Hunter's Games (27 page)

He does.

“Excellent.”

Without warning, I swing my right arm around, leading from the hip, and smash my elbow into his left temple, causing his head to snap violently to the right. He loses consciousness instantly, and as I release my grip, he drops to the floor. I look down at him, and see the severe bruising around his throat.

I walk over to the bed and stand across from Josh, where the hitman had been. I look down at Jimmy. He looks old. I mean, I know he’s probably quite old anyway, but he’s always had an aura about him that exudes power and confidence. And looking at him now, he’s merely a shadow of his former self.

Getting shot and betrayed sucks.

“Right,” I say. “Jimmy, you better start talking. Given I just saved your life, arguably for the second time, I figure you owe me. Tell me what Pellaggio is planning.”

He takes a long, deep breath and closes his eyes momentarily before looking first at Josh, then at me.

“I honestly... don’t know the full extent of what he has planned,” he says, grimacing at every other word from the strain of talking.

“You can’t really expect us to believe that?” I ask.

He smiles. “Probably not,” he says, still struggling to get his words out. “But it’s the truth. I helped him, trained him, put him in touch with the right people and funded his whole operation. But for me, it was always about getting to you. For Danny, he didn’t just blame you for what happened to his father. He blamed that fucking terrorist, Ketranovich.”

“He’s already said he wants to make it look like the Russians did whatever it is he’s going to do, but we need you to fill in the blanks, Jimmy.”

He clenches his jaw as best he can, out of either anger or frustration, but remains silent.

“Jimmy, this isn’t the time for misplaced loyalties,” I continue. “Danny’s tried to kill you twice now. He obviously doesn’t need you anymore. I don’t care if you want me dead, but I
do
care about a potential threat against countless innocent lives. Help me, Jimmy.”

He sighs, reaching for his oxygen mask and placing it over his mouth while he takes a few deep breaths. He removes it again to speak.

“He has a Russian with him called Gregovski,” he says, eventually. “He’s an extremist who wishes to sever his own ties with the Motherland for different reasons. Danny's going to use Gregovski as the face and voice of his attack—he’ll publicly claim the attack as Russia’s. That will be enough to light the fire. The media and the government will do the rest.”

I look over at Josh, who’s shaking his head in disbelief.

“Jesus Christ...” he says, letting his words trail off.

I look back at Manhattan. “You have to tell me what he’s planning, and when.”

“I don’t know,” he implores. “Right now, I swear I’d tell you if I knew, but I really don’t. I only know that he’s got something big planned, and that it involves the Russian.”

My gut says he’s telling the truth.

“One more thing,” I ask. “When you had me tied to a chair, I asked you how you managed to stay ahead of the FBI for so long. You never told me.”

Manhattan squirms in his bed, staring at me. He’s beaten and he knows it. He owes Pellaggio nothing. Yet he’s still reluctant to divulge anything to me. It must be pride.

“C’mon Jimmy,” I urge “This is your chance to do something good for once.”

He sighs. “We have a man inside the Field Office on our payroll,” he says finally.

“I fucking knew it! Give me their name.”

“Agent… Green.”

“The piece of shit that arrested me? Sonofabitch!”

I take a deep breath and pace slowly away from the bed, trying to process the information and figure out what the hell is going on. It’s all starting to make sense, which is kind of annoying, as the more I find out, the more I think I should’ve figured it out sooner.

Josh remains close to Manhattan.

“Here’s a question,” he says. “If that’s all you know—and, let’s be honest, it’s not much more than we already have—why does Pellaggio Junior want you dead so badly? Why did he shoot you in the first place? And why send such a pathetic excuse for an assassin to try to finish the job?”

Manhattan’s eyes shift back and forth. That’s a damn good question.

“Jimmy...?” I say, standing still and looking over at him.

“I... I started asking what his plan was after he captured you on the bridge and brought you to the warehouse,” he says to me. “And he lost control—started saying it wasn’t my business and that I should stop trying to look out for him; that I wasn’t his father.”

“He just… snapped?”

My mind kicks into overdrive, running through events again in my head, piecing things together. I remember when we first arrived at the warehouse, and everyone surrounded Chambers and me... He flipped like a switch when he grabbed her. And even before that, standing on the bridge—I remember asking him if he suffered from survivor’s guilt or something, purely to get a reaction. But he changed instantly and attacked me.

I should’ve seen it sooner.

“He snapped...” I say, looking at Josh for confirmation of my theory—but he doesn’t seem to know what I’m getting at. I look at Manhattan. “Pellaggio’s fucking insane, isn’t he? You’re still trying to protect him, but he’s a couple of cans short of a six-pack.”

Manhattan takes another drag on his oxygen mask before answering.

“I think he lost his grip on reality after your attack, if I’m being honest,” he says. “But the training and the planning kept him focused; kept him in check. It’s only since he’s finally caught up with you that he seems to be... struggling.”

“You’ve been looking after him all this time, and when you found out there was more to this than getting at me, you became naturally curious. Pellaggio took that as some kind of personal attack and that’s why he shot you, isn’t it?”

Manhattan nods.

“Sonofabitch...” says Josh. “You basically created a monster and kept him as a pet. You wound him up and he turned on you. Now, he’s off his leash and rabid on the streets.”

I crack my neck, loosening up. “I guess someone should go and put him down then?”

We leave Manhattan and the unconscious hitman and make our way back down in the elevator to Josh’s floor. I’m not bothered if Manhattan gets taken out anymore—we’ve got everything out of him that we’ll be able to use.

Josh walks over to the nurse’s station and starts going through the motions to discharge himself. I take out my phone and call Agent Wallis. I figure Chambers could do with a break.

“Wallis? It’s me,” I say as he answers.

“What have you got for me?” he asks.

“We just stopped someone from trying to kill Manhattan,” I explain. “Pellaggio sent them to finish him off.”

“Oh, shit! Really? What happened?”

“The guy’s out cold on the floor. Manhattan’s fine. We had a nice little talk.”

“And?”

“Bottom line is, we don’t know what Pellaggio’s next move is. Manhattan has no idea.”

“And you believe him?”

“I do. What I
do
have is a name—Gregovski. Mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

“Dunno. He’s a Russian who hates Russia, apparently, and he’s going to be the poster boy for Pellaggio’s big finale. Their idea is to frame Russia for whatever it is they intend doing in the hope it causes an international incident.”

“Why? What’s Pellaggio got against Russia?”

“He blames them for the death of his entire family.”

“I thought that was
your
fault?”

“Me too. I did kinda do all the hard work… But he blames the circumstances surrounding my motivation on the Russians, so...”

“Christ... Okay, I’ll run the name Gregovski, see what comes back. Good work, Adrian.”

“There’s one more thing,” I say. “About Pellaggio.”

“What?”

“The guy’s insane.”

“I could’ve told you that,” he says with a little laugh.

“No, I mean, genuinely, medically, certifiably fucking nuts.”

“Oh, I see. That’s… not good.”

“No, it’s really not. It’s all been a nightmare so far, but knowing he’s mentally unstable and the worst is yet to come, I think we need get some contingencies in place.”

“I’ll pull his medical records from last year, see if there’s anything in there.”

“Good idea. Me and Josh are on our way to you now, so I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay,” he says before hanging up.

I pocket the phone as Josh walks over.

“I’m free to go,” he announces.

“They okay with that?” I ask.

“Not really, but they can’t stop me.”

“Very true. You sure you’re alright? It’s okay if you need to rest up, y’know.”

“I’m fine,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “You tell them about Agent Green?”

“No, I’m going to save that little revelation for when we get there,” I say.

09:25

We left the hospital and, realizing we had no transportation, set off on the forty-five minute walk over to the FBI Field Office. I offered to call a cab, but Josh said he’d prefer the walk and the fresh air, after being in hospital for the last couple of days. He was moving comfortably enough, considering.

We spent the first twenty minutes or so catching up some more, throwing theories around and generally trying to get back into our rhythm, so we’re ready for battle. Whatever’s coming from Pellaggio, we all know it will likely be pretty big, and we need to be ready for anything.

We passed a McDonalds, and Josh said he could ‘eat a dead horse between two rusty bread vans’—which I assumed was some kind of British euphemism for him being hungry. We walked in and stood in line for ten minutes, and then ordered a breakfast bagel and a coffee each. We picked some seats across from the side entrance and sat down.

We’re sitting opposite each other on a table for four, not far from the counter. It’s pretty busy—as McDonalds typically is, regardless of the time of day. A mixture of singles, couples, families and groups, all chatting and laughing and eating like there’s nothing wrong with the world. Ignorance really is bliss—I wouldn’t wish my current list of stresses on anyone.

In front of us is a pillar with a trashcan and shelf for empty trays built into it. Over on the right hand wall is a mounted plasma TV, with the news on. I look over at it and notice that whatever news channel’s on is reporting from outside the warehouse on Pier 17 that I got blown out of yesterday. I walk over and turn up the volume, standing and watching intently, despite some protests from people sitting nearby. Josh appears next to me. The female news reporter is mid-broadcast:

“...and while officials are keeping any details to themselves at the moment, early reports from both police and FBI agents on the scene lead us to believe this could’ve been a terrorist attack. There’s also speculation this could be related to the recent attacks around the city, but so far there has been no evidence released to support that.

“We have some video surveillance footage of the blast, being shown now for the first time, exclusively on WKRN, which seems to show three people being caught in the explosion. We’d like to advise viewers that they may find this footage disturbing...”

The screen shows a very poor quality, black and white video feed of me, Chambers and Wallis being blown into the Bay in slow motion.

“Is that you?” whispers Josh.

“Sadly, yes,” I reply.

“Jesus!”

“See what happens when you’re not around?”

“Adrian, that happens when I
am
around. You're a magnet for random explosions.”

“Yeah... lucky me.”

The news reporter comes back on the screen.

“The police are urging anyone with information about these people to come forward.”

I go to turn and walk back to my seat, but Josh grabs my arm to stop me, pointing to the screen again.

“Wait a sec,” he says.

The reporter continues:

“In other news, preparations are under way for the parade and celebrations later today on board the S.S. Jeremiah O’Brien, which you can see docked just behind me, further along the Bay. It’s the seventieth D-Day anniversary, and a large turnout is expected, with both serving and veteran military and naval personnel being commemorated. The service will begin at around eight o’ clock this evening, and will finish with an address by the U.S. Secretary of Defense, Ryan Schultz, followed by a fireworks display. Security will obviously be high in light of recent events, but it’s expected to go ahead as planned. For WKRN, I’m Shelley Prince.”

“Say, Adrian,” says Josh. “Doesn’t that look like something a terrorist might consider a worthwhile target?”

“It really, really does, Josh,” I reply.

We look at each other, both seeing the other’s mind racing, trying to think of and assess every conceivable outcome of a theoretical attack against that ship. No scenario ends well.