Hunter's Games (3 page)

A young woman is sitting behind a desk, just to the left of a large door. She looks up at me and smiles as I approach. Her designer glasses highlight her friendly, brown eyes, and her dark blonde hair is tied in a ponytail. From what I can see, she’s wearing a navy blue dress suit and white blouse.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m here to see Richard Blake,” I say.

She looks quickly down at her desk, presumably checking a schedule, before looking back up at me.

“Mr. Johnson?”

I nod and smile. “That’s me.”

“Please go right in, he’s expecting you.”

“Thank you,” I say, walking past the desk.

I knock once on the door as a courtesy and enter Richard Blake’s office, closing the door behind me.

I quickly look around. A large window faces me and offers a beautiful, panoramic view of the city outside. The roads and buildings spill out below us in every direction, all the way to the horizon.

There’s a desk in front of me, with a leather chair behind it. To the right of the chair is a flat screen computer monitor standing on a base unit, with a keyboard and mouse set out in front. To the left is a stack of four trays, each one overflowing with paper, and a telephone. In front of it are two plain black leather chairs.

Against the right hand wall are two filing cabinets, each standing around five feet high and each with four large drawers in them. The left hand wall is clear, apart from the piece of artwork hanging in the center of it. It’s a black and white photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge, which I admit is a nice picture.

There’s a slightly worn, brown leather sofa against the wall next to me as I enter. In front of it is a small coffee table with a couple of magazines scattered across it.

Richard Blake is sitting behind his desk, but he stands up to greet me as I enter. He’s clean-shaven with a slightly weathered complexion. With his thin frame and deep-set eyes, he gives off a certain vibe, but I can’t put my finger on it right now.

He flashes me a wannabe-politician’s smile and extends his hand as he walks around his desk toward me. He’s wearing in an expensive charcoal gray suit and black shoes.

“Richard Blake. You must be Brian?” he says, his voice sounding older than he looks, even though he’s probably the same age as me. But the look suits him, as do the streaks of gray in his thick, dark brown hair.

I shake his hand and smile back, playing my part beautifully. “That’s right—Brian Johnson, nice to meet you,” I say. “I really appreciate you giving me some time today.”

He gestures to one of the seats in front of his desk before sitting back down in his chair.

“It’s my pleasure,” he begins. “We’re working on some exciting new projects to tidy up this city over the next twelve months. Any opportunity to talk about them and get people involved is beneficial to us. We’ve had some really positive reactions to our “Bin and Win” recycling initiative—which was my personal idea, by the way.”

Oh my God… I can feel myself glazing over already. This guy’s duller than a knitting convention. I’ve just figured out what that vibe is that he gives off… He’s a fully-fledged nerd. Y’know, the kind of guy who had his lunch money stolen every day in high school.

Jesus… Josh was right—this guy’s going to bore the shit out of me, I can feel it. I’m going to have to get this job over and done with quickly; otherwise, I’ll end up killing
myself
first.

I smile at him as we sit down and I reach into my bag. I take out a notepad and pen and rest them on his desk. Then I pull out my diabetes kit. He looks at it and frowns at me with polite confusion, most likely wondering what it is.

“I’m sorry,” I explain. “I’m diabetic and forgot to take my shot on the way here. I just need to get my insulin before we begin, if that’s alright?”

Blake smiles.

“Of course,” he says, waiving his hand like it’s no big deal. “We’re in no hurry, take your time.”

Now, obviously I’m not
actually
diabetic. The two vials contain a lethal dose of highly concentrated Indian Cobra venom, which is a rare and deadly poison. One bite from the snake will induce full-body paralysis and cardiac arrest in under two hours. There’s the equivalent of, roughly, fifteen bites in one of these vials, so the effects will occur in seconds, rather than hours.

I stand and move over to the window as I load the hypodermic needle with the venom. I smile apologetically and act like I can’t see properly, using the light from the window to see what I’m doing. When the needle’s full, I start to un-tuck my shirt, as if to inject myself in the stomach like any normal diabetic would. As expected, Blake respectfully turns away.

Straight away, I rush behind him and place my left hand over his mouth, holding his head firmly against the back of his chair. In an accurate, practiced motion, I inject the poison into the side of his neck with my right, pressing the plunger slowly down and watching the liquid within gradually disappear. I drop the needle and clasp both hands over his nose and mouth, keeping him silent while the venom works its vicious magic.

He struggles feebly as the venom attacks his muscles and respiratory system, making it harder for him to breathe. It takes just over thirty seconds for him to stop struggling, and another twenty to stop breathing altogether. I hold on for another ten seconds, just to be sure. Finally, I let go of Blake’s head and guide him forward, resting him gently on his desk so as not to make too much noise. I retrieve the needle and put it back in my bag. Quickly, I pack everything else away and give the room a quick once over, making sure there’s no trace of me ever having been here. I haven’t touched anything in the room, so there are no fingerprints to worry about. As a precaution, using my jacket sleeve, I wipe his right hand where I’d shaken it.

Finally, covering my hand in my sleeve again, I pick up the handset of his desk phone and lift it off the hook, resting it on his desk next to him.

Picking up my bag, I walk over to the door and leave Blake’s office. The receptionist looks at me, puzzled, as I come out and close the door.

“Oh, he’s had to take an important call,” I say to her. “He said he’d be a while.”

She looks at her own desk phone, seeing that his line is busy.

“Oh, okay. I’m sorry your meeting’s been cut short,” she says, smiling at me again. “Would you like to re-schedule?”

“No, it’s fine,” I reply, smiling. “I’ll have my office ring up another time.”

She hesitates a moment.

“Maybe…
I
could help?” she offers. “I work closely with Mr. Blake on a number of things. You could interview me, if you’d like? I break for lunch at twelve. Maybe we could get a coffee?” She smiles at me and takes her glasses off.

I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure she’s flirting with me.

I mean, did she just ask me for a drink?

Oh, man… I am
terrible
at this sort of thing. I don’t want to hurt her feelings or anything.

“Ah… that’s, erm, really kind of you to offer, Miss…?” I say.

“Jenny,” she says. “Call me Jenny.”

I smile nervously. “That’s kind of you to offer, Jenny,” I continue. “But… my… editor only commissioned me to interview Mr. Blake, you see. I’m not sure they’ll be too happy if I come back having interviewed somebody else…”

She looks a little dejected and I feel bad.

“I’m sure you’d be really helpful,” I continue, feeling obliged to make her feel better. “I just can’t use you for this particular interview, that’s all.”

She nods and stands, looking away momentarily to untie her hair, letting it flow down to her shoulders. She whips round to look at me again, like a shampoo commercial.

Are you kidding me?

“Well, it doesn’t have to be a business meeting,” she says. “Maybe we could just… grab a coffee?”

I take a small step back and smile. “I’ve got… erm… deadlines to hit,” I say, struggling for words and feeling more awkward by the second. “Maybe some other time?”

Jenny smiles through a deep breath, accepting her advances haven’t worked. She composes herself, putting her glasses back on and returning to her seat.

“I’ll let Mr. Blake know you’ll be in touch,” she says, resuming her professional manner. “Have a nice day, Mr. Johnson.”

“You too,” I say.

I’ve never been more desperate to leave somewhere in my life!

I’m just glad Josh wasn’t here to witness that. It’s the only time I lose my cool—talking to women. I feel like I’m cheating just talking to someone who seems to like me. I know that might sound crazy, but it’s just me—I’m not ready to do that kind of thing. I’ll always love my wife, and my daughter… I’ve not forgiven myself for what happened to them, so I can’t allow myself to carry on living my life without them. Not yet.

I hastily walk back down the corridor the way I’d come in—past the expensive works of art, down the carpeted grand staircase and across the entrance hall. I walk over to the desk with the third security guard behind it and hand back my lanyard. I nod a polite goodbye to the other two guards, who return the gesture, and walk through the front doors and back out into the sunshine.

It’s bright and I have to squint while my eyes adjust. I stroll down the steps and set off back across the Plaza.

Well, that’s a job well done. No resistance at all from the target, which is always nice. Ignoring the embarrassing run-in with his not-unattractive secretary, it all went smooth and according to plan.

There’s a first time for everything, I guess.

I take out my phone and call Josh.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say as he answers. “The target’s been taken care of.”

“Excellent,” he replies. “I’ll let our employer know. In record time, too. Was he
that
boring?”

I laugh. “You have no idea.”

“So, no issues at all?”

I think back to the secretary. Should I tell him? Would he ever let me live it down if I did?

Yeah, you’re right.

“No, everything went smoothly,” I say, smiling to myself.

I’m halfway across the Plaza, approaching the crossing at Polk Street, when I hear shouting behind me. I turn around and see FBI agents appearing from seemingly nowhere and everywhere, swarming toward me.

What the…?

They converge in front of me, falling into a trained formation and completely surrounding me. There are nine agents in total, all armed with either a Remington 870 shotgun or a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun. One agent appears in the middle of them, approaching me and holding his badge out in front of me.

“Freeze! FBI!” he yells.

3.

11:22

“DON’T MOVE!” SHOUTS another.

What the fuck is going on?

I’m completely stunned and probably look like idiot. I’m standing still, staring at an FBI SWAT team with my mouth open and my eyes wide, holding a phone to my ear.

“Adrian? Adrian? What’s going on?” asks Josh, waking me from my trance.

“I’m not entirely sure,” I say, distantly. “But I think I’m about to get arrested by the FBI. I might have to call you back.”

I hang up as the agent at the front with the badge steps forward.

“Adrian? I’m Special Agent Green. I’ve been instructed to detain you and bring you in for questioning.”

I regain my composure, and my brain kicks into gear, processing every possible reason that could’ve led to this moment, as well as every likely outcome. I stare at Agent Green in front of me, trying to ignore all the others who have their guns trained on me.

“You not gonna read me my rights?” I ask.

“You’re not under arrest,” he replies, with a slight shrug. “We just want to talk to you.”

I look around and gesture to all the agents he’s brought with him. “Then why the show of strength? You could’ve just asked if you wanted to talk to me.”

“Fair enough,” he says, nodding. “Adrian, can you please come with me so we can ask you some questions?”

He walks toward me, putting his hand on my arm as if to lead me away.

I don’t move. I look down at his hand, and then back up at him.

“I might. But then again, I might not. You said yourself I’m not under arrest, so you can’t make me.”

He smiles and tries again to lead me away, but I hold my ground. When that doesn’t work, he looks at me with something akin to an apology in his eyes. Like he really doesn’t want to have to do it, but he’s going to anyway.

“Adrian, don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

“I’m not. On the contrary—I’ll make this as easy as I can for you. Move your hand, or I’ll give you a reason to arrest me.”

The circle of agents in front of me is getting twitchy and Agent Green is getting increasingly nervous. He’s quickly losing control of the situation and losing face in front of his SWAT team. I don’t think he wasn’t expecting any resistance, under the circumstances. I mean, who in their right mind would argue with an armed FBI SWAT team sent to detain them…