The Nephilim Page 12

  Massively outnumbered and not well enough armed they'd gone down, all of them taking bullets and two of them falling. Only Barnes had still been standing at the end. Then they'd been captured, something that had shocked him. He'd expected to be killed, not placed in handcuffs.

  It was only when they'd found out that there were no other Treasury agents there, and that none of the FBI agents seemed to know what was happening, that they'd started to realise that something was wrong. Or at least he had. His colleagues were out of it by then. Unconscious and handcuffed to stretchers. Naturally he'd desperately tried to call Agent Thomison. Not on their phones since they had died for some reason, but on any phone he could lay his hands on. But even when they'd been being taken away in the ambulances no one had made the call for him no matter how many times he asked. They had however, told him that there were no other Treasury agents there. That they'd blundered into the take down of a serial killer. And that three more FBI agents as well as Hamilton were down because of their actions. How that could have happened he didn't know. It was all some sort of screw up. It had been a bad one. He knew that. But it wasn't theirs.

  The other agents had been angry – he guessed he could understand that since they didn't seem to know about Special Agent Hamilton. But even when he told them they had been reluctant to act. They wouldn't even have arrested Hamilton if he hadn't insisted. Right from the start it had seemed that the FBI was closing ranks. That was unprofessional.

  The whole botched operation had simply been one disaster after another, and Barnes was certain that this was going to be the next one. A bad one judging from the thunderous scowl on his supervisor’s face. He just didn't know how exactly it was going to go wrong.

  But looking at the piles of papers covering his supervisor's desk Barnes had an idea. He could see the photos of their phones sitting out in plain view, along with a pile of reports about them. Reports that should surely explain why all the phones had gone dead. But if they could recover the information on them then maybe they would finally have something to prove what they'd said as well. What he'd said anyway. The others weren't talking yet. They were probably lucky in that. Luckier than him anyway.

  “You've got the reports on the phones Sir?”

  There was no point in delaying the inevitable disaster that he knew was coming Barnes decided. It was like tearing off a plaster. Get it over with quickly. But when his supervisor abruptly glared at him he wondered if he was right to want that.

  “Yes we have. And do you know what we found on those phones you were issued?”

  Agent Barnes shook his head, already certain it would be bad. Everything was bad.

  “Nothing! Absolutely nothing!”

  The supervisor very nearly shouted it at him as if it was some sort of accusation. And yet there was nothing they could be accused of. They had done their job perfectly. It was everyone else who had let them down. Where had the rest of the task force been when they'd made the arrest? Why hadn't the FBI known what was happening? Where was Special Agent In Charge Thomison to sort everything out? And why had they released Special Agent Hamilton? Didn't they understand how dangerous he was?

  “Our techs are saying that the phones were all wiped with a virus that had been preloaded on to them. So no phones, no recorded messages and no proof of anything. At this stage it's beginning to look as though you simply drove up on to an active scene and opened fire on Special Agent Hamilton. Certainly every bit of evidence we've got shows that.”

  “He had a gun!”

  “He was in the middle of a shoot out caused by your own blundering. Of course he had a gun!” This time the supervisor did give in to his anger and started shouting. “But it was empty and the FBI's own video shows that it wasn't pointed at any of you, and that you gave him no chance to come peacefully. You just screamed “gun” and opened fire. What the hell were you thinking?!”

  “That he was a dangerous criminal! That he had killed one Treasury agent already! That others were under fire! That we didn't want to be killed ourselves!” And though he was beginning to doubt that it would count for anything, it was the truth. Barnes and the others had been frightened. And Hamilton had had a gun in his hand. And he had started to point it at them. Or at least, he thought he had.

  “Ahh the dead agent.” The supervisor suddenly turned away so he couldn't see his face and grew strangely quiet and that was somehow even more frightening than when he'd been shouting. “What was his name again?”

  “Agent Philip Ogden of the Washington Office.” That at least Barnes could tell him. He'd read the files and knew it cover to cover.

  “And did you know that there has never been an Agent Philip Ogden in Treasury? We checked.”

  For a moment Agent Barnes thought he'd misheard. Because it couldn't possibly be that the supervisor had said such a thing. But then a sense of dread began filling him as the truth filtered into his brain. No Agent Ogden? It not only couldn't be right, it also meant that they'd had no reason to arrest Special Agent Hamilton. Or not much reason anyway. No reason to be on the scene. It had to be some sort of mistake! Another one! And there seemed to be so many of them. But he'd seen the evidence with his own eyes.

  “That's not possible. We were given detailed files. Autopsy photos. A coroner's report as well as the scene of crime reports. All of them were official. They were all on Treasury letterhead.”

  “And where exactly are these reports?”

  “We put them in the confidential destruction bins. But there were copies on the phones.”

  A split second after he'd said it Barnes' mouth went dry as he suddenly understood just how much trouble they were in. If the phones had been wiped and there was no dead agent, then they had just tried to arrest an FBI agent for absolutely no reason. Or no reason that could be proved. And then they'd shot him. They were in deep trouble. Turning up in the middle of an operation and trying to arrest an agent and shooting him when he was effectively unarmed? They were all grounds for prison time.

  “Call Agent Thomison. He'll confirm everything.” Barnes was desperate and he knew that only the agent could explain. He was his only hope. In the end he always had been – which was why he didn't understand why he hadn't been there already. He'd put in so many requests for him to be called. But a moment later that hope was taken from him.

  “Who?”

  It took a second for him to realise that his supervisor wasn't asking a question. He was making a point. And then it took another to understand the point his supervisor was making and then to let it sink in but eventually Barnes realised the truth and he could suddenly feel his entire life crumbling away in front of him. There was no Agent Thomison just as there was no dead Agent Ogden. It made no sense but he knew it was coming. And because of it he knew that much worse was coming. He waited for the axe to fall.

  “Anything to say?”

  Barnes shook his head, not trusting himself to speak just then.

  “So let me see if I've got this right. You were part of a task force that was never created or sanctioned. You were led by an agent who isn't on the books as one of ours and were following up on the death of another agent who never existed. You drove on to an active scene lights flashing and precipitated a gun battle which got three FBI agents shot and ended in the shooting death of a suspect. You then arrested and shot another FBI agent without any cause. And finally you instigated another shoot out between our agency and the bureau. Have I about got that right?”

  It was a rhetorical question and Barnes didn't answer him. He didn't even nod. He wasn't expected to. Which was lucky since he had no idea what to say anyway.

  “So what have you got to say for yourself?”

  “There was a task force and we were assigned to it. We got official letters. I gave you the file copy numbers. Meeting rooms were set aside for us within the department. And we were given specific training.” But even as he tried to defend himself Barnes knew that it wasn't going to be enough. Not without the man in charge.

>   “The file copy numbers relate to other letters and documents that have nothing to do with any task force. These rooms that were set aside, were set aside for cleaning. And you went for training that you weren't supposed to receive.”

  It was then that Barnes knew there was only one thing he could say. The one thing every criminal should say at some point. And he was about to be charged with a crime. With a lot of crimes. But it was also the one thing he'd never expected to have to say. Never would have wanted to say.

  “I want a lawyer.”

  Chapter Ten

  Life out of the hospital should have been a good thing. But the reality was that it was not much better than the long days and nights he had spent in it. At least that was Garrick's view. By leaving the hospital he had simply replaced one hell with another. It shouldn't be like that.

  The hospital had been bad. Day after day of lying there – staring at a ceiling much of the time because his injuries and his thigh high cast had made it difficult to even sit up in bed – had been an eternity to him. He'd wanted to get out, to go for a run and spend some time in the gym. He'd wanted to be on the hunt for his next criminal. He'd wanted to do anything rather than lie there and swallow pain killers, antibiotics and anti-inflammatories without end. And he really hadn't wanted to spend his days talking with his fellow patients. It wasn't personal. It was just that they'd had nothing in common with him. Nor he with them.

  Of course it had been made worse when day after day he'd been interrogated by both Treasury and FBI agents, poked and prodded by the medical staff, tormented by the physiotherapists as they tried to get him up, and then had to listen to the endless madness of the reporters on the TV as they exposed his entire life. He was famous – but not for a good reason. Simply because he'd been the victim of an interdepartmental screw up of colossal proportions. One that was being debated at the highest levels. His name was actually being thrown around in Congress.

  But it was worse than that. There was a presumption in the world that when people got themselves shot they'd been in the wrong somehow. Because normal, everyday people who stayed out of trouble didn't get shot. And the name Benedict had been mentioned a few times. So as far as the press were concerned, Garrick was still guilty of something. He might not have killed the agent – there might not even have been an agent killed if what he was hearing was correct – but he was still dirty.

  Because of that, when the doctors had pronounced his leg strong enough to support his weight, he'd escaped the medical prison, thinking to find some peace in his home. But it hadn't happened. The press had followed him home. They'd obviously bribed someone to give up his personal details. The medical people still came to his door every day and inflicted their therapeutic cruelty on him. He was still being hounded by the agencies as they tried to explain what had happened. And he was still on a shocking regimen of drugs. The only thing that had changed was that thanks to some increasing mobility in his hip, he could sit up and so replace the hospital bed with a recliner. And the view of the hospital ceiling had been replaced with one of his walls.

  The recliner was at least comfortable, but it was also a prison and Garrick hated it. He kept worrying that one day he was going to find himself permanently trapped in it, unable to lift himself out of the chair. He hated the very idea. But the reality was that for many nights since he'd escaped the hospital bed he'd slept in it, as he’d fallen asleep in front of the TV.

  And while it was comfortable, it was hard levering himself in and out of it with one leg in plaster and one arm strapped to his side. To make things more tricky the crutches were always falling to the floor beside him. No matter how he tried they simply refused to stay propped up against the chair's arm rest. So every time he wanted to get up he had to go through a set of elaborate contortions as he levered himself over to one side to pick them up with one good arm before he even tried standing.

  That however, was the price he had to pay for having discharged himself from the hospital against medical advice and he was slowly getting better at it. Of course. there was a good reason why the doctors had wanted to keep him in, and his current daily struggles bore testament to their concerns. But they didn't understand that he couldn't have stayed there. He couldn't lie in a bed for weeks and stare at a ceiling. It just wasn't him.

  Life at home was boring – especially when you were stuck inside all the time. Garrick hadn't realised how bad it was until he'd found himself more or less confined to his home by his injuries, and on extended sick leave. The doctors were talking about months of recuperation, something he just couldn't imagine. Then again the fact that the bullet in his leg had shattered the femur and now the bone was being held together by titanium plates and bolts meant that he was inevitably going to find out what it was like. He'd seen the x-rays and knew that the damage had been serious. The heavy calibre slug had not just broken but shattered his bone and what remained was being held together by a titanium superstructure of girders. What had possessed them to use such heavy calibre weapons? The agents said they'd recovered a Desert Eagle fifty calibre from one of them. He suspected that that was what had torn his femur apart.

  It would be weeks before he would be rid of the crutches, months before the cast came off, and even longer before he could pass his physical. As for his arm, well at least that was mainly muscle damage and was now starting to heal nicely. He'd lost a lot of strength and it might be a while before he was bench pressing any heavy weights, but the day was coming. The doctors kept telling him the prognosis was good, but always it seemed as if it was too far away.

  After only a week at home the hours were starting to grate on his nerves. With the media still watching his home he felt more or less confined to the four walls of his house. Imprisoned. He itched to be working again. In the field hunting down bad guys. It was more than just a job. It was who he was. Maybe that was simply a part of being a hunter. That the gift also shaped your nature? He'd often wondered about that. Whether gifts and personalities went together.

  Then again, maybe it was watching the news each night that upset him most. Even now, nine days after the fiasco in which he'd been shot – the “botched raid” as the press were calling it – was on every channel. It was being fed by Treasury for the most part. Whoever their press people were, it seemed that they simply couldn't keep their mouths shut as they desperately tried to explain the inexplicable. It didn’t help that they kept contradicting one another in public.

  The good news was that he was no longer being charged with anything. In fact he was no longer suspected of anything at all. But that was the only good news there was. The bad news was that the Treasury agents were being charged. He wouldn't have thought of that as bad news all that long ago. In fact he would have welcomed it given what they'd done. But now it was turning out to be a disaster. They had been charged but he was the one being prosecuted.

  The three agents had all hired lawyers to take them into battle with their own agency, and they were actually suing their employer – something he found almost impossible to believe. Agents just didn't do that!

  But these ones did. In fact their lawyers were all busy preparing their own press releases and feeding them out every night to the reporters. Press releases that talked about how they had been brought together to form a special task force assigned specifically to capture him. About phone calls and text messages from their supervisors telling them that Garrick was armed and considered extremely dangerous. That he was considered responsible for the murder of another Treasury agent and many more deaths. That he was a stone cold killer and a criminal who had aided Armando Benedict for years, and probably a large part of the reason why the man was still free. And that his capture was top priority. That there had been official teleconferences and alerts about him sent to them by email. They claimed that their clients had been set up.

  Of course they couldn't produce any evidence. Their SAIC Thomison was non-existent as was the supposedly murdered Treasury agent. Their phones weren't government iss
ue and the calls hadn't been logged. There was no paperwork on any of it, as apparently Garrick might have seen it somehow. And yet the less evidence there was the louder the trio screamed “conspiracy”.

  Whether any of their claims were true or just the lawyers telling lies as they tried to get their clients off, Garrick didn't know. But he couldn't see how it could be. For a start if there had been a general alert put out about him, his own agency would have heard about it and they would have picked him up themselves. As for the rest it sounded farcical. He didn't work for Treasury but in the FBI if there had been a special task force set up for anything there would have been numerous documented meetings and rigorous oversight all the way through. Not a bunch of teleconferences, emails and text messages. It made no sense.

  The other thing he didn't understand was why he'd been targeted, be it by the three agents or their mysterious SAIC Thomison. There were plenty of people who wanted him dead, but for the most part they were already behind bars. And none of them as far as he knew had the resources to arrange this sort of plan. As for the three agents themselves, they weren't people he'd hunted, nor as far as he knew, were they related to people he'd hunted.