He moves up on his tiptoes as I re-tighten my grip slightly—my hand wrapping around him so that my fingertips are applying pressure to the fleshy part of the neck where the pulse is, just behind the bend in the jaw.

  “I—I’m following orders, that’s it,” he manages.

  I sigh. I don’t have time for the formalities of interrogation. “Josh?” I say, looking over my shoulder at him.

  “On it,” he says, leaning over Manhattan and pulling his oxygen mask off his face. “Jimmy? Jimmy? You awake mate?” he asks, slapping him gently on the cheek.

  He looks up at Josh, disoriented and blurry-eyed.

  “Listen, Jimmy, why would Danny Pellaggio try to kill you?”

  “Because...,” replies Manhattan, failing to finish his sentence due to the struggle of getting each word out.

  Josh looks up at me and shrugs. “I’m getting nothing,” he says.

  I look back at the hitman. I look him right in the eye. I see fear, which is a good thing. It makes this next part a little easier.

  “Do you know who I am?” I ask.

  He nods hurriedly, but says nothing. I tighten my grip even more around his throat, making his eyes widen.

  “Good—that saves me some time. You’re going to live, understand? And you’re going to go back to that piece of shit that hired you, and you’re gonna tell him that he’s a dead man walking. You tell him that if he wants a genetically perfect predator, then he’s got one. He walks around calling himself The Shark… well, I can smell blood, and I’m coming for the kill. Nod your head if you understand.”

  He does.

  “Excellent.”

  Without warning, I swing my right arm around, leading from the hip, and smash my elbow into his left temple, causing his head to snap violently to the right. He loses consciousness instantly, and as I release my grip, he drops to the floor. I look down at him, and see the severe bruising around his throat.

  I walk over to the bed and stand across from Josh, where the hitman had been. I look down at Jimmy. He looks old. I mean, I know he’s probably quite old anyway, but he’s always had an aura about him that exudes power and confidence. And looking at him now, he’s merely a shadow of his former self.

  Getting shot and betrayed sucks.

  “Right,” I say. “Jimmy, you better start talking. Given I just saved your life, arguably for the second time, I figure you owe me. Tell me what Pellaggio is planning.”

  He takes a long, deep breath and closes his eyes momentarily before looking first at Josh, then at me.

  “I honestly... don’t know the full extent of what he has planned,” he says, grimacing at every other word from the strain of talking.

  “You can’t really expect us to believe that?” I ask.

  He smiles. “Probably not,” he says, still struggling to get his words out. “But it’s the truth. I helped him, trained him, put him in touch with the right people and funded his whole operation. But for me, it was always about getting to you. For Danny, he didn’t just blame you for what happened to his father. He blamed that fucking terrorist, Ketranovich.”

  “He’s already said he wants to make it look like the Russians did whatever it is he’s going to do, but we need you to fill in the blanks, Jimmy.”

  He clenches his jaw as best he can, out of either anger or frustration, but remains silent.

  “Jimmy, this isn’t the time for misplaced loyalties,” I continue. “Danny’s tried to kill you twice now. He obviously doesn’t need you anymore. I don’t care if you want me dead, but I do care about a potential threat against countless innocent lives. Help me, Jimmy.”

  He sighs, reaching for his oxygen mask and placing it over his mouth while he takes a few deep breaths. He removes it again to speak.

  “He has a Russian with him called Gregovski,” he says, eventually. “He’s an extremist who wishes to sever his own ties with the Motherland for different reasons. Danny's going to use Gregovski as the face and voice of his attack—he’ll publicly claim the attack as Russia’s. That will be enough to light the fire. The media and the government will do the rest.”

  I look over at Josh, who’s shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Jesus Christ...” he says, letting his words trail off.

  I look back at Manhattan. “You have to tell me what he’s planning, and when.”

  “I don’t know,” he implores. “Right now, I swear I’d tell you if I knew, but I really don’t. I only know that he’s got something big planned, and that it involves the Russian.”

  My gut says he’s telling the truth.

  “One more thing,” I ask. “When you had me tied to a chair, I asked you how you managed to stay ahead of the FBI for so long. You never told me.”

  Manhattan squirms in his bed, staring at me. He’s beaten and he knows it. He owes Pellaggio nothing. Yet he’s still reluctant to divulge anything to me. It must be pride.

  “C’mon Jimmy,” I urge “This is your chance to do something good for once.”

  He sighs. “We have a man inside the Field Office on our payroll,” he says finally.

  “I fucking knew it! Give me their name.”

  “Agent… Green.”

  “The piece of shit that arrested me? Sonofabitch!”

  I take a deep breath and pace slowly away from the bed, trying to process the information and figure out what the hell is going on. It’s all starting to make sense, which is kind of annoying, as the more I find out, the more I think I should’ve figured it out sooner.

  Josh remains close to Manhattan.

  “Here’s a question,” he says. “If that’s all you know—and, let’s be honest, it’s not much more than we already have—why does Pellaggio Junior want you dead so badly? Why did he shoot you in the first place? And why send suc
h a pathetic excuse for an assassin to try to finish the job?”

  Manhattan’s eyes shift back and forth. That’s a damn good question.

  “Jimmy...?” I say, standing still and looking over at him.

  “I... I started asking what his plan was after he captured you on the bridge and brought you to the warehouse,” he says to me. “And he lost control—started saying it wasn’t my business and that I should stop trying to look out for him; that I wasn’t his father.”

  “He just… snapped?”

  My mind kicks into overdrive, running through events again in my head, piecing things together. I remember when we first arrived at the warehouse, and everyone surrounded Chambers and me... He flipped like a switch when he grabbed her. And even before that, standing on the bridge—I remember asking him if he suffered from survivor’s guilt or something, purely to get a reaction. But he changed instantly and attacked me.

  I should’ve seen it sooner.

  “He snapped...” I say, looking at Josh for confirmation of my theory—but he doesn’t seem to know what I’m getting at. I look at Manhattan. “Pellaggio’s fucking insane, isn’t he? You’re still trying to protect him, but he’s a couple of cans short of a six-pack.”

  Manhattan takes another drag on his oxygen mask before answering.

  “I think he lost his grip on reality after your attack, if I’m being honest,” he says. “But the training and the planning kept him focused; kept him in check. It’s only since he’s finally caught up with you that he seems to be... struggling.”

  “You’ve been looking after him all this time, and when you found out there was more to this than getting at me, you became naturally curious. Pellaggio took that as some kind of personal attack and that’s why he shot you, isn’t it?”

  Manhattan nods.

  “Sonofabitch...” says Josh. “You basically created a monster and kept him as a pet. You wound him up and he turned on you. Now, he’s off his leash and rabid on the streets.”

  I crack my neck, loosening up. “I guess someone should go and put him down then?”

  We leave Manhattan and the unconscious hitman and make our way back down in the elevator to Josh’s floor. I’m not bothered if Manhattan gets taken out anymore—we’ve got everything out of him that we’ll be able to use.