Assassin (John Stratton) (31 page)

‘Secure it,’ Stratton said as he jumped back down onto the street to remove the ramp, but then he saw something that stopped him instantly.

It was Hetta, standing some thirty metres away and looking at him. She was wearing a black one-piece suit with a nylon weapons harness, an empty holster at her hip, her Magnum semi-automatic pistol in her hand down by her side. Her expression was as cold as ever.

Chandos looked up the street to see what Stratton was looking at.

‘Who’s that?’ Chandos asked.

Stratton stood slowly upright. ‘Don’t do anything sudden.’

‘She’s holding a gun,’ Chandos said.

‘And she knows how to use it.’

Hetta walked towards Stratton, her eyes fixed on his. She stopped several metres away.

‘I wondered what happened to you,’ he said.

‘That’s still my responsibility,’ she said, indicating the device. ‘Don’t get in the way of my mission.’

‘I don’t believe you know what’s going on. I think if you did, you might reconsider your position.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘You act like you don’t have a conscience. But I think you do.’

‘I can’t afford to have one,’ she said, staring into his eyes.

Wheeland stepped off the sidewalk and out from behind a parked car, then stopped when he saw the integer down the street. He held his arms out to halt the two men by now with him.

Stratton looked past her. Noted Wheeland had halted. That was no doubt because he knew Hetta was going to take care of everything for him.

Stratton looked back at her. ‘I can’t let you have it,’ he said.

‘Then I’ll kill you,’ she said.

‘At least tell me why you’re doing this. I think you owe me an explanation.’

She seemed to consider his request.

‘You work for Henry Betregard,’ he said, helping her along.

‘No. Betregard is only the messenger.’

‘He gave you your orders?’

‘He delivered them.’

‘What if he was more than just the messenger? What if he was creating the orders himself?’

‘He couldn’t do that.’

‘How would you know?’

‘It’s impossible.’

‘You’re not following a directive from the White House,’ Stratton said. ‘We were both tricked into bringing this nuclear bomb to Manhattan. Betregard is nothing more than a criminal. This is about a bullion robbery. It’s about gold. And I’m trying to put things right.’

Her expression didn’t change.

Wheeland couldn’t hear what was being said but he was growing concerned with the lack of action by the integer. She should have killed Stratton by now. ‘Be ready to kill them all when I say,’ he said.

The man on his right moved a hand to grip his pistol.

‘Nice and easy,’ Wheeland said.

Stratton saw Wheeland’s men take hold of their guns.

‘You’ll only be helping them,’ he said. ‘You have to trust me. You’ve learned how to do that, haven’t you?’

‘I can’t let you take the device,’ she said.

‘Then we’ll get it to the authorities together.’

There was another pause. This time longer. ‘Do you have a plan?’ she asked.

‘Kind of.’

‘Those usually work for you.’

‘Wheeland’s behind you with two of his men.’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t think he’s too pleased you haven’t shot us yet.’

The delivery man exited the building and stopped dead on the sidewalk when he saw Hetta holding the handgun.

‘Your keys, please,’ Stratton said to him.

The man didn’t move.

‘Haven’t you heard? The city’s evacuating,’ Stratton said.

‘There’s an atom bomb loose on the streets. You need to run,’ Chandos added.

The man looked more worried about the gun at that moment and slowly handed Stratton the keys.

Wheeland decided enough was enough. ‘Kill them.’

The two men pulled out their handguns.

‘Wheeland!’ Stratton warned.

Hetta swivelled on her heels as she brought her gun up. Her strength and speed were impressive as she angled her body to reduce her profile and steadied the barrel of the Magnum for a fraction of a second before firing.

The boom was deafening. The delivery man threw himself to the ground and one of the soldiers took a high-velocity round in his chest with the force of a cannon ball. His body armour took the impact as he was lifted off his feet and thrown back several metres before he hit the ground.

As that first bullet struck, another exploded from Hetta’s gun, aimed the other side of Wheeland. The target spun around onto the hood of a car, cracking the windscreen before he rolled to the ground. Both men lay unconscious. Hetta aimed the weapon at Wheeland, who dived back between the parked cars.

Stratton hurried through the van to the driver’s seat. Within seconds the engine gunned to life and Hetta stepped into the back as he crunched it into gear. He drove them off down the street, the ramp disconnecting and rolling away. She held onto a rope hanging from the top as she looked out of the open back.

Chandos held onto the wooden slats fixed to the insides of the van and stared at her, uneasy in her presence.

‘Was it you, in Lagos?’ he asked.

She took her time answering. ‘You were lucky to survive that explosion.’

‘So were you.’ He studied her face. She didn’t have a mark on her, in stark contrast to the injuries on his face. ‘But at least I lost you,’ he said, a hint of victory in his eyes.

‘You went to the port and boarded a Russian bulker for Buenos Aires.’

His smirk melted. ‘Why didn’t you come after me?’

‘I was reassigned.’

Chandos continued to stare at her as she watched the road.

In the cab, Stratton consulted his map and the way ahead. A crossroads loomed. He went through a red light to take
a right towards Manhattan Bridge, causing several oncoming vehicles to swerve to avoid his wide turn.

He glanced in the mirrors and as he looked to his front a black Suburban shot out of a side street almost level with him. It swerved violently, leaning hard over so that it was almost on two wheels, and smashed into the van’s flank.

Stratton fought to keep control as the panel van lurched over to the other side of the road, swiping the near side bumper of an oncoming car. The car was far lighter and, while it careened off at an angle into a parked car, the van was knocked back into its original lane.

The black Suburban seemed hardly affected by the collision. It was also much more powerful than the van and quickly drew level on the passenger side. Through the open driver’s window Stratton saw Wheeland at the wheel, gun in hand, about to fire.

Stratton touched the brakes to put the SUV slightly ahead and Wheeland fired, hitting the windscreen. At the same time the operative whipped the nose of the van into the Suburban’s rear quarter, sending it fish-tailing violently as Wheeland fought to keep control. The Suburban’s nose side-swiped a parked truck, which completed Stratton’s effort, and it spun around so that it was facing the other way.

Stratton swerved the van heavily over to avoid colliding with the Suburban and pushed the gas pedal to the floor as he looked in his wing mirror in time to see Wheeland’s vehicle smash backwards into a line of parked cars. He had to brake hard as he caught slower traffic up ahead. He
flashed a look to his rear at Wheeland climbing out of the Suburban, holding a rifle. There was no way he was going to drive the van through the traffic before the bullets began to fly.

‘Get ready to debus!’ he shouted.

In the skies above the city, a Bell helicopter swooped low over the streets. Stencilled on its side was the name of the organisation that owned it: ‘Radiation Detection Agency – New York City’.

Projecting from a gantry under the nose was a large, white probe similar to the one on the spook detection vehicle in Bagram. Inside the helicopter, seated behind the pilot and co-pilot, were two engineers surrounded by a complex array of electronic hardware and monitors displaying data and analytical information. Several oscilloscope signals peaked, the analysed data automatically transmitted by a radio.

Twelve blocks away, inside the operations headquarters of the RDA, the diagnosed signals received from the helicopter were highlighted down the side of a large screen. A quadrant displayed a satellite map of New York City. Flashing indicators showed the locations of static and mobile radiation detection sensors. Half a dozen of them were airborne.

The room bustled with activity. Eyes were on the monitors as data alarms flashed. The operations director saw the new information and paused as he watched it develop.

‘Strongest indicator is in the area of Wooster and Canal,’ an analyst called out.

A US Army general in combat fatigues stepped beside the operations officer. A senior NYPD officer in uniform joined them.

‘That reading’s got high potential,’ the agency operations officer said.

‘I can’t afford to commit my resources on a shadow,’ the general said.

‘Analysis will focus over the next few minutes,’ the ops officer said. ‘That’s a helluva lot of the wrong kind of radiation someone’s moving across the city. You want my advice, General, whoever that is I’d wipe them out as soon as possible and apologise later if we got it wrong.’

The general looked at the police officer. They agreed without words and went to their respective phones.

Stratton turned the vehicle hard to the side as he applied the brakes. Hetta threw herself to the deck of the van as a hail of bullets splattered through the skin. Chandos held the wooden framing along the walls while bullets spat through either side of him.

As the van wobbled to a stop Stratton leaped from his seat and grabbed the bomb as it slid across the floor. ‘Let’s get this out of here!’ he shouted.

Wheeland stood in the street with vehicles swerving and screeching to get out of his line of fire as he dropped to a knee, aimed and let rip with another series of bursts. The bullets slammed into the van, one of them zinging off the side of the bomb as Stratton rolled it the length
of the bed. Chandos hurried to help him and Hetta jumped to the ground and between the three of them they hauled it out and around the back of the van as more rounds hit the vehicle.

Stratton saw a yellow taxi cab the other side of several cars and ahead of the traffic jam. ‘That way!’ he shouted as he took the strain of one end of the bomb.

They shuffled the awkward, heavy device between the cars. The taxi driver was crouched beside his vehicle avoiding the bullets. To his surprise he saw the trunk open and the vehicle drop as something heavy went into it.

Stratton checked on Wheeland. He was still heading towards them.

‘In!’ he shouted.

Rounds hit the vehicles around them. Pedestrians screamed as they dived for more solid cover, some of them hit as they ran.

Wheeland changed magazines as he marched down the street and Stratton started the taxi’s engine and they screeched away, leaving the terrified taxi driver huddled on the sidewalk.

When he saw the taxi drive off, Wheeland turned and stepped into the path of a motorbike that was headed towards him. He aimed the rifle at the rider who, filled with horror, dropped the bike and skidded along the road behind it. Wheeland simply walked over to the bike, shouldered his rifle and, with a great effort, lifted the machine back onto its wheels. He straddled it and started the engine, which fired up instantly.

He threaded his way through the stalled traffic, past the empty van in pursuit of the taxi.

Stratton divided his attention between his rear-view mirror, the road ahead and the skies above. He saw a helicopter making a wide turn across their front.

Chandos looked out through the rear window to see the helicopter turning tightly around the back of them. ‘Has to be radiation detection,’ he said.

‘I hope so,’ Stratton said.

‘As long as the response teams don’t get to us too soon. How much further?’

Stratton consulted the map. They were on Canal Street towards Manhattan Bridge. The ambush point wasn’t far away, but the traffic had slowed to a crawl as it converged from every nearby street towards one of the major bridges that led off the island.

Stratton turned sharply over the road and along a narrow cross street.

Wheeland weaved the bike through the congested streets. Saw the helicopter and knew instantly what it was. There were dozens of yellow taxis in every direction. There wasn’t time to check them all out. He dropped a gear, mounted the sidewalk and rode along it, scattering civilians hurrying for the bridge.

Stratton emerged from the cut-through and turned onto another busy avenue. Checked the map again.

‘Four blocks to the ambush site,’ he said.

They turned the corner into a mass of vehicles and came to stop. Stratton’s frustration grew and he opened the door to look ahead, behind them and in the air. Hetta climbed out.

‘I need to stop Wheeland,’ he said to her.

Her expression didn’t appear to change, but he knew her well enough to read the approval in her eyes. Chandos stepped out, looking in the air.

‘You should just walk away,’ Stratton said to them both. ‘When the response teams get here, they’ll be trigger happy.’

‘Go,’ Hetta said.

He needed no further encouragement and started to head out.

‘Wait a moment,’ she called out to him.

He stopped and she walked over to him, taking her Magnum from its holster and handing it to him, along with a couple of spare magazines. ‘Better than that cap-gun you’re carrying.’

He took the weapon, appreciating the offer.

‘Take care,’ she said. Her expression was as blank as ever, but Stratton detected something in her eyes. There was warmth.

He headed away. Hetta watched him reach a main road and disappear around the corner.

Wheeland rode the bike along the Canal Street sidewalk with the rifle slung across his shoulder. But there were so many people walking in the direction of Manhattan Bridge that he couldn’t make headway fast enough. On the road, traffic had come to a near standstill. Horns blared, engines gunned. People shouted. Tempers were high. And so was their fear.

He gave up trying to threaten his way through, stopped the bike, climbed off it and walked onto the road, threading his way between vehicles. He wasn’t the only pedestrian with that in mind, but his progress was quicker.