SURVIVORS: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 2) (27 page)

There was a sound that made Brendan think of a wounded bear in the woods. A low groan of agony. He looked behind him to where the bodyguard was crumpled in a heap on the floor of Heilshorn’s office, both of his hands covering his crotch. Then Brendan looked at Heilshorn, lying on his desk, immobile. He recalled Sloane throwing the fire extinguisher and hitting the old man in the chest. The way he lay now, just the horseshoe of dark hair visible on his balding head, his arms flattened beneath him, he looked dead.

Sloane had a fistful of Brendan’s sleeve and was tugging hard on his arm. The bodyguard moaned again. He was trying to get up. Brendan stepped over the man and let Sloane pull him towards the door. The bodyguard reached up and grabbed Brendan’s leg. Brendan tried to shake his iron grip, while Sloane continued to yank on his arm. Finally Brendan tore his arm from her grip. He punched the bodyguard in the face. His knuckles exploded with pain – it was like hitting a brick. But the force of the blow was enough to drive the big man’s head back and the rear of his skull bounced off of the floor and Brendan saw his eyes flutter.

Sloane had picked up his revolver off the floor, and handed it to him, grip first. He took it wordlessly, and the two of them looked at one another. Brendan hadn’t felt as close to another person in a long, long time. He took her by the waist and pulled her up to him and buried his face in her neck. He felt her thin, lithe arms encircle his back.

A moment later and he was following her out of the door and into the hallway.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO / Monday, 5:10 PM

There was silence after the gunshot. Just a split second of nothing, long enough for Jennifer to realize that she wasn’t dead, that the bullet had not entered her brain and killed her. Had it hit her somewhere else? Had it blown out the side of her head, through her cheek or ear? Then there was the unmistakable mail-sack thump of a body hitting the ground.

She opened her eyes and saw that Apollo had gone over backwards and was lying on the hardwood floor. A shiny pool of blood was forming underneath him.

He’d shot himself not her.

“Miss Aiken!” The voice on the other side of the door sounded panicked. A second later and there was a concussive, wood-splitting crash as two SWAT members drove the bullram through the door and came stumbling into the room.

More men poured in immediately after – first other SWAT who took up defensive positions, taking a knee and aiming their weapons into the room, and then two men in suits, ties flying, as one of the SWAT yelled “clear!” and they came running in.

The first suited man slowed and cautiously approached Apollo’s prone body, keeping a small handgun trained on him. The other locked eyes with her – she was sure it was the man who had been shouting from outside of the room – and then he started to take in the full implication of her appearance; she could see the shock in his eyes, and could only imagine how she looked.

She’d been taken some time ago – when had it been? That morning? Yesterday? Her mind was running away without her, but some sane part still operating realized that the day outside had never fully turned to night. It was getting darker out there so maybe it was evening. That would have made it about eight or ten hours that she had been locked up here, the poison working through her veins. She hadn’t even had a sip of water, and her lips were cracked and dry, her mouth felt like wool. She was still in her running clothes.

“They gave me thallium,” she said to the agent.

“I know,” he said. He gestured with his hands and a second later, two EMTs came in carrying medical kits, which they plopped down beside her.

With the room secured, the SWAT members and the agents seemed to relax a little and focus their attention on her. They stood around in loose formation, watching as an EMT prepared a syringe and then found a vein in her arm. One of the agents spoke. “John Doherty, FBI. We’ll take care of you.”

Next to Doherty, also dressed in a suit and tie, was someone she recognized.

“Petrino,” she said.

He lifted his hand in a wave that seemed comical. “Howdy.”

“This is Prussian blue,” the EMT explained. She knew what it was. Antidote. And as he stuck the syringe into her arm and she watched the liquid flow into her veins, Jennifer thought she should be feeling more relief, more absolutely god-blessed-pure-elated relief. It was all over, being locked up, Apollo questioning her, the poison in her body working its way into her organs, affecting her limbs and her hair and making her heart beat erratically, advertising the death it would soon deliver, it was all over.

But she could only turn her head away from the needle, and from Petrino’s frowning look of concern, to look out the window where she saw the dusky blue sky as night descended.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE / Monday, 5:10 PM

Staryles watched Healy and the girl tumble down the hallway, a dervish of legs and arms – it looked like she was towing him.

With the monitors in front of him, Staryles felt like he was back in the dark ages compared to military technology. These flat, 2D monochrome closed-circuit monitors were nothing compared to the new optical ISR capabilities of Military Imaging and Surveillance Technology, which offered high-res 3D images. The ISR could locate and identify a target at much longer ranges than possible with the older optical systems. The military said that these new expanded abilities reduced collateral damage, but Staryles knew that was PR nonsense. Targeting at longer ranges didn’t mean less collateral damage, it meant more targets. MIST, and all the defense contractors that put together the imaging, like C-WINS for the snipers, and DInGO for everybody on the ground looking through the scopes, MIST was the hammer, and all the world was a nail.

Optics were a fraction of the big picture. Housing, transport, all standard-issue gear, every bullet, every patch, every tank, water bottle, and gauze pad was part of the mega-industry. In fact, it was Titan Med Tech that supplied those gauze pads. And, the thallium sulfate for use in interrogations.

He watched the detective and the girl enter the stairwell on the top floor, he watched as Agent Hermes went into the stairwell on the first floor. Persephone, one of the organization’s best, was coming up from the parking garage. Her long, raven hair was tied back in a French braid. She moved with her usual grace and precision.

Healy and the girl didn’t stand a chance. In fact, Staryles almost felt like the situation was unfair.

He thought to check in with Apollo. It had been a few minutes, and Apollo wasn’t using the same BTE device for coms that he and the other Olympians were. He texted him, as he’d been doing throughout the day. By now, Aiken would be dead, and Staryles wanted to know if Apollo could handle the clean-up on his own. He sent off a text and sat back. He ran a hand across his jaw. He could feel the stubble even though he’d shaved that morning. He had his father’s facial hair – you needed to shave twice a day. Staryles had always loathed his own hairiness. His body was hairy, too – but he kept it all trimmed, every nook and cranny neat and tidy.

Healy and the girl had made it down one flight of stairs. Hermes was leaping up the stairs below them. His hands did not touch the railing. He moved fast and quietly. They were nearly as good as Staryles’ team in Yemen.

He watched Healy and the girl come to a halt in the stairwell as Hermes confronted them, and took aim.

* * *

She’d gotten her start with the Justice Department doing research on prisons. One thing Jennifer had quickly found was that prisons were filled with many more drug offenders than murderers, rapists, or thieves.

The United States represented five percent of the world’s population, consumed twenty-five percent of the world’s resources, and fifty percent of its prescription drugs.

The War on Drugs, a phrase coined by Nixon, had precipitated the mandatory minimum drug sentencing that gave the United States the dubious honor of locking up more of its citizens than any other.

The pharmaceutical industry was immense and highly influential. The millions spent on lobbying translated into new congressional directions on policy, and reshaped the psychiatric community and redirected institutional research.

In a few short years, elite institutions had shifted from psychoanalysis and psychotherapy to a concentration on biology and neuroscience – based on the idea that psychological problems came from chemical imbalances in the brain, and that pills could fix those imbalances.

Brendan Healy had been working to obtain his doctorate in one of the same facilities which lobbied successfully for funding and favor. Those politicians would do the bidding of the drug conglomerates, capping malpractice payouts, mitigating insurance claims, and making massive donations to educational institutions. And Brendan’s father, Gerard Healy, had worked within the same system, and had started to make waves.

Alexander Heilshorn had huge stakes in big pharmaceutical companies, and the political muscle to push his agenda.

Wyn Weston’s files had shown that Heilshorn had ex-military men and women working for him, actual muscle. Weston had two dossiers for a man and a woman. There were no pictures. Only birth names and code names. Ursula Galloway and Ewon Parnell; Persephone and Apollo.

There was no doubt in Jennifer’s mind that this information was why Weston had disappeared. And why he was dead.

He was dead, and others were either dead, too, or missing, because of something called
Lebenslüge
. The implications of this operational title (which made the most sense) were terrifying.

Most specifically, because she would have no idea where to turn now.

She was being wheeled out on a gurney. She watched the ceiling roll above her as she left the room she had suffered in.

In the end, Apollo had decided his only salvation – or perhaps escape – had been to take his own life. She had never seen anyone kill themselves before. She knew she was in shock, and could feel her entire body vibrate as if it had been hooked up to a battery, with volts coursing through her, metallic, rusty, corrosive. She could even taste it – the copper tang of blood.

Someone had found her. She tried to ask the FBI agents – Petrino had been watchful of her – but they only shushed her and told her everything would be okay. She knew they wanted to question her, find out how she’d wound up here, who the dead man on the floor was, but the EMTs had blocked them, and were taking her away. She saw Petrino’s waving tie as he strode alongside the gurney, could feel his fingertips on her trembling shoulder.

She wanted to know what, or who, had led them all here, to a building clearly owned by Heilshorn.

* * *

Brendan looked at the man on the landing. He was in an expensive-looking suit, but with a bullet-proof vest bulking it out. The gunman had a crew cut, his eyes were hard and direct, his jaw clean and square.

Brendan had his revolver in his hand. Sloane was behind him – he kept his arm out, making sure she stayed back.

Brendan heard footfalls coming from above. They were nimble steps, but on the emergency stairs everything echoed. There was another one of these military types descending upon them.

“It’s over,” said the man on the landing half a flight down. He had both hands on his weapon, sighting it on Brendan, looking for a kill-shot. “Put down your gun.”

A moment later and the other pursuer rounded the landing half a flight above – Brendan was standing where he could see them both, now. The man above them was just as smartly dressed perhaps a little heavier than the one below, but otherwise could have been a carbon copy of him. Then, a third person appeared. She had been so quiet that Brendan hadn’t even heard her over the thumping of his heart. She stepped in behind the man below, and took aim as he spoke to someone Brendan couldn’t see.

“This is Hermes. I have them in the west stairwell between floors six and seven. Requesting best evac route, over.”

Brendan noticed a device attached to the man’s ear, the one calling himself Hermes. Then he looked up and saw the surveillance camera half a flight above, in the corner above a mounted glass case containing an axe and coiled length of fire hose. The whole place was under surveillance.

“Roger,” said Hermes.

Brendan slowly bent down, holding his revolver between his thumb and forefinger. He placed it at his feet. The moment he did, the man and woman below began to rapidly ascend, taking two steps at a time. The one above quickly dropped down towards them.

At the same moment, Brendan grabbed Sloane and pushed her towards the exit door on the landing. His hand slipped on the handle for a moment, but he managed to grip it and give it a heave. Brendan and Sloane went through onto the sixth floor.

* * *

The blood slammed through the channels of his body like a surging river in spring. His legs felt weak – his neck throbbed from where the bodyguard had seized him in that choke hold.

There were cops crawling all over this hospital by now, Brendan figured. They were on their way up to Heilshorn’s office, at the very least, and most certainly cordoning off the area downstairs and forming checkpoints along the street and at the exits to the underground garage. He would be identified and considered a fugitive – Sloane, too.

He had her by the forearm, the two of them running down the corridor, when he heard the agents come banging out of the stairwell door behind them. They passed from the corridor to a main area with a nurse’s station and waiting room. The place was buzzing with activity – Brendan glimpsed sickly children and harried-looking parents in the waiting room off to the right. He noticed nurses stopping to watch as he ran past with Sloane trailing behind him. A boy in a wheelchair, his face gaunt, dropped his chin and gaped as Brendan and Sloane left him in their breeze.

Brendan stole a glance over his shoulder. The agents were close, jogging more than running. He saw the one called Hermes, holding up his wallet for an alarmed nurse to see. Brendan caught the flash of a badge winking silver beneath the overhead fluorescent lights.

They moved swiftly through the main area and then turned right, entering a narrower hallway. Within seconds, Brendan pushed through a door into a room that said
Staff Only
. A man in a smock and a woman in scrubs were drinking coffee. The man jumped as Brendan and Sloane ran through.

“Sorry,” Brendan called. There was a door on the other side of the room. He took it and they came out in another corridor. Brendan turned left, doubling back now. He looked over his shoulder again. The door to the staff room was swinging shut. Just as Brendan and Sloane rounded the corner, Brendan saw a face appear – the man in the smock was looking where they’d gone.

They continued straight down the corridor. Brendan heard Sloane puffing, out of breath. His sore hip was now bleating like an alarm, and his nose throbbed painfully. His lungs burned. They reached the end of the hall and zig-zagged their way into a playroom. Brendan almost lost his footing when he stepped on a metal toy.

A door fed into a final corridor. This was the last conduit to pass through to get to where Brendan thought they had a chance of getting away. As he passed through this door he heard a voice shouting after them. He wasn’t sure if it was Hermes, any of the others, or a doctor, an orderly – he didn’t turn this time to see. They burst out into this last hallway.

They faced a service elevator. A custodian was getting off, pushing a utility cart. He glanced up and his eyes widened as Brendan and Sloane blew past him and into the elevator.

The custodian turned and watched as the doors to the service elevator closed.

Brendan hit the button and it started descending.

* * *

She tried to sit up on the gurney, grunting with the effort. Her head was swimming. The ambulance bumped over the potholed Manhattan streets. Through the rear windows she saw night. Police cars were following them, lights flashing, no sirens.

The paramedic gently put a hand on her chest. “You should lie down,” he said.

Petrino was riding with her. He wore his usual frown and his forehead was shiny.

“How?” she asked. Her mouth was parched, and her vision blurry. She could only hope he understood her question, because she wasn’t sure if she would be able to speak again – her mouth didn’t seem to want to work properly.

“An anonymous call to 911.”

Anonymous,
she thought. How could anyone have known where she was being held? It either had to be someone on the inside, working with Staryles, or someone unknown to her. One of his team betraying Staryles seemed like a major stretch – Apollo had killed himself to avoid being taken alive. Blasted his head off right in front of her. She’d never forget it for the rest of her life – it was the worst thing she had ever seen, and she was privy to a lot of human perversity. It had to be someone else who’d made the call.

“We think it was Healy,” Petrino said. “He’s been identified at Roosevelt Hospital.”

It made sense and confirmed her suspicions. Roosevelt was Heilshorn’s hospital. If Healy was on to Heilshorn, too, then he’d made the connection.

She forced her mouth to work, to form another question. “FBI there?”

“At Roosevelt? No. NYPD responded. Not our jurisdiction. Heilshorn wasn’t kidnapped; he claimed Healy and another person were holding him at gunpoint in his office. Blue is going to have them in custody any second.”

She doubted that. Not if Staryles had anything to do with it. But, it was possible. If the cops got to Healy first, it would probably be better. She searched Petrino’s face and saw that he knew it too – he wasn’t saying what they were both thinking, that the situation at Roosevelt Hospital was connected to her kidnapping and their investigation into XList. Something was scaring Petrino off, though, keeping the FBI away from Roosevelt.

What was it? If Staryles and Apollo were some sort of paramilitary group, some ex-soldier, rent-a-cop detail hired to do Heilshorn’s dirty work, maybe to clean up after messes left behind, then the FBI needed to intercept them immediately.