John Shirley - Watch Dogs - Dark Clouds

Wolfe went in, half expecting to be arrested on sight. He wasn’t sure to what extent law enforcement might be looking for him now.

In the old, echoing marble faced lobby was a scanning machine and a metal detection framework. He’d been expecting this and he’d left his gun in the car.

He went through it, removing off his shoes and belt as at the airport, aware of the curious stares of the Federal Marshals as he put them back on. He didn’t look like the usual visitor.

Wolfe went to the downstairs admissions desk where a brisk black woman in a suit looked him over. “My name’s Wolfe. Agent Doolin’s waiting for me.” She looked at her appointment book.

“Yes sir.”

Doolin was expecting him. His identification was checked, then he was sent upstairs to room 325.

The door had the old fashioned white glazed glass in it; painted in black on the glass was Edward Doolin, Special Agent .

Wolfe reached for the doorknob—then he heard a man whispering inside. Another door opening. The hair went up on the back of his neck. Something was wrong here. He could feel it.

And then he saw it… he looked down and saw blood spreading slowly out from under the door.

Wolfe thought, If you were smart, you’d beat it out of here, now.

He opened the door. Never said I was terribly smart.

Inside two men were duct taped to chairs; one, a hefty middle aged man in a suit, was behind a desk; the other was facing the desk. That one, Wolfe figured, was Kiskel, who was supposed to meet him here. The other one was Edward Doolin.

They were both dead—their throats cut. Their eyes were open and unblinkingly staring. Their clothes were soaked in blood.

Wolfe theorized that a couple guys had come in with guns, one had taped them down, the other had slashed their throats. Quieter that way. Silencers weren’t really very silent.

There was another door with glazed glass in it, to the left—and Wolfe could see the shadow of a man there.

Wolfe thought about going downstairs, calling a general alarm. But these guys would have a way out of this. And he didn’t. The feds would hold him for questioning, to see what he might know about these deaths. And he’d probably end up with his throat cut too. Somebody on the inside would find him alone in an interrogation room…

He crossed the room, stepping carefully around the blood, and quietly opened two of Doolin’s desk drawers. It was in the second one—a .44 semiauto police special. He took it out, checked it—it was loaded.

Voices from the next room. Maybe they were expecting him but they didn’t seem to know he was here.

“…that chopper has to be on the roof, Van Ness. That was the deal…”

Wolfe walked over to the door, readied the gun—and opened it.

Two men stared at him in shock. One was probably a Graywater—he just had that look about him. He wore a long coat, had his hair cut short like the others. There was a time-blurred tattoo on his neck. In his hands was a plastic sack, sealed with duct tape. Probably had the knife in it they’d used for cutting throats.

The other man was General Van Ness, now in civilian clothes. He was a stocky man, mid sixties, in a charcoal suit, with iron-gray hair, a square jaw and hooded blue eyes.

“Wolfe,” Van Ness muttered.

“I’m guessing you guys have been wiretapping Kiskel. Pearce told him what was going down; he told Doolin. Came over to talk about it with me. So you guys took those two out… Kind of a desperate way to deal with it, Van Ness.”

“Timetable’s been moved up, thanks to you, Wolfe.” He was looking at Wolfe’s gun. “When it all goes down—you can take credit. In fact we plan to give you credit.”

Van Ness smiled, showing a lot of large yellow teeth.

“You got your pal here in the building, Van Ness? You have another contact in here? Who is it?”

“Why should I tell you? You going to shoot me? Then they come up here and find you shot a Brigadier General. And they find those bodies…”

“How about if I just shoot you in the—don’t go for that!”

But the Graywater already had the Mack 10 out, was spraying metal toward Wolfe—who fired the .44 as he threw himself back.

Machine pistol rounds tore up the doorframe and thudded into the dead men behind Wolfe. Then Van Ness gasped, fell back, spitting blood.

Wolfe wasn’t sure who’d hit Van Ness, him or the Graywater.

The mercenary was running across the other office, and out into the hallway. He was heading toward the roof. And even from here Wolfe could just hear the sound of chuffing rotors.

Wolfe got up, and saw that the mercenary had dropped the plastic sack. Maybe hoping to implicate Wolfe in the execution of the two men in the office. And it might work.

There wasn’t time to chase the Merc down—the shots would’ve been heard. The marshals would be up here in a minute.

Wolfe stuck the gun in his waistband, turned to the window behind Doolin’s body, and unlocked it. The old style office window opened fairly easily. He could hear shouting from the hallway. Pretty soon, the sirens would start.

He looked out the window—he was three stories up. Cold wind cut at his face; the air smelled of snow, and car exhaust.

Below him was a parking lot, mostly full. To his right, about six feet away, was a drainage pipe. To his left were rows of windows. No easy way down.

He probably should surrender. But…

It wasn’t going to look good. And they weren’t going to be in the mood to listen to crazy stories about drones and planes.

Then, in his mind’s eye, he saw himself taking off his belt earlier, when he went through the metal detector.

He removed his belt, and slung it over his neck, and then climbed through the window. Placing his feet carefully on the ledge, and holding to the inside of the window frame with his left hand, he closed the window with his right. Then he edged toward along the slippery ledge, balancing carefully, holding on with the tips of his fingers along the tops of the granite blocks…

One slip, he’d go over backwards, probably shatter his spine on one of those cars down there.

He heard voices from the window to his right. They were looking at the bodies, in there. No one seemed to have checked the window yet. The door would be open from the adjoining room to the hall. With luck that’d draw them that way.

The chopper on the roof was about to take off. He could hear its engine roaring… Distant sirens approached…

He kept moving, crabwise, step by excruciatingly careful step… and then he wasn’t careful enough. He slipped. He swayed, near falling back…

But the drainage pipe was in reach. He grabbed the pipe with his left hand, and steadied himself. With his right he slipped the belt off his neck, threaded it behind the pipe. He took hold of the pipe with his right hand, then grabbed the belt on both sides—and slid down, rappelling down the side of the building with his own belt.

It was a fast trip down—Wolfe was able to slow it some by braking on the wall with his boots, and his hands burned as he struggled to keep a grip on the belt.

Then he struck the asphalt with both feet. He sucked air through his teeth at the pain, but it didn’t feel as if anything was broken.

He pulled the belt free, and hurried away, weaving past cars to get quickly out of the parking lot.

The sirens were loud, now. And overhead, the helicopter was taking off.

“General Van Ness is dead?” Pearce asked, surprise in his voice.

“Looked pretty dead to me. I didn’t stick around to take his pulse.”

Wolfe was in the corner booth of a crowded bar, talking to Pearce on his phone. He had an untouched beer in front of him.