realized that it wasn’t Jackman riding in the back of the ambulance. Fletcher suspected a small army had been dispatched for him. He ran for the lot, legs shaking and ribs screaming in protest.
His tactical belt, slung across his chest like a bandolier and hidden underneath the bright blue paramedic jacket, did not contain the necessary tools to pop open a steering column. He needed to find a new vehicle with an auto-ignition system and make quick work of it.
This sedan would do — a four-door tan Toyota Camry. He found the Vehicle Identification Number conveniently displayed on the windshield’s lower corner, the parking lot’s ticket sitting on the dash. The ticket was stamped with that day’s date and time.
Smartphone in hand, Fletcher called up the necessary piece of software. Then he entered the Toyota’s VIN. A moment later he had the frequencies to unlock and start the car.
Sitting on the passenger’s seat was a baseball cap with the words KOREAN WAR VETERAN printed across the front. Even better, he found a pair of sunglasses clipped to the visor, the kind favoured by elderly people plagued with vision problems — wraparounds with big square lenses that fit neatly over a pair of prescription glasses.
Fletcher had slipped the HRT Operator Jackman’s roomy tactical trousers over his own. He pushed them down now so he could reach Karim’s phone. He removed it, along with the battery. He placed both items on the passenger’s seat for the moment.
Cap pulled down across his forehead, Fletcher paid the parking fee in cash and exited the lot. He left the window open, wanting to relieve himself of the atrocious odour baked into the leather’s sweat-stained seats: menthol and methyl salicylate, the two primary chemicals used in the pain-relieving ointment Bengay.
Fletcher navigated his way through the quiet back roads. The paramedic coat he’d taken from the back of the ambulance hid the blood on his T-shirt but not the dried blood on his hands. He kept them on the bottom part of the steering wheel, where they were safely out of view.
Watching the streets and searching for any signs of police, Fletcher replayed the moment when he left the panic room to find Karim lying on the floor and bleeding out from multiple stab wounds. Jackman, considerably taller and heavier, was straddling Karim; the agent’s legs were pinning Karim’s arms to the floor. The agent was pressing one hand against Karim’s mouth, while pinching his nostrils shut with the other, wanting to cut off the airways and ensure Karim’s death before any paramedics arrived.
Operator Jackman had pulled out a folding knife and dropped it to the floor to stage the scene. He had turned off his weapon-mounted video camera so there would be no record. Alexander Borgia had brought the man into the treatment room and dismissed the two agents so there would be no witnesses. Borgia had brought Jackman with him so Jackman could kill Karim while Borgia left to check on Karim’s gun permit.
Right now Karim was lying on an operating table, clinging to life. If he survived, would Alexander Borgia find another way to strike?
Fletcher needed to speak to Emma White, needed to warn her, but could he risk calling? When Borgia listed the evidence against Karim, he hadn’t mentioned a wiretap. That, however, didn’t mean the FBI wasn’t monitoring Karim’s phones and, possibly, those of his personal assistant.
Fletcher had no choice; he had to risk calling before Karim was put in further danger. He slid the battery into Karim’s phone.
Emma White’s contact information was listed on the BlackBerry. Fletcher dialled the cell number first, as cell signals took time to triangulate.
M’s voice came on the line: ‘Ali, I just got word — ’
‘This is Robert Pepin. Are you alone?’
‘I am.’
‘Is this line secure?’
‘On this end it is,’ she said. ‘What are you doing with Mr Karim’s phone?’
‘Listen to me very carefully. Don’t speak, just listen.
‘Karim is being taken to the Cape May Memorial Hospital,’ Fletcher said. ‘It’s imperative that you send people there to guard him. They are not to let Karim out of their sight, they are not to leave him alone with a federal agent named Alexander Borgia. Do not allow this man or any other federal agent to be alone with Karim for any reason. ’
‘Karim was injured?’ She said ‘Karim’ as though he were an office building, with no emotion or inflection in her voice.
‘They’ll tell you Karim attacked a federal agent,’ Fletcher said. ‘It’s the other way around. Karim hid me inside a panic room; I witnessed what transpired. Contact Karim’s lawyers — and his personal physician. Surround Karim by people you trust.’
‘I understand. Now I should — ’
‘ Listen to me,’ Fletcher said, thinking about his Jaguar. There was evidence locked in the trunk and there were traces of blood on the passenger’s seat — Nathan Santiago’s blood, blood that would become visible under a forensic light or when a chemical such as Luminol was used. ‘A black Jaguar is parked inside Karim’s home garage. You need to remove it immediately before the FBI impounds it. You’ll find a spare key inside a small box located underneath the right-hand side of the front bumper. Have you located Dr Sin’s cell signal?’
‘No. Her phone is a model that transmits a signal even if it’s turned off — provided the battery is installed. I’ll keep searching for it.’
‘Get back to the house and remove the car. I’ll contact you shortly.’
Fletcher hung up and immediately removed the phone’s battery to prevent him from being traced.
He did not encounter any roadblocks. He drove on to the highway and entered the smooth-running traffic.
Despite the rush of events, he felt remarkably calm. After breaking Mr Jackman’s neck, Fletcher had relieved the man of his clothing and quickly dressed, leaving the agent’s tactical vest on the floor. Then, using the man’s sidearm, he’d fired three shots against the vest and quickly finished dressing. Lying on the floor, he’d radioed through what had happened.
The scenario had worked out perfectly. With the chaos of an armed federal fugitive on the loose somewhere inside a house full of tear gas, the HRT operators guarding the pair of tactical paramedics did what they were trained to do: remove the injured from the line of fire. Head and face covered by a balaclava, the face shield for the gas mask smeared with Karim’s blood, Fletcher had allowed himself to be carried out of the house and into the waiting ambulance.
The only real exposure had come from his escape. Gawking drivers had seen him jump out of the back of the ambulance and run away dressed in a bright blue paramedic’s jacket. Blood covered his hands and Jackman’s black tactical trousers. He would need a change of clothing — and shoes. Running in the man’s ill-fitting combat boots was not at all convenient or comfortable.
It would be foolish to assume the Toyota’s owner would be returning sometime later this evening. Any vehicle reported stolen in the Cape May area would immediately be added to the police watch list. He would need to find another car to borrow.
Atlantic City, with its garish hotels and ample shopping choices, was close by.
Fletcher’s thoughts turned back to Alexander Borgia. The man wanted Karim dead. Why?
The question hung in his mind, unanswered.
Let’s talk about Theresa Herrera, Borgia had told Karim. I understand you agreed to look into the disappearance of her son, Rico.
Had Karim stumbled upon something that had triggered the FBI’s interest?
The question hung in his mind, unanswered.
Fletcher didn’t have his computers. The netbook and other vital equipment were stored inside the Jaguar’s trunk. His whole life was stored inside there.
Her knowledge of computers is frightening.
Karim’s words regarding Emma White.
But could Fletcher trust her?
She’s my adopted daughter, Karim had said. She’s aggressively loyal — she would fall on a sword to protect me.
Safe now and driving under the bright sky, Fletcher stared at the highway exits, wondering which one to take.
