When their speedboat reached the dock across the bay from the breached house, the wounded man—he’d told Malak his name was Paul Smailes or “Number Four”—gave her the keys to a black Chevy Suburban. It was parked in a restaurant near the marina. Malak was able to get him into the vehicle and on the road without being noticed.
As she drove, it became clear his wound was more serious than they had planned. She knew Ziv did not miss his targets, but even he could not control the path of a bullet once it entered the body. Given the rate of blood loss and his rapidly weakening state, Smailes would soon be in shock. She needed to get him to a clinic fast.
“Paul,” she said. “Paul! Wake up. We need a doctor. Do you have one nearby?” She kept one eye on the road, one hand on the wheel, and shook him awake. He cried out in pain.
“Mr. Smailes, I need to get you to a doctor,” she said. “You must have one somewhere in the area.”
By now they had crossed the Morris Harbor Bridge and were heading west on US Route 64.
“Paul!” she said. She had to pay careful attention to her driving. It would be a terrible thing for a police officer to pull them over. But having the man in the seat next to her die would be even more of a problem.
Smailes came awake with a start and another groan. “My … phone …” he mumbled. With his good arm he pulled a smartphone from his pocket and handed it to Malak. His face was deathly white but he managed to give her instructions.
“Push Star 87…. Tell whoever answers your location … and you have a package. They’ll call back … with an address.” He barely got the words out before lapsing into unconsciousness again.
Malak took the device, pushed the green “talk” button and the numbers as instructed.
“Cybernetic Research Institute, how may I direct your call?” a voice answered.
“Hello. I am heading west on US 64 at mile marker fourteen. I have a package,” Malak said into the speakerphone.
“Thank you. I will call you back within three minutes with the delivery address,” the voice said and disconnected the call.
Malak checked her speed and glanced at Smailes. He looked worse. Wherever they wanted her to take him, it had better be close.
In the aftermath of the hurricane, the sky was still slate gray and spitting rain. She looked at the phone and considered calling Ziv with her location. But that was a bad idea. It would leave a trail. Ariel, aka the Lion of God, had given her a phone at the cemetery but using it was out of the question. The cell undoubtedly monitored it and she could not risk making a call. It was also likely the Suburban was wired with audio and video recorders, for in her long journey on their trail she had learned the ghost cell left nothing to chance.
The phone vibrated in her hand and she answered the call.
“This is Cybernetics Research Institute. Thank you for waiting. The directions you require have been downloaded to your phone. Select voice activation on the link and you’ll be given turn-by-turn commands.” The call was disconnected. Malak pushed the button and a mechanical-sounding voice told her the location was eight miles away.
With her free hand she checked Smailes’s pulse. It was faint and his breathing was ragged. She had no time to waste. She hoped he wouldn’t die before she could get him treatment.
Malak accelerated, figuring that most of the police and emergency vehicles would be preoccupied with the aftermath of the hurricane. If Smailes died, too many things could go wrong. Not the least of which was the fact that the cell might consider her responsible. Or a loose end that needed to be eliminated. She had very narrowly avoided being exposed in Washington. Only Ziv’s quick thinking saved her.
Following the directions given to her by the voice of the navigation application she soon found herself pulling into an industrial park. Maneuvering through the maze of side streets, the GPS indicated they had arrived at their destination. It was a low-slung office building, with two large plate-glass windows next to the front door. There were blinds in the windows and the door was wooden so she could not see inside. A small sign that read “Cybernetic Research Institute” hung above the entrance.
A driveway to the left of the door led to a slatted-metal overhead garage door. As she turned the Suburban into the drive, the door slowly rose. Inside the open space stood a man in medical scrubs.
Malak, the Leopard, slowed the vehicle before pulling into the open space. It was impossible for her to know what might happen next. The man could be a doctor or he could be a “cleaner,” waiting to assassinate her and Smailes. Pulling into the garage was a large risk.
With one hand on the steering wheel she reached into the waistband at the small of her back and removed her automatic. With a firm grip on the pistol, she accelerated into the garage. No matter what happened, the Leopard would not go down without a fight.