For a select group of well-paid men posing as protestors, the moment for action had arrived. Knives, brass knuckles, lead-filled pipes and hammers suddenly appeared. Their first targets were television cameras. Each was expertly put out of action. Then they turned their attention to the Palestinian-Americans and the protestors, tearing into the defenseless men and women with ruthless efficiency. Many of the elderly delegates never saw the clubs that struck the deadly blow on the back of their head, or the knife that punctured a heart. In less than ten minutes, fifty of the delegates and two dozen protestors lay strewn about the convention hall, most of them already dead.
With two short blasts from a small whistle, the men dropped their weapons and melted away into the crowd. By the time they slipped out into the relative calm of the convention parking lot, sirens were blaring as police raced to the scene. Invisible in the turmoil, the provocateurs climbed into several large 4X4’s and sped away among other vehicles fleeing the scene. Their thin rubber gloves, which left no fingerprints on the weapons, would be incinerated later. “Pretty easy way to make a couple of thousand bucks,” one of the men marveled as he clicked on the radio, a heavy metal station blaring out a savage beat.
Back in the hall Dr. Walker, crouching behind the lectern, glanced nervously from side to side. Just then one of the security guards ran up and crouched down behind the lectern. “You need to go, Dr. Walker.” he shouted over the noise of chairs being overturned, fists flying, and people screaming.
Walker nodded, expecting the guard to lead him to safety. Instead the man, his hand covered in a thin latex glove, reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a small-caliber pistol. “What I mean, asshole,” he hissed, “is you need to go, permanently.” He pumped a bullet into Dr. Brian Walker’s forehead, tossed the gun out into the roiling crowd, and moved toward his partner, the other fake security guard. Both vanished in the turmoil. With the money now in an account in the Cayman Islands, they were set for life. The bodies of the two real security guards would never be found.
Chapter Seven
Blue Ridge Substance Abuse Clinic and Private Hospital
The door opened. A lone figure slipped in. It was time to check on his patient-just a quick look at vital signs while the sedative was still working. Whatever else he’d become, he was still, first and foremost, a man of healing.
As the pneumatic door hissed closed, Dr. Weissman walked lightly to the bank of monitors, awash with red lights and blinking numbers. “What on earth.” he exclaimed, stopping halfway there. A flat line was etched across the heart monitor screen. The oxygen level registered zero. His head snapped around. The sheet was pulled up over the patient. He went over to the bed and as he began lifting the sheet, a low, muffled voice came from underneath
“Act normal, Doctor, and don’t say anything or I’ll sever your femoral artery with this scalpel. Remember, I’m a doctor too. You’ll bleed to death in seconds.”
Dr. Weissman remained motionless as he felt the surgical steel pressing against his leg. “What do you want?”
“I want to get out of here, and you’re going to help me.” Matt emerged from under the bed and pushed the surgeon into the shadows behind the bank of monitors.
“But there are CCTV cameras everywhere, even in this room. You’ll be spotted in seconds.” Weissman’s voice trembled. He felt tired and oddly lost. “I can’t get you out of here. There are guards patrolling the corridors of this wing constantly. I’m afraid, Dr. Richards, we’re both trapped in here.”
“Tell me,” said Matt, “whose face do I have? And who are these people?”
The elderly doctor put his finger to his lips. “I honestly don’t know who they are, but I can tell you that the face you have, and it’s a masterful job of a transplant if I do say so myself, belonged to an international contract killer, an assassin. He killed for the Mossad, KGB, CIA and others. He was just about to join Al-Qaeda when he was killed by a female Mossad operative. Al-Qaeda offered better pay, I guess.”
An international assassin? “How do you know all this?”
“I overheard the two men you met earlier talking about it just before the surgery. It was his body they buried in the closed casket at your funeral.”
“And you don’t know who these people are?”
“No. I was brought here two years ago from Israel by the clinic director. I was promised enough money and equipment to rapidly advance my research on facial transplants. Mostly I work on private patients with badly disfigured faces. You’re one of two patients to be put in this secure area of the hospital and given a full facial transplant.”
“Well, you’re my only hope at the moment, Doc, so let’s figure out a way for me to get out of here. Otherwise we both might wind up dead. Did this dead guy have any documents on him? Passports, identification, stuff like that?”
“There’s a box of his personal effects in the storage closet. They left it there, along with a suitcase of clothes. I think in all the activity surrounding the operations they just forgot about it.” He touched Matt’s arm. “Will you please put that scalpel away?”
“Okay. Give me your lab coat and I’ll pretend to be you. You crawl around the back and climb into the bed while I shield it from the CCTV camera, then I’ll tie you up. You can tell them I overpowered you, gave you a sleeping drug, and escaped.” Matt paused. How to escape? “Where’s your car?”
“It’s a white VW Passat, and it’s in the private staff parking lot just next to this wing.” Dr. Weissman fumbled around. “The keys are here in my pocket, but you’ll be seen by the guards and the cameras. It won’t work.”
“It’s better than staying here. Now, take off your coat and get into the bed.” Matt put on the white surgeon’s smock and stood up beside the bed. Using cabling from the monitors, he bound the doctor’s arms and legs. “If you lie here and give me a chance to escape, we both might live a little longer.” The elderly surgeon nodded.
Matt opened the closet. He stared at a single piece of leather carry-on luggage, Hartman. It contained a few shirts, some pants, a sports coat and a pair of Italian leather shoes. His eyes registered on a green surgeon’s cap on a shelf. Putting it on and draping several clean lab coats over the valise to hide it, Matt made his way into the hall. It was clear for now. Like the doctor he was, he confidently strode down the hall towards the rear exit sign.
A voice rang out. “What are you doing, Doctor?” A security guard, he guessed.
“Making rounds,” replied Matt. “Would you like to help me change a few dressings and bedpans?” Not bothering to turn around, he opened the door on his left and strode in.
“All doctors are arrogant assholes.” The guard strode back up the hallway, muttering to himself.
Inside the room Matt leaned against the door. He was sweating. His heart racing. He hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since the accident, which must have been over seven weeks ago. He’d always wondered what going cold turkey would be like, but never had the courage or desire to quit drinking. I guess every cloud has a silver lining. Could he remain sober once he was free-if he got free?
After a few deep breaths, he scanned the room. It was nearly identical to his but without the security door or a CCTV camera. A single bed lay in the center with a short figure under the sheets. A female voice moaned. He stepped over to the bed and carefully lifted the sheet. It was a young woman, about twenty years old, obviously under heavy sedation. In the faint light from the instruments on the wall he noticed the nearly healed stitches around the edge of her face. He was replacing the sheet when suddenly her hand sprang out like a claw and gripped his arm.
“No, Daddy, no.” she moaned, then fell quiet. Her grip loosened. Her arm dangled over the side of the bed. She was asleep again. Matt reached down and gently placed her arm back on the bed. The white hospital tag around her wrist was blank except for the blood type, O-positive, with two capital letters, like initials, next to it.
Matt’s medical mind began to wonder about this strange woman, but his survival instincts pulled him away from the bed and back toward the door. The guard should be making his rounds now. How long would he have to wait? He cracked open the door.
Nothing. He opened the door a little further, trying to get a view up and down the corridor without being
