The Gender Experiment: (A Thriller) (18 page)

“Give me your stash. All of it! Or I’ll break your face too.” While the thug scrambled for an inner pocket, she pulled out her Beretta. “If I see a gun, you’re dead.” She glanced sideways and slapped the tall guy’s face. “Shut up and give me your stash too.”

Still moaning, he didn’t comply.

The prone man shouted, “He’s not carrying! Just me. Here, take it.” He shoved a pocket-sized leather pouch at her.

Devin grabbed it and ran back to her SUV. The druggies weren’t likely to call the police, but addicts and criminals were often too stupid to know better. Inside the car, she pulled on the used business jacket she’d purchased and removed her sunglasses and baseball hat. A peek in the leather pouch revealed about three grams of H, five needles, and a spoon. They’d planned a little party. Perfect. Devin started the engine and drove off. She would stop in a few blocks and prep the heroin overdose somewhere safer. She’d done her homework and knew a hundred ways to end a life.

Fifteen minutes later she pulled into the parking lot at the hospital. When she didn’t find a space in front, she drove into the garage and ended up on the third floor. Despite the full lot, no people were around. She grabbed her bag of disguises from under the seat and applied a layer of dark bronze foundation, then popped in brown contacts. After she used the touch-up gray hair color, the hospital staff would describe her as “older” and “brown-skinned.” And male, of course.

Voices caught her attention and she looked over at the entrance. A young man pushing another young man in a wheelchair.
Holy shit!
Jake Wilson was taking Seth Wozac out of the hospital. Devin shoved her supply bag under the seat and slouched down.
Yes!
She was finally catching a break. This whole clean-up assignment had gone sour for her when the old woman at the clinic had been added as a rush job. One more mission, and she would be done. Too bad the targets weren’t likely to take a drive up into the canyons where she could run them off the road and not have to see them die.

When their engine rumbled, Devin started hers in unison. She hoped Wilson was still driving the ugly Jetta. So easy to follow and spot. She heard the car pass behind her, waited ten seconds then pulled out. An extended family crossed the space in front of the entrance, and she had to wait for the old man bringing up the rear.
Move!
Her targets were already leaving the parking garage.

Once the family had cleared, Devin pressed the accelerator and squealed around the corner. Someone yelled at her to slow down and she did. Hitting a pedestrian would derail her mission. Besides, she could guess where the targets were heading. Either to a motel on Nevada Avenue or Wozac’s house. The man had nearly bled to death twelve hours earlier, so he probably needed to be in bed. The two men might stop at a pharmacy for a prescription or at a burger place, but they weren’t going far.

At the bottom of the exit ramp, she went right toward Fillmore Street and was rewarded with the sight of the Jetta moving toward the main intersection. But she was too close! Devin pulled off and tucked in between two parked vehicles. Wozac’s monitor had sent the subject’s home address earlier, so if she lost them, she could drive straight there and wait. Unless they were headed for Denver, where they could disappear into the city. Now that Wilson possessed clinic files and his little girlfriend was gone, he might not stay in Colorado Springs. He had worked for the Denver Post, so he could be headed there to share his findings.

Devin got back on the street, wishing she’d taken a different vehicle from the compound. Hers was too big and black and noticeable. But the reporter had probably never seen her SUV, so she just had to hang back and be careful. As she drove, she watched ahead to the intersections. The important thing in tailing a car was spotting when it turned.

The boulevard suddenly split, and the van in front of her blocked her from seeing which way the Jetta went. Devin swore out loud and guessed left. Even if they were planning to travel to Denver, they would likely stop at Wozac’s first to get clothes or his cell phone or whatever. Wozac had left his place in an ambulance the night before, so he wasn’t prepared for an extended stay anywhere.

Her guess was correct, and ten minutes later she spotted the Jetta headed up Hagerman Street, where Wozac lived. Even from a distance, the small brick house looked old. Wilson parked on the side lawn under a tree, and the two men walked around to the back. Devin parked two houses down and studied the home. Windows near the bottom of the wall indicated a basement. Wozac probably lived in that space. She had perused his file, and he didn’t seem to be employed. He’d been on her termination list all along, but she’d saved him for last, wanting to get all three Denver hits done first. She knew his basic info, but hadn’t cased his house or habits yet. Having to rush the job annoyed her, but nailing the two men together was a plus. This could be ideal. She could make it look like a drug deal gone bad. Shoot the first one she encountered, then give the second one an overdose and wrap his hand around the weapon. Or maybe the other way around. She would be prepared for both scenarios.

Devin crawled into the back seat, opened the locked weapons case, and extracted an untraceable handgun. She preferred to use her Beretta or Remington rifle, but the little Colt would seem more appropriate for a small-time addict. Although considering Wozac’s self-surgery, maybe a straight suicide would be best for him. Either an overdose or a gun to the head would be effective, and a flash-bang would stun both guys long enough to get needles into them. Did she still have one? Devin leaned into the cargo area, rummaged through her toolbox, and didn’t find one.
Crap.
She’d used her last flash-bang on Hurtz to subdue him before throwing him off the balcony. Devin took off the blazer she’d planned to wear into the hospital, put on a baseball cap, and jumped from the vehicle. Time to just go for it. The targets might be stopping in the house for only a few minutes.

The neighborhood was surprisingly quiet. A young girl on a bike rode past Devin without looking—hell bent on getting home before dark. Devin strode across the street and covered the distance to the brick house in a few seconds. At the last moment, she readied her handgun and loaded needle. Soon, this phase of the project would be over, and she could ask for a different assignment, maybe relocate to Washington State to help monitor the second generation of subjects. She’d had enough killing. And maybe it was time to get away from her father.

A few minutes earlier

Jake stepped into the basement apartment and glanced around. Seth’s living space was stark—a couch that he obviously slept on, a TV, and a game console. Two brown boxes with clothes draped over the edges occupied a corner near the tiny kitchen. The only natural light came from two rectangular windows at the top of the front wall.

“Hey, I’m fine. You can go.” Seth stood near the door, looking embarrassed.

Jake was ready to get the hell out. The place was depressing, and Seth wasn’t exactly Mr. Friendly. Still, the man had fresh stitches and a killer after him. “Do you have enough food for a few days? Or a fresh bandage for your, uh, incision?”

“Dude, you sound like my mom. Just go.”

“Okay. My number’s in your phone if you change your mind.” Jake walked out into the narrow subterranean walkway. Concrete walls held back the dirt of the side yard, and the steps led up to a patio. A shadow crossed the grass above him. Instinctively, Jake bolted back inside. Seth hadn’t moved, and his mouth dropped open.

“I think the assassin is here.” The words came out in a rush of panic. He turned to lock the door but didn’t see an obvious mechanism. A thud sounded on the other side, as though the killer had jumped down into the entrance rather than take the steps.
Shit!
He needed a weapon. The only thing in Jake’s line of sight was a long skateboard leaning against the wall next to the door. He grabbed it with both hands, stepped off to the side, and prepared to swing it hard.

The door flew open and barking suddenly filled the space outside. The man in the dark jacket crossed the threshold, and Jake brought the skateboard down hard, striking the side of his face and arm that held the gun. The killer made a soft grunting sound, shook his head, and spun toward Jake. The barking ceased as a dog latched onto the back of the intruder’s lower leg and sunk in his teeth.

The assassin cursed loudly and twisted around. He jerked up his gun and fired point blank at the dog. The loud crack boomed off the walkway’s concrete walls. Seth, already in motion, rushed straight at the assassin, who was still turned toward the dying dog. Before Jake could jump in, Seth shoved the killer out, slammed the door shut, and locked the bolt at the top.

The assassin still had a gun.
“Get down!” Jake dropped to the floor and began crawling toward the corner.

New voices outside—a woman crying and a man shouting for someone to call 911. Footsteps retreated rapidly up the concrete stairs. The killer was fleeing! Jake stopped crawling and turned back. Seth was flat on the carpeted floor in front of the entry—not moving. Jake’s heart skipped a beat. Was Seth dead? “Dude! You okay?”

Seth held up a hand but didn’t lift his head or make a sound.

Had he been shot? Not likely. The door was intact, and Jake had heard only one round of gunfire. Still, Seth could have pulled out his stitches and might be bleeding internally. Staying low, Jake hurried over to the prone man. “Hey, are you bleeding?”

Seth finally raised his head. “I think I just blacked out for a moment.”

Jake didn’t know what to do next. The police were likely on the way. And if he stuck around, they would probably take him to the department for questioning. And if the obstetrics clinic had video surveillance of his data theft, he could end up in jail. Avoiding all that was in his best interest.

Jake stood. “I have to get out of here before the cops arrive. You should probably leave before the killer comes back.” Jake didn’t want to take Seth with him, but he would if the injured man needed a ride.

“Just go. I’ll be fine.”

Jake didn’t buy it, but he had to get moving. The FBI agent would be arriving soon, and he needed to give her the clinic data. He couldn’t do that from a jail cell, and she might not bother to find him there. “Should I call an ambulance for you?”

Seth sat up. “Hell no. I’ll grab my backpack and go out the back gate. I have a friend down the street.”

The back gate sounded good to Jake too. But he needed the car and leaving now was the only option. Jake patted Seth’s arm. “Stay safe.” Heart still pounding like he’d run a mile, Jake bolted out the door and almost plowed into a woman kneeling next to the dead dog. “Sorry.” He pushed past her and jogged up the steps. “The shooter’s gone!” she called through sobs.

After a look around, Jake charged across the short strip of lawn to Taylor’s car. A few neighbors stood along the street, and an elderly man paced next to the home’s front porch, talking excitedly into a cell phone. Jake climbed in the Jetta and backed out to the street. He hoped no one would take down the license number. He drove away, trying to look casual and not like someone fleeing a crime. Still, he glanced at every vehicle on the street and checked his rearview mirror. The assassin could be waiting to follow him again. Or the killer might go after Seth. As the fourth name on the hit list, Seth might be a priority for the researchers, which would explain why the man in black had been at the hospital and picked up their tail.

Relief washed over Jake. Maybe now that he wasn’t with Taylor or Seth, he might not be a target. That would leave him free to investigate. He drove toward Nevada Avenue. He needed to move to a new motel, but that might not be enough. Maybe he should buy new clothes and some dark hair dye and scissors—change his whole appearance. He checked the time on the dashboard: 6:35 p.m. When was Agent Bailey supposed to arrive?

A paranoid thought hit him. Maybe he couldn’t trust her. She might be tracking his phone right now and be somewhere on standby with a team of men in black suits, ready to swoop in and arrest him. Maybe it was time to get the hell out of town and forget this whole crazy mess.

Saturday, Oct. 15, 5:15 a.m., Denver

Bailey climbed into the rental car, weary but relieved to finally be on the ground and mobile. Her flight had been delayed for five hours because of weather, so she’d napped on the plane instead of getting a decent sleep in a hotel near the airport.
Maddening!
Now she was even further behind in tracking the kidnapper.

After keying Carson Obstetrics into the GPS for later, Bailey added a street address in Denver. Her first stop would be the bureau’s Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force, where she would enlist local agents to investigate the three deaths that were reportedly all young intersex people. Plus Bonnie Yost in Colorado Springs. Bailey wanted to do the legwork herself—no one else could be as thorough—but a woman was missing, and that had to be her priority. If the witness’ story checked out, she would ask the bureau to send backup to Colorado Springs as well.

Bailey found the vehicle’s push-button starter and rolled out of the lot, relieved that she knew the area well. But she’d never been to this particular FBI location, a secondary field office in Northeast Denver, and the route took her away from downtown where the main bureau was located. The turns led under a highway, to an old, four-story structure that looked like it had once been a hotel. In the early morning darkness, the signs were hard to read, but it seemed that a livestock business occupied most of the space. She drove around to the back, parked next to a row of new sedans, and entered the quiet, century-old building. Was the bureau trying to be discreet about the location or just saving money?

Based on the instructions she’d been given, she took the elevator to the fourth floor and found a familiar-looking steel door with an intercom and coded entry. She pressed the Call button, waited for a response, then gave her name and badge number. Every field office had that level of security, and many were located in buildings with metal detectors. A tall man with a smooth, bald head greeted her. “Special Agent Harley Zane.”