Дэвид Балдаччи - The Sixth Man

The place they took him to was belowground and heavily secured. It was a location New Yorkers would walk over millions of times a day and never know was even there. The room was dark. Bunting stared up at the man in fear.

James Harkes looked different than he had in past meetings. He was dressed the same; black suit that could barely restrain his muscular physique. But his demeanor was different. It was crystal clear that Bunting was no longer in charge.

If I ever was.

Harkes was. Or rather whomever Harkes was reporting to, and Bunting now had a solid idea of who that was.

“Let’s go over your debrief one more time, Bunting.”

There was no more Mr. Bunting.

“We’ve been over it three times. I’ve told you everything.”

“We’ll go over it until I’m satisfied.”

When Bunting finished Harkes said, “Why did you meet with Sean King?”

“Are you keeping my calendar now?”

Harkes didn’t answer him. He was texting something on his BlackBerry. He looked up when he was finished. “There are certain people, all of whom would be familiar to you, that are not happy about your recent performance.”

“I was already aware of that,” Bunting shot back. “If that’s all you wanted to tell me, I’d like to go now.”

Harkes rose, went to the wall, and flicked a switch. The wall suddenly became transparent. As Bunting looked closer he saw that it was a one-way mirror. Seated in the brightly lit room was Avery. Bunting could see that he was strapped to a gurney. There was one intravenous cannula going to each of his arms. The young man was convulsed with fear. His head was turned and he seemed to be staring directly at Bunting, but it was apparent he couldn’t see him. With the special glass and the bright lights he would only be able to see his own terrified countenance reflected back. A heart monitor on a stand was next to the gurney with a line running to Avery’s neck.

Bunting shouted, “What the hell is going on?”

“Avery screwed up. King tracked you through him. And you were aware of it but didn’t bother to tell me.”

“I don’t answer to you.”

Harkes moved with astonishing speed. The blow hit Bunting right above the left eye. Harkes’s hand felt like a block of cement. The blood pouring from a gash on his forehead, Bunting fell forward in his chair, feeling sick to his stomach from the violence of the strike.

He struggled to catch his breath. “Look, you bastard, Foster and Quantrell aren’t the only game in town–”

Harkes hammered a fist into Bunting’s right kidney, doubling him over and dropping him to the floor. This time he did throw up. An instant after the vomit left his mouth he was yanked up and thrown back in the chair with such force that he nearly toppled over backward. When his breath returned Bunting said, “What the hell do you want from me?”

Harkes handed him a remote control device. “Hit the red button.”

Bunting looked down at the instrument in his right hand. “Why?”

“Because I said to.”

“What will happen if I do?”

Harkes looked through the mirror at Avery. “You’re a smart man. What do you think will happen?”

“What is that stuff hooked up to Avery?”

“Two IV lines and a heart monitor.”

“Why?”

“When you push the red button you will put a series of steps in motion. Saline solution will begin flowing through both lines.”

“Saline?”

“To ensure the lines aren’t blocked so the chemicals that will be flowing through them next will not become mixed and possibly occlude the needles. If that happens the drugs don’t reach the body.”

“What drugs? Some sort of truth serum?”

An amused look eased across Harkes normally serious features. “The first one through is sodium thiopental. That’ll knock a lightweight like Avery out in three seconds. The next drug is pancuronium; it causes paralysis of the skeletal and respiratory muscles. The final drug through is potassium chloride.”

Bunting paled. “Potassium chloride? But that stops the heart. That’ll kill him.”

“That’s sort of the point. What do you think we’ve been talking about here, Bunting? A slap on the wrist?”

“I’m not pushing the button.”

“I would reconsider if I were you.”

“I’m not going to kill Avery.”

Harkes eased a .44 Magnum pistol from his shoulder holster and rested the muzzle against Bunting’s forehead. “I can hardly describe what the load chambered in this gun will do to your brain.”

Bunting started breathing fast and closed his eyes. “I don’t want to kill Avery.”

“That’s progress. You’ve gone from ‘I’m not going to kill Avery’ to ‘I don’t want to kill Avery.’ ” Harkes thumbed the hammer back on the Magnum. “One pull and most of your impressive gray matter will be on the back wall over there. Is that what you want?” He brushed the steel against Bunting’s cheek. “Think about it. You’re rich. Beautiful homes, your own jet. A sexy little wife who thinks you’re hot shit. Three kids who’ll grow up and make you proud. You’ve got a lot to live for. Avery, on the other hand, is a completely replaceable nerd. A loser. A nothing.”

“If I push the button you’ll just kill me too.”

Harkes said, “Fair enough.” He holstered his gun, took an envelope out of his pocket and took out four photos, lining them up on the table. “Change of tactics.” He indicated the photos. “Tell me where you want me to start.”

Bunting looked down at the photos and his heart skipped a beat.

His wife and three children were all lined up in a neat little row.

When Bunting said nothing Harkes added, “I’ll give you a choice. We kill her, the kids get to live.”

Bunting’s grabbed the photos and held them against his chest, as though that simple action would protect them. “You will not hurt my family!”

“We either kill the lady or all three kids. It’s up to you. As a suggestion, if we nail the kids you and the missus can always adopt.”

“You bastard. You heartless, sick bastard!”

“If I don’t get an answer in five seconds, they’ll be dead in five minutes. All of them. We know the kids are sleeping over at your sister-in-law’s in Jersey. We have people there to do the termination right now. And please don’t think we won’t.”

Bunting picked up the remote and pushed the red button. He wouldn’t look in the direction of Avery. He couldn’t. He held the button down, closed his eyes.

Three minutes passed in silence.

“You can look now.”

“No.”

“I said look.” The slap across his face made Bunting’s eyes pop open. An iron grip around the base of his neck made him look at the mirrored wall. What he saw stunned him.

Avery was still there, alive. As Bunting continued to watch, men came in and unstrapped the lines from Avery and then freed the restraints on the gurney. He sat up, rubbed his wrists, and looked around in both bewilderment and relief.

Bunting tilted his head upward to look at Harkes, who relaxed his grip.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Get out,” said Harkes. As Bunting slowly rose Harkes ripped the pictures out of his grasp. “But keep in mind that anytime I want they’re dead. So if you’re thinking about talking to King again, or maybe the FBI, I would think real hard before you do.”

‘So this is a warning?” Bunting said shakily.

“It’s more than a warning. It’s inevitable.”

Ten minutes later Bunting was in a car heading back to his house. His face hurt, his heart ached, tears soaked the collar of his shirt. He made six calls, all to people high up in the government. These numbers were for his use only, so there would be no doubt as to who was calling. They were monitored 24/7. Bunting rarely called them, but when he did they were always answered.