Smith took the initiative and reached around Shirin's shoulder, trying to guide her out of the corridor. "Ma'am, we have to get you out of here. We have paramedics on the way. Please, ma'am, let me help you." Smith's voice was a mix of genuine concern and trustworthy authority.
"I'm not leaving him! He's been shot! He's still alive! I can feel his heart beating!" she screamed with her hand on the downed officer's chest.
It didn't make sense to Smith, but in the chaos around him, he understood. Shirin was using the injured man as a mechanism of distraction and escape. He didn't know why Barratt had locked himself in the interrogation room, didn't care; he was beyond help now. He had to focus on getting Shirin out. For whatever reason, the old man wanted her alive and in play.
Another officer came to Smith's aid and started to help drag Shirin and the injured guard down the corridor and away from the interrogation room door.
More armed officers rushed past them. Smith could hear orders being hurriedly disseminated through the ranks and knew what was coming. The SWAT team would be there within minutes. They'd break the door down and kill Barratt without hesitation.
Smith reached the anteroom. The other officer helping him kept looking down the corridor, not wanting to miss the action. This was his chance.
"I got this," Smith said to the officer. "Go help them."
The other officer hesitated only a moment, nodded, and left in a hurry. Huddled at Shirin's feet, the injured guard started groaning and moving his legs and arms. He curled up in a reflexive ball and dry retched, but his stomach was empty. The action was genuine; the attempt to hide it was not. Suddenly Smith understood what was really happening. The injured guard was not really injured. He was Barratt.
Smith hesitated, chastising himself for underestimating Shirin. He marveled at her ability and found himself thinking again how interesting it would be if he had to kill her.
Kneeling down beside her, their eyes leveled at each other. Smith spoke slowly, calmly, "Shirin. A friend sent me. I'm here to help."
His caring tone was now gone and replaced with a mechanical monotone, and in that moment, he caught her surprise. It felt good.
16:15:06
Shirin baulked at the sound of her name. Instinct coiled deep inside her, ready to pounce. She saw it unfold in her mind in slow motion: a sharp open-hand jab to the officer's throat, then a head-butt to the soft part of his nose while lunging for the sidearm conveniently unclipped in its holster, and if he was still conscious, a crippling blow to his sternum. It would all happen within the blink of an eye.
"I'm here to get you and Barratt out," he said indifferently, interrupting her before her thoughts turned to deadly action. "Then you're on your own."
She didn't trust him. Didn't trust anyone. But she believed him. She didn't really have a choice.
He glanced around quickly to be sure no one was watching him, then leaned in close. Shielded by their bodies, he withdrew a small Walther 9mm pistol from the folds of his uniform jacket and handed it to her.
She nodded curtly, taking the weapon. "Let's go."
"Stairs," the mysterious officer said, and led them through the emergency stairwell door. More officers could be heard entering the void via multiple doors on other levels.
The officer held Barratt under the arm, seemingly taking the bulk of his weight as they made their way up the stairs. Shirin continued to play her part; she appeared an admirable mix of scared and brave, and above all, her performance looked convincing.
The office spoke loudly with practiced authority, "Clear a path! He's been injured." With his free hand, he waved the approaching officers out of their way and pointed to the farthest officer, telling him to hold the door to the ground floor open while they navigated the last of the steps
16:16:43
Barratt fought another round of nausea. The dead agent's blood and brain matter smeared in chunks across his face clung to him and bounced with his every step. He could smell it with each breath. He felt a white-hot rage at Shirin that she had slapped it over his face without discussing it first, but more at himself for vomiting in front of her.
The police officer now helping them to escape had cleared a path through the steady stream of police, emergency personnel, and senior staff rushing to the apparent standoff two floors below.
Locked in the interrogation room, the two security guards would be found, cuffed but alive. They would also find one dead would-be assassin. Barratt knew it would be only minutes before they had a surveillance camera snuck into the room and breached the door.
Leaving the stairwell, they walked out onto the ground floor, the main entrance only seconds away. They were nearly free. Shirin's plan was working.
Huddled together, the three of them navigated their way past empty workstations. From the stairwell door to the entrance, to the front foyer, the ruse of Barratt being injured slipped fluidly away. While they moved through the emptying precinct ground floor quickly, they no longer carried Barratt's weight, opting instead for a quicker exit.
Shirin swiped a box of tissues off one of the desks as they skirted around the last of the workstations, passing it to Barratt. It felt good to finally wipe away some of the smeared blood and brain from his face.
The foyer had been effectively cleared of civilians, making way for emergency response teams. As Shirin and Barratt neared the exit door leading to the outside, the officer spoke in a clipped, unreadable tone. "The delivery van. Ten o'clock on exit. They're armed. I'll get the front, you two get in the back."
Neither of them replied. There was nothing to say. The sunlight hit them brightly in the face as they walked out of the police station. To the left, the barn doors of the delivery van were open, a driver behind the wheel, two men standing ready to rush forward at the sight of their prey.
People ran everywhere. An emergency response truck screeched to a stop at the entrance of the police station, and before the truck stopped skidding, the back doors flew open and eight armed men jumped out, charged forward in military formation, rushing past them without a glance.
Rushing crowds filled the courtyard, trying to get a better look at what was happening, helpless officers trying to keep them back. It was chaos. It was perfect for their escape.
16:16:53
Moving quickly away from the police station, Shirin caught the movement instinctively. The two men from the van rushed forward. She could sense them reaching for concealed weapons. The mysterious police officer helping them pulled a remote device from his pocket and pressed the button.
The air, sucked out of their lungs; silence, hanging; then, a loud explosion bellowed to their right. The force of the blast pushed them sideways. He walked undisturbed, pulled his sidearm, shot the two men moving toward them with quick double taps to the chest, and kept walking to the open rear of the van.
Shirin and Barratt were only steps behind him. Two more shots, and as Barratt closed the rear doors of the van behind him, their mysterious helper pushed the dead driver out the door and stomped on the accelerator. The van took off.
16:17:12
The heavily clad sergeant peered through the viewfinder of the surveillance camera now snaking its way under the interrogation room door. It took a moment to register what he was seeing. He blinked hard and looked again before jumping to his feet, pulling the snake-like camera out and yelling into the throat mic attached to his kit. "They're all down! No visible threat. I repeat, no visible threat. Breach is a go!"
He stepped to the side to allow the breach team access, then set out to start work on the door beside him, the door to the monitoring room.
16:19:37
In the back of the delivery van, Shirin removed the magazine from the pistol the police officer had given her. It was fully loaded. She clipped it back in and moved toward the front. Her eyes caught a look from Barratt, but she ignored it. He would be pissed at her, but he'd get over it. She wanted to know who this person was helping them to escape, and who he was working for.
"I suggest you keep those bullets for the team following us," the officer said, motioning to the rearview mirror as Shirin moved in behind him.
Shirin paused, realizing her intention was far from discreet."How many?" Questioning him would have to wait until they were in the clear.
"Two teams. One in a silver Ford sedan, one on a Honda road bike."
Shirin moved back into the guts of the delivery van to see Barratt finish wiping his face clean of brain matter. "We have company," she said, passing him.
At the rear of the van, she peered out through the tinted window, looking for the Ford sedan and the bike.
"Hang on!" shouted the driver.
The van veered sharply to the right, decelerated abruptly, jumped the curb, then collided with a traffic pole, bounced, and stopped.
Knocked to the floor, Shirin and Barratt found their feet quickly and rushed to the front of the van. The driver was gone.
16:22:56
Smith tossed the fake moustache into the trash receptacle and kept walking. The subway was crowded, and he managed to disappear into it with practiced ease.
He would have to call Zelig now and report that he had arrived too late, that Shirin and Barratt had escaped, and that somehow they had taken out Zelig's entire team in the process. He didn't look forward to that conversation, or to Zelig's famous temper. It was moments like that when he wished he could just kill the man and be done with it.
He pondered the thought for a moment before pulling the phone from his pocket. Yes, he would make Zelig suffer before dying. Maybe make him beg first but definitely make him suffer. He hoped the old man would give the order soon.
The phone rang three times before Zelig answered.
"It's Smith. I got here too late," he lied. "Your team failed."
16:28:04
Barratt leaned over the dirty restroom basin, splashing cold water on his face. He scrubbed at the edges of his hairline, rubbing at the traces of dried blood still staining his skin.
"You really are crazy, Shirin!"
Shirin didn't respond. She stood to the side, staring at the gushing faucet as though the running water would cleanse her mind of all confusion, of all frustration, of all pain. She was tired, but the anger inside kept her from resting, kept her from stopping. The anger kept her moving forward. Always forward. She wondered what would be left of her once the anger was gone. Would there be anything left?
"Shirin," Barratt called, breaking her from her thoughts. "What now? Whoever that guy was, he helped us for a reason. Somebody wants us out there doing whatever it is we're doing."
"Maybe," Shirin mumbled. "I don't really care what they want, or even who they are. I'm sick of this shit! You were right, Zelig's behind this. It's time we take him out!"
Barratt looked up from the sink, nodded.
"He'll know we're after him now."
Shirin didn't respond. She didn't care.
"So how do you want to do this, then?"
Shirin looked up from the basin, up from her deep thoughts, and said, "Slowly."
"We'll need some gear," Barratt prompted.
"Let's go," she said, leading the way out of the public restroom and out into a course of action that would finally put her face to face with the man who killed her husband.
"And when this is over," Barratt mumbled, almost to himself, "we'll have to have a serious talk about you getting me into situations where other people's brains keep ending up splattered across my face."
"Better theirs than yours," she grunted over her shoulder.
16:34:22
Smith stepped off the train platform and followed the crowd down the access ramp to the ticket booth. He casually flashed the police badge from the dead officer and walked through the collection gate with a polite nod to the transit officers.
The world outside the train station seemed undisturbed by the violence six suburbs away. Kitchener Park and the police station looked like a war zone. Destruction, death, confusion, and fear at every glance. Structurally, it would take weeks to remove all traces of the carnage waged within the last two hours. And maybe months before they began to piece together what really happened.
Looking up at the clear sky, and out over the pedestrians going about their business, it was almost as though none of the events of the day had happened at all. Smith smiled to himself; this was the world he lived in. He hailed the first cab he saw, jumped in the back, and wondered which girl he would visit when this day was over. The young waitress from the restaurant earlier had piqued his interest. He liked the way she moved so confidently around the tables with her skirt sashaying. Yes, he liked the idea more and more. He wondered, smiling, would she struggle?
The cab dropped him off several blocks east of the train station. He walked to the opposite side of the block, hailed another taxi, and rode it back the direction he had come. He wasn't being followed, he quickly decided, but felt the repetition of evasive maneuvers comforting while he waited for Zelig's call.
Almost on cue, Smith's cell buzzed. He looked at the screen. The blocked number gave away nothing, but he knew it was Zelig. He let it ring another four times before answering.
"What took you so long?" barked Zelig on the other end. Smith didn't reply. "Have you picked up the package?"
"No." Smith looked at his watch, made a quick mental note, and said, "I'm nine minutes out."
"Fine. Pick it up. But don't deliver it yet. I need you to have a talk with someone first."
"What sort of talk?"
"The kind where they tell us what we want to know or you kneecap them!"Zelig's voice rose in volume and timbre.
"Details?"
"A forensic accountant, name of Gerald Maier. He just came across our radar. He's been snooping where he doesn't belong. Find out who hired him. Get everything you can out of him, then get rid of him."
Smith was quiet for a moment. Stretching it out. Let Zelig work for it, he thought.
"Smith? Still there?"
"Yes," Smith said. "Details?"
"I have two agents on their way to detain him now. Join up with them and do whatever you have to. Torture him, torture anyone he loves, just make sure you get everything out of him!"
"Understood." Smith pocketed the cell phone. Somehow, this accountant must be connected to Shirin. Zelig wouldn't have involved him and taken him away from delivering the package he was about to collect otherwise.
16:44:41
Smith entered the food court via the south entrance. The air-conditioned space was cool and clean, and he welcomed it after riding in the last run-down old taxi. The humidity and stink of the sweaty driver had pursued him out of the vehicle and onto the street, giving up only after he ducked into the local shopping center.
It was crowded; he assumed the man he was about to meet wanted it that way. The illusion of safety in a crowd was often the rationale for meetings such as this. But Smith knew better.
There were several thoroughfares leading to the ground-floor food court. It acted as the heart of the shopping complex. Even at this hour, the patron count was high. Smith couldn't understand the human compulsion to gather socially, but he appreciated the value of its predictability.
He saw the man he was sent to meet. Small, robust, clearly nervous.
Smith moved toward him slowly. He was aware of the countless security cameras, but watched more carefully for a surveillance team or hit team that may have followed the small man. He could discern no obvious followers, but if they were of Smith's caliber, it would be impossible to spot them until it was too late.
Smith walked with a vague limp, nothing too obvious―subtle. Coupled with hunching his shoulders, and a realistic mop-style wig, there was no resemblance to his normal appearance. He found these simple guises worked best.
He bought a New Age frappé from the juice bar closest to the small man. Watched him carefully while waiting for his order to be made, and continued to watch him while taking his first sip of the drink.
The s
mall man was known to Smith only by the code name Patch. Where he came from, his real name, what he did, or who he worked for were not his business. This was the second time Smith had collected something from him. It was one of the special jobs he would do for Zelig when needed.
This time was different, however. This time the old man wanted to know who Patch was, and what it was exactly he did for Zelig.
16:45:25
Smith glanced at his watch. It was the time they had agreed to meet. He made his final approach, his honed instincts picking up nothing out of the ordinary.
He sat at the booth adjacent to the small man, his movements stealthy, as though he appeared out of nowhere. They were only an arm's length apart. The movement visibly startled the small man.
"Hello, Patch," Smith said in a lazy, relaxed accent.
"You look different," he said, trying to compose himself.
Smith ignored the comment. He was a master of disguise. It was a tool that made him incredibly dangerous―and helped him remain very much alive. "You have something for me?"
He rubbed his hand across his chin, then across his brow. "This is the last time," he said, trying to summon the strength to look into Smith's eyes. "I can't do this anymore."
"That's not up to me. I'm just here to pick up the package," Smith said casually.
"Just tell him. Okay? Tell him this is the last time."
"Sure," Smith shrugged, "I'll tell him."
The small man seemed to relax almost instantly. Like a huge burden had been lifted from his psyche. Smith scoffed internally at this little man's ignorance. If he had any value to Zelig, he would never be allowed to stop doing whatever it was he was doing. Once he stopped being useful, Zelig would eliminate him. He would probably get Smith to do it for him.
"What have you got for me?" Smith asked.
The small man looked furtively from right to left. If anyone was watching him, his behavior was clearly suspect. He reached into his laptop bag and removed an A4-sized brown nondescript envelope. It was sealed completely with an adhesive lacquer. No way to open it and reseal it and hide that it had been opened. Not his problem, Smith thought to himself.
Against the Clock Page 11
