Malak helped the doctor move Number Four, now unconscious, on a stretcher from the garage into an examination room. She did not ask his name and he did not give it. The room was fully stocked with medical supplies. But it was certainly not a usual doctor’s office. The Leopard marveled again at the ghost cell. She wondered how many facilities it could possibly have like this one, hidden deep within everyday American society, and how many of them went unnoticed.
The doctor worked quickly and efficiently. Once they placed Smailes on the examination table, he had an IV and plasma hooked up and flowing within minutes.
“What happened?” the doctor asked.
“A single gunshot to the shoulder. A .40 caliber, I believe,” Malak said. She provided no more detail than was necessary. Using surgical scissors, the doctor cut away the gray sweatshirt Smailes was wearing and uncovered the wound.
“How long ago?” the doctor asked.
“An hour, maybe a little more.”
“He’s in shock.” The doctor maneuvered a portable X-ray machine over Smailes’s chest. “Step over here,” he said. He guided Malak behind a divider in the room while he snapped the X-rays. There was no need to wait for film. Images appeared on a monitor attached to the wall.
“This is not good,” the doctor said.
“What?”
“The bullet must have deflected off the clavicle or rib cage and collapsed his lung. Given the damage, he’s going to need more treatment than I can give him here,” the doctor said.
“No,” Malak said. “You will treat him here. We cannot risk exposing him to a hospital and the questions that will follow.”
“I can stabilize him, but I’m not equipped for such delicate surgery. If we come up with a story—”
“No. If you need assistance, you bring others here. He does not leave here until he is well.”
The doctor opened his mouth as if to explain again, then seemed to think the better of it. He understood that Malak was highly placed in the cell. She very clearly outranked him. With a sigh he left the divider and hurried to his patient’s side. Taking a hypodermic needle from the tray next to the examination table he started filling it from a small vial.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Inducing a medical coma. If I can slow his heart and respiration rate, perhaps I can get him stable enough until we can get him to a trauma team …”
The doctor visibly started when Malak drew her gun and pointed it at him. She needed information from Number Four, so he couldn’t remain unconscious.
“No,” Malak said. “No coma. In fact, wake him up. We need to talk. I need to discuss an urgent matter with him.”
“He’s barely holding on. If I give him a stimulant, he could—”
The sound of Malak pulling back the hammer of the automatic with her thumb interrupted the doctor. “Do it,” she commanded.
The doctor returned the needle to the tray and picked up another one. His hands shook nervously as he filled it with a clear fluid. He injected it into the IV. Nothing happened for a few minutes, then Number Four came awake suddenly.
“Where am I?” he asked, his voice a grating rasp.
Malak lowered her weapon, but kept it in her hand. “Leave us,” she ordered the doctor, who scurried away into the outer room. When she was sure he was out of earshot she turned to the injured man.
“You were wounded. Do you remember?”
“Vaguely. You … it was … you shot those men. You saved my life.”
“None of that matters. The doctor says you are unable to travel. I need to know what I am to do. What are my instructions?”
Smailes closed his eyes and swallowed. “San Antonio. There is a plane arriving shortly at Manteo airport. Take my phone. Press Star 99. The pilot will answer and give instructions….” His voice trailed off.
“Why San Antonio? What do I do when I get there?” Malak raised her voice, trying to cut through the fog shrouding the wounded man.
“You’ll meet … the rest of the Five … is … there. The plane … take … you,” he managed and then lapsed back into unconsciousness.
“Wake him up,” Malak called out to the doctor in the other room.
The doctor rushed back in, putting his stethoscope on Number Four’s chest.
“If I try waking him up again he’ll die. He might still die,” the doctor said, now clearly worried that his patient might in fact pass away and he would be blamed for it.
Malak returned the pistol to her waistband and tapped her hand on her right thigh while she considered her options. She could not get on the plane without letting Ziv know where she was going. An idea came to her. Removing Smailes’s phone from her pocket she watched while the doctor ministered to his patient. It would help with her plan. She pushed the numbers as Smailes had told her to.
A man answered.
“Mr. Smailes gave me this number. He is unable to come to the phone,” she said.
“We’ve been expecting you. We’re currently inbound to Manteo airport. There is a private hangar, number 23, at the far west end of the field. We’ll be waiting. After the jet is refueled we’ll depart.” He disconnected.
“Can you … hello?” she said. For the doctor’s benefit she shook the phone, pretending to press the button again and holding it to her ear.
“The weather must be interfering with the cell service. Do you have a landline?” she asked the doctor.
“In the next room,” he said absentmindedly as he worked on Smailes’s shoulder.
Malak walked into the next room. The phone was on a wall next to a cabinet full of medical supplies. Taking a deep breath, she paused a moment to think. After years on the trail of the ghost cell, she was closer to destroying it than she had ever been. In the last few hours she’d learned their leadership council amounted to five members. Number Four now lay on a gurney, barely alive. In her experience, the cell watched and seemed to know everything. They were the most cautious and careful terrorists she had ever faced. They had eyes everywhere, countersurveillance and resources such as medical clinics all over the country. The security around their top leadership would be even more impenetrable. From now on, she had to remember that she was likely being watched or at the least listened to in every vehicle, every room, and anywhere she went. The next few hours would be critical, not only to her mission, but to remaining alive. The Leopard would need to stalk her prey more carefully than ever.
Making the call on the clinic phone would require a bit of acting on her part. She pretended to try using the phone one more time, moving it around in the air, and fake-pushing random buttons, letting whomever might be watching know she couldn’t get a signal. Shaking her head, she lifted the receiver on the wall phone. Standing very close, her body shielded it so that no camera could see the number she dialed. First she called Ziv.
She was relieved to hear him answer but could do nothing to show it.
“Yes,” she said, knowing he would recognize her voice. “My cellphone dropped the call and I did not hear the end of your instructions. Paul Smailes told me we are flying to San Antonio. I heard you say an airfield in Manteo? Then the call disconnected. I am having trouble with cell reception. Yes. Manteo airport, hangar 23. I will be there within the hour. I am driving a black Suburban. Make sure I am expected. I will leave Mr. Smailes’s phone on while I’m driving in case you need to reach me.” She hung up, letting out a big sigh. Ziv would instantly understand her message.
The Leopard was on the move, she was in danger, and Boone and his team would need to track her flight. His technical mastermind would need to hack into the smartphone to erase the call record. Boone and his crew were top-notch. She hoped they could do everything that needed to be done in time. The plane would be the easiest part. Not even the ghost cell could hide a jet from air traffic control and satellite tracking.
Malak put the phone in her pocket and walked out to the garage without speaking to the doctor. Her sudden disappearance would unsettle him. Number Four was no longer her concern. He was in no shape to do much, even if he recovered. She supposed they might check the number she’d dialed on the landline, but hoped she’d sold the fact that her call dropped, and it would be overlooked.
In the garage she spied the button for the overhead door. She pushed it and the door rose slowly and silently. Climbing into the SUV she started it up, backed out of the building and onto the street.
Inside the temporary safety of the Suburban, she took a deep breath and tried to relax. Focus was required. She recalled her conversation with Boone in the cemetery, a few hours earlier. She had become Number Five. Smailes was Number Four and was gravely wounded.
That left three more for the Leopard to hunt.