Chris Mooney - The Killing House

‘No. Her phone is a model that transmits a signal even if it’s turned off — provided the battery is installed. I’ll keep searching for it.’

‘Get back to the house and remove the car. I’ll contact you shortly.’

Fletcher hung up and immediately removed the phone’s battery to prevent him from being traced.

He did not encounter any roadblocks. He drove on to the highway and entered the smooth-running traffic.

Despite the rush of events, he felt remarkably calm. After breaking Mr Jackman’s neck, Fletcher had relieved the man of his clothing and quickly dressed, leaving the agent’s tactical vest on the floor. Then, using the man’s sidearm, he’d fired three shots against the vest and quickly finished dressing. Lying on the floor, he’d radioed through what had happened.

The scenario had worked out perfectly. With the chaos of an armed federal fugitive on the loose somewhere inside a house full of tear gas, the HRT operators guarding the pair of tactical paramedics did what they were trained to do: remove the injured from the line of fire. Head and face covered by a balaclava, the face shield for the gas mask smeared with Karim’s blood, Fletcher had allowed himself to be carried out of the house and into the waiting ambulance.

The only real exposure had come from his escape. Gawking drivers had seen him jump out of the back of the ambulance and run away dressed in a bright blue paramedic’s jacket. Blood covered his hands and Jackman’s black tactical trousers. He would need a change of clothing — and shoes. Running in the man’s ill-fitting combat boots was not at all convenient or comfortable.

It would be foolish to assume the Toyota’s owner would be returning sometime later this evening. Any vehicle reported stolen in the Cape May area would immediately be added to the police watch list. He would need to find another car to borrow.

Atlantic City, with its garish hotels and ample shopping choices, was close by.

Fletcher’s thoughts turned back to Alexander Borgia. The man wanted Karim dead. Why?

The question hung in his mind, unanswered.

Let’s talk about Theresa Herrera, Borgia had told Karim. I understand you agreed to look into the disappearance of her son, Rico.

Had Karim stumbled upon something that had triggered the FBI’s interest?

The question hung in his mind, unanswered.

Fletcher didn’t have his computers. The netbook and other vital equipment were stored inside the Jaguar’s trunk. His whole life was stored inside there.

Her knowledge of computers is frightening.

Karim’s words regarding Emma White.

But could Fletcher trust her?

She’s my adopted daughter, Karim had said. She’s aggressively loyal — she would fall on a sword to protect me.

Safe now and driving under the bright sky, Fletcher stared at the highway exits, wondering which one to take. He was reminded of the Greek hero Odysseus, standing on his ship and watching the smoke of family fires visible on the shore of his home, Ithaca. Believing he was safe, Odysseus slept. While he did so, his companions cut open their master’s ox-hide sack and, instead of the gold they had sought, found only King Aeolus’s adverse winds, which drove Odysseus’s ships across the leagues of ocean.

Malcolm Fletcher, forever homeless, contained one navigational rudder, and it directed him back to Baltimore.

Borgia stared at the empty gurney inside the back of the ambulance. He felt like he had just been kicked in the stomach.

So close, so goddamn close…

Federal agents from the New Jersey office were working in conjunction with local and state police to assist in the manhunt. The New York office had also been alerted and was coordinating efforts with their local law enforcement. Roadblocks were being set up at every tollbooth. Cars were being searched; local buildings were being searched. Any stolen car was being put on the watch list. Borgia had alerted the bureau’s Media Office to get the news played on the radio and TV.

Almost an hour had passed since Fletcher’s escape and so far nothing had come of it.

Borgia turned away from the ambulance. There was nothing more to do here. He had already been inside the hospital and spoken with the paramedic who had tended to Karim. Fletcher hadn’t killed the man, had merely rendered him unconscious by squeezing off the carotid artery. Fletcher, it seemed, had waited to the last moment to do it too; wanting to make sure, Borgia suspected, that Karim had been stabilized.

Karim was still in surgery. According to one of the ER nurses, he had suffered a lot of internal injuries, and lost a significant amount of blood. Nonetheless, Karim, was in very good hands.

Borgia had a long conversation with FBI Director Oberst on the way back to Karim’s home. The man was understandably upset. It had been Oberst who had given the order to take down Ali Karim.

There was one silver lining: there was no recorded evidence of Special Agent Danny Jackman staging the crime scene. And then there was Karim. If he survived, no one would believe that Jackman had attacked him. The man had knowingly hidden a wanted fugitive, one who had then turned around and murdered a federal agent before escaping. The Bureau had Karim bang to rights on those two matters — and there were plenty of additional nails with which to hammer shut Karim’s coffin. One of Karim’s employees had been shot and killed, dumped in the trunk of a BMW conveniently parked inside the garage. Karim would have to answer for that — and he would have to explain the dried blood on the bed and rubbish bin inside the treatment room. Better for Karim to die on the operating table than face what was waiting for him if he survived.

Emergency Response Technicians from the New York field office were on their way down to process the evidence. A separate team armed with the proper warrants had been dispatched to search every square inch of Karim’s Manhattan home.

SOC Cronin would take the hit for Fletcher’s escape. Fletcher had slipped through his fingers. Borgia recommended to the Director that Cronin should be served up as bleeding meat for the media. The Director agreed, and Borgia spent the rest of their phone call strategizing the best way to spin the story.

Brandon Arkoff pinned Nathan Santiago’s face against the operating table as Marie swivelled the light to the man’s bare back. With her fingers she prodded the middle area between the shoulder blades — there it was.

Santiago flinched when he felt the scalpel. He tried to fight it but his wrists had been tied.

Another hit with the Taser settled him.

Marie picked up tweezers, reached inside the fresh incision and removed a glass capsule the size of a Tic Tac. She doubted the people who had abducted Santiago knew about the RFID tag, but she wasn’t about to take any chances. She carried the tag to a wall-mounted steel table and smashed it with a hammer. She collected the fragments and washed them down the sink.

Brandon stepped up to her and said, ‘The police could be on their way here.’

Marie shook her head as she washed her hands. Santiago moaned from the table.

‘They can’t find us,’ she said.

‘Why take the chance?’

‘You know why. Santiago has a rare blood type. His first kidney went for two hundred thousand, and now we’ve got a buyer lined up to pay half a million for the other. The other buyers we have lined up — ’

‘I know what they’re offering.’

‘And you’re willing to walk away from it?’

‘We have more than enough money to survive.’

Marie dried her hands on her coat.

‘Get him ready for surgery.’

‘She’s not going to do it,’ Brandon said.

‘I’ll talk to her. Woman to woman.’