I nod. “I will, thanks,” I reply. Then I ask, “When’s Hussein meant to be making an appearance?”
“Sometime tomorrow morning, if the intel is to be believed.”
“Is the source reliable?”
“We like to think so.”
“Contact me as soon as you have a location. I’ll arrange my own transportation, and try to stay off anyone’s radar as long as I can.”
He nods and leaves without saying another word.
I walk into the kitchen and lean against the side, next to the sink, and look out the window at the yard. I let out a heavy sigh. So this is it… here I am, in a run-down house in Queens, thinking of the best way to go about taking down a well-guarded terrorist who has, so far, sent eighteen people to kill me…
Doesn’t matter how fast you run, the past is always quicker.
12
I get a call just after nine. It’s Clark.
“We’ve got the location,” he says.
I’m already up and dressed. I found a jar of instant coffee in the cupboard, so I’m halfway through my second cup by the time he calls me.
“Where am I heading?” I ask.
“I’ve got eyes on Hussein’s convoy now, using a remote satellite uplink to GlobaTech’s servers. It looks like he’s in the middle of three limousines, and he’s just stopped outside an apartment in the Upper West Side district of Manhattan.”
“Very nice… Any sign of who he’s meeting?”
“No, but looking at a thermal scan of the building, there are at least half a dozen people inside, so my guess is his contact is already on site.”
“How many men does he have with him?”
“Eight men have exited the vehicles with him, but the three drivers have stayed.”
“So, best case, I’m looking at Hussein and one other high value target to capture alive, plus thirteen red shirts? Wonderful.”
“Red shirts?”
“Yeah, you know, off the old Star Trek show? You’d get the Away Team beaming down to some planet consisting of three main characters and someone you’ve never seen before wearing an ensign’s red sweater, who you knew wasn’t coming back from the trip.”
Clark laughs. “You really can tell how many years you and Josh worked together,” he says. “Try and keep casualties to a minimum — we don’t want to attract attention from anyone un-necessarily.”
“Hey,” I say. “Who are you talking to? It’ll be like I was never there.”
“Adrian, surely even you can’t believe that?”
I pause for a minute and think about it. “Fair point. Call you when I have eyes on.”
I hang up and move to the front door, picking up my shoulder bag and leaving. I’d packed the tech into my bag the night before, and I had both my Berettas at my back, just like the good old days. I feel the familiar, reassuring weight of the guns in the holster under my jacket, as I lock the door and slide the key under a brick at the side of the house.
The weather hasn’t improved much since yesterday. It’s not raining, but it’s still dull and windy, which I’m surprised at, given it’s spring.
I need to get to Central Park, which is probably a good half hour from here in traffic, so I should get moving. I quickly glance up and down the street, soon spying the perfect car for me to borrow. It’s a rusted, dirty red Plymouth Road Runner. I’m not much a car enthusiast, but I’m not going to pass up the chance to drive a true classic, even if it’s in such a state of decay as this one.
I stroll casually over, glancing around before I get to it — nothing looks more suspicious than checking your surroundings when you’re standing next to the car you intend boosting.
Knowing I’m in the clear, I approach the vehicle as if it’s my own and use a skeleton key device that GlobaTech had included in my black bag of treats. I quickly and naturally open the door, climb inside, and use the device again to start the engine. It’s a very old car, so I don’t expect an alarm or anything.
I rev the engine, check my blind spot, and set off down the street, heading toward Queen’s Boulevard. I take a right and follow the long road for five miles or so, until I reach the Queensboro Bridge. I fiddle with the stereo, but I can’t find any decent music to listen to, to help me relax, so I have to settle for some talk show discussing the Knicks.
I think about what I need to do when I get there. Assuming the guy’s security detail is of a similar standard to his hit squads, I don’t expect any major issues getting past them. I’ll probably commandeer one of his limos once I have Hussein and his contact with me. I’ll sit them both with their backs to the driver, then I can cover all three of them as I direct us all to the GlobaTech safe house where Clark’s staying. He’s already texted me the address and has a team on stand-by, should we need support, apparently.
It all sounds straightforward enough. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my anonymous life down in Texas. I’ve got a bar to re-build, and a gorgeous woman waiting for me.
I cross Roosevelt Island and enter Manhattan, turning right, then left off the expressway, and following East 63rd Street until I hit Park Avenue. I take the East 65th Transverse through the park, coming out the other side a few minutes later on Central Park West. Continuing along the street for almost fifteen minutes, I get stuck in some traffic and hit every goddamn red light in the city. I eventually pull into the parking lot at the Museum of Natural History and ring Clark.
“I’m in Manhattan,” I say as he answers. “Tell me the quickest way to get to Hussein on foot.”
“Gimme a minute,” replies Clark, tapping away on a keyboard.
“Josh would’ve had the answer by now,” I say to him, laughing.
“Well, Josh isn’t here, so you can wait!” he replies, and I can’t tell if he’s playing, or genuinely offended. “Right, they’re on West 81st Street, in a townhouse apartment overlooking the Hudson. It’s about ten minutes if you walk fast.”
“I’m on my way,” I say as I get out of the car, sling my bag over my shoulder, and set off along the street, crossing Columbus Avenue as I put my earpiece in and connect my phone to it. “Leave the line open, I might need you.”
“I’m watching your back,” he says. “I can see you, and I have a thermal scan running of the building.”
“Great. Give me the layout.”
“The cars are in a line outside, with two men standing by the front door. Inside, there’s a guy at every downstairs window, and a group of them in a room upstairs — looks like the one outside the room is guarding the door, and the rest are inside for the meeting.”
“I’ll need a visual, but it doesn’t sound all that easy to get inside. That’s a lot of security.”
“Maybe they’re expecting you?”
I don’t answer, but I hope they’re not. Yalafi Hussein will undoubtedly be aware of the many failed attempts to recruit me, but I don’t think he’d entertain the possibility of me coming looking for him. Why would he? I didn’t even know about my link to GlobaTech through Josh until yesterday, so it’s doubtful he did.
I’m crossing Amsterdam Avenue, and I see Broadway ahead of me.
“Who do you think Hussein is meeting here?” I ask Clark.
“No idea, but staying in the U.S. to do it is very brave,” he replies.
“Or very stupid…”
“Sadly, Adrian, I think the Armageddon Initiative is many things, but stupid isn’t one of them. I think they do everything with a purpose and that’s what worries me — the fact we don’t know what that purpose is.”