Condemned (Julian Mercer Book 1) Page 14

  When the lift stopped on the second floor, Mercer exited, tossing a quick glance down the hallway. No one was waiting for them, so he led the way down the corridor and across a large reception area, passing a conference room and continuing toward the restrooms. Opening the door marked ladies, he checked the room and each of the stalls, making sure they were empty. Bastian locked the door behind him and went to the handicapped stall at the end of the row.

  “Let’s not tell Hans or Donovan about this,” Bastian muttered, balancing on the rim of the toilet seat as he maneuvered a grate away from an exhaust fan.

  “Agreed,” Mercer replied, taking the grate and placing it on the floor.

  While Bastian tugged and fought with the fan to remove it from its lodged position directly above the commode, Mercer cautioned a glance out the small window near the sinks. Thankfully, no police cruisers were waiting outside. The coast was clear for the time being.

  “Jules, a little help,” Bastian said, finally pulling the blades free and nearly losing his balance in the process. Mercer grabbed the removed fan and waited for Bastian to climb onto the lid of the toilet tank and hoist himself through the newly created three foot opening. “It’s a tight squeeze.” A few moments of clanging ensued, and then the metal cover leading outside popped open, falling to the ground and landing in the shrubbery surrounding the building. “Pipe’s on the right,” Bas said before pulling himself out the opening and grabbing onto the drainage pipe that ran along the length of the building, using it to slide down.

  Mercer followed suit, barely managing to fit inside their makeshift exit. The drainage pipe was weak. And after Bastian’s descent, it wasn’t likely to hold, so Mercer gripped the ledge, lowering himself as far as possible. His injured shoulder threatened to unhinge from the joint, and he sucked in a breath to steel himself against the pain.

  Glancing back, he aimed for the closest and thickest bush he could find and let go. Branches broke, but at least Julian’s leg did not. Getting up, he brushed the leaves and twigs from his clothes and climbed out of the decimated shrub. He would definitely feel that later, but right now, they had to move.

  “There should have been an easier way to go about this,” Mercer said as the two sprinted to the parked vehicle and took off into traffic. “Did you get everything?”

  “Yes. Now we have to sort through it.”

  “First, we need to dump the car. Head to the business district. Hans left a back-up waiting in a parking garage there.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.” But Bastian’s words fell on deaf ears. So he did what Mercer instructed. When they arrived, they wiped the car, walked through the garage, entered an adjacent one, and acquired the third vehicle Mercer had used since agreeing to take this job. Then they returned to the flat. “I’ll start the analysis, but this ought to lead to a clear picture of what’s going on.”

  “I hope so.” Mercer went into the bedroom, only to return a second later and hand his second-in-command the bank information, film, and memory cards he found inside Welks’ house. “Ring Hans and make sure everything is still secure at the hospital. Wake me if they need assistance.”

  “Absolutely.” Bastian was already accessing the information the memory cards held. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

  “Lovely,” Mercer replied.

  Shutting himself into one of the bedrooms, he stripped off his shirt and assessed his injuries. After making a couple of trips to the kitchen and bathroom for bandages, antiseptic, ice, and acetaminophen, he settled onto the bed, hoping for a few hours of dreamless sleep.

  While Mercer slept, Bastian gnawed on a drinking straw, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as he sifted through the tons of irrelevant information he had copied from Piper Investigations. Once the proper parameters were entered into the computer, he flipped on a second laptop and skimmed through the memory cards Mercer procured from Welks’ house. The files contained numerous surveillance photos from different locations. Businesses, apartments, and public meeting places, such as parks and bus stops, had been photographed. Bas didn’t recognize any of the subjects in the snapshots, and the majority were location-based. Clicking through the information, he finally stumbled upon two men meeting at a bus stop outside one of the sketchier bars that Donovan had scouted. Isaac Armann was making a deal.

  Quickly printing a few photos, Bastian tacked them to the wall. He sat back, assessing the hard work they’d already put in. Then he opened another computer program, cropped the image to focus on Armann’s unidentified companion, and cranked up the facial recognition software. If it didn’t get a ping, he’d source it out to his contacts at Interpol or MI-6. As the computer ran through the databases to find statistically similar facial proportions and features, he sorted through the banking information that Mercer discovered under the couch.

  The routing number led to an offshore account in John Welks’ name. The bank itself was located on a tropical island with closed banking policies; however, the account was drained. Scanning through the transaction history, it was obvious the money was transferred into this account from a currently unknown source before being moved into Piper Investigations’ business account.

  “Odd.” Bastian checked the progress the computer was making on Piper Investigations’ data and added a financial parameter. It’d be easier to access account information this way instead of requesting help from law enforcement or a few accounting experts who may or may not support themselves through questionable means.

  While the computers continued to process, he picked up the only remaining piece of evidence they collected – the film. It might be outdated in the current digital age, but it was also the only way to ensure the information it possessed could not be stolen through digital means.

  Rummaging through the flat for the items needed to develop the film, Bastian locked himself inside the bathroom and set to work. When he emerged, Mercer was standing in their makeshift command center, studying the updates posted to the walls. Hans and Donovan were still at the hospital, and given the radio silence, he was assured that Katia and Ben were safe.

  “Anything solid?” Mercer asked, watching Bas tape the developed photos to the wall. “I take it we’re paying Jack Pierce another visit.” He jerked his chin at the close-up of Pierce exiting his office building. “Are those snapshots from the film we discovered at Welks’ place?”

  “Yes, but,” Bastian exhaled and taped a second photo to the wall, “Pierce wasn’t the only one photographed.”

  “Shit.”

  As Bastian continued to place photographs on the wall, it was obvious Benjamin Styler was under surveillance. The majority were of Ben either alone or with other people. A few additional close-up photos had been taken of Katia Rhoade, Jack Pierce, a few unidentified men, Isaac Armann, and Mercer’s team.

  “Maybe Welks is a very astute investigator,” Bastian suggested. “But more than likely, this is what he uncovered after the extortion led him to Benjamin Styler. However, since the film wasn’t developed, he hasn’t shown these to anyone.”

  “What about Armann, Pierce, and those chaps?” Mercer asked, pointing to a few photos of different individuals. There were five unidentified men, but they wouldn’t remain unidentified for long. “See what you can dig up and then maybe you should ask Welks about it,” Mercer insisted, not wanting to deal with the private eye again unless it was to permanently resolve the issue.

  Bastian remained silent, mulling over the implications. “These two gentlemen are leaving Styler’s apartment. Perhaps these are the business associates that Katia spotted.” Untaping another photo from the wall which was a still from the street cams near the alley at the time of the shooting, Bas held the two next to each other for a comparison. “They appear to be the same blokes that accompanied Armann during the botched assassination attempt.”

  “What about these two? Are they the same men in the pictures you’re holding?” Mercer asked, flicking another snapshot with his index finger. The phot
o was a wide shot of Jack Pierce with two other men.

  “Hang on.” Bastian grabbed a magnifying glass from the drawer and compared the men in that photo to the surveillance footage he printed from the street cams near the alley from the time of the shooting. “I can’t be certain yet, but they resemble the men with Armann. However, their features seem to differ slightly. This one looks too tall.”

  “You think Armann found two lookalikes to help cover his tracks?”

  “Stranger things have happened.” Bastian pointed out the man in the photo with Isaac Armann that was currently being run through facial recognition. “I’m guessing this is the man responsible for the attempt on Styler’s life, but it’ll take some time to identify him. His face is almost completely obscured by that damn cap.”

  “Okay.” Mercer looked at the computers which were still processing the data. “Let me know what else is uncovered and if that detective ever got building surveillance from Styler’s apartment. The faster we can rule out some of these people, the better. I’ll go to the hospital to keep watch while Hans and Donovan perform some reconnaissance on Pierce and track down Armann.” Without another word, Mercer turned on his heel, grabbed the keys, and left. A bit of sleep dulled his headache and sharpened his senses. The time for battle was growing near.

  Twenty-five

  “So you know who wants me dead?” Ben asked. He was dressed and sitting up in bed, waiting to be discharged. The attempts to delay quickly faded, even after his insistence that he was experiencing excruciating chest pain. The hospital staff ran a few more tests which came out negative, so the ruse to stay inside the hospital failed. And the nurse said as soon as the attending physician signed the forms, Styler would be free to go. That meant Ben only had another hour or two to enjoy the security afforded to him by the confines of the hospital. “Why haven’t you stopped this guy or turned him in to the police?”

  Katia’s eyes flicked to Mercer, but she didn’t speak. Taking an uneasy breath, she crossed her arms over her chest and waited for an explanation.

  “Like I said, we know the shooter’s identity, but we have yet to identify the man who contracted the hit on your life. Isaac Armann is only a hired gun with no personal stake in your demise. But I don’t doubt that he will try again. Failure is unacceptable, and as long as your heart continues to beat, he won’t stop.”

  “Great. I end up with a contract killer who has a strong work ethic,” Ben said sardonically.

  “Have you spoken to your father?” Mercer asked Katia.

  “Briefly.” Katia’s focus had remained on Mercer since his appearance. It was obvious the princess was angry with her betrothed. “He wants me to return home immediately and sever all ties to Benjamin.” Ben opened his mouth to say something but decided against it after the frigid look she gave him.

  “What do you want to do?” Mercer asked. He agreed to protect her, and if she wanted to leave Styler to face Armann’s crosshairs alone, then so be it. Mercer and his team would find another way to proceed.

  “I’m not leaving. For all I know, my dad could be a part of this.” She shook her head, disgusted. “When I accused him of being involved, all he said was ‘we’ll talk about this later’.” She cleared her throat, solidifying her resolve. “He drove my mother away. And he has done nothing but lie since the engagement. How could he have Ben investigated and fail to tell me about it?” She continued to shake her head. “I’m not going back there.”

  “Kat, listen, I don’t want to come between you and your dad,” Ben said, and Mercer felt his headache returning.

  “No? You sent him photos. What did you think would happen?” She took a deep breath and composed herself, turning back to Mercer. Noting the annoyed look on his face, she tossed him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I will try to keep our personal drama to a minimum.” A nurse came into the room and checked Styler’s stats, recording them on a sheet. As soon as she left, Katia cleared her throat and paced the room. “Now what do we do? They’re ready to kick us out.”

  “I’ll have a word with the police officers outside. Maybe they can delay the hospital staff from sending you home so soon.” Mercer returned to the hallway, but the two officers that had been stationed outside were gone. “The cafeteria must have made fresh donuts,” he griped, glancing around and spotting the nurse from earlier. “Excuse me, miss,” she turned, and he offered the friendliest smile he was capable of producing, “my friend’s life may still be in danger. Is there any way to delay his release?”

  “I can assure you that he is perfectly fine. Gunshot wounds can be particularly traumatic, but unfortunately, we deal with them almost every day. There’s no need to worry. Like I told him and his fiancée, he should feel right as rain in a few weeks.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Mercer shifted his gaze around the empty hallway, not remembering it ever being this desolate. “Is something going on?”

  “No, everything’s fine.”

  He could tell she was lying. “What happened to the protection detail?”

  “There was an incident downstairs in the ER, but like I said, everything is fine.”

  “What kind of incident? How long ago?” Mercer’s tone was urgent, but she just stared blankly at him. “I suggest you call security and the authorities.” She stood there, dumbfounded, unable to form a question. “Now,” he barked.

  “Sir,” her tone became sharp, “please do not address me in such a manner.”

  “Bollocks.” He reached across the desk and yanked the phone from its cradle. Dialing 911 while she voiced a protest, he waited for the operator to come on the line. “I’d like to report a shooting in progress.”

  She practically leapt across to grab the phone from him, but he swatted her away. Scanning the area, he shifted and opened his jacket. As soon as the gun came into view, she screamed and ran down the hallway. At least that should get security here quickly. As the operator continued to ask inane questions about his identity, location, and reason for the call, Katia opened the door.

  “Get back,” Mercer ordered, dropping the phone on the desk. “Close the door and stay low.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Do it.” He took a step toward her, and a shot rang out inches from his head. Had he not moved, it would have pierced through his brain. He shoved her backward into the room. “Armann.”

  “Mercer,” Isaac smiled, enjoying the game, “it’s a shame you moved. I would have made it quick.” He fired again, and Mercer ducked into a doorway, pulling his Sig and returning fire. “Stand down, and we won’t have a problem.”

  “Fuck you,” Mercer hissed, breaking cover and firing three times, but Armann crouched behind a medicine cart. The bullets lodged ineffectually into the metal. “How’d you get out of the bloody car before the police arrived?”

  “Details.” Armann scurried from position to position. “You should have killed me when you had the chance. And here I thought you were a worthy adversary.” He let out a chortle. “Had I realized you were just another simpering pussy, I wouldn’t have bothered to extend such a courtesy to you.” He laughed again, firing as Mercer vaulted over the nurse’s station and behind the circular desk. “Then again, if you had the balls, you would have killed me after that pathetic stunt with the car.”

  “Rubbish.” Mercer stood, firing repeatedly in Armann’s direction and forcing the man to retreat back behind the medicine cart. Keeping count of the bullets, Mercer fired twice more and hesitated, hoping Armann would fall for the trap.

  “Just tell me what room Styler’s in. One between the eyes, and I’ll be on my way.” Armann didn’t move from his spot. Julian had one bullet remaining before he had to reload, and he palmed the extra clip, prepared to fire, eject, and reload in one fluid motion. The only problem was Armann wasn’t moving. “I studied your gun, and I can count just as well as you can. How stupid do you think I am?”

  “A hair above plankton,” Mercer growled as heavy footsteps sounded in the distance. “But I’m gu
essing that might be giving you too much credit.”

  “Good. I hoped you would underestimate me. It’ll make this easier.” Armann pushed the cart forward, remaining behind it, and Mercer fired once and reloaded. The new magazine was locked into place before the old one even hit the ground, but in that time, Armann bashed into the first room he came across. It wasn’t Styler’s, and from the lack of sound, it was either empty or belonged to a comatose patient. “Oh where, oh where, can he be?” Armann sang out, returning to his position behind the cart and scooting it forward in order to repeat the process with the next room in the hallway.

  Left with no other choice, Julian cleared the desk and ran full force into the cart. Armann was knocked back by the sudden impact but came up firing. Mercer narrowly avoided the bullet whizzing past and slammed into the cart again, but Armann was prepared this time and turned his hip to absorb the impact as he continued to fire, grazing Mercer’s shoulder and forcing the ex-SAS to duck into one of the patient rooms. Mercer pressed his back against the open door and used the reflection from a nearby window to glance around the corner.

  “CPD, drop your weapons,” a voice called.

  Julian spotted a few cops and hospital security approaching from one end of the hallway, and the reflection in the glass showed another few men coming up behind Armann, boxing him in. They moved in groups of two and three, slowly taking up cover positions. Guns were drawn, and it seemed plausible they planned to shoot first and ask questions later. Not that Mercer had any particular issue with the use of extreme prejudice in this situation, but he didn’t necessarily want to get hit by friendly fire either.

  “Looks like we have ourselves a standoff.” Armann smiled, ducking into the adjacent room to where Julian was taking cover. The two men made eye contact through the reflection in the metallic medicine cart, and Armann’s icy blue eyes held nothing but psychotic amusement. “Damn, this is turning out to be a lot more fun than I bargained for. Do you think I can collect overtime pay?”