Danica Winters - In His Sights

The crowd shuffled and they were pushed nearer to Hans, who was standing precariously close to the passing New York traffic.

“Sir,” Mindy said, tapping Hans on the arm, “you may want to take a step back. Cabs pull right up to this curb.”

Hans gave her a look like she had murdered his first grandchild. “Are you kidding me?” he asked, his voice flecked with his Swedish accent. “First you think you can tell me what I should do with my power inside the parliament, and now you even wish to dictate how I cross the street? You Americans think you know everything.”

As the last words fell from his lips, there was the screech of tires and a man’s yelling. The sound was strangled, some foreign tongue that Mindy didn’t recognize. But even not knowing exactly what the man was saying she could tell by the look on Hans’s face that it wasn’t good. As the car grew closer, something pitched out of the window. From where she stood, it looked like an envelope. As it hit the ground a plume of white powder erupted into the air. Jarrod grabbed her and threw her to the ground, covering her with his body.

She couldn’t breathe, but she wasn’t sure whether it was because of his weight or how he had pinned her. As she struggled, her throat burned and her eyes began to water. She tried to push Jarrod off out of some instinctual need to survive. After what seemed like an excruciating amount of time, he rolled off her. As she took a breath, her lungs burned.

He looked as she felt. Tears were streaming down his face and there were dabs of saliva at the corners of his mouth and goatee. She glanced around, a few paces away from them, where Hans was lying on the ground. He was coughing, his body in a fetal position. When he rolled over, she could see that his eyes were swollen shut and blisters had erupted on the skin of his eyelids. There was blood dripping from his face and mouth.

Hans moved as though he was looking at her, even though he couldn’t possibly have been able to see her. And then she heard the scream, her scream. Hans reached out in her direction, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t.

Though she knew she should act and help the man, she feared moving any closer to him. Hans rolled on the ground, his body convulsing.

Whatever the man in the car had thrown at them, it must have been some sort of poison.

Reaching into her purse, she grabbed a wet wipe. It would probably do nothing to help, but she couldn’t simply watch Jarrod deteriorate like Hans.

Jarrod took the wipe from her and cleaned his face. “Thank you.” He looked dazed, but he got to his feet, tugging her up with him. “We have to get out of here. Now. You’re not safe.”

From what she could see around her, no one was safe.

She grabbed her phone, dialed 911 and threw the device to the ground in hopes that it would be traced—she could get another phone, they were a dime a dozen.

Jarrod took her hand and pulled her away from the area. She wanted to stay to help, but Jarrod was right. The safest place for them right now was as far away as they could possibly get from the effects of the powder while they waited for EMTs to arrive. For once, she didn’t just have herself to think about… Now, she also had Jarrod.

It had been a long and painful night stuck in the confines of Mount Sinai Beth Israel Hospital. The place was constantly in motion, just like the rest of New York City. It reminded him entirely too much of Camp Delta. Every time he tried to close his eyes after the nerve agent attack, he found himself thinking of all the lives that had been extinguished around him just within the last month. First Trish, then Daniel, and now Hans—everywhere he went, it seemed as though he left corpses in his wake.

Throughout the night, he had made his way down the hall and to Mindy’s room to check and make sure she was doing better. For the most part, she had seemed only mildly phased by the chemical attack, but the EMTs had been adamant about bringing them in for all kinds of testing. Luckily, aside from some irritation in his lungs, he had been given the all clear—a far cry from what had happened to Hans, who had died almost instantly on scene. They had taken his body to the morgue, where he was being kept in isolation until they could determine the chemical that had been used in the attack.

He ran his hand down his face and sat up from his hospital bed. Somewhere down the hall he could make out the shrill beeps of an IV pump that had run dry, the monotonous trill of an EKG machine, and the thump and whoosh of a ventilator. The whole place stank of the terror of the long-ill and bedside commodes.

He couldn’t stand being in this place another minute. It was worse than being a prisoner of war. At least there, he would have felt he had better odds of making it out alive.

He went to the closet and opened up the melamine door. His clothes were MIA, but there was a small white plastic bag with Beth Israel printed on the side. It contained his wallet and small personal belongings.

He should have expected as much. Of course, they would have disposed of anything that could have been contaminated. He was just fortunate that the hospital staff had stopped using full-blown bodysuits—ones that looked like something straight out of a nuclear war zone—every time they had come in to check on his status.

Thankfully, they hadn’t been forced to remain in isolation for long once it was established that the nerve agent used had already dealkylated and run through its half-life. Leaving nothing to chance, he’d already made sure to have the hospital staff send a sample off to his people within the CIA.

A draft worked its way through the back of his gown. It was going to be a breezy walk.

Unlike him, Mindy had seemed to welcome the reprieve from her daily life. She had barely woken once since they had been brought here, possibly an effect of the sedative they had received. His dose had worn off rather quickly, but it had left behind lethargy.

All night he had been thinking about who could have pulled this off and why. He’d come up with many options—ranging from the Swedish government itself all the way to his enemies within the Gray Wolves, a crime syndicate responsible for his sister Trish’s death in Turkey.

The Gray Wolves hadn’t been exactly quiet about their distaste for Jarrod and his family—and their leader, Bayural, had left them with a warning that he would soon be coming for the entire Martin family. Jarrod had no doubt that the man would come through on his word.

Still, the attack wasn’t typical of something the Gray Wolves would have put together. They were far more crass and deliberate. They certainly weren’t the type who would hit and run; rather they would face him down as they drew their weapons. Bayural wanted him and his family to know exactly who was pulling the trigger and why.

So, in essence, he had been left with no real answers—only more questions.

He tied the back of his gown as tightly as he could and made his way down the hall one more time to Mindy’s room. Nurses rushed from one room to the next.

At the nurses station stood a man who appeared to be visiting the floor. Jarrod guessed he was in his midthirties, with a high and tight haircut and a stiff back. As Jarrod approached, he made sure to walk closer to the wall, masked by the comings and goings of the staff and visitors, and outside of the man’s direct line of sight. Something about him felt off, but he couldn’t attribute that feeing to anything obvious about the man’s appearance.

Jarrod passed behind him just as the man said something to the nurse at the counter.

Had the people responsible for the nerve agent attack found them? They had to have known they would end up at a hospital.