The Ares Virus

by A P Bateman

  There was little time to process the information, but he already knew that he was dealing with a professional marksman and could see the windows across the street. All but one had the drapes pulled wide open, and all but one of the windows was closed. He kept Isobel close to him and released a volley of fire at the window above and to the right of the direct line of sight of the room. He counted off the shots subliminally. He was moving now, getting them both clear of the window. The glass erupted in a maelstrom of splinters and shards and the wall on the other side of the room imploded debris of plaster and stucco as the sniper opened fire with an automatic cycle of return fire.

  Stone marked the window, pushed Isobel hard onto her stomach and pinned her in place with his knee into the small of her back. There was a grunt of protest, but it was drowned out as he returned fire with a barrage of six shots. With both hands now free to use the weapon, he ejected the magazine and already had the spare in his left hand. It slipped quickly in place, nestled tightly in the pistol's thick butt, and he dropped the cocking lever, sending the slide plummeting forward with a sharp metallic click. The weapon was trained on the window and bouncing sharply in his hands as he fired another sustained burst of fire at the window. He was up and moving, rolling across the window bay and reaching for the scruff of Isobel's collar and the strap of her shoulder bag. He pulled hard and she slid across the shards of glass and into his grasp, just as the remaining pieces of window and frame were disintegrated in front of their eyes. Their path to the door was clear and the sniper would not be able to reach them as they made their escape. Stone heaved Isobel off the floor and they were running for the door, huddled together, as Stone half pulled, half pushed her into safety and away from the line of fire.

  ***

  He swore loudly, stormed across the room and quickly broke the assault rifle down and dropped it into the custom carry bag. He had only expected to pick up one or two empty shells as he made his exit, but thanks to the idiot with the pistol, not to mention his own fury and the specially adapted magazine, the floor now glistened with over fifty brass cases. The gunfire from across the street would have attracted attention, and the government agent had the mark on him, knew his location. He had to get out now and he had to keep moving. He cursed again, slipping on the brass bullet cases like walking on ball bearings as he made his way to the door.

  ***

  “Keep moving!” Stone yelled, pushing Isobel in front of him as they made their way down the stairwell. He had his weapon in his right hand, his left hand held her shoulder firmly.

  She did not reply. She was running for her life and heaving for breath as she took the stairs two at a time. Her mind was a blank, she could not recall what had happened; rather saw the whole episode as a series of comic book snapshots. Stein staring at the ceiling, his eyes devoid of life, the thud of the second bullet hitting him and dropping him to the floor. Stone barging her to the floor, his eyes so full of hate and anger. The window disintegrating in front of them, the barrage of silent bullets impacting, some bouncing and ricocheting around the room.

  Stone pushed her through the swing door at the bottom of the stairs. She took the full impact with her face and body. He kept her moving through the foyer. The receptionist looked up in bewilderment. She had the telephone receiver in her hand, was already calling the police. She froze as she saw them and then ducked for cover behind her desk, fearful of her own safety.

  Stone and Isobel were out on the street and running down the sidewalk. People stopped and stared, some hunched down when they saw the pistol in his hand. |Others stared dumbly, blankly, lost in the confusion and curiosity of the moment. He kept the pistol aimed high, marking the window across the street as they ran.

  Stone pushed her towards the Mustang, gripped her shoulder hard and put his foot into the back of her knee. She dropped down to her knees and he had her completely shielded between the car and his own body. He cursed loudly as he fumbled with the key and unlocked the passenger door, got the door open and damned near threw her into the seat. He kept the weapon trained on the fourth-floor window as he rounded the hood and got to the driver's door. His back was to the window now as he unlocked it but he already knew that the sniper had gone. There had been too many opportunities for a shot. But as he unlocked the door and dropped into the seat, he shuddered at the possibilities that had been open to the marksman as they had left the hotel. He had charged out of the front exit because that was where his vehicle was parked. He did not have central locking and had wasted valuable time at both doors and he had known all the long that the marksman could well have seen him arrive and would know which car to look out for. He would have to sharpen up, turn from investigator back to bodyguard.

  The Mustang's V8 roared into life and Stone floored the throttle, biting the rear set of rubber into the tarmac and sending two plumes of thick smoke into the air as the rear of the vehicle twitched and slid from side to side down the road. He hammered the stick into second and the car gained traction and raced up towards eighty in a fraction over seven seconds, thanks to the painstaking time and money he had spent under the bonnet. He weaved in and around the cars and hit the brakes as he turned onto Central Park West. The traffic thickened and he had to return to more sensible speeds, keeping his eye on all his mirrors in an attempted to spot a tail.

  He glanced across at her and then noticed the blood on her blouse. “Are you hit?” He reached across and patted her stomach, searching frantically for the wound. She did not respond. He snapped at her: “Isobel! Are you hit?”

  She looked vacantly at him like she was drugged or drunk. “I ...” She stared down at the bloodstained material, and then started to scream.

  Stone kept an eye on the traffic, driving with his left hand and feeling for the wound with his right. The blood was thick and did not seem to be pumping from one particular place. He tore at the blouse and ripped it at the buttons. Isobel was still screaming and shaking. Her eyes were wide and she was becoming hysterical. He looked at her stomach and saw that it was amassed with tiny incisions and he could see the glistening heads of tiny shards of glass.

  “Isobel! You're OK. It's glass, not a gunshot wound,” he paused to watch the road. “You're going to be alright.” She did not respond, was frozen in panic and fear. He squeezed her knee tightly and shook her. “Isobel!”

  ***

  The Mercedes E63 was a completely different animal to the raucous and wild customized Mustang. It was large, yet somehow discreet. It looked for the entire world like any other large luxury German sedan, but nestled under the hood was a 6.2 liter V8 with well over five hundred horsepower. Technically superior to any customized home-grown American classic. The power was seamless and graceful and gave everything at once to the committed driver. Traction control and all-wheel steer and the most technologically advanced engine management system in the world meant that although understated in looks it was more than a match for the Mustang.

  He had reached the Mercedes and carefully stashed the sports bag and carry case in the trunk. There was no point in rushing; the Mustang would be long gone in a frenzy of smoking rubber and burning clutch. Instead, he set up the laptop on the passenger seat and plugged the power cable into the cigarette lighter. Next he put a dongle – a cell signal receiver – in the USB port. With the laptop booted up and the software initiated and now online, he studied the map on the screen and saw that the Mustang was making its way north on Central Park West and was two-point-seven miles ahead of him travelling at approximately thirty miles per hour.

  He started the Mercedes and engaged drive. The car pulled effortlessly away from the curb and he smiled to himself as he saw the duo of flashing blues and twos making for The Albany Hotel.

  He thought of the man in the room who had returned fire so quickly, who had taken Isobel Bartlett out of the line of fire. He was good, had reacted instinctively and professionally. The man was a worthy adversary. He would enjoy hunting him.

  THIRTY

  The peo
ple moved quickly, almost comically, like a nineteen hundred silent movie as the picture wound onwards on fast forwards. Every so often he would stop the tape and pause the picture, study the people frozen on the screen and then wind it on again. He knew what he was looking for and had not made a mistake, the person would leap out at him from the screen.

  It was the arrogance of the man that played on his mind the most, that and the air of coolness. It was somewhat unnerving how a man could exude such arrogance, such calmness in what he would describe as adversity. How he could flagrantly bounce around accusations in such a way that to rise to the merest of insinuations would announce only guilt. And all the time, he had smirked. Like he was teasing him, goading him into slipping up and walking right into the trap. The man had dared him.

  He hit the play button again and let the DVD play on real-time. He could see what he thought was the back of him and then the side. And then he was gone. He watched, transfixed on the picture. Everybody else stepped into the frame, moved through the picture, turned his or her faces through every angle of portrait. The cameras picked out every guest, except for one. The man would almost be in frame, allowing a shoulder or elbow into view and then he would move. Not obviously, merely turn to talk to someone, sip from his glass or block his face with his arm as he scratched his head. But the anomaly was already set. You could avoid the camera's lens for so long and then after a while it became no accident. He checked off the names against the security pass log for the previous Friday.

  His cell phone rang, jolting him from his vigil, his thoughts so rigid in concentration that his heart started to race as the ring tone played out its tune. He had dedicated the ringtone to one specific contact and already knew what the caller wanted.

  “Yes?” he was abrupt, angered at the intrusion. He stopped the DVD with the remote.

  “What the hell's going on?”

  “What do you think? I'm trying to find out what's happened,” he paused. “Anyway, I've told you not to call me at work.”

  “Get a grip, it's your cell phone. You're holding it together, aren't you?”

  “Of course. We need damage limitation and we need it real fucking quickly, that's all.”

  “We'll have it. It’s just a matter of time, is all.”

  “If you say so.”

  “We need a meet, soon.”

  “Why?”

  “Why the fuck do you think? Some bastard threw a joker in our hand, and now it isn't worth shit. I want to find out who. You know a diner on twenty-nine, near Rosslyn, place called McBenn 's? It's like a Denny's ...”

  “I'll find it.”

  “Alright. Be there at six. And remember to watch your ass for a tail.” The line went dead.

  He placed the cell phone back down on the desk and picked up the remote. He pressed play and studied the picture once more. He would ascertain a name if he looked long enough, hard enough and if he couldn't find the man with the CCTV footage of the conference he would have to requisite the tapes for the rest of the building or even the parking lot. He needed to be sure. He needed to see how close the wolf had come to the door.

  THIRTY ONE

  The silence had been uncomfortable in the car to say the least and Rob Stone was becoming concerned that Isobel Bartlett had gone into a vegetative state of shock. He had seen it before. The body shuts down after witnessing such trauma. All that is left is breathing. He had tried to ask her a few questions, start to explain what was happening but it had been to no avail. The woman had simply clammed up on him. David Stein's death had been tragic and completely unexpected and Stone could not help thinking that by tracking Bartlett down and involving the FBI agent he had been at least partially responsible for the man's death. Things had suddenly gone so horribly wrong. He glanced sideways at Isobel and didn't feel any differently about the situation.

  Isobel was slumped in the seat, her blouse ripped loose but tucked across her body so that no part of her abdomen showed. The blood had started to clot and he could see that the bleeding had come from four or five wounds. He knew that he needed to get her some medical attention but was in a quandary as to what action to take. Somewhere, there was an unknown assassin who had stepped into the fray. Whether either of them were still a target or whether they had slipped the net was the question at the forefront of Stone's mind. In addition, he needed to contact the FBI headquarters and NYPD and explain what had happened back at The Albany Hotel. However, contacting the bureau and police would result in one thing and one thing only - he would have to give them access to Isobel Bartlett and he would lose valuable time. He might also deliver both himself and Isobel as a target once more.

  They were heading north on twenty-two and had been travelling for around an hour and a half, at a fairly considerable pace. The sprawl of suburbia had long since given way to lush countryside and wooded areas with leaves of golden and red, and the horizon was marked with a thin vale of a golden sheen from the sun in the clear blue sky. They were nearing the three corners of New York State, Connecticut and Massachusetts and the sights of rivers and trees and waterfalls and long rolling hills was a welcome distraction from the hustle and bustle of the big city. Ahead of them he saw a cluster of buildings and looked out for a sign. As they approached, he slowed the Mustang down and indicated off the highway. There was a quiet looking diner and a small convenience store. The parking lot was quiet with only two SUV’s and a tan colored sedan taking up space. As he pulled the car into the lot he caught a glimpse of a sign for a motel approximately a mile further up the highway.

  “Isobel.” Stone spoke softly, trying to gain her confidence. “I'm going to get a few things to clean you up. I need you to wait in the car.”

  She stared blankly ahead. There wasn't as much as a flicker from her eyes.

  Stone pulled the car to a halt and got out. He jogged up the steps to the convenience store and looked around for the appropriate section. He found what he was looking for - tape, gauze, antiseptic ointment and a box of plastic band aids. As he turned to leave the aisle he picked up a box of maximum strength painkillers. At the counter he dropped the goods down then quickly went to a glass cabinet refrigerator and picked out two cans of full sugar soda and two glass bottles of mineral water. He paid the clerk without a word and rushed back outside to the car.

  Isobel was still in her seat and he breathed a sigh of relief. He had half expected her to have taken off and in truth he wouldn't have blamed her.

  He started the Mustang and put the box in first. There was little traffic on the road and he pulled out quickly onto the highway. He gunned the engine and within a minute he was turning back off the highway and into the drive of the motel.

  ***

  The Mercedes had crept to a gradual halt, its tires crunching on the loose chippings at the side of the road. There was no audible noise from the engine as the man brought the vehicle to a complete stop and studied the laptop's screen on the seat beside him. The red dot denoting the transponder hidden in the lining of Isobel Bartlett's shoulder bag and another in the lining of her coat had stopped flickering rhythmically, the sign that the target was no longer on the move.

  He had pulled up on the crest of a bend less than a mile short of the target's location. He had waited somewhat impatiently at the side of the road and had tensed once more as he watched the red dot flicker slowly on the map and move off down the road. He had selected drive and had started to move off but had slowed to a halt again as he watched the red dot move off the road marking and stop in a dead area of green.

  It frustrated him so, not knowing what the target was doing or how long they would be there. He could feel the anger welling from within, the sudden rush of pulse at his temple, upon him and impeding his thoughts as an involuntary stutter impedes speech. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It helped to calm him, helped to put him at ease.

  He thought back to the moment he had squeezed the trigger and had killed the man across the street. The second shot had come purely by instinct and h
e had been momentarily delighted at his handiwork. To have got two bullets through the same tiny hole in the glass and to have followed up the first shot before the corpse had hit the ground was testament to his skill as a marksman. The realization of which, made him feel invincible.

  The e-mail had been short, concise and particular in its instructions. He was not to kill Isobel Bartlett until he had secured the location of the flash drives. His fee had been re-evaluated in his favor and he was to report his progress regularly and with immediate effect.

  Hearing the conversation in the hotel room through the receiver had given him an invaluable advantage. He already knew of the man Robert Stone through his employers and knew that he may well come up against him in some way. But who was the FBI man? And why was he suddenly in the picture? Taking out the FBI agent had been a sudden improvisation. A new strategy and his alone. And he was both proud and pleased to have done so. He had moved the game on a level, increased the pace a little and provoked a reaction. He had undermined their security and would force them into making mistakes. He had also lessened the odds against him and equaled things out a little. All he needed now was patience. Patience to play the stalking cat to their cowering mouse. And that's exactly what they were. Like mice, they were small and insignificant and no match for his skill and power. And now they were scared. He would hunt them, amuse himself with them and then when the time was right he would kill them.