Chapter 118

HOSPITAL, ATLANTA, GEORGIA. EARLY FRIDAY MORNING

The assassin strolled out of the alley. Turning toward the hospital, he kept to side streets as much as he could. He worried that one of the people going to work at the hospital might stop and offer him a ride, if he stayed on the main thoroughfare. The chance was slim, but still there. I don't want anyone to wonder about me, or after the hit wonder about the guy they just gave a ride to, he mused to himself. The Ghost needs to remain just that — The Ghost.

As he walked along feeling perfectly calm, his mind drifted to earlier times: Throughout school years, a bully had harassed him. The bastard had started in the first grade and never let up. The bully had taken one look at him and started calling him Peepers, because of the glasses he wore. The assassin had always been small for his age, the bully just the opposite. Senior year had been the worst of all. Girls loved that muscled-up, six feet, two inch idiot. Not only did he have a great physique, but the son-of-a-bitch was good-looking, too; at least the girls obviously thought so. It seemed that his main objective in life was to embarrass the small, plain-looking, bespectacled kid who couldn't defend himself. Twice the assassin had tried to fight the much bigger boy, once in the first grade, then again in the tenth grade, but the ass whipping with several girls watching each time, had taught him that resistance was futile. Instead, he bided his time, waiting — humiliated.

A couple months after graduation, the assassin finally got his chance. Well, "chance" wasn't the proper term since there was little real chance involved. He had stolen a scoped .22 caliber rifle from a farm a couple of counties over. After many hours of practice, he became an excellent shot with the rifle. A bit of researching and he was able to devise a silencer that would work for a shot or two. Subsonic .22 caliber rounds were easy to come by at a sporting goods store. From a hundred yards and beyond, the rifle was virtually silent.

There was a large lake some twenty miles from the city. On weekends in the summer, many people went there for boating, water skiing, swimming, picnicking, etc. It was also a great place to "chase pussy," as the bully referred to the purpose of his weekend outings.

The lake was part of a national forest with trees that came to within two hundred yards of the lake. There were many fire lanes cut through the timber area as well as several better-maintained gravel roads. When the bully drove by the assassin's house in his pickup, he gave his usual middle finger salute and yelled out the window, "Hey Peepers, you still look as dumb as you ever did." Laughing, the bully went on, but that day his insult triggered a plan the assassin had been perfecting for several weeks.

The assassin parked his pickup on a gravel road a quarter mile back in the woods. After walking down a fire lane, he stopped just inside the timberline, found a comfortable place and waited. This was not the first time the assassin had done this, but on this day, the bully finally came within striking distance of the assassin. The bully stood near the water, drinking a beer and talking to two girls. As he turned to throw his empty beer can into the water, the assassin centered the crosshairs on the bully's lower spine and squeezed off a round. The 40 grain bullet exited the barrel at 1080 feet per second, the rifle making only a "chuff" of noise as the small pebble sped away at just under the speed of sound.

The bully uttered a startled grunt and collapsed on his face.

"Had your last pussy," the assassin whispered as he watched the scene through his scope. "Nothing from your waist down will ever work again. Payback's a bitch, asshole," he quietly hissed as he put the rifle in its case and calmly walked back to his truck, thinking about the places he planned to forever hide each piece of the weapon in. No one, and certainly not the bully, suspected the wimp that the bully had successfully harassed for years.

Thus the assassin's career began. That had been years ago, but every time he started on a mission, he would remember. I really should go by and thank that fucker. Because of him, I'm now a rich man. Yeah, I might just do that one of these days; of course, I would have to kill him then, and I don't want to do that. Better to let the bastard suffer. Hmmm, maybe I'll just send him a get well card and sign it Peepers.

Reports given, day shift took over from night shift. Relieved personnel streamed down the halls of the hospital and out the back toward the parking lot. Those nurses taking over hurried to begin patient assessments. Some doctors had already completed their morning rounds; others were still making theirs, writing orders, or talking to nurses. In short, the controlled chaos of a normal hospital morning was in progress.

The assassin had walked the ten blocks to the hospital, but entered via the front door of the building instead of the back entrance nearer the employee lot. He didn't want to mingle too closely with hospital personnel; someone might wonder about the new person with a Dietary (food services) badge. Once inside the main building, he walked down the hall adjacent to the cafeteria and headed for the door the staff used as they exited with patients' trays. His intention was to steal a food tray from one of the carts, but as he approached it, he paused. One of the dietary staff stood by a food trolley (a rolling rack of shelves the staff used to transport food trays to the patients) with a list in his hand. Tossing the clipboard onto the rack, he used his ID badge to reopen the side door to the cafeteria, returning to pick up a missing tray.

Ah, luck is on my side. This couldn't be better, the assassin thought as he quickly covered the few steps remaining, then pushed the rack down the hall. Fifty feet farther on, he turned the corner toward the elevators.

Ten to one he'll think one of his friends is screwing with him. A couple minutes are all I'll need. Fucking FBI won't think a thing about someone in a white uniform bringing breakfast to their buddy.

All the hospital elevators were designed to be large enough to accommodate a patient's bed and the nurses to handle it. Visitors and hospital personnel were accustomed to seeing Dietary pushing racks of food trays, and the assassin's uniform and badge looked legitimate if anyone even noticed, which they didn't. Two visitors stepped onto the elevator with him. "Could you press four for me, please?" he politely asked the obese lady standing at the front of the elevator.

"Certainly," she said.

The assassin picked up the pad and pretended to check it. The elevator stopped on the second floor, accompanied by a chime and a mechanical voice that announced the floor for those who were sight impaired. The man got off. Shortly, they arrived at the fourth floor.

The woman stepped out and turned right, the assassin turned left, pushing the rack in front of him. At the corner, he turned right and glanced down the long hall. Only one agent by the metal detector. Bet the other one has gone after their breakfast. Predictable, he thought with contempt. Boredom, my asshole friends. Boredom. It will get you killed.

He glanced down the hall at the room number on the VIP suite, then stopped near an empty patient room. Picking up one of the food trays, he took out his black magic marker, completely blotted out the room number on the tray, and in large letters wrote, "4116," which was the number on the VIP suite's door. Little things make the difference, he thought as he put the tray back on the rack, picked up another tray and went into the empty room, pretending to deliver it to a patient.

A couple of moments later, he walked back out, minus the tray, picked up his list and pretended to look at it, then started for the VIP suite.

As the assassin approached, the agent came to his feet. "Good morning."

"Morning," the assassin answered, apparently preoccupied as he pretended to search for the correct tray. Picking up the tray he had marked with the room number, he started around the metal detector instead of walking under the arch.

"Uh, Sir," Agent Stevens started to say as the assassin pushed the food tray out in front of him as if he were giving it to the agent. Stevens knew the metal detector would not respond to the Styrofoam trays and the plastic eating utensils, but he thought the food services person must be new. As Stevens raised his hand and started to tell the man to just go through the metal detector with the tray, the assassin pushed a stun gun he was holding under the tray into Steven's hand. Not just any stun gun, but this one was developed specially for the assassin. It emitted three million volts at a frequency that could be lethal under certain circumstances. There was a pop and the agent staggered back with a grunt. The assassin pushed the stunner into the agent's neck and triggered another short burst of current.

Steven's body convulsed, but he managed to fling a hand out trying to grasp the assassin. Pissed, the assassin triggered a long burst into the agent's neck. Stevens went down, his body trembling and convulsing.

The assassin stepped across the agent, pushed the door open and walked on into the small living room. Agent Armstrong came to his feet as the door opened. What the crap? Why didn't Stevens usher this guy in? Armstrong thought as the assassin smiled and kept coming, the tray of food with the correct room number obvious as he held the tray out in front of him. He looks legitimate, the room number is on the tray, but what's been scratched out there? Alarm bells went off in the agent's mind. His eyes. His face.

Armstrong's subconscious screamed at him that something was wrong, and he reached for his weapon without even thinking about it, starting to step back and turning, but the assassin took the step, closing on the agent. The Agent's Glock came out, the muzzle bumping the far right side of the assassin's belly just as he pushed the stunner into Armstrong and triggered a burst. As the jolt of high voltage electrical current hit the agent, his finger jerked the trigger sending a .40 caliber round through the assassin's side. The round exited near the assassin's back, then continued on through the microwave, the bullet's force almost depleted, to embed itself in the paneling of the wall.

The assassin felt a burning pain, but his mission was almost completed. His plans always included every possible scenario, even being wounded. Even if he had to give up and be hospitalized, there was a good chance he could escape if he kept his senses about him. His wound didn't feel as if it would be totally immobilizing.

He dropped the food tray, stuck the stun gun in his belt, stepped over the convulsing agent and continued on, opening the door and walking quickly into Hanes' room. Bobby, who had just taken over from her sister, was in the process of administering an antibiotic through Art's IV. As the assassin entered the room and drew his gun, Bobby experienced the most dreadful feeling that had ever possessed her.

"No!" she screamed, and without conscious thought, turned and threw herself on Agent Hanes as he struggled to raise his body off the bed. Her weight slammed him flat, as agony coursed through his veins from his fresh surgeries being violently jostled.

The assassin raised the silenced .22 caliber pistol. The pistol was so quiet that he had killed many times with guards just outside the room not even realizing what had happened until it was well past too late. Now, his cover was blown, of course, with the agent's .40 caliber round going off. Move you stupid bitch, he thought as he brought the weapon up. Oh, well, plenty of rounds in the magazine for both of you.

Just like a steel plate. Just like a plate. The weapon came up, the sights centered: "BamBam," the sounds almost stacked one on the other, beyond loud in the room.

Blood, brains and gore splattered on the wall. Sandra, dressed only in white bra and matching panties, sank to a sitting position and started to sob.

Bobby had screamed when the two rounds went off in the small room. She took a breath, expecting agony, but there was nothing. She snatched a look over her shoulder at the assassin, but he was sprawled on the floor, blood gushing from both sides of his head. She stumbled to her feet, unconsciously tousling her patient again just as he tried to get out from under her.

"Fuck," Hanes hissed out as he finally managed to struggle to a sitting position, pain almost blinding him.

Grigsby had met the other agent in the cafeteria, and they had ridden the elevator up together. Just as they reached the corner, the VIP suite door in view at the end of the hall, they heard the first gunshot. Styrofoam breakfast trays from the cafeteria hit the floor. Both men drew their weapons and charged down the hallway scattering their food trays.

"FBI. Move!" Grigsby yelled to two startled nurses standing in the hallway.

The two nurses spun away just before the two men ran them down.

Two more gunshots echoed as Grigsby, managing to beat the other agent by a half-step, cleared Stevens' convulsing body and crashed into the room, Grigsby low, the other agent high, caution, safety and everything they had been taught now second to getting there in time to save Hanes.

As they stepped past Armstrong's twitching body and into the patient room, they came to a halt, momentarily confused. Bobby was kneeling, her arms around a sobbing and partially-dressed Sandra. "It's okay, Love. You stopped him. We're fine," Bobby kept repeating to her sobbing sister.

The assassin lay on the floor in a widening pool of thick blood that was obviously coming from the sides of his head. Hanes sat on the side of the bed, his right arm clamped hard across his body, cursing. "I want my fucking gun," he gasped out. "I could have shot the bastard if I had had my fucking gun."

Somehow it didn't seem like the appropriate time to caution Hanes about his language.

"Just like a plate," Sandra mumbled. "Just like a steel plate." Then she began to sob again.

"Check on Stevens," Grigsby said to Hager (the agent who had run down the hall with Grigsby). "He didn't look good."

"Yes, Sir."

The agent turned and hurried back out. Armstrong stumbled into Hanes' room, his coordination still off, and his speech barely recognizable. "Is everybody okay?" he mumbled out as he leaned against the wall barely able to stand, his body still twitching.