“I’m sorry,” I say to him. “But I really need a ride.”
The man says nothing; he just gets out of the car with a petrified look on his face. I throw a quick glance up at the apartment before I climb in. The men guarding the door outside have disappeared — I’m guessing they’ve gone inside to see what was going on. I look up at the window and see Hussein standing there — his expression a mixture of gloating that I didn’t capture him, and anger that I’d dare try to. I smile at him, then duck into the car, speeding off down West 81st Street, eager to put some distance between the roomful of angry terrorists and me.
And who was that guy meeting with Hussein? He looked important, and vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.
“Clark, you there?” I say.
“Adrian! What the hell’s going on? Did you just get thrown out of a second story window?”
“No, I jumped.”
“Of course you did… what happened?”
“My only way out of that room was straight down. No way was I getting out of there with Hussein, or his friend. I got a decent look at the guy, but I don’t know who he is.”
“So you didn’t get either target? I’m glad you’re alright, Adrian, but I’m disappointed the mission was such a bust. All that risk for nothing…”
“It wasn’t a complete write-off,” I say, looking at the laptop on the seat next to me. “I managed to swipe Hussein’s computer before I jumped. I don’t think it’s damaged, so we might be able to get something off it.”
“That’s damn good work, Adrian. Sorry I wasn’t more use to you.”
“You did fine, Bob, honestly. Where are you?”
“I’m still at the other safe house, over in Brooklyn.”
“I’ll make sure I’m not followed and head over to you now. See you soon.”
I navigate the traffic, heading back through Central Park and turning right onto FDR Drive. I follow it for over six miles, eventually turning onto the Brooklyn Bridge.
I hope there’s something useful on this laptop. As it stands, we’re still none the wiser as to who this Armageddon Initiative really is; what they want, or who’s working with them. We need a victory and fast, as, after today, they know I’m on their trail.
I can’t help but think about Tori, back home in Texas… I need to stop these assholes before they get the urge to retaliate.
14
I arrived at the secondary safe house about fifteen minutes ago. I ditched the car a couple of blocks away and approached on foot — taking an indirect route to make sure no one followed me.
Once inside, I handed the laptop I’d taken over to Clark, and he’d set about hacking into it. I’m standing behind him, watching him work.
“Do you mind?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Sorry,” I say, realizing I’m probably putting him off. “I always used to watch Josh do this kind of thing, because he’d talk me through it as he went along…”
I trail off, seeing the look on his face. Thinking about it, I’ve compared him to Josh a lot in the last few hours, and he’s probably pissed at me. I hold my hands up in apology and step away, pacing aimlessly around the room.
The safe house is an apartment in a run-down tenement block in Brooklyn. The neighborhood isn’t the best advertisement for living in New York, purely based on the aesthetics — graffiti riddles a lot of the apartment buildings, and they look abandoned. And the people walking the streets all look like they’re affiliated with a local gang. You can’t deny it’s a great location for a safe house, but I have to smile at the irony, as the place itself looks anything but safe.
The apartment is on the third floor of the building, and is a simple three-room place. The main living room is spacious — mostly due to the fact it’s got very little furniture in it — with a kitchenette built into one side of it. There’s a table against the opposite wall with two chairs tucked under it. Clark’s currently sitting in one of them, working away on the laptop.
But that’s it, really. The carpet’s worn and discolored. There’s no TV, and only a battered sofa against the far wall, facing the door. There’s also a faint stale odor in every room, a smell of damp and neglect.
On either side, as you enter the apartment, is another door. On the left, it takes you to a small, barely-practical bathroom, complete with stained tiles, a toilet that’s not seen a cleaning agent in decades, and a shower stall that Norman Bates would’ve been ashamed of. Opposite, on the right, is the bedroom. There’s a single bed, unmade, in the center of the room, but otherwise it’s empty.
“Anyway, are you alright?” asks Clark after a few minutes of slightly awkward silence.
I shrug. “I’m fine. I’ve been in far worse situations than that.”
He nods to signify he’s listening, but doesn’t look up from the screen. “You don’t need to tell me,” he says, sounding distracted. “Anything more come to mind about who was there meeting with Hussein?”
I must admit, that’s had my spider sense going haywire. Yalafi Hussein is your typical terrorist, by all accounts. He has a superior; he has armed men from all over the world — though from what I’ve seen so far, they seem to predominantly come from Middle Eastern countries. The powers that be seem to be as aware of him as I am, but no one in the intelligence community seems to have any idea what this Armageddon Initiative is actually planning.
Which is what’s baffling me… Especially with all the funding these people have nowadays, how can no one have any solid intel whatsoever on a terrorist organization seemingly as large as these guys?
And, in addition to that, for him to be meeting someone who is almost certainly American, dressed in military garb, and surrounded by American-looking, military-trained men in suits, with earpieces… and on American soil… something isn’t right.
“There’s something seriously wrong with all of this,” I reply. “I only got a quick look at the guy, and he wasn’t immediately familiar to me or anything. But I’m pretty sure he was a four-star general, and the men he brought to the meeting all looked suspiciously like government agents.”
Clark finally looks up from the laptop, concerned and surprised. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “No other explanation I can see as to who the muscle was. And as for him, he was definitely a high-ranking U.S. military official. Either that, or he was really committed to his fancy dress outfit.”
He looks back at the laptop, shaking his head slightly. “Christ… this just keeps getting better,” he mutters.
I continue to pace around the room for a moment, feeling restless.
“I’m just gonna check in with Josh,” I say. I take out my phone and dial his number.
He answers on the second ring. “How’s it going, Boss?” he says, chuckling. I’ve missed his British accent and constant, unwarranted happiness.
“It’s like you never left…” I laugh. “Just checking in.”
“You get Hussein?”
“No, the whole thing was a train wreck,” I say. “Too heavily defended. All I managed to do was steal his laptop as I jumped out the window.”
“You jumped out the… wait, never mind — of course you jumped out the window… So, what’s on the laptop?”
“Don’t know yet. Clark’s working on it as we speak.”
“Be patient with him, Adrian. He’s not me, but he’s a good man.”
I glance over at him and smile to myself. “I know.”