The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) (16 page)

Marine close combat’s goal is to “cause permanent damage to the opponent’s body with every technique,” and Foxx had taken this ethos to heart. Despite his freakish speed, Adler hadn’t yet returned to his stance. The former Marine slammed both fists down with all his might against the back of Adler’s skull. The smaller man dropped to the floor once more, but rolled into a backward summersault, and sprung straight back to his feet. Blood trickled down his cheek from Foxx’s up-kick, and Adler wiped it then looked at his hand. He licked the blood from his palm then shot Foxx an evil grin. “Warm-up’s over, boy – now you die.”

Adler’s face took on a maniacal form as he stepped deliberately toward Foxx. He stood in a traditional boxer’s stance against his much larger foe, evoking an almost comical image. But there was nothing comical about it. Foxx adopted the opposite stance, and they began to box. Each time he struck or blocked his opponent, Foxx could feel the deep and immediate ache of damage to the bones of his hands and arms. The synthetically enhanced killer was seemingly impossible to hurt.

Despite his most valiant efforts, Foxx’s blows simply weren’t causing damage, other than to his own body. His bloodied knuckles mashed into shattered metacarpal bones with every strike, and his left ulna had snapped cleanly below his wrist. He tried to substitute kicks for punches, but his legs weren’t fast enough to catch the smaller man. Adler continually found his mark, closing both Foxx’s eyes with severe swelling. The end was near – both men knew it.

Adler threw three more punishing blows in a flash of flying fists, followed with a crushing uppercut that shattered the FBI agent’s jawbone. Foxx began flashing in and out of consciousness. His pulped and bloodied face was numbed from adrenalin and nerve damage. He felt like he was standing on a pool of thick, black mud that could no longer hold his weight. As he slowly sank into the mental quagmire, the pain suddenly stopped, and he thought he heard a sharp crack; then there was nothing.

Chapter 20

A few blocks from DARPA headquarters in Arlington, Virginia, Sergey Ugolev got out of the black limousine which had brought him from the airport. His contact, Ian McAdam, was the divisional head of the benignly named Scientific Research Department, or SRD. Exposing his Russian asset was far too risky, so McAdam kept Ugolev away from headquarters and public meeting places. Their meeting venue was a small but luxurious safe-house apartment reserved for such occasions. Ugolev pushed the apartment’s call button and spoke a code word before the building’s security door buzzed, allowing him entry. He took the elevator to the eighth floor and approached two plainclothed armed guards. One took his briefcase while the other frisked him, before allowing access.

“Sergey, it’s good to see you – how was your trip?” McAdam asked.

“Quite tolerable – and you are well?”

“Fine, fine, please come and sit down. I had a bottle of
Sibirskaya Strong
vodka and some caviar brought in especially for you.

“Delightful.”

McAdam brought a tray of
Golden Ossetra
caviar with sour cream and blinis from the kitchen, along with the vodka in an ice bucket and two crystal shot glasses. Ugolev gave his handler a suspicious look. “To what do I owe such opulent treatment?”

“Two traits I’ve always appreciated about you, Sergey – your perfect English, and your directness.” McAdam poured two vodka shots and passed one to Ugolev. “There’s been chatter about some problems in Thailand and Cambodia. I don’t want to intrude, but I need to know more about the situation.”

“It was taken care of – nothing I can’t handle.”

“Do you know the source of the problems?”

“A group of former special forces operators seem to have a grudge against me – probably trying to move in on my operation. This is nothing new in my business.”

“You mean
our
business – don’t forget who you work for. The income stream your operations generate are instrumental in supporting a very special project of mine. I fully expect you to end the problem quickly and quietly. You must ensure continuity of supply.”

“It’s you who’s being forgetful. I shouldn’t need to remind you, Mr. McAdam, I don’t work for you. As you just pointed out, my operations provide you with freshly laundered cash, so who is paying whom? Anyway, I know how to deal with interlopers.”

“Interlopers? From what I heard, they decimated your crew in Pattaya. One of your men was a cousin, wasn’t he?”

“An idiot cousin, otherwise he would still be alive. And it wasn’t these men who killed my people, it was two Thai Special Branch cops. No matter – ours is a symbiotic relationship, but I don’t need to know your motives, and you don’t need to know mine. All we need to know is that as long as your ridiculous, politically correct Congress keeps denying funding for your ‘special projects,’ you will continue to require my financial support.”

“And as long as you want to keep operating as safely and profitably as you have since our relationship began, you need my intel and support – don’t forget that.”

“Do you not know the meaning of the word ‘symbiotic’?” Ugolev reached for another blini. “This caviar is divine – you should try some. And the vodka goes perfectly.”

“I’m glad it’s to your taste.” McAdam’s years of experience had taught him to contain his emotions, but this smug Russian thug often tested his limits.

“
Golden Ossetra
is very rare and expensive, but if I’m completely honest, I prefer the less costly but more subtle complexities of the
Sevruga
variety. The comparison is not unlike the difference between a great French Champagne and a bold Napa Valley Chardonnay.”

McAdam smiled, forcing down the overwhelming desire to call the Russian a pretentious piece of shit. “Is there anything I can do to help with your Asian problem?”

“As I said, I’m confident it’s over now. But should it continue, I will have Vladimir take care of it.”

“I know you have a great deal of confidence in your man,” McAdam said, maintaining the ruse that he didn’t know Vladimir Petrov, “But these were special forces soldiers.”

Ugolev just smiled and took another shot of vodka.

“Well, I’d feel better if I could at least look into this group for you. Do you have their names?”

“I only got the name of their leader – Jake Riley.”

“Jake Riley? Are you certain?”

*****

Alan Beach had felt as though he’d been written into a macabre Edgar Allan Poe story, forced to watch his friend and partner fight for his life against the synthetically enhanced serial killer, Bryan Adler. Encased within his paralyzed physical shell, Beach had seen Foxx valiantly hold his own for the first few seconds of the exchange. Then in a growing horror further inflamed by his own helplessness, Beach had watched as the tide had dramatically turned against his partner.

The bigger man had fallen to his knees and was rapidly losing consciousness when the crack of a high-powered rifle had split the air. The bullet had struck Adler’s shoulder, tearing a chunk of flesh from his deltoid. The wiry psychotic killer, jolted from his brutal task, had cocked his head toward the source of the shot. Then, without uttering a sound, he’d simply turned and jumped through a paneless window, landing in the empty lot twelve feet below.

The shooter, who wore a black balaclava over his head and face, had bolted to the window to fire another shot from his light sniper rifle. He must have missed with his second shot, as Alan could hear Adler’s footfalls growing more distant. Seemingly unconcerned at losing his quarry, the sniper had taken a knee beside Foxx to check for a pulse then walked over to Beach and pulled the tranquilizer dart from the agent’s leg. “You’ll be okay in an hour. I’ll call an ambulance for your friend when I’m clear of the scene.”

Beach had tried desperately to ask about his partner’s status, but his efforts to speak were futile. The hooded man had slipped away down the stairs, and Beach had sat frozen for twenty minutes before the blaring ambulance siren had come to a halt outside the building. More anxious seconds had passed before the crew arrived upstairs, one man heading straight to where Foxx lay motionless and the other attending to Beach.

“What have you got?” Beach’s medic asked his partner.

“Pulse weak and thready, severe contusions, lacerations, facial fractures. He’s wearing an FBI jacket.”

“So’s mine, but it looks like this one’s uninjured,” he replied, examining the discarded tranquilizer dart. “Yours takes priority.” He patted Beach’s cheek. “Can you hear me, sir? You’re going to be all right. I’m going to help with your partner.”

Beach watched as the men expertly tended to his partner. They rolled Foxx onto a back board then placed his head in a neck brace, before lifting him onto the gurney. Another ten minutes passed before the medic returned to Beach from downstairs. “I’m going to undo the belt now. Are you able to hold your head up?”

Vague glimmers of feeling were beginning to return to Beach’s face. His extremities still wouldn’t respond, but the sensation of warm liquid dribbling from his mouth and down his chin became apparent. He couldn’t reply verbally, but blinked rapidly at the medic.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Holding Beach’s head in place, the medic removed the belt with his free hand then slowly released pressure from his patient’s forehead. Beach struggled to regain control of his stunned neck muscles as his head succumbed to gravity. The man placed his hands either side of Beach’s head, applying gentle pressure from side to side. The rocking helped to reawaken nerves, and, within a minute, Beach was able to prevent his head from lolling about like a newborn’s.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” the medic said as he checked Beach’s pockets for ID. Reading his FBI badge, he said, “Okay, Agent Beach – we’ve got your partner on IV fluids, but we have to move him now. The Medivac chopper’s on its way. He’s going to New York-Presbyterian – they’re prepping to receive him now.”

Tears welled in Beach’s eyes. He knew his partner’s condition must be dire for them to airlift him to New York’s famous hospital. The medic, sensing Beach’s emotions, said, “I think we can fit you in, if you can sit up.”

Beach blinked frantically. His mouth still refused to respond to his mental commands, but fortunately the medic seemed to understand the bond between the partners and understood his patient’s desperation.

“Don’t worry, Agent Beach – we’ll get you on that chopper. Just sit tight, and I’ll be back with my partner in a minute.”

*****

Jake urged his customized BMW R1200RS to startling speeds around the nearly deserted New Jersey Turnpike. His soft-compound Pirellis held the machine at absurd angles as Jake expertly threw it into corners on his way to New York-Presbyterian. Fifteen minutes earlier, Equilibrium had sent him a flash message. She’d picked up chatter about his friend, Alan Beach, and his partner being airlifted to the hospital from Connecticut. The message wasn’t clear, but one of the agents was in critical condition, so Jake was wasting no time.

He turned into Broadway then guided the bike into the emergency entrance, parking it next to a flower bed. A uniformed security guard strode toward him, calling out, “Hey, pal, you can’t park there.”

Jake pulled two hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and peered at the man’s name badge. “Keep an eye on her for me, will you, Fred? I won’t be long.” Dumfounded, the guard took the cash.

Jake marched in and asked the duty nurse for Beach’s location, but there was no record of his arrival. “There were two FBI agents choppered in from Connecticut within the last ten minutes,” he said. “You must have a record.”

“Oh, yes, but only one’s a patient,” she said, pointing down the hall to the elevators. “The other one’s in the waiting room outside trauma surgery upstairs.”

Jake followed her instructions, finally rounding the corner to see Beach pacing and shaking life back into his legs.

“Damn, you had me worried there, Grasshopper,” Jake slapped Beach on the shoulder. “You look fine – what happened?”

“Bryan Adler happened. He injected me with some kind of paralytic agent and made me… made me watch him beat my partner…” Beach’s throat tightened with emotion. “Evil bastard.”

“Have they checked you out – any lasting effects?”

“They’re running a tox screen, but I’m fine. They wanted me to stay for observation, but I need to be here for Foxx.”

“Will he be okay?”

“They won’t tell me. It’s bad, Jake – real bad,” Beach wiped his eyes. “I couldn’t help him – I couldn’t move.”

“There’s nothing you could have done. And there’s no point getting hung up on guilt and remorse. Just tell me what happened.”

Beach reluctantly sat down to brief Jake on their investigation. He explained their theory about Adler’s physical enhancements, and how their conjecture had been proven correct in the most heart-rending way. He described Foxx’s courageous efforts against Adler’s insurmountable strength and speed, finishing with a description of the man who’d shot Adler in the shoulder, stopping the vicious onslaught. Jake put his hand on Alan’s shoulder.

“Does your wife know where you are?”

“I called her fifteen minutes ago. She’s on her way to pick up Foxx’s family.”

“Okay, you stay here and wait for Holly.” Jake turned to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m pretty sure Adler’s not going to turn himself in.”

“No, you can’t go alone, Jake – he’s too dangerous.”

“Who said anything about going alone?”