Red Right Hand (19 page)

W
HAT'S THE
word, kid?”

“The word is
ninja,
” Cameron replied, excitement raising the pitch of her voice. “As in, I am one.”

“Come again?”

“We got a hit.”

Adrenaline surged through Hendricks's system like a drug, spreading warm and tingly through his limbs. He felt lighter, suddenly, more present, his aches, pains, and exhaustion chemically erased. “Your, uh, programs decoded a call or whatever?”

“Aw. It's cute when you pretend you have the faintest idea what you're talking about. But yeah, they found something, and it's way better than a phone call, it's a text. Well, two, to be exact.”

“How's that better?”

“Because the first one included a pic. I'm sending you the details now.”

His phone vibrated. He clicked the notification, and his text app opened. No names, just phone numbers. The first message read:
POI acquired. Awaiting instructions
. The attached photo was of the old man from the video, bound and bloodied on a couch. There was a woman beside him, bound as well. Men in body armor stood guard on either side of them, their heads cropped from the shot. The second message said:
On my way
. Time stamps indicated the second message had been sent less than two minutes ago.

“You get 'em?” Cameron asked.

“Yeah, kid. I got 'em. You did good—this is amazing work.”

“Thanks,” she said. She tried to toss it off all casual-like, but Hendricks could practically hear her blushing. “What's a POI?”

“Person of interest,” he said. “Hey, what can you tell me about these guys besides their phone numbers?”

“Nothing,” she said, “and not for lack of trying. Those phones are encrypted six ways from Sunday.”

“Can you find out the point of origin for the text?”

“No—at least, not digitally. Since the phone's encryption prevents me from accessing its GPS, the best that I could tell you is the cell tower it went through, and we already
know
which tower it went through, or we never would've intercepted it.”

“I sense a
but
. We don't have time for dramatic pauses, kid. If you've got something, just say so.”

“I'm not trying to be dramatic. I'm multitasking.”

“Meaning what?”

“Take a good look at that picture. Tell me what you see. Besides the guys, I mean.”

“I dunno. A couch?”

“Sure, a couch. Also a fireplace, hardwood floors, distinctive molding, and what looks like a covered farmer's porch outside the window.”

“Okay—but what good does that do us?”

“None of the houses on the Presidio are privately owned. They're all rented from the Presidio Trust. I'm on their website now. They've got pics of all their housing broken down by style and neighborhood.”

“Good thought,” he said, “but the Presidio is an old army base. There must be dozens of houses that match that description. I walked through neighborhood after neighborhood of identical homes on my way here.”

“You'd think, but as it turns out, your boy Segreti has refined taste. Because I'm pretty sure I just found the place where they caught up with him, and there's only four like it on the whole base.”

“You got any idea which one he's in?”

“No, but it looks like they're all clumped together, two on either side of Presidio Boulevard where it intersects with Funston.”

Hendricks opened Google Maps. “That's almost a mile from my position. I need to get moving. And we're gonna have to disconnect, so you'll be on your own a little while.”

“Why?”

“Because these guys don't look like mob goons; they look like law enforcement. And I need to make a phone call to see if I can find out who sent them.”

“Law enforcement? That, uh, jibes with something I heard earlier,” Cameron said.

“Which is?”

“The girl from the video—Hannah Reston—told me a Fed came by her brother's room super-early this morning and talked to her dad. Said the guy was gross. Winked at her and everything. Anyway, he asked a bunch of questions about our guy and leaned on her dad hard for answers. Sounds to me like the dad was pretty rattled by the whole experience. I had Hannah push a little, see what else she could find out, but her dad got pissed and snapped at her, told her to leave it be. She said it's not like him to yell.”

“Wait—you talked to the Restons? What the hell were you thinking? I told you not to go anywhere near them!”

“Relax. I talked to Hannah in the hospital's restroom, girl to girl. Made up some story about the guy being my granddad. Said my family's trying to find him but we need to keep it on the down-low because he's technically an illegal. Met my grandma when he came over from Italy for college and stayed but never filed the proper paperwork. She bought it, hook, line, and sinker. Thinks she's digging in the name of love. Her parents don't even know I'm here.”

“Wait, what do you mean, they don't even know? You're not still in the building, are you?”

“Yeah, why? I don't see the big deal. The hospital cafeteria's got everything I need. Great Wi-Fi signal. Loads of computers on the network for me to hijack. Tons of people hanging out and killing time, so I've got plenty of cover, and everyone from the docs to the patients' loved ones are so distracted, no one's even given me a second glance.”

“You said you were in a coffee shop,” he said, his voice an angry, gravelly monotone.

“Yeah, well, I lied.”

“Listen to me. You're not safe there. You need to get out of the building immediately, preferably through a staff exit.”

“Why a staff exit?”

“Because if someone's watching the place, they'll be monitoring the doors civilians come and go through. But—and this is important—you need to stay within sight of two people and two routes of egress at all times. Don't allow yourself to be alone with anyone. Don't let yourself get cornered.”

“You're scaring me.”

“Good. You should be scared. Listen to your fear. It'll keep you safe. One more thing: Did Hannah tell you what this Fed looked like?”

“Uh…older guy. Really tan. Like, from the sun, not spray. Said he was wearing cowboy boots and a turquoise pinkie ring. That help?”

“Too soon to tell,” he said. “Now go. Run. Don't stop until you're sure no one is following. I'll call back as soon as I can.”

“But what if—”

Hendricks disconnected the call. Felt a pang of guilt for leaving her in the cold. Prayed his paranoia was unnecessary.

Then he pulled up his burner's keypad and punched in a number from memory.

T
HE HOOVER BUILDING
was a nest disturbed. Stuffed beyond capacity. Brimming with activity. Every phone, printer, and photocopier clamoring at once. The HVAC system couldn't keep up. The whole building smelled like overloaded electronics and unwashed bodies. With the threat of future attacks looming, none of them were willing to abandon their posts for long enough to shower or change their clothes, much less get some sleep.

O'Brien had moved her best agents from their offices to a conference room, the table buried beneath a foot-high layer of paper. “This represents every ounce of intel we have on Khalid Waheeb, Ahmed Muhammad Bakr, and Fazul Abdullah al-Nasr,” she'd said. “Most of it is out of date. Some of it is doubtless inaccurate. But we're going to sift through every page anyway, because that's what NSB's asked us to do. So grab a stack and get to work.”

They all knew it was a shit detail, that if there were anything worth finding in these documents, NSB would be combing through them instead of handing them off. But they buckled down and dug in anyway. Like it or not, that was the job.

They'd been at it for hours when Thompson's phone rang. It took a moment for her to locate her cell in the mess. It was wedged between a pile of phone records and some credit card receipts that in turn were hidden from view by the open lid of a pizza box.

Caller ID was no help. It was an unfamiliar number, no name attached.

“Thompson here.”

“Tell me you sent them.”

“Who is this?” she asked sharply enough that O'Brien cocked an eyebrow at Thompson over her laptop.

“You know damn well who this is.”

Jesus. It was Hendricks. She got up from the table. Turned her back to O'Brien. Dropped her voice to just above a whisper. Ducked out of the conference room and headed down the hall. “How the hell did you get this number?”

“What are you talking about? You gave it to me.”

“And you refused to take it.”

“No. I took your number. All I left behind was the card you wrote it on.” He sounded out of breath, Thompson realized, like he was on the move. “Now—did you send them?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Five minutes ago, a team of men in body armor stormed a house in the Presidio and captured Frank Segreti. I need to know if they're law.”

Thompson opened the door to the stairwell. It banged shut behind her once she stepped through. “Someone captured Frank Segreti?” She winced at how loud her voice sounded, amplified by the stairway's bare concrete.

“I'll take that as a no, then.”

“No,” she whispered. “I didn't send anyone. I wish to hell I had the clout to. The fact is, you were my last hope, and, as I recall, you turned me down. What changed your mind?”

“Nothing changed my mind,” he said. “I gave you deniability, and gave myself some room to breathe. But now that someone's got Segreti, I can't afford to keep you out of the loop.”

“What else can you tell me about these guys?”

“Not much,” Hendricks said. “Although it's possible they're taking orders from a man claiming to be law enforcement.”

“This guy got a name?”

“Probably.”

“How about a description?”

“I haven't seen him personally, but I'm told he's older. Deeply tanned. Fondness for cowboy boots and turquoise jewelry.”

“My God. That sounds like Chet Yancey.”

“Who's Chet Yancey?”

“The good ol' boy I worked under when I graduated from Quantico.”

“Wait. You're saying he was—”

“—special agent in charge of the Albuquerque field office when Segreti walked in.”

“Motherfucker,” Hendricks said. “I think we just found your mole.”

“Sounds like. He left the Bureau shortly after the safe house was compromised. I hear he's some kind of bigwig at Bellum Industries now.”

“That explains the men in body armor. He's got a goddamn private army at his disposal.”

“Is Yancey with Segreti?”

“Not yet, but he's on his way. Which means Segreti's running out of time.”

“Listen, Michael, I'm really glad you—”

But Thompson didn't bother finishing her thought because Hendricks had already disconnected.

When she left the stairwell to head back to the conference room, O'Brien was waiting for her in the hallway. “What the hell was that about?”

“What do you mean?”

“When your phone rang, you leaped out of your seat like you'd been zapped with a cattle prod. You onto something?”

“No, I…” Thompson began, color rising in her cheeks. “It was Jess.”

“I thought Jess was backpacking through Costa Rica with her new boyfriend.”

“She was. She is. But she got sick of camping, so they shacked up someplace with a TV for the night. When she saw the news, she called.”

O'Brien was skeptical. “That warranted your leaving the room?”

“Oh, you know Jess. High drama. High volume. I figured I'd spare everybody the distraction.”

O'Brien fell silent for a moment, her face set in a frown. “Charlie, this is me you're talking to. I know you. There's something you're not telling me.”

Thompson took O'Brien's hands in hers. Looked her in the eye. “There's not.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

O'Brien seemed mollified. “Listen, I just got word from the director. Apparently, Bellum Industries is taking over the investigation. We've been instructed to coordinate with them from here on out.”

“You're kidding me.”

“I wish I were. Anyway, I'm told Chet Yancey's their top guy on the ground. We're tracking down his number now. You mind sitting in on the call?”

“Me? Why?”

“You know the guy. I don't. But if it's a problem—”

“No. Of course not. Count me in.”

C
AMERON'S FOOTFALLS ECHOED
like a snare drum down the empty hall, mirroring the pounding of her pulse. Just keep moving, she told herself, and don't look back.

She looked back. Locked eyes with her pursuer through the hall door's inset pane, narrow and crosshatched with wire.

When Hendricks had told her to get out of the hospital, she was scared—as anybody would have been—but she was also half convinced that he was overreacting. She'd been so careful. So clever. Sure, she'd walked past the Reston boy's room a few times. It had been easy enough to find once she'd gained access to the hospital's electronic chart system. She'd peeked through the open door as she walked by, but she'd never slowed, never stopped, never engaged. Instead, she'd set up in the waiting area beside the nurses' station, which was just a widening of the hallway, really, with a few banks of chairs and a side table full of magazines, where she could keep an eye on them from a distance. When she saw Hannah head for the restroom, she followed.

She was sure no one had been shadowing her then. The only people in the waiting area were obviously camped out while their loved ones were being treated. They all had the greasy, stretched-thin look of folks who'd been awake too long and forced to consider the worst.

The restroom had been empty save for Cameron and Hannah. And once they'd spoken, Cameron relocated to the cafeteria.

So how had this guy gotten onto her?

She'd spotted him as soon as she'd finished talking to Hendricks, closed her laptop, and headed for the cafeteria exit. Not the main exit, the one that cut through the hospital's small courtyard. She figured the courtyard was less traveled, that someone following her would be more obvious if she went that way—and she was right.

It was no wonder she'd missed him before. He looked to be of average height and weight, and he was dressed to blend in—T-shirt, jeans, and canvas jacket. But his hair was cut high and tight like former military, and it was a little warm inside the hospital for a jacket. He wore it to conceal the shoulder holster beneath it, which was briefly visible when he moved just so.

She thought she'd shaken him when she exited the courtyard. She'd sprinted around the nearest corner, her laptop cradled to her chest like a football, and didn't slow until she'd taken two more turns. But then, as she headed toward the outpatient surgery entrance, he'd materialized as if from nowhere fifty feet ahead of her, between her and the door.

She turned and ran, slammed into a medication cart, and nearly wound up on her ass. “Watch it!” the nurse pushing it barked, although the damn thing was so heavy, it was in no danger of tipping over. Cameron spun and kept on going, her pursuer close behind.

She thought she'd lost him a second time when she ducked into the elevator as the doors were sliding shut. She got off at its first stop and darted through an automated door labeled
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
as it swung closed behind a pair of nurses wheeling an unconscious patient. But then, somehow, there he was again—scowling at her through the glass. She felt like she was wearing a goddamn tracking device.

He approached the door. Cameron's heart rate trebled, and she took off running. She ducked around corners at random—a left, a right, another left—and then ran smack into a security guard.

He was a husky kid in his twenties with dirty-blond hair and watery eyes. The kind of guy who looked like he ended up a security guard because he'd washed out of the police academy. But he had a badge, a radio, a gun. To Cameron, his chintzy brown-on-brown uniform seemed like a gleaming suit of armor.

“Are you lost, ma'am? This is a restricted area.”

“I'm not lost—I'm being chased.”

“Chased?”

“Yeah. You have to help me. Some creep's been following me all over the hospital. I think he has a gun. I only ducked in here because I was hoping I could lose him.”

“Sure,” he said. “No problem. How about we head back to the security office and sort this out? If there's a strange man chasing women through the hospital, I'm sure my boss will want to hear about it.”

“Actually, I'm in a bit of a hurry, so if you wouldn't mind just escorting me to the nearest exit—” Cameron said, but the guard cut her off.

“Relax,” he said, “this won't take long.”

He put his hand around her upper arm—squeezing a little tighter than Cameron thought appropriate—and guided her down the hall the way she'd come. “Hey, easy!” she said and tried to yank her arm loose. But he held fast—and gave the surveillance camera in the corner a subtle nod.

Too late, Cameron realized why she'd been unable to lose her pursuer.

“Look,” she said. “Clearly, there's been some kind of misunderstanding.”

“I don't think there has.”

“Excuse me?”

“We got word from HQ a few hours ago about a potential threat to the Restons, so we've been monitoring their son's room. The third time you walked by, we sent them your picture—and do you know what they found?” Cameron stared blankly at him. “A sheet as long as my arm. Identity theft. Bank fraud. Unlawful possession of prescription narcotics. You name it. What kind of sicko preys on people in a hospital?”

Theft? Fraud? Drugs? What the hell was he talking about?
You have to get out of this,
she thought.
Convince him to let you go. Beg, if need be.

“Listen,” she began, searching his chest for a name tag. But he wasn't wearing one. The only marking on his uniform shirt was an embroidered corporate logo made to look like a badge: a shield emblazoned with a crenellated tower. And stitched beneath it, in small block type, were the words
CITADEL SECURITY: A BELLUM INDUSTRIES COMPANY
. “You've got this all wrong. I never—”

“Save your breath. You're caught. Besides, my boss'll be here soon.”

Cameron heard footfalls approaching, and her heart fluttered in her chest. She tried to squirm free of the security guard's grip. He shoved her backward into the wall and pinned her there, his forearm to her neck. She couldn't breathe. An involuntary squeak escaped her throat. He eased off just a hair. She sucked wind and sobbed. Tears and snot poured down her face.

“Please,” she managed. “Please.”

He was so close that she could see the pockmarks on his forehead. His fetid breath was hot against her cheek. “Beg all you want,” he said. “It's not gonna do you any good.”

Cameron swallowed hard, her eyes wide as silver dollars.

Then she kneed him in the balls with everything she had.

He released her and doubled over, red-faced and sweating. Cameron gripped her laptop with both hands and swung it at his face. A crack of plastic shattering as it connected with his chin, and he went down. Lettered keys scattered across the floor.

Cameron ran. Her pursuer rounded the corner, cursing when he spotted the fallen security guard. He leaped over the kid with ease and raced after Cameron, quickly closing the gap between them. She felt the fingers of his right hand graze her shoulder.

No. Not graze. Take hold of.

He grabbed a fistful of her shirt and yanked, but as he did, he slipped on a loose keyboard letter, and they toppled to the floor.

The man wound up flat on his back with Cameron on top of him. He tried to wrap his arms around her, but she threw fists and elbows wildly, and felt a surge of savage delight when one connected with his nose. It gouted blood, and when he reached instinctively toward it, she clambered free.

He grabbed her by the ankle. Cameron kicked him in the face, and he released her. She launched herself down the hall like a sprinter from the starting blocks, a feral smile parting her lips as she looked back at the bloody mess she'd made of her assailant.

Then the security guard tackled her and drove her to the floor.

She landed facedown, the wind knocked out of her. The linoleum was gritty from foot traffic and smelled of vomit, of bleach. The security guard climbed atop her and drove his knee into her back. Then he yanked her right arm upward in a hammerlock. Cameron's wristbones ground together in his grasp. The tendons in her shoulder burned white-hot as they overextended.

“You like that, you fucking bitch?”

He tried to cuff her, but she resisted, bucking beneath him with all she had, so he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her face into the floor.

Cameron stopped fighting.

Her world went dark and silent as consciousness abandoned her.