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dochermes"Our Policy Is Deceit, Betrayal and Death"
12/2/2009
I.
The man on the floor of the hotel room was alive. Closing the door to the hallway behind him, Jeremy Bane paused to continue watching and listening. He was already certain no one else was in the suite, but long-held habits of prudence led him to check the bathroom and closet with one hand on the butt of his gun. Finally satisfied, he went back to crouch over the stupefied man he had come so far to see.
Jeremy Bane was wearing his usual outfit. Slacks, turtleneck and sports jacket, all black. None of the dozen small weapons and gadgets concealed in his clothing showed. There was no visible sign of the matched silver daggers under his sleeves. The Dire Wolf was a gaunt man just over six feet tall, with short black hair and heavy brows over a pair of cold grey eyes that remained watchful. He glanced around again once more suspiciously. The hotel suite featured a dining area with a round table and four comfortable chairs, separated from the main room by an open wooden framework.
On the dining table was a nearly empty bottle of Hennesy's Triple-X, a half-empty pitcher of water and two tumblers. The smell of the cognac was heavy in the air, since some had been spilled.
Facedown on the chilly floor was a man who did not respond to Bane shaking him. Davis McNeil was a few inches over six feet tall, muscular in a subdued way that showed through his white T-shirt and dress pants. Bane turned him over onto his back, taking his pulse and placing his free hand on the man's chest. Both pulse and breathing were steady and strong, which was a relief. McNeil's mouth was wide open and he started snoring in the new position.
The agent's face was much as Bane remembered it from ten years earlier. Dark red hair, thick and unruly. An angular, bony face with ragged eyebrows and thin lips. But the jawline was not as firm as it had been, there were deep lines around the mouth and the skin looked dry and unhealthy. Bane tried again to roust the man but received only a low mumbling for his efforts.
"The hard way, then," he said out loud. Grabbing McNeil under both arms, Bane lifted him up to his feet with an ease that revealed he was much stronger than he looked. The Dire Wolf hauled the agent through the open bathroom door and positioned him on his knees with his head in the gleaming shower cabinet. Holding him that way, Bane reached up and turned on the water. First fairly hot, then adjusting it to become gradually colder. McNeil sputtered and gasped, tried ineffectually to struggle and eventually accepted the icy pounding.
After a few more minutes, the agent said clearly, "All right. All RIGHT! You've made your point."
Bane let him sit up and handed him a towel. As McNeil rubbed his head dry, the Dire Wolf stepped back and regarded him unsympathetically.
"I could have been a STIGMA agent coming in," the Dire Wolf said. "You'd be the easiest hit ever."
"Oh, shut up," grumbled McNeil. He stared up through bleary green eyes and made a scoffing noise. "Jeremy? Really, Jeremy Bane here?"
"It's been a while," the Dire Wolf said. He reached down to take McNeil's hand and yanked the big redhead up to his feet. "Come on. We need to talk."
"What time is it? Noon yet?"
"It's seven o'clock at night," Bane told him. "Tuesday."
"Ah, plenty of time then," McNeil said. He finished drying his face and ran fingers through his hair before tossing the towel on top of a hamper in the corner. Davis McNeil took a few deep breaths to steady himself and walked firmly out to join his visitor.
He made a wounded noise as he saw Bane emptying the cognac bottle and tumbler in the sink, then rinsing them out. "Here now! That's uncalled for."
"You have been sent here to die," the Dire Wolf snapped.
McNeil dropped heavily into one of the chairs by the dining table. He took a long gulp of the water and sighed. "You look exactly the same, Jeremy. How come you don't go downhill like the rest of us?"
"Did you hear what I just said?"
"No."
Bane came over, pulled out a chair and sat down facing the redhead. "Let this sink in. Your chief sent you here to be killed. The Mandate wants to be rid of you."
"Nah. Not with my record."
"You were one of the best," Bane agreed. "You broke up the Speckle brothers gang. You stopped the Question Mark project. You even brought in Wither, although he later got away as usual. But honestly, Davis, all that was too long ago."
McNeil poured the rest of the water from the pitcher into his tumbler and studied it. "Admittedly, I have been in a bit of a slump lately."
"You had two assignments this year and you screwed them both up. In the first, you almost got yourself killed and spent two weeks in the hospital. The second job, you almost got everyone else killed instead and your chief had to send in back-up. It's the drinking, why kid yourself? The Mandate sees you as a liability."
"Say, how do you know all this? You aren't cleared on any level as far as I know." McNeil asked.
"I have methods that ordinary Human security can't stop," said Bane. "You've heard of Tel Shai. Never mind that now. The question is, what is going to happen to you?"
McNeil sat in sullen silence, staring down at his shoes.
"Now," Bane went on, "I know why you're here in Denver. I know you have a detached partner, as they call it, another Mandate agent who is standing nearby if he needs to intervene. Harry Huber. He is part of the plan to dispose of you."
"You know.. it's coming back to me about when we worked together. The thing I liked about you, Jeremy, was that you always had a plan or two ready."
The faintest smile showed on the Dire Wolf's face. "I have a plan right now..."
II.
An hour later, Davis McNeil had taken a full shower and shaved. Dressed in a neat tailored dark blue suit with a powder blue shirt and Navy blue tie, he was an acceptable figure except for the bloodshot eyes. Bane had ordered a double serving of the fish and chips meal from room service, as well as a pot of black coffee. When the porter delivered the food, Bane was careful to be well out of sight. He did not want to be seen tonight if he could at all avoid it.
Watching McNeil dig into the food and drink the coffee, the Dire Wolf took a piece of the fish and half the chips for himself. "I thought maybe you had not been eating properly the past few days," he said. Bane did not drink coffee. With his accelerated metabolism, caffeine was the last thing he needed.
"I've been through some stress," grumbled McNeil. "It's a tough life."
"Your drinking is a big part of why your organization has planned your death tonight."
"Look, I get my sermons in church," the redhead said through a mouthful of food. "I'm a big boy."
The Dire Wolf got the tumbler he had rinsed out and poured a glass of water for himself, then went back to sit facing the agent. "I don't intend to give you any lectures, Davis. But you did good work when we chased Samhain all those years ago. Together we saved some lives and took that maniac out of action for a while. So I want to help you tonight if I can."
"Feh. Yes, I should be bigger about this. Thanks, Jeremy. You've always tried to do the right thing, which is more than I can say about myself."
Bane could not sit still for long. The hyper metabolism which gave him his extra speed also made him jumpy and restless. As he spoke, he got up and started moving around the hotel suite. "I have no respect for the Mandate anymore. They have tried to use me a freelance weapon so many times, and more than once they have set me up as a fall guy."
"I understand the organization has been useful to you on occasion, though."
"Oh yes," Bane admitted. "When I need to have a slaughter cleaned up without the media finding out, or when I capture some maniac too dangerous for the courts, I've called the Mandate in. For a group that is supposed to be merely an investigative branch of the Department of Justice, your group sure operates on their own intiative. They don't seem to be under much supervision."
McNeil was finishing up the meal. He looked better with some food and coffee behind his belt. Watching Bane pace, the agent said, "A while ago, Seth Petrov took over as Director of the New York offices. You have some history with him."
"You could say that," Bane agreed mildly.
"Then he disappeared. Just didn't show up one day. No one ever found out what happened to him. Would you know anything about that, Jeremy?"
The Dire Wolf did not answer directly. "It's a risky profession. The Mandate has a history of getting rid of its own people. When you know too much-- as you do, Davis-- you're considered a risk to security. Not many Mandate operatives get to retire peacefully."
"Our policy is 'Deceit, Betrayal and Death.' I know that. It might as well be painted on the walls." McNeil finished his coffee and slid the cup on its saucer off to one side. "I can tell you that I have my own 'spy parachute' set up. Enough money to be comfortable, a little apartment in Manila, some decent IDs and as much anonymity as I can manage."
"Good," said Bane. "After tonight, you should use your parachute. Okay. For the past few weeks I have been reading the computer records and listening to the phone calls of your unit chief. Don't ask how. Your instructions were to be waiting by the elevator to this hotel's underground garage tonight. Two-thirty AM. A man named Peter Rahmberg will be arriving. When he parks his car and heads for the elevator, your orders are to take two shots at him but narrowly miss. Then you run up the ramp to street level where your pal Huber will be waiting with a vehicle."
"Yeah. I've actually done this before. The idea is to frighten Rahhmberg enough that he changes his mind about something... he's probably testifying in court or going ahead with a lawsuit, something like that. They thought I didn't need to know why we were scaring him." McNeil fastened his green eyes on Bane, picked up the last chip from the meal and waited.
The Dire Wolf came back over and leaned down, resting his weight on his extended arms braced on the top of the dining table. "What I've learned is that there will be a third man in that garage tonight. An experienced, cold assassin hired by Rahmberg as a bodyguard. I don't know his real name, he's called the Romeo for some reason. After you fire, he will shoot you dead and claim he was protecting Rahmberg. The Mandate will have a terrified witness willing to go along with them, and they will have gotten you out of the way."
"Bastards," muttered McNeil. "Oh, I always knew they were heartless. But this is carrying Deceit, Betrayal and Death a bit too far to suit me. And what're your thoughts on this?"
Bane leaned forward and the faintest predatory smile crossed his narrow face. "What they don't know is that I will be in that garage tonight, too."
III.
The Coddington was more a resort than a mere hotel, and its underground garage had two levels. The attendant sat in an enclosed booth at the top of the ramp from where the parking spaces where arrayed, watching the security monitors indifferently and paying more attention to his text messages.
An elevator from the lobby opened to the garage, facing the ramp. This was where Davis McNeil had been instructed by his superiors to wait for his target. It was a quarter to three in the morning, the garage was chilly and silent. No cars had entered or left for an hour. Then, with the subdued purr of a well-tuned engine, a shiny black BMW rolled down the ramp, made a two-point turn and backed into its designated spot. Painted on the concrete floor were designations and the BMW came to a stop over the number 321. The front passenger door opened and an obese man struggled slightly to get out and on his feet.
Emerging from behind the wheel was a tall thin man in a dark suit, wearing tinted glasses. He had dark blonde hair which seemed to have been partially burned away over his left temple, leaving a patch of scar tissue. Romeo stood glaring about in all directions as Rahmberg retrieved a briefcase and came around to join him. The two men spoke in hushed tones for a few minutes.
Twenty yards to their left, a third man crouched behind a maroon Lexus, fingertips resting on the cold floor. Harry Huber could not help smiling. All this had been his initiative, he had suggested it to his unit's director. With McNeil dead and out of the way at last, an opening would be available for Huber to move up with a new pay grade and perhaps an office all his own. The Mandate agent held his breath. Everything depended on McNeil now. If that broken-down alky just carried out his instructions correctly for once...
Huber never sensed the gaunt form which crept up behind him more silently than a moth. He had only a split-second's awareness of feeling two strong hands seize his head and then the concrete floor was impacting his forehead with a force just short of being fatal. Everything was a vague haze of pain and disorientation for him after that.
Jeremy Bane clenched the fingers of his right hand in the back of Huber's suit jacket, while he dug with his left hand into the holster on Huber's belt. Ah, a Heckler & Koch, he thought. Bane straightened up and snapped off two shots seemingly without aiming. The bullets whined past Rahmberg, close enough that he felt their backwash, and one slug ricocheted off a steel supporting pillar.
In the next half-second, Romeo shoved Rahmberg roughly aside, whipped up his own Ruger LCP and blasted off three shots toward the attacker. In that half-second, the Dire Wolf had crouched down and hauled the stunned Huber upright. One bullet from Romeo missed, but the remaining two tore through Huber's face and throat. Even as he dropped the dying Mandate agent, Bane stood and fired again. His final shot caught Romeo exactly in the left side of the chest, leaving the assassin only a stab of burning pain and the briefest instant of confusion as to what was going on.
It took a few seconds for the horrified Rahmberg to react. Even then, he was moving on mere panic when he struggled back into his car and revved the motor, peeling out and tearing up the exit ramp as fast as he could accelerate. He would plunge right past the attendant booth without even noticing, much less slowing or handing over his ticket.
Calmly and coldly, Bane folded the dead Huber's fingers around the grip of the man's own handgun. He would love to hear how the forensic squad would argue over whether Huber had shot Romeo first or the other way around. Snapping off black latex gloves and jamming them in a pocket to be disposed off in a little while, the Dire Wolf raced across the underground garage to where McNeil waited.
"I could just follow what happened," the big redhead began, but Bane cut him off. They were standing by a metal exit door with a horizontal press bar. The Dire Wolf slammed the bar and led McNeil outside into the night.
"Never mind the alarms," Bane said as the siren began to wail behind them. "The attendant was sure to have heard gunfire and he's already calling the cops." Just ahead of them was Bane's grey Toyota Matrix and he rushed McNeil into the passenger seat before jumping behind the wheel himself. The Dire Wolf swung the car around, rolled over a grassy median and exited onto a side street. In a minute, he was cruising down the main highway just over the speed limit.
"Now we get you to the airport," Bane told him. "You already have a ticket to Miami, from there you'll have to make it to the Phillipines. But you've done this before."
"Oh, sure," McNeil said. "I've got a variety of passports all set up that will fool any TSA peon. Manila is going to be my retirement home." He turned his head and looked behind him, but of course the Coddington plaza was far out of sight by now. "That was damn slick, Jeremy. It'll appear that Romeo and Huber snuffed each other."
"It's hard to think of two goons who deserved it more," Bane said. "I love arranging things so the schemer falls into the pit he digs for another."
6/11/2016
12/2/2009
I.
The man on the floor of the hotel room was alive. Closing the door to the hallway behind him, Jeremy Bane paused to continue watching and listening. He was already certain no one else was in the suite, but long-held habits of prudence led him to check the bathroom and closet with one hand on the butt of his gun. Finally satisfied, he went back to crouch over the stupefied man he had come so far to see.
Jeremy Bane was wearing his usual outfit. Slacks, turtleneck and sports jacket, all black. None of the dozen small weapons and gadgets concealed in his clothing showed. There was no visible sign of the matched silver daggers under his sleeves. The Dire Wolf was a gaunt man just over six feet tall, with short black hair and heavy brows over a pair of cold grey eyes that remained watchful. He glanced around again once more suspiciously. The hotel suite featured a dining area with a round table and four comfortable chairs, separated from the main room by an open wooden framework.
On the dining table was a nearly empty bottle of Hennesy's Triple-X, a half-empty pitcher of water and two tumblers. The smell of the cognac was heavy in the air, since some had been spilled.
Facedown on the chilly floor was a man who did not respond to Bane shaking him. Davis McNeil was a few inches over six feet tall, muscular in a subdued way that showed through his white T-shirt and dress pants. Bane turned him over onto his back, taking his pulse and placing his free hand on the man's chest. Both pulse and breathing were steady and strong, which was a relief. McNeil's mouth was wide open and he started snoring in the new position.
The agent's face was much as Bane remembered it from ten years earlier. Dark red hair, thick and unruly. An angular, bony face with ragged eyebrows and thin lips. But the jawline was not as firm as it had been, there were deep lines around the mouth and the skin looked dry and unhealthy. Bane tried again to roust the man but received only a low mumbling for his efforts.
"The hard way, then," he said out loud. Grabbing McNeil under both arms, Bane lifted him up to his feet with an ease that revealed he was much stronger than he looked. The Dire Wolf hauled the agent through the open bathroom door and positioned him on his knees with his head in the gleaming shower cabinet. Holding him that way, Bane reached up and turned on the water. First fairly hot, then adjusting it to become gradually colder. McNeil sputtered and gasped, tried ineffectually to struggle and eventually accepted the icy pounding.
After a few more minutes, the agent said clearly, "All right. All RIGHT! You've made your point."
Bane let him sit up and handed him a towel. As McNeil rubbed his head dry, the Dire Wolf stepped back and regarded him unsympathetically.
"I could have been a STIGMA agent coming in," the Dire Wolf said. "You'd be the easiest hit ever."
"Oh, shut up," grumbled McNeil. He stared up through bleary green eyes and made a scoffing noise. "Jeremy? Really, Jeremy Bane here?"
"It's been a while," the Dire Wolf said. He reached down to take McNeil's hand and yanked the big redhead up to his feet. "Come on. We need to talk."
"What time is it? Noon yet?"
"It's seven o'clock at night," Bane told him. "Tuesday."
"Ah, plenty of time then," McNeil said. He finished drying his face and ran fingers through his hair before tossing the towel on top of a hamper in the corner. Davis McNeil took a few deep breaths to steady himself and walked firmly out to join his visitor.
He made a wounded noise as he saw Bane emptying the cognac bottle and tumbler in the sink, then rinsing them out. "Here now! That's uncalled for."
"You have been sent here to die," the Dire Wolf snapped.
McNeil dropped heavily into one of the chairs by the dining table. He took a long gulp of the water and sighed. "You look exactly the same, Jeremy. How come you don't go downhill like the rest of us?"
"Did you hear what I just said?"
"No."
Bane came over, pulled out a chair and sat down facing the redhead. "Let this sink in. Your chief sent you here to be killed. The Mandate wants to be rid of you."
"Nah. Not with my record."
"You were one of the best," Bane agreed. "You broke up the Speckle brothers gang. You stopped the Question Mark project. You even brought in Wither, although he later got away as usual. But honestly, Davis, all that was too long ago."
McNeil poured the rest of the water from the pitcher into his tumbler and studied it. "Admittedly, I have been in a bit of a slump lately."
"You had two assignments this year and you screwed them both up. In the first, you almost got yourself killed and spent two weeks in the hospital. The second job, you almost got everyone else killed instead and your chief had to send in back-up. It's the drinking, why kid yourself? The Mandate sees you as a liability."
"Say, how do you know all this? You aren't cleared on any level as far as I know." McNeil asked.
"I have methods that ordinary Human security can't stop," said Bane. "You've heard of Tel Shai. Never mind that now. The question is, what is going to happen to you?"
McNeil sat in sullen silence, staring down at his shoes.
"Now," Bane went on, "I know why you're here in Denver. I know you have a detached partner, as they call it, another Mandate agent who is standing nearby if he needs to intervene. Harry Huber. He is part of the plan to dispose of you."
"You know.. it's coming back to me about when we worked together. The thing I liked about you, Jeremy, was that you always had a plan or two ready."
The faintest smile showed on the Dire Wolf's face. "I have a plan right now..."
II.
An hour later, Davis McNeil had taken a full shower and shaved. Dressed in a neat tailored dark blue suit with a powder blue shirt and Navy blue tie, he was an acceptable figure except for the bloodshot eyes. Bane had ordered a double serving of the fish and chips meal from room service, as well as a pot of black coffee. When the porter delivered the food, Bane was careful to be well out of sight. He did not want to be seen tonight if he could at all avoid it.
Watching McNeil dig into the food and drink the coffee, the Dire Wolf took a piece of the fish and half the chips for himself. "I thought maybe you had not been eating properly the past few days," he said. Bane did not drink coffee. With his accelerated metabolism, caffeine was the last thing he needed.
"I've been through some stress," grumbled McNeil. "It's a tough life."
"Your drinking is a big part of why your organization has planned your death tonight."
"Look, I get my sermons in church," the redhead said through a mouthful of food. "I'm a big boy."
The Dire Wolf got the tumbler he had rinsed out and poured a glass of water for himself, then went back to sit facing the agent. "I don't intend to give you any lectures, Davis. But you did good work when we chased Samhain all those years ago. Together we saved some lives and took that maniac out of action for a while. So I want to help you tonight if I can."
"Feh. Yes, I should be bigger about this. Thanks, Jeremy. You've always tried to do the right thing, which is more than I can say about myself."
Bane could not sit still for long. The hyper metabolism which gave him his extra speed also made him jumpy and restless. As he spoke, he got up and started moving around the hotel suite. "I have no respect for the Mandate anymore. They have tried to use me a freelance weapon so many times, and more than once they have set me up as a fall guy."
"I understand the organization has been useful to you on occasion, though."
"Oh yes," Bane admitted. "When I need to have a slaughter cleaned up without the media finding out, or when I capture some maniac too dangerous for the courts, I've called the Mandate in. For a group that is supposed to be merely an investigative branch of the Department of Justice, your group sure operates on their own intiative. They don't seem to be under much supervision."
McNeil was finishing up the meal. He looked better with some food and coffee behind his belt. Watching Bane pace, the agent said, "A while ago, Seth Petrov took over as Director of the New York offices. You have some history with him."
"You could say that," Bane agreed mildly.
"Then he disappeared. Just didn't show up one day. No one ever found out what happened to him. Would you know anything about that, Jeremy?"
The Dire Wolf did not answer directly. "It's a risky profession. The Mandate has a history of getting rid of its own people. When you know too much-- as you do, Davis-- you're considered a risk to security. Not many Mandate operatives get to retire peacefully."
"Our policy is 'Deceit, Betrayal and Death.' I know that. It might as well be painted on the walls." McNeil finished his coffee and slid the cup on its saucer off to one side. "I can tell you that I have my own 'spy parachute' set up. Enough money to be comfortable, a little apartment in Manila, some decent IDs and as much anonymity as I can manage."
"Good," said Bane. "After tonight, you should use your parachute. Okay. For the past few weeks I have been reading the computer records and listening to the phone calls of your unit chief. Don't ask how. Your instructions were to be waiting by the elevator to this hotel's underground garage tonight. Two-thirty AM. A man named Peter Rahmberg will be arriving. When he parks his car and heads for the elevator, your orders are to take two shots at him but narrowly miss. Then you run up the ramp to street level where your pal Huber will be waiting with a vehicle."
"Yeah. I've actually done this before. The idea is to frighten Rahhmberg enough that he changes his mind about something... he's probably testifying in court or going ahead with a lawsuit, something like that. They thought I didn't need to know why we were scaring him." McNeil fastened his green eyes on Bane, picked up the last chip from the meal and waited.
The Dire Wolf came back over and leaned down, resting his weight on his extended arms braced on the top of the dining table. "What I've learned is that there will be a third man in that garage tonight. An experienced, cold assassin hired by Rahmberg as a bodyguard. I don't know his real name, he's called the Romeo for some reason. After you fire, he will shoot you dead and claim he was protecting Rahmberg. The Mandate will have a terrified witness willing to go along with them, and they will have gotten you out of the way."
"Bastards," muttered McNeil. "Oh, I always knew they were heartless. But this is carrying Deceit, Betrayal and Death a bit too far to suit me. And what're your thoughts on this?"
Bane leaned forward and the faintest predatory smile crossed his narrow face. "What they don't know is that I will be in that garage tonight, too."
III.
The Coddington was more a resort than a mere hotel, and its underground garage had two levels. The attendant sat in an enclosed booth at the top of the ramp from where the parking spaces where arrayed, watching the security monitors indifferently and paying more attention to his text messages.
An elevator from the lobby opened to the garage, facing the ramp. This was where Davis McNeil had been instructed by his superiors to wait for his target. It was a quarter to three in the morning, the garage was chilly and silent. No cars had entered or left for an hour. Then, with the subdued purr of a well-tuned engine, a shiny black BMW rolled down the ramp, made a two-point turn and backed into its designated spot. Painted on the concrete floor were designations and the BMW came to a stop over the number 321. The front passenger door opened and an obese man struggled slightly to get out and on his feet.
Emerging from behind the wheel was a tall thin man in a dark suit, wearing tinted glasses. He had dark blonde hair which seemed to have been partially burned away over his left temple, leaving a patch of scar tissue. Romeo stood glaring about in all directions as Rahmberg retrieved a briefcase and came around to join him. The two men spoke in hushed tones for a few minutes.
Twenty yards to their left, a third man crouched behind a maroon Lexus, fingertips resting on the cold floor. Harry Huber could not help smiling. All this had been his initiative, he had suggested it to his unit's director. With McNeil dead and out of the way at last, an opening would be available for Huber to move up with a new pay grade and perhaps an office all his own. The Mandate agent held his breath. Everything depended on McNeil now. If that broken-down alky just carried out his instructions correctly for once...
Huber never sensed the gaunt form which crept up behind him more silently than a moth. He had only a split-second's awareness of feeling two strong hands seize his head and then the concrete floor was impacting his forehead with a force just short of being fatal. Everything was a vague haze of pain and disorientation for him after that.
Jeremy Bane clenched the fingers of his right hand in the back of Huber's suit jacket, while he dug with his left hand into the holster on Huber's belt. Ah, a Heckler & Koch, he thought. Bane straightened up and snapped off two shots seemingly without aiming. The bullets whined past Rahmberg, close enough that he felt their backwash, and one slug ricocheted off a steel supporting pillar.
In the next half-second, Romeo shoved Rahmberg roughly aside, whipped up his own Ruger LCP and blasted off three shots toward the attacker. In that half-second, the Dire Wolf had crouched down and hauled the stunned Huber upright. One bullet from Romeo missed, but the remaining two tore through Huber's face and throat. Even as he dropped the dying Mandate agent, Bane stood and fired again. His final shot caught Romeo exactly in the left side of the chest, leaving the assassin only a stab of burning pain and the briefest instant of confusion as to what was going on.
It took a few seconds for the horrified Rahmberg to react. Even then, he was moving on mere panic when he struggled back into his car and revved the motor, peeling out and tearing up the exit ramp as fast as he could accelerate. He would plunge right past the attendant booth without even noticing, much less slowing or handing over his ticket.
Calmly and coldly, Bane folded the dead Huber's fingers around the grip of the man's own handgun. He would love to hear how the forensic squad would argue over whether Huber had shot Romeo first or the other way around. Snapping off black latex gloves and jamming them in a pocket to be disposed off in a little while, the Dire Wolf raced across the underground garage to where McNeil waited.
"I could just follow what happened," the big redhead began, but Bane cut him off. They were standing by a metal exit door with a horizontal press bar. The Dire Wolf slammed the bar and led McNeil outside into the night.
"Never mind the alarms," Bane said as the siren began to wail behind them. "The attendant was sure to have heard gunfire and he's already calling the cops." Just ahead of them was Bane's grey Toyota Matrix and he rushed McNeil into the passenger seat before jumping behind the wheel himself. The Dire Wolf swung the car around, rolled over a grassy median and exited onto a side street. In a minute, he was cruising down the main highway just over the speed limit.
"Now we get you to the airport," Bane told him. "You already have a ticket to Miami, from there you'll have to make it to the Phillipines. But you've done this before."
"Oh, sure," McNeil said. "I've got a variety of passports all set up that will fool any TSA peon. Manila is going to be my retirement home." He turned his head and looked behind him, but of course the Coddington plaza was far out of sight by now. "That was damn slick, Jeremy. It'll appear that Romeo and Huber snuffed each other."
"It's hard to think of two goons who deserved it more," Bane said. "I love arranging things so the schemer falls into the pit he digs for another."
6/11/2016
