The Sixth Man (36 page)

“I’m not inclined to disclose that information right now.”

“So you do know?”

“Perhaps.”

“You’re not making this easy.”

“It’s not supposed to be easy.”

She got up and walked away, leaving Megan to frown after her.

B
UNTING PUT DOWN THE PHONE
and hurried over to the window overlooking the street. It was completely dark outside now, except for car lights and streetlamps. He checked his watch. It was nearly ten. He scanned the area outside of his house. For a moment he had a spark of hope that it was all just a bluff. But then he saw the tall man directly across the street, on the park side, under a streetlamp and near a tree.

Apparently, Sean King had glimpsed him, too, at the window. He raised his cell phone.

Bunting moved away from the window and debated what to do. Ordinarily he would have called Harkes to come and take care of this. But that was no longer an option.

I have to handle this one myself. And maybe it’s about time.

He slipped on his jacket and headed downstairs. He passed the maid, who nodded respectfully to him. He passed the cook, who did the same. He attempted a smile, while his heart was slamming against his breastbone. When one of his security personnel stationed at the front door looked at him inquiringly, Bunting said, “Just going out for a quick walk. You can stay here.”

“But, sir—”

“Just stay here, Kramer, I’ll be fine. Just a walk.”

The man stepped back and opened the door for his boss.

Bunting gripped hold of his nerves, squared his shoulders, and headed out, all alone.

Sean waited until the man crossed the street before coming over to him.

“Mr. Bunting, I appreciate your meeting with me.”

“I’m not quite sure how you know who I am,” Bunting said coldly.

Sean glanced around at the few people walking along the street. “Maybe someplace a little more private.”

“I’d like to know what you want first.”

Sean’s features hardened. “We can waste time if you want. We waste too much time and then things get out of control. Everyone’s control.”

Instead of answering, Bunting turned and walked off. Sean followed. Minutes later they were at the back of an empty café staring at each other as a waitress poured them cups of coffee.

“What do you want?” asked Bunting after the woman had left them.

“Edgar Roy?”

Bunting said nothing.

“You know him.”

“That didn’t sound like a question.”

“It’s a fact.”

“Again, what do you want?”

“Roy is being charged with murder. He’s currently sitting in a cell at Cutter’s Rock. You know all this. You’ve been to visit him.”

“You have inside sources?”

Sean sat back, drank some of his coffee. It was fresh and hot and warmed bones that had grown chilly waiting outside of the fabulous brownstone. “A lot of people have died. My friend Ted Bergin. His secretary. Your person, Carla Dukes. An FBI agent. Not to mention the six bodies in Edgar Roy’s barn.”

Bunting spooned some sugar into his coffee. “Do you have any idea what you’re involved in?”

“You’re in a lot of trouble, Mr. Bunting. You could lose it all.”

“Thank you for your assessment of my future. I think I’ve listened to enough.” He started to rise, but Sean clamped a hand on his wrist.

“By all accounts you are a very smart man. Your work makes America safer. If I thought you were a bad guy I wouldn’t be here. I’d let you sink in your own slime.”

Bunting sat back down. “You can’t know I’m not a ‘bad guy.’ ”
He peered closely at Sean. “So is this a test? And if so how am I doing?”

“You are meeting with me. And ask yourself why.” Sean paused to let this sink in. “Because you know things are out of control. You know that your personal freedom is at risk. You know that if they can kill an FBI agent, who’s to say they won’t kill the CEO of an intelligence contractor and make it look like an accident.” He paused again. “You have three kids.”

“Leave my kids out of it,” snapped Bunting.

“I would never do anything to your family. I’m one of the good guys. But do you think the people you’re working with believe them to be off-limits?”

Bunting looked away, the answer to that question easily read in his desperate features.

“You’re in with the sharks, Mr. Bunting. Sharks will attack anyone or anything. They’re predators. Pure and simple.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he said in a hollow tone. “I had nothing to do with any of those people dying. What happened to them sickens me.”

“I actually believe you.”

Bunting looked surprised. “Why?”

“You stepped out of your palace back there and had the courage to meet with me, alone. That says a lot.”

“It’s not nearly as easy as you think it is, King. The people involved. There are almost no limits to what they can do.”

“Edgar Roy is the key. If his innocence is established and he’s released from Cutter’s?”

“That’s a big if.”

Sean leaned forward. “I think you have to ask yourself a question, Mr. Bunting.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you want to stay in the water with the sharks or try to reach dry land? If you stay in the water, I only see one conclusion for you. Do you disagree?”

“No, I don’t,” said Bunting frankly. “I’ll let you know.” He paused. “And I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Especially with Edgar. He doesn’t deserve any of this. He’s a good, kind person
with a truly unique brain. He’s just caught between forces he knows nothing about.”

When he rose, Sean put a hand on his arm. “I know you need to think about this, but keep in mind that we don’t have much time.”

Bunting almost smiled. “Believe me, that one I know. But let me tell you something else. Even if we prove Edgar is innocent, this may not end.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s just not how the game is played.”

“It’s not a damn game,” retorted Sean.

Bunting gave a weary smile. “You’re right, it’s not. But some people still think it is. And they play it for all it’s worth.”

S
EAN QUICKENED HIS PACE.
There were only a few people on the street as the weather had deteriorated; rain was now falling and the wind was gusting.

A voice came into his right ear through the bud he’d placed there.

Michelle’s voice was tense. “Sean, there’s a black Escalade, tinted windows, out-of-state plates coming on your six.”

“Doesn’t have to be connected to me.”

“It’s moving fast and cutting through traffic for no apparent reason.”

“Did Bunting call anyone?”

“Not that I saw, no. He’s still walking back to his place, hands in pockets. But they might have followed him and waited till you two split up to go after you.”

“Okay, what’s the best move?”

“Go into the park at the next entrance. Pick up your pace. Now.”

Sean started to walk as fast as possible without actually breaking into a sprint and drawing unnecessary attention. His hand moved to his coat pocket and curled around the pistol Kelly Paul had given him earlier. He chanced a glance behind. He saw the vehicle. Black Escalade, tinted windows, probably phony plates. It had a sinister look.

He cut to his right and entered the park.

Michelle’s voice came on again. “Keep to your left, down the path. There are a few people there.”

“Witnesses won’t stop these guys, Michelle. They’ll flash their real or real-enough-looking badges and haul my ass away.”

“Then turn right at the next path and run. It’ll give me time to figure something out.”

“Where are you?”

“Right now, up a tree where I can see everything. Go.”

Sean did exactly as she said. He knew she was good, one of the best at stuff like this, but he also knew the other side was bringing its best. And there certainly would be more of them.

He picked up his pace, turning right as instructed. There was a couple up ahead strolling along with their children. He passed by as quickly as possible. The last thing he wanted was a shoot-out in the middle of a bunch of kids.

“Turn left now,” Michelle said into his ear.

He hung a left and found himself next to a large boulder with some dying flowers planted around it.

“Around the rock and up the path,” Michelle said. “Go. Go!”

Sean King went.

There were five men after Sean. They were all armed, all had quasi-federal credentials and all had one mission.

Get the man.

Their leader split them up and they branched out across the park, about forty yards behind where they had last seen their quarry. Two other men were patrolling the exits to the park where Sean might come out onto Central Park South.

One man rounded a curve in the path. He had his hand in his pocket, curled around his gun. That meant he only had one hand free to defend himself.

It wasn’t nearly enough.

The boot hit him squarely in the jaw, breaking it. He went into a crouch and his gun came out of his pocket. The second kick shattered his forearm and the gun nosed muzzle first into the ground. The third blow creased the back of his neck an inch below his medulla, and he would awake in a few hours with an enormous headache in addition to his broken bones.

Like a wisp of wind Michelle moved on to the next target.

Two of the other men had hooked back up, studied the topography, and then divided up once more. The first man headed north and west and the other in the opposite direction. In the growing darkness the second man didn’t realize the person just passing by him—wearing a long black coat and a baseball cap tugged
low—looked familiar until it was too late. The fist dug into his kidney. He bent over in tremendous pain and was felled by a thunderous kick to his jaw. He dropped to the ground unconscious, his shattered face already swelling.

Michelle kept moving.

“Sean,” she said into her wrist mic, “where are you?”

“Coming up on Central Park South by the horse carriages.”

“Nix that. They’ll have it covered. Head on toward Columbus Circle, but stay in the park.”

“What’s your status?”

“Two down, a few more to go.”

Michelle moved, but not quite fast enough. The blow glanced across her forehead and dug into her ear. She twisted sideways, found purchase on the asphalt path, pivoted, setting her weight on her right foot, and launched a kick to her attacker’s left knee.

Michelle Maxwell loved attacking knees. It was the largest joint in the body where four bones—the patella, the femur, the fibula, and the tibia—all came together like a highway interchange and were held together by an array of ligaments, muscles, and tendons. It is one of the most intricate parts of the body and critical for mobility.

Michelle destroyed it.

She pushed through the grouping of bones, ripping muscle and tendons and ligaments, which unraveled like sprung springs, cracked the patella, and torqued the femur and fibula backward to angles they were never intended to go. The man screamed and crumpled to the ground, holding his ruined leg.

When you took out the knee, you took out the fight. Men, even trained ones Michelle knew, often aimed for the head, believing their superior strength would make it a knockout blow. But the head was problematic. The skull was thick, and even if you broke someone’s jaw or nose they would not necessarily be incapacitated. Not so with the knee. No one could fight effectively on one leg, and no one could fight at all when in that much pain.

Michelle used her elbow, cocked at a forty-five-degree angle where it was at its strongest position, to deliver the putdown blow to the man’s head. She dug out the man’s cred pack and earbud and
jerked the power pack running to the bud from his belt. Last, she ripped open his shirt. All she saw was white skin. No body armor. That was good to know.

She put the bud in her free ear and listened to the stream of chatter as she kept moving forward. It was clear they were on to her presence. Reinforcements had been called in. She heard some names go back and forth, none of which she recognized. And no one identified what agency, if any, they were with. She looked at the ID card and the badge she’d taken from the man. They seemed official but it was an organization she’d never heard of. There were so many now, and when you introduced the staggering number of private contractors into the equation, things got very confusing very fast.