Just as exhaustion wrestled her to sleep, she was jolted to consciousness by a man entering the private hospital room. He pushed aside the book still locked in her hand so he could gain access to Ryan’s IV.
“Someone was just here to give him medication a few minutes ago,” she said in a scratchy, fading voice. She was a bit disoriented from exhaustion, but concern for her children was ingrained like a reflex.
“Just one more shot of vitamins to help build up his immune system, ma’am,” the male nurse explained.
She rubbed her eyes and noticed his slicked-back hair and ill-fitting hospital scrubs.
“I suppose they don’t have many nurses your size, now do they?” she joked.
The striations of muscle in his arms tested the limits of the seams. It was a moment of self-amusement for the concerned mother and brought the first hint of a smile to her face since she had arrived at the hospital.
“Not too many, ma’am,” the nurse replied as he pushed the syringe into Ryan’s IV and jammed down the plunger.
He nodded a half-smile and walked purposefully out of the room.
She tried to place his accent. It had a touch of a British wrapped around a gruff Eastern Bloc twang. The effort helped her fall back to sleep.
Chapter 6
The gunman followed his target across the street toward the Metro station. He moved as fast as he could without drawing attention from the police gathering en masse fifty meters to his right. He knew it would take the cops a few minutes to piece everything together, so he still had some time. He was still in the game.
He angled his head away from the cameras as he scanned the area and headed down the escalator. Despite the nondescript clothing, his physical presence betrayed him. It was impossible for a man of his size to blend in. His assignments normally took that into consideration, but this was a fuckup. The two hackers had gotten lucky. He knew pursuing his mark in public was an enormous risk, but the personal risk of being identified was outweighed by the damage the hacker would cause should he survive long enough to reach a computer. He looked to the digital signs hanging above the platforms and judged he would have enough time to get a fare card and make it to the platform before the next train arrived.
The plan had been successful thus far. They had been recruiting members of The Collective to systematically infect computers with their malware. Using experienced hackers was a way to reduce the possibility of exposure for his employer. A talented cyberpunk would easily stay under the radar of the commercial antivirus companies.
There could be no connection between the hackers, the malware, and their organization, so phase two of the plan was carried out by an assassin to sever the final tie. If word got out that they eliminated the hackers they contracted, The Collective would turn its ire on them and retaliate, and if they were successful, everything would be lost.
The assassin peeled a fifty-dollar bill off the top of his money clip and fed it into the fare card machine. He watched the bill disappear into the horizontal slit before he noticed the graphic that indicated the highest denomination the machine would accept was a ten. The precious seconds it would take for his money to spit back out were too expensive to waste, so he quickly sidestepped to the next machine and fumbled for a smaller bill. He inserted the money and printed out his fare card. Within seconds he was headed through the turnstile toward the platform for the next incoming train. Its destination was Shady Grove. A slight smile formed on his face when he saw the platforms were almost empty. He had eleven seconds to spare.
Two women were on the platform when the train screeched to a halt. Both boarded through the sliding doors, and nobody stepped off. The gunman surveyed the area and waited for any sudden movements. He kept a door within range as he continued to stalk his prey.
The rank smell of hot trash invaded his nose with each controlled breath. The minimalist design of the Metro station made it easy for him to clear the space. It was a skill that had been deeply ingrained in the assassin after his years of military service. He cut his teeth in special operations but was dishonorably discharged after killing a man in a bar fight. His temper had gotten the best of him then, and it was the same anger that boiled within him now. He hated “the system” in America for what it had done to him, and took great pleasure in doing his part to help unravel it.
A chime sounded as he walked toward the far end of the platform. The doors to the train slid shut as he zeroed in on the concrete trash can. It was the only hiding place that remained. The train pulled away, its sound fading into the background.
The station appeared to be empty, but the assassin knew there was at least one more person present. A rush of hot air passed through the station’s massive expanse and signaled an arrival on the opposite platform. He moved his gun closer to the opening in his jacket and approached his objective. He looked forward to another deadly encounter.
Chapter 7
She awoke suddenly to commotion.
“Get Dr. Marks!” someone yelled.
The once-steady beeps of the heart monitor had been replaced by a pandemonium of noise. Ryan Turner’s mother was overwhelmed with dread as she watched helplessly. Time seemed to stand still. Seconds felt like minutes and minutes hours.
Cathy Turner secretly hoped Ryan’s tragic injury would somehow bring her broken family back together. She had played it over and over in her head, willing it to happen. Trent could transfer from his government job in New York and move back down to the Washington, DC area. The emptiness she had felt for so long would become a distant memory.
“We’ve lost him,” the doctor said, his voice trailing off.
Turner was stunned. Nobody was supposed to bury their child, she thought bitterly.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Turner. Would you like me to have one of my staff stay here with you until your husband arrives?” the doctor asked in a somber tone.
The silence was excruciating. Her mouth moved as she tried to answer, but no words came out. She collapsed in tears, her head coming to rest on Ryan.
“This is something we weren’t expecting,” the doctor said of her son’s sudden death. He shook his head. “His condition had stabilized.”
Cathy Turner was a realist. Deep inside she knew that, barring a miracle, even if he had woken up, he would have never been able to care for himself. These last moments had been a gift. Most people don’t survive a gunshot wound to the head. She found herself alone, hollow inside, without the strength to call her husband to deliver the painful news. Seeing her son Trent would be even more difficult now. Ryan’s death would taint any joy it may have brought her.
Raw emotion was punctuated by the gentle motion Dr. Marks used to close her son’s eyes. Tears streaked down her face as she wished there was some way she could have taken his place. He had so much life left to live.
It had been almost two weeks since Ryan had won the Boston Marathon. After a long period of uncertainty, her son was finally motivated again. For a while it looked like the death of Ryan’s second son would destroy him. He had let himself go, losing the competitive drive that had kept him and his brother so popular during their youth.
With his pedigree, he was expected to be successful in sports. Being in the headlines again had felt good. He told her it reminded him of the old days when he and his brother performed head and shoulders above the rest without much effort. It gave her son something he desperately needed: a sense of pride.