I, Weapon Page 20

  “Sometimes you’re too clever for your own good. However, in this instance… You can tell me another time.”

  “Very good, sir,” Griffith said. “Shall I proceed with the checkpoints?”

  There was more silence. It went on longer than before. Finally, Martinez spoke. “No! Given the nature of this…and given your hints…what you’re not telling me, I mean. The checkpoints are too flashy. I do not like flashy in a dangerous situation like this.”

  “Sir,” Griffith said. “Apprehension of the assassin is paramount.”

  “I will tell you want is paramount. This is a fireball, a possible political tsunami. You must realize that.”

  “I am aware of the political ramifications of this, yes, sir.”

  “No. You’re a theoretician who approaches these problems with an intellectual rigor, but who forgets the human angle. You hide in your dungeon thinking up delusional plots.”

  Griffith bit back a retort. He had information on Martinez, some choice tidbits that he’d been saving for an emergency. This wasn’t the time or place to unveil the information. Martinez simply followed his usual pattern: listening to a problem until he reached his decision. Then the acid tongue appeared. He must listen carefully now and decide if Martinez was going to try to hinder him.

  The head of Homeland Security was breathing harder over the line. “Occasionally, these plots of yours surface like a tunneling mole that has taken a wrong turn. They are hideous when seen in the light of day and even worse, they are dangerous.”

  “Political landmines, sir?” Griffith asked.

  “You’re treading on thin ice by taking that tone with me,” Martinez said. “If you want to lock horns, amigo—”

  “I would not dream of it, sir. You’re the political appointee and I’m merely a technician, an expert in my narrow field of eliminating unwanted problems.”

  There was silence until Martinez cleared his throat. “Do this in the dark. You hatched this—no. You managed to obtain critical information and acted upon it with astonishing speed. I want it fixed quickly and far away from the public eye. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And do it without invoking Homeland Security. This is a political fireball, and I do not it want to stain my name or reputation. You will work without notifying me until you have killed the assassin and provided the needed documentation to prove your allegations. This must be airtight. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Abundantly, sir. I suspected I would have to operate ‘in the dark,’ as you say, from the beginning.”

  “August is the dead season around here,” Martinez said softly. “You’ve picked the right time to try this.”

  “Picked, sir?”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game with this one. I am not fooled. Don’t forget that.” Martinez paused. “Shut down the sobriety checkpoints now. Do you understand me?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” and with that, Martinez hung up.

  Griffith’s lips drew back in frustration. If everything had gone as planned last night, he would have already sent Martinez the pertinent video and information. This situation—no, he needed to act now not ponder about might-have-beens. He was not one of the trimmers, but the man who acted, who got things done. He opened channels with his personnel in the other room.

  “Shut down the checkpoints,” he said.

  “Now, sir?” the operative asked.

  “Immediately,” Griffith said.

  “Yes, sir, at once.”

  Griffith heard the surprise in the man’s voice. The checkpoints were a good idea. Bannon had to be headed for Parker. These Day Tripper assassins always acted to form. They always returned to the origin point. Since he couldn’t use the police right now, he would have to call up more ATS operatives. It was time to take down Bannon when the man made his move in Santa Clara.

  -33-

  At 8:47 AM, Bannon approached the sobriety checkpoint on Highway 17 in his Nissan. The vast highway stoppage was slowly beginning to move again as the CHP took down their barriers. From a distance, Bannon saw SWAT members cradling submachine guns climb into an armored car and drive away.

  This must have been for me. Then why did they dismantle it?

  Eleven minutes later, Bannon drove past the former checkpoint. In another two minutes, he was up to sixty-five, moving fast toward the Bay Area and Santa Clara specifically.

  The checkpoint caused the wheels in Bannon’s mind to turn faster. ATS used the police, and the number of police under their control was growing. He might not be able to reach the ATS Building across from Great America.

  Bannon mulled that over. At a certain point, it was nearly impossible to slip into a place if it was guarded too heavily. The checkpoint on 17, what did it tell him?

  One, taking his time in Santa Cruz had saved him from traveling up 17 too soon. Two, the number of police under ATS control was growing fast. That only made sense. They had slain a Supreme Court Justice of the United States. That wasn’t supposed to happen; didn’t happen. Assassins went after American presidents, but hadn’t until now gone after the Supremes. The power of the Supreme Court had been growing these last decades. The political battles waged in the highest court almost mandated this: that someone would eventually take out Justices in order to put in other Justices more malleable to the people in power.

  None of this is helping me find my wife.

  After the Los Zetas attack, he’d landed in San Francisco Airport and phoned Parker. Maybe that’s what he needed to do now, phone her.

  Bannon chewed that over. Dare he speak with Parker? What tripwires might they have placed in his mind?

  He thought about that for the next several miles. Each mile closer increased an inner desire to head straight for the Institute and see Parker. Scowling, he wondered if that was his thought alone or if they’d programmed him to go to Parker after the completion of a mission.

  As he neared Los Gatos, he slowed as the turnoff for the 280 Interstate approached. His head began to hurt and he found his vision blurring.

  There’s your proof. Your mind isn’t one hundred percent.

  He squeezed the steering wheel. He was going to find his wife. To do that, he had to outthink the neurologists and psychiatrists and to overcome Day Tripper 7.

  Bannon floored the accelerator as the Nissan zoomed toward the turnoff. He would have to risk a phone call. He would prerecord himself a message in case they successfully tampered with his mind. The tattoos had helped him before. A prerecording should help even more.

  The interstate approached—Bannon turned hard, and the Nissan took the turnoff fast. Bannon lightly touched the brake as he rode the turn, barreling along as if he was in the Demon rollercoaster at Great America.

  Before he did any phoning, he’d take a little detour.

  ***

  Bannon stopped at an electronics superstore along the way, buying a recorder. He spoke a message to himself into the recorder as he switched onto the 101. The San Francisco Bay was to his right and the freeway was surrounded by Bay Area cities: Palo Alto, Redwood City, San Mateo and San Bruno.

  Finally, he pulled into the San Francisco Airport, parking the Nissan. He left his weapons in the car and strode for the Pan Am terminal. He followed his instincts, heading for a particular restroom.

  Entering a door-less restroom, Bannon moved slowly. A teenager wearing iPod earbuds stood at a urinal. In one of the closed stalls, a toilet flushed. A tall Asian man in a business suit exited, heading for the sinks.

  Bannon closed his eyes. He thought about Parker, about calling her. When he opened his eyes, his feet were already moving for the fourth stall. He entered the narrow space, locked the door behind him and lifted the porcelain toilet cover. He flushed. It was loud in these confines. As the water drained from the tank, he reached down and extracted a small, dull yellow container. He twisted it open and found a locker key, with the number 43.

  He put everything in his pockets, washed his hand
s at the sink and wondered which—his head turned left. Once again, he found his feet moving without consciously knowing where he was going.

  Soon enough, he stood before a bank of lockers. He went to 43 and inserted the key. Inside the locker were a wallet and a cell phone. A grim feeling of déjà vu filled him. He had done this before, many times before, in fact. Each scenario…had ended in Parker’s office in Santa Clara.

  She gelded me, the witch.

  Bannon weighed the cell phone in his hand. It was sleek, thin and black. He put it in his pocket. Then he checked the wallet. The driver’s license showed him as Gemmell; the address was the same one in Sacramento.

  Bannon strode out of the locker area and exited the terminal, heading back for the parking lot. A mixture of emotions flooded him. This was a gamble. But then so was everything after a certain point. They were waiting for him. America likely wanted him dead for killing—they believed—Justice Blake.

  He took a deep breath, heading to his stolen Nissan Murano. He unlocked the door and sat down. Fortunately, the car was in the shade. Taking out the recorder and sharpie pen, he wrote on the masking tape he’d already set in place. Then he leaned the recorder on the panel glass in the middle.

  Are you ready?

  The answer was no, but he took out the cell phone anyway. Feeling as if he was dreaming, Bannon checked his contacts and found Parker’s number. He clicked a button, put the cell to his ear and waited.

  “Bannon?” Parker asked five seconds later.

  “Just a minute,” Bannon said.

  “No! Wait,” she said. Then she shouted, “Rhetorical conscience!”

  Bannon had been in the process of pulling the cell phone away from his ear. He stopped as he heard the words. Feeling even dreamier, he put the cell against his ear and asked, “What was that? What did you say?”

  “Rhetorical conscience,” Parker said breathlessly.

  Bannon blinked as his consciousness began to shut down. There might have been a wail inside his head, but that blanked out as the tripwire long ago put in for a day like this made his consciousness recede.

  “Can you hear me?” Parker asked.

  The man sitting in the silver Nissan stared blankly at the airport. He was unaware of what this place really was. He felt unattached, with nothing occurring in his mind in way of thoughts.

  “If you can hear my voice,” Parker said, “say yes.”

  “Yes,” the man said, although the word meant nothing to him.

  “Repeat after me,” Parker said. “I am Gemmell and I mow lawns in Sacramento.”

  The man in the Nissan repeated the words, but that’s all they were: words.

  “Are you carrying a memory stick?” Parker asked.

  The man stared blankly at a jumbo jet climbing into the sky.

  “You are now Gemmell, with all of Gemmell’s personality. You trust me because I’m Dr. Parker.”

  Another change occurred to the man in the Nissan. Day Tripper 7, the many sessions with Parker, the various personalities embedded within his being, they swirled in a mental whirlpool until one appeared like Athena from the head of Zeus, coming forth fully formed.

  Gemmell blinked several times, and he was astonished to find himself sitting in a Nissan Murano at the San Francisco Airport. The last thing he remembered…he had been at home in Sacramento, turning on the hot water tap in the kitchen.

  “Gemmell?” Parker asked.

  “Yes?”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Disoriented. I don’t know how I got here.”

  “That’s understandable,” she said in a soothing voice. “We’ve been doing an experiment, you and I. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Okay, that’s good to hear.” Gemmell grinned. Knowing this was an experiment was a big relief.

  “Part of the experiment is a memory stick,” Dr. Parker said. “See if there is one on you.”

  With a puzzled look, Gemmell checked his pockets and he indeed found a memory stick. This was sick. How had she known about it?

  “You’re right, Doctor.” He held the memory stick in his palm. It was short and stubby, encased with ridged and hardened rubber. “I have one.”

  “Very good,” she said. “You pass the test.”

  “What did we test?”

  “I want you to come to Santa Clara. You need to come in right away.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t speed,” Parker said. “But hurry.”

  “Is something wrong?” he asked. She sounded worried, but also as if she was trying to hide it.

  “No, no, everything is fine. It’s just that I have an appointment I need to go to later. Can I expect you to be prompt?”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Gemmell wondered why she asked him that. He was always on time. Fred at the gym said it was because he was single and had too much time on his hands.

  “Don’t stop to do anything else on the way,” Parker said. “Do you understand?”

  “I do. Don’t worry.”

  “Good-bye, Gemmell. I hope to see you soon.”

  “Me too,” he said. He hung up and tossed the cell phone onto the passenger-side seat.

  -34-

  Parker set down the phone. “It’s done,” she said. “Gemmell—I mean Bannon—is on his way in.”

  She saw Max Malone scowl. He sat in her office, reminding Parker of an angry Rottweiler. She had one at home. They were supposed to be a good family watchdog, and most of the time that proved true. Sometimes, however, Rottweilers turned on the family, becoming vicious and biting the hand that fed them. Several things about Max troubled her. One of those things included the shiftiness of his eyes when she asked about Susan. And he couldn’t keep his eyes off her cleavage.

  She found that it both disarmed and confused the physical specimens if she wore sexy shirts. In that way, Karl had been different. He’d had control over his baser instincts. Men like Max were like Rottweilers, like dogs, when it came to beautiful women. They stared and the predicable nature of it had always given her confidence. Max’s intensity said something different, something more aggressive and predatory. Despite that difference, one constant still remained. When men studied a woman’s cleavage, they forgot about her mind.

  Max proved her right as he asked, “Are you sure Bannon wasn’t simply faking the call? Maybe he acted like Gemmell to trick you.”

  Parker raised an eyebrow.

  That deepened Max’s scowl. He was a killer, powerfully exuding that aspect of himself. Despite that, he could never be an assassin like Bannon, but would forever remain a simple cleanup man.

  “Bannon might have just told you what he thought you wanted to hear,” Max said, repeating himself and proving he was just another dull animal instead of a thinker.

  “Is that your procedure during a date?” Parker asked, sarcastically. “Telling the girl what you think she wants to hear?”

  “What’s that got to do with this?” he asked, sounding indignant.

  “I’ve handled Bannon long enough to know his personalities. There are various triggers and traits that are impossible to fake.”

  “So what about the bruise on your throat?” Max asked. “Did you figure he would do that, or did you make a mistake with him the day he escaped?”

  “He was in turmoil then, difficult to read.” She shook her head. “But why am I telling you? He is coming in as docile as a lamb.”

  “Maybe. My men are still ready and so are Snow’s guards.”

  “You will withdraw them now,” Parker said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Unlike the hookers you pay to soothe your ego, I am uninterested in your beliefs. You will stand down and let Gemmell walk into my office.”

  Max’s scowl disappeared and turned into a grin. “Lady, I’m not standing down until I hear the order from your father.”

  “Do you want me to call him?” she asked, showing Max her cell phone.

  “Be my guest,” he said.

  “Y
ou listen to me—”

  Max leaned forward sharply, surprising her. He moved with such speed. He glanced at her cleavage before staring into her eyes. “I understand your father is the Controller. And I don’t want to make you angry.”

  “You’re going about this the wrong way then,” she said.

  “Normally I’d care about what you think. But this hombre Bannon has murdered a Supreme Court Justice. He has to go down, and I’m the one who’s going to do it. I promised your father as much.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “Partly,” he said. “It’s also that Bannon has tricked us more than once already. I’m not going to let him trick us again.”

  Parker straightened the blotter on her desk before looking up, and saying, “Do you understand that I know more about the assassin than anyone else?”

  “Hey, I’ve been reporting to you for a long time. Yeah, I know you know your stuff. What I’m telling you is that Bannon or Gemmell, whatever you want to call him, has gone off the reservation. He’s back to being the killer. If he’s coming in, it isn’t to lie on your couch and take more green pills.”

  Parker grew still. There was something in Max’s tone, in his manner, which made him believe he had an advantage over her. She could see that now. She knew all about Max Malone and his various psychoses. He would never speak like this unless he had an edge. What was his advantage over her? She leaned back in her chair observing him.

  “I’m here to kill Bannon,” Max said.

  “No. You’re here to guard me.”

  “I think it’s time you called your father.”

  Parker leaned forward, putting her hands on the desk and showing off more of her cleavage. “What are you hiding, Max?”

  Wariness entered his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re hiding something from me. It’s obvious, at least to me it is.”

  “If I am hiding something,” he said, “it’s nothing that I know about.”

  “You’re lying.”

  His features tightened. He obviously didn’t like hearing that.