The nasal-voiced man coughed. “Do you think it will end with these deaths?”
Nexus chuckled. “Afraid for your own skin, are you, Zulu? Well, we all ought to be. This isn’t over. Whatever this is, whoever is behind it, they have eliminated nearly all the operatives of that SRU mission. They have been systematic. They clearly have resources. They know. No, gentlemen, I don’t think this is over at all.”
The man on the right sounded panicked. “Langley isn’t going to help us?”
“We’ve been over that,” clipped Bravo, dismissively.
Nexus paused. “Lophius has other resources. He’ll make them available.”
“The assets? Who are they?” asked Zulu plaintively, looking between Bravo and Nexus.
“They are well-trained. All of them are former employees. Decommissioned when the pansies came into office. We’ll trap the wraith, you can be assured of that. Our biggest worry is keeping this from the light of day. There are more important things than our hides to protect.”
“There are complications.” It was the baritone.
Nexus raised an eyebrow. “Continue, Bravo.”
“The Houston woman. It’s confirmed. She has spoken with the priest.”
“Damn!” Nexus ran his fingers through his wispy hair. “She could blow this entire thing open.”
“Or lead us to the wraith,” added Bravo.
Nexus eyed the shadow and nodded. “We’ll assign two assets full-time to her, and this priest, if he gets involved. Watch for now.” The lanky man glanced out the cracked window, the weak light giving his face an unearthly paleness. “But if this gets out of hand, we’ll have to terminate them both.”
15
The time had come. Leaving now was risky. He wasn’t close to fully healed, and an escape could end before it really began. But he had to go underground again. He could not remain so exposed and vulnerable. Too much time had passed.
The physicians had seen. It would be in the reports. Nurses, too. Too many. He sighed. He would not eliminate them: his was a pursuit of justice, and he would not taint his quest by killing innocents unnecessarily. But it would not be long before they were questioned. Even the slow minds at the CIA would figure it out, eventually.
I’m running out of time.
He had accumulated an extraordinary stash of items from the hospitaclass="underline" gauges, first aid kits, antibiotics, steroids, plasma, needles, supplemented protein powder, stimulants. He would need them all. Feigning far more disability than was real, he had distracted the medical staff. Besides, they were too busy with endless trauma to check the many recesses, drawer bottoms, and other hidden places that existed in a hospital room. Eventually, they would.
I’m running out of time.
He raised himself from the bed, his back screaming in pain, reminding him that the injuries were very real. He had slipped the painkillers under his tongue and spat them out later. He needed to be fully alert. The pain would be suppressed.
The lights were out, the hospital staffed minimally in the predawn hours. He had memorized this trauma center’s rhythms, its personnel. He knew the guard was flirting with the late-shift nurse about now, both often breaking the rules and smoking outside by the emergency stairway. He would need to be quiet when he passed the exit door to the parking garage underground.
He donned the surgical scrubs he had lifted the night before from the laundry cart — his pants and shirt were ruined. He filled a laundry bag with thousands of dollars of medical items, put on his shoes, and limped slowly out of the room.
Each night, he had walked repeatedly to build stamina, but such efforts could only go so far. He felt dizzy after a few flights of stairs. He set the bag down and caught his breath. My hematocrit is absurdly low. He would have to eat dramatically over the coming months to build his body back to performance level. Then there would be the hours of torturous rehabilitation. He grunted as he picked up the bag and continued to the lower level.
The parking garage was utterly deserted and still. His footsteps softly reverberated as he stumbled across the concrete towards a beige four-by-four. He smiled to see a shotgun in the back and hoped there were shells in the glove compartment. He drew a deep breath. This would take a lot out of him.
Ten minutes later, covered in sweat, he pulled out of the garage in the hot-wired vehicle. He came to a stop by his car in the outside lot. He would take what he needed and keep the truck. Where he was going, it would prove useful, and no one would look for it deep in the mountains. He opened the door and stumbled out of the truck.
“And just look at you.”
The voice came from behind him. He turned around quickly, preparing to engage, but his efforts demanded too much of his damaged body, and he tottered, stumbling forward into the solid shape in front of him. A pair of muscled arms caught him, and lowered him slowly to the ground. Why isn’t he attacking me?
“Who are you?” he croaked out.
“Who am I?” scoffed the voice. “I see your appearance, what you have done to yourself, what others have done. I should ask, who are you?!”
The voice was deep, gruff, full of command. It reminded him of desert sands. And combat. He felt his consciousness fading.
A hand slapped his cheeks and his eyes refocused. The voice boomed. “Not yet, you fool! I have to get you out of here. This is your car, I know from the transmitter inside that called me.”
“Called you?” Everything seemed a blur.
“Yes! We had agreed. You arranged it. I knew you must have been in trouble to activate the rescue call. I told you in Israel that you wouldn’t survive this madness.”
“Rescue call. Israel. “ It sounded familiar. Plans and counter-options spun in his mind.
“Derrmo! You are delirious. First, we get you up and into that nice truck you have stolen. Then, some of these nice American discount stores dotting the roadways. You need clothes, food, other useful things.” The shape dug a hand through the hospital bag. “You have quite a collection, you thief. We will need all of this and more. You have to heal.”
Heal. Yes, he had to heal, and rebuild his shattered body. He knew that hard road. He had done it before — that he remembered. When he had healed, then he would remember who this man was and why he was helping.
The shape pulled him to his feet and helped him into the vehicle. He felt himself dissolve into a rough sea of consciousness, dreams weaving the real with the imagined. He saw before him an extended plain, a battlefield divided in two. Like an eagle, he swooped in front of an army and planted his claws in the trodden grass. Across the divide, there screamed a legion of monsters, demons risen from the depths of hell, but their grotesque bodies possessed the faces of men! His winged arms held a broadsword and a shield. Blood dripped from the tattered flesh of his back.
He would finish this war. Those who had orchestrated the great injustice would pay dearly. He raised the sword in defiance of his enemy’s howls.
I am your death!
Part 2
16
The CIA woman ignored the speed limit. Father Lopez unconsciously checked his seat belt again. 95mph! And she had not stopped talking the entire drive. He had at least confiscated her cell phone and offered to check the messages for her. Mother of God.