Deadly Intent: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 4) (8 page)

12.

APRIL 10
TH
, 2017

10:04 EDT

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 63
rd
Street until I hit Park Avenue. I take the East 65
th
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 81
st
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.”

“Well, hopefully we will soon,” I say, trying to sound optimistic.

I cross over West End Avenue and see the line of limousines up ahead. I figure I’ll go past them, get a quick look at the building from the outside, and then find a spot to do some recon, so I can send some information back to Clark.

I stroll on casually, approaching the first of the limos. They’re all the same—shiny, black, private plates and tinted windows. The driver of each one is inside, sitting still behind the wheel like a mannequin. I throw a sideways glance at the one in the middle—Hussein’s driver—as I pass. He’s got a Middle Eastern look about him, styled facial hair and a dark suit.

I draw level with the front doors, which are up a short flight of steps. Walking past, I look casually at the two men standing guard outside. Something’s not right… they’re almost certainly American, wearing black suits and sunglasses. I very quickly look them up and down, and from their overall shape and body language, I can tell they’re well built, disciplined, definitely packing inside their jackets, and have earpieces in. I walk on, crossing over to the other side of the street at the end, and then over Riverside Drive, finally coming to a natural stop by the park.

“We have a problem,” I whisper urgently as I sit down on a bench, resting my bag at my feet.

“What is it?” asks Clark.

I fumble about inside my bag, finally retrieving a digital camera and Wi-Fi transmitter. I do my best to not look like a spy or a tourist, and set the camera up, connecting it to the transmitter so the feed streams back to Clark’s system. Then I aim it at the house.

“I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure those guys on the door aren’t terrorists,” I say.

Clark’s silent for a few moments, studying the feed I’m sending him. I adjust the camera a little, zooming in to give him a better look at the guys standing guard on the entrance.

“Adrian, I’m running facial recognition software on those two now, but working remotely, it might take some time.”

It’s my turn to fall silent. I don’t know who those guys are, but I know who they look like. They look like G-men… and the first, obvious question? Who in the U.S. government could possibly be meeting with Yalafi Hussein? The next obvious question? Why would someone from the U.S. government be meeting with someone in charge of recruiting for a large terrorist organization?

“I take it I’m to proceed as planned?” I ask.

“We have to,” confirms Clark.

“I figured. Okay, I’m going to head around back, see if there’s a way in. Any movement inside that you can see?”

“Negative. Everyone’s still in position, judging by their heat signatures.”

“Okay, give me five minutes.”

I put the camera away and stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder before walking down Riverside Drive, toward West 80
th
Street. I cross over, so I’m on the same side as the apartment. I walk along the side of the property, glancing in the windows as I pass. There’s not much to see, but I get a glimpse of another guy in a suit that looks suspiciously non-terrorist like.

The buildings have terraces, so there’s no way for me to get access to a rear entrance or anything. I walk on, drawing level with the front door of the adjoining property, which appears to be a block of apartments, as opposed to one big stand-alone townhouse, like the one Hussein is in. I look up, seeing two windows overlooking the street, with the roof of the bay window just below them. To their left is a small ledge underneath a window on the second floor of Hussein’s building.

I’ve just had a really crazy idea…

“Bob,” I say into the comms unit. “Which room did you say the meeting is taking place in?” I ask.

“Second floor—the front room, facing the street and overlooking the limos,” he replies.

I look up again. I wonder…

“What about the windows on the opposite side?” I ask. “Facing Riverside… same floor.”

“Let me check,” he says, pausing for a moment. Again, I hear the tapping of keys. “It looks like that room is down the hall from the meeting. There’s a guy outside the door, but the room itself is empty. Do I want to know why you’re asking?”

I smile to myself. “Probably not. Thanks. Just keep your eyes open—I think I’ve found my way in.”

I walk up to the door of the apartment building and press the buzzer for each number until someone answers. It was number six when I got lucky.

“Hello?” says a distorted, female voice.

“Oh, hey,” I say. “I live in number three—I’ve gone and forgotten my key. Can you buzz me in please?”

She chuckles. “Happens to me all the time,” she replies. “Sure thing.”

I hear the buzz and the click as the door unlocks. I step inside to a small vestibule, with wooden mail boxes mounted on the right hand wall, a single elevator opposite on the left, and stairs directly ahead.

“Bob, don’t suppose you can pull up the layout of the apartment building next door, can you?” I ask.

“Adrian, there’s only one logical, and frankly insane, reason why you would want me to do that…” he replies, the skepticism and sense of impending doom clear in his voice.

“Yes. Yes, there is.”

He sighs. “One sec, and… okay. What do you need?”

“The room facing the street—which apartment is it? And please don’t say six.”

“Let me check,” More key-tapping for a moment. “It’s apartment five.”

Phew. Okay, so that’s fortunate, as I know they’re not home. But, I know whoever lives at number six
is
, and they might hear me breaking in, which would be awkward.

“Thanks, Bob. Give me a few minutes.”

“I’ll be watching…”

I take the stairs, two at a time, to the top floor, coming out in a small hallway. I look around. Four is on the left in front of me, with five opposite. I’d need to double-back on myself down the short hallway to get to six. There’s a single window at the end facing me, in the wall separating the first two apartments.

I walk over to the door of five, knocking once and placing my ear against it, listening for any sign of movement. After a minute, happy it’s empty, I rest my shoulder bag at my feet and reach inside for a lock-picking kit—another handy little gadget, courtesy of our sponsors at GlobaTech. I’m not a master at this, but after a couple of minutes fiddling with the lock, I manage to open the door.