The End Game

Matthew had discovered all he had to do was attach a nanotrigger to a small piece of his new metal, and boom. He felt like a god, gloried in what he’d created. Then he saw his mother’s face and knew she wouldn’t be praising his genius. Revenge, Mom, really, all revenge, for you and Dad and my sister, but I’m not going to murder, not like they do. I’m going to cut them off at the knees, let them drown in their oil. And he’d believed it, believed it to his soul. Then.

When Ian had brought Vanessa into his life, and she’d wanted to join him, he was convinced she shared in his beliefs, his goals. But now, in hindsight, he realized she hadn’t shared a thing with him. All she’d wanted was his new bomb.

But he’d been smart, careful; he’d never told her all of it. And then Darius had tested it at Bayway without telling him and he’d been furious until he realized how amazing it had been.

And now Ian was dead, burned to a cinder, and the lying bitch was still breathing his air, but not for long.

•   •   •

Matthew rode the bike into the garage, chained it to the rack, and walked across the pedestrian bridge into the building, swiped Aaron’s card through the reader, and walked right in the door. No one gave him a second glance. He belonged.

Now he needed to find Vanessa.

GW had multiple ICUs, multiple floors. He couldn’t afford to waste time wandering the halls looking for agents in their dark suits guarding a hospital door. He needed to access the computer system and look her up. He felt the bloody knife move in his pocket as he walked.

68

KING TO G7

Mike stood behind the door where she couldn’t be seen from either the hallway or the windows. Nicholas was in the bathroom, sitting on the counter. There was so much glass in the place, so many open lines of sight to help the nurses keep eyes on their patients, they’d had a hard time finding the perfect places to lie in wait.

Agent Carrie Munson, CIA, was a good ten years older than Vanessa and Mike, a seasoned agent who looked hard as nails. “I’m into krav maga,” she’d told Mike and Nicholas. “Don’t worry about me, I can handle myself. Plus I have this.” She showed them a tidy Glock 17, stashed under her pillow. Mike didn’t doubt Carrie could handle herself, but if Matthew came in gun first, words later, who knew what could happen?

They decided it was better to let Spenser get close, move all the way into Vanessa’s room before they brought him down.

Agents dressed as nurses and orderlies worked alongside the regular staff. They all had photos of Matthew Spenser, not the face you’d think looked like a murderer or a terrorist, maybe a madman, rather the face of a handsome man, serious and thoughtful, one of the first photos of him Vanessa had sent to her uncle.

After an hour on high alert, they all began to tire, to lose focus. Mike was tense. Her shoulders started to ache.

After two hours, Nicholas and Mike switched places.

Nicholas said, “I might consider giving up trying to talk to you if I could have a cup of coffee.”

“Even if there was something to talk about, which there isn’t and never will be, you still couldn’t have any coffee. We need to keep hands free to handle weapons.” As if he didn’t know that.

“I guess tea is out, too?”

Both their earpiece comms units suddenly came to life.

A voice she didn’t recognize, CIA, she assumed, said, “We have him. He’s gotten off the west elevator, moving toward the room. He’s dressed as a doctor, looks like he belongs. He’s not hesitating and that’s smart, so you guys need to be ready.”

A doctor, Mike thought, adrenaline spiking, and wondered what had happened to the man whose white coat he’d stolen.

“He’s reaching into his back pocket, wait, I saw a flash, not sure if it’s a blade or a gun.”

The bathroom door was cracked. Nicholas looked at Mike through the small gap. She nodded. He signaled to Carrie, who rolled a bit onto her side, away from the door, making sure her red hair was showing. He looked back at Mike, saw her hands on her Glock, double grip, loose and ready.

Nicholas hoped Spenser was carrying a gun. No one liked close quarters and a knife.

“He’s twenty feet away now. Ten. Five.”

Come on, come on, come on, you bugger.

“He’s stopped. He’s turning. Oh, crap!”

Nicholas’s earpiece exploded into a cacophony of curses. He heard shoving, a thud against the wall, shouts. “What the bloody hell has happened?” he whispered into his wrist unit.

“He’s taken a nurse. He has a knife to her throat. It’s already bloody, but not from her. If you get a clear shot, take it.”

“No, we can’t shoot him. We need him alive.”

Another man’s voice in his ear: “Why don’t you come out and see what’s happening for yourself, Special Agent? I know you’re in there.”

•   •   •

Mike heard Spenser loud and clear, telling Nicholas to come out of the room. He’d gotten onto their comms cha

I’m going out. He thinks there’s only one of us in here.

She shook her head, pointing to Carrie, to the door, then swiping her hand in front of her throat in a cutting motion.

Matthew’s voice came over the comms again. “Come out, Agent, don’t be afraid of what I’ll do. I only want to talk to her. I only want to say I’m sorry.”

Nicholas wrote Plan B on his hand.

What was Plan B?

But she knew, of course. Nicholas was going cowboy.

Spenser’s voice was soft and persuasive over the comms: “If you don’t let me come in and talk to Vanessa, I’ll cut this lady’s lovely throat.”

Mike watched, helpless, as Nicholas disappeared from view. If he survived this, she fully intended to kill him.

•   •   •

Nicholas took it all in in a millisecond—Cindy Carlisle was a pretty nurse with short, spiky blond hair and a wonderful smile she’d given him when they’d stepped onto the floor to set up the op. Spenser was holding her tight against him, his arm around her throat, a bloody knife against her flesh. She was the perfect shield.

Nicholas had supposed if he ever saw Spenser up close, he’d see madness in his eyes, but it wasn’t true. Hate had twisted Spenser, but it didn’t show on the outside. He was handsome, his face smooth, his eyes intelligent, clear, focused on Nicholas’s face. He looked calm, as if he were in a college seminar, not in a death dance. With the doctor’s white coat, he fit right in, except for the bloody knife at Cindy’s throat, digging in slightly, drawing a drop of blood, to show he was serious. Cindy wasn’t moving, was barely breathing.

Four agents stood around him, weapons drawn. One false twitch, and Spenser would be dead, the nurse, too. They couldn’t risk it.

Nicholas held his gun in his palm, finger off the trigger, nose pointing skyward, his other hand up, too. Open. Vulnerable.

“Drop the knife, Mr. Spenser. You can come in and talk to Vanessa, but I’m covering you every second. You try anything and I will shoot you, understand?”

“You’re Drummond. It’s nice to meet you. I’m the Bishop.”

“No, you’re Matthew Spenser. The other name, it’s nonsense and you know it.”

Matthew stared at the big man, heard the Brit accent and wondered at it. “I’m telling you the truth. I want to speak to Vanessa, tell her I’m sorry. Will she live? The hospital records said she was critical. She survived two surgeries?”