Target Acquired (Jay Sullivan Thrillers Book 5), page 3
He felt the top of his head. There was a lump. Another injury from another assault, he assumed.
He sat back. Sighed. Ran his hands through his greasy hair. He used to have expensive trims from the world’s best barbers; now his scruffy hair resembled a mop head. The suit he was wearing once cost three grand; now it smelt of beer and was covered in stains that even the best dry cleaner couldn’t get out.
He rubbed his eyes, picked some gunk out of them, and scanned the street. He was so used to scanning locations and examining civilians it was something he didn’t even think about doing anymore; it was important that he checked his surroundings and ensured he hadn’t been tracked—especially while he was in a country that would love to capture him.
Cars passed him at a rate of six or seven every ten seconds Most were people carriers with kids in the back. There must be a school nearby. A few expensive cars drove by, driven by men in suits. Either there was a large set of business buildings nearby—which was unlikely as he was in the middle of suburbia—or this was quite a middle- or upper-class estate. Most of the houses on this street had at least four bedrooms. Most probably had swimming pools. He couldn’t see a bar nearby, which meant he’d walked at least a few blocks before passing out on the bench.
Most people were too busy to look at him. They probably thought he was a bum, and didn’t wish to engage with such a person. Mothers with long, neat hair and sunglasses perched atop their heads push their prams with a bit more eagerness as they passed him. They were the kind of mums who would go on about how important charity was, but would never actually get their perfect nails dirty by helping the needy.
Across the street was a bus stop. An old lady and a teenage boy stood beside it. There were a few local shops nearby. One had CCTV above it. The camera was pointing in Sullivan’s direction.
Dammit.
It’s okay, he assured himself. There were millions of cameras in this country; neither the FBI nor the CIA could watch every camera at all times. They would only look for him on this camera if they knew he was nearby. Considering he hadn’t even been in the country for a full day yet, he was probably fine.
Besides, if he left after staring right into the camera, that would look suspicious. It was best that he took his time.
He suddenly felt parched. He needed water. Or another beer. He reached into his pockets for his wallet.
Gone. Again.
Someone probably stole it. Another reason to despise the human race.
He’d have to go to a safety deposit box and pick up some more cash, maybe a fake passport. Where was the nearest one? He was pretty sure he had one in New York. It had been a while since he’d been in the States, but he knew New York was north of this state.
He leant forward. Covered his face. He really shouldn’t have come to the US. How could he be so stupid?
He shook his head.
Was that even a serious question?
He’d had no alcohol for at least five hours before he’d arrived at the airport; of course he would prioritise booze over safety. Even now, he could feel the acidity in his belly and the shakes in his arms that only a few beers could cure.
He closed his eyes and belched. Opened them and squinted. The sun wasn’t going anywhere, but it was time he was.
He went to stand up.
Then paused.
Waited.
Listened.
He noticed something.
Everything. It had just…
Stopped.
No cars went by. He peered down the street, looking for distant traffic. Listening for the distant hum of engines.
There were none.
He peered the other way. Listened hard.
There were no people either.
All those parents and their kids were gone. The people at the bus stop had since left on their bus. The busyness of the street had stopped, and it was empty. Deserted.
This didn’t feel right.
Sullivan glanced at the camera. Peered at the lens, trying to make out whether it had zoomed in on him, but it was much too far away.
It was as if the area had been cordoned off, and somebody was blocking people from coming down here.
A quick movement in the distance caught his eye. He didn’t see the man clearly, but he was sure they were wearing a bulletproof vest.
“Fuck!”
He stood quickly, not caring about how it looked to the damn camera. Not anymore.
But it was too late.
There were footsteps tapping across the pavement behind him, but he saw nothing when he turned to look.
On a nearby rooftop, a man assembled a sniper rifle.
And from across the street, the wind carried the click of ammunition being loaded into a gun.
He turned and ran.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Shit, he’s moving. Drive! Go!”
Berkley hit the gas, speeding past the cordons, and racing down the road, following Sullivan as his chaotic limbs carried him down the street. They didn’t need to hide their position any longer—Sullivan knew he’d been discovered.
“Target is running,” Liam said into his mic, sat in the seat behind them. “In pursuit.”
As they approached Sullivan, Daniel had a better look at the infamous man who’d evaded capture for so many years. He felt disappointed. It didn’t feel so bad when they thought they were chasing a fit, stealthy assassin—but this person was haggard and downtrodden. He didn’t look like an astute, able killer—he looked like a man whom life had swallowed whole then shit out.
Then again, Daniel had been deceived by appearances before—you don’t get to his level of rank within the FBI without being aware of everyone’s ability to surprise you.
Berkley swung the car in front of Sullivan, mounting the kerb and blocking his escape. Daniel had barely placed his hand on his gun before Sullivan pulled his car door open and flung himself into the front passenger seat with him.
It was a clever move. The closer you are in combat, the harder it is for one to stretch their arm and fire a gun, and the easier it is to be disarmed. Daniel’s gun was only just out of its holster when Sullivan grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and aimed the gun at Berkley.
Daniel did all he could to twist his arm and resist Sullivan’s pressure, and as Sullivan squeezed Daniel’s finger against the trigger, Daniel ensured the bullets landed in the car's roof, rather than in his colleague.
Sullivan twisted Daniel’s wrist, straining with sufficient force to make the agent drop his gun, and kicked it under the seat. Sullivan headbutted Daniel, and used Daniel’s moment of disorientation to throw his other arm toward Berkley—who had just unholstered his gun—and he entwined their arms together, forcing Berkley’s arm to stretch, and for him to drop the gun.
Daniel was taken aback; Sullivan was a contradiction in appearance and ability—he looked like a drunken fool, but his training was so deeply embedded into his instincts that he was still a nimble opponent in hand-to-hand combat.
In the furore, Liam had managed to draw his gun, but was struggling to get a clear shot in the commotion. Noticed Liam, Sullivan flung himself out of the car. Just as Liam opened his car door and went to step out, leading with his gun arm, Sullivan slammed the door against Liam’s wrist and forced him to drop the gun. Sullivan grabbed Liam by the collar, dragged him out of the vehicle, then rammed his head against the car’s; Liam fell to his knees and struggled to regain balance amid the grogginess.
Sullivan ran away, quicker than the agents could regroup.
Daniel stretched his arm under the seat, but could not reach his gun; he had to step out of the car so he could retrieve it. His outstretched fingers reached the barrel; he pulled it closer, gripped it, then aimed it in the direction in which Sullivan had fled.
As Berkley helped Liam up, Daniel scanned the street.
Sullivan sprinted toward a wall across the street.
Daniel took aim and shot, but only managed to hit the wall as Sullivan’s disappeared over it.
He turned to Liam, who’d regathered himself. “Drive around the street, keep close,” he instructed.
Liam broke off, returning to the car as Daniel and Berkley ran toward the wall.
“Where are my eyes?” Daniel demanded into his radio. “Talk to me.”
The sound of propellers grew louder above him.
“Target is making his way through the gardens,” replied helicopter surveillance.
“Roger, we’re in pursuit.”
Daniel gathered speed, leapt at the wall, and pulled himself up before dropping onto grass, narrowly missing a pond. A woman in a dressing gown stared at them from the glass doors of the house. Daniel opened his jacket to show his badge as he sprinted through the garden. He jumped over a flowerbed, leapt onto the next fence, and dropped into the next garden. He dodged a swing set and a push car as he landed, which threw him off balance, and he’d slipped halfway into a swimming pool before he could grab the side and stop himself from slipping any further.
Berkley helped him up, and Daniel ignored the heavy wetness of his trousers as they continued their pursuit into the next garden.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sullivan’s body felt like it would fall apart at any moment. Every stiff muscle twinged, parts of his thighs that he hadn’t stretched in months ached under the pressure, and his hungover mind struggled to keep up. Even so, his instinct still granted him a sufficient level of competence. Years of experience guided him, telling him his next move. He’d chased many people, and he’d run from many people; he’d disarmed many highly trained agents in various countries; and he’d beaten many highly skilled warriors in combat. His government may have brainwashed him and betrayed him, but they had also made a resourceful, adept killer out of him. He was once known as the ‘assassin without a gun’—because he didn’t need one. He was slick with his hands, and resourceful with his environment. And whilst he may be older, not as fit, and weighed down by an alcoholic’s gut, his moves were automatic.
Fighting those men in their own car.
Disarming them.
Fleeing over the fences.
As much as he panted and wheezed, he knew what to do without hesitation.
He leapt onto another fence and pulled himself over, ignoring a splinter in his finger, and landing in another garden. He passed another swimming pool, and more expensive ornaments, and more glass doors leading to fancy kitchens, urging his body across the neatly trimmed lawn and toward the next fence.
The beating of propellers above him, however, told him this would not work. He could escape those pursuing him on foot, but if a helicopter was tracking him, it would make no difference; they could monitor his every move. They’d know where he was going the second he went there. Running through gardens would not help him escape.
So what?
What could he do next?
He could lose the agents in pursuit, but it was hard to lose eyes in the sky.
He tried not to think about his next move, and instead allowed the younger version of his self that lay hidden away, somewhere in his mind, to guide his feet.
If he was still part of the Falcons—the secret government organisation who’d indoctrinated him when he was an impressionable young man—what would he do?
A vehicle.
He needed a vehicle.
That would be a good start.
And he needed to leave these gardens. They weren’t getting him anywhere. The fences were slowing him down and making him easier to follow.
He looked over his shoulder as he leapt into the next garden. He could see two men in pursuit a few fences over. He had a head start on them, and had to use those extra seconds to gain some wheels.
He paused in the next garden, picked up a large garden gnome with a quizzical look on its face, and launched the ornament at the glass doors of the house, smashing them. He leapt through the remaining shards of glass as they pricked his calf, and charged through the house.
A woman screamed and backed against the wall. He quickly assessed her: mid-thirties, wearing a pink dressing gown, rollers in her hair. He’d forgotten it was still early morning; time didn’t seem to matter much when you don’t adhere to set meals or a normal sleeping pattern.
“Where’s your car?” Sullivan demanded, stepping over a few Barbies as he approached her.
She just kept screaming.
“I said, where is your car?”
She screamed more, and remained rooted to the spot, her wide eyes fixed on him. She looked to the stairs, no doubt thinking of her daughter.
He glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t have time for this.
He put his hand over the woman’s mouth and pushed her against the far wall, knocking a few photo frames off a nearby coffee table. He held her in place, muffling her cries, and peered into her eyes with his dead, empty pupils.
“Keys. Now.”
She glanced at a bowl on a small table in the hallway.
“Car?”
Her eyes turned to a door behind her. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and he felt bad for the trauma this would cause her.
He released her and said, “Thank you. I’m sorry to have hurt you.”
He heard distant shouts of “he’s in the house.”
Sullivan grabbed the keys and ran through the door the woman had indicated. It led to a garage with boxes lining the walls. Beyond an old barbeque and a broken desk was a motorbike.
He was hoping for a car. He hadn’t ridden a bike in a long time.
The woman screamed again. His pursuers were in the house. He didn’t have time to deliberate.
He climbed on, kicked away the stand, and turned the ignition. It appeared to be a Honda CB1000R; a beautiful instrument that purred as he revved it.
He rolled the bike forward, and the door opened automatically for him. Bloody rich people.
He accelerated out of the garage and turned to the right. A few bullets landed behind the rear wheel.
Sullivan sped the motorbike up the street, leant to the side, twisted around the next corner, and continued speeding up. The roads were empty, and the bike was fast.
He checked the petrol. It was almost full. He may yet have a fighting chance at escaping.
CHAPTER NINE
The smashed glass doors indicated to Daniel where to go. He stepped over the broken shards into a kitchen, past unfinished colouring books on the dining table and dirty dishes in the sink.
A woman screamed. He feared the worst. He rushed through the hallway, followed by Berkley, and found a woman in a dressing gown, her hands pressed against her wet cheeks.
Daniel produced his FBI badge and said, “Which way did he go?”
“Get out!” she screamed and ran upstairs. She opened a bedroom door, and a child began crying.
This felt wrong. Intrusive. This was a person’s home. He shouldn’t be in here.
But this was about saving lives. Catching a murderer.
He peered into a living room, looked past a half-built Lego train set and a bookshelf of Disney DVDs. Nothing.
He followed the hallway through, which took him to an open door to the garage. They ran inside and caught sight of a motorbike rolling out of the open door.
“Liam, we need evac now, suspect on motorbike.”
“I see him,” replied a voice in his ear.
Daniel produced his Glock 19 and fired at the bike, but his bullets ricocheted off the tarmac as Sullivan sped away.
He ran out of the garage and Liam slowed the car down enough for Daniel to climb into the passenger seat and Berkley to climb in behind him. Daniel had barely shut the door as Liam sped in the direction of the motorbike.
They turned a corner, followed the motorbike through the estate, past large suburban houses and picket fences, and onto the highway.
“This is Winstead,” Daniel spoke into his comms. “Suspect on motorbike”—he squinted—“a Honda, travelling north on Interstate 95. We are in pursuit, requesting backup.”
“That’s an affirmative on backup, coming your way now.”
Daniel put his seatbelt on and let Liam drive. He wasn’t good at giving other people control, and he wished he was driving, but he told himself to trust Liam; high-speed pursuits were his area of expertise.
Even so, he could not relax. This wasn’t a regular chase. They’d pursued targets before without him feeling even a slight bit of tension, such is the confidence he had in himself and his team—but this was different. There would be no second chances. If they failed to catch Jay Sullivan today, then he would disappear, and it could be decades until he resurfaced again — if he resurfaced at all.
They had to take this opportunity. It would be the pinnacle of his career.
Liam interweaved between cars, and it only took a few minutes until several police cars had joined them. Their sirens forced people to move over and clear a path in the road, making it easier to pursue their target. In the mirror, he could also see black cars, indicating that his colleagues from the FBI were here.
This was the best chance they would ever get.
Sullivan turned off the interstate and onto Route 9.
Daniel gripped the side of the seat as Liam braked and skidded the car around the corner and off the interstate. He clenched his fists around the leather, terrified they would lose sight of him.
But they didn’t. They matched his speed as he raced along the road, allowing Daniel to continue his vehement glare at the murderer speeding in the distance.
The helicopter passed overhead. Even if this many cars failed to catch him, the helicopter wouldn’t.
He had nowhere to go.
Daniel wished he could see Sullivan’s face right now. He wanted to see what a man like Sullivan looked like when he was scared. He wanted to see how it looked when the uncatchable realised he was about to be caught; how he looked when he realised he would either be left to rot in prison, or sent to die in the electric chair. Personally, Daniel hoped it was the latter—he would enjoy sitting and watching the death of a man who had taken so many American lives.
