Watch Dogs: Dark Clouds

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“So it was Niall Quinn?” Pearce’s voice on the phone was hard, brittle. “I wondered if it might be. He pulled the trigger on Verrick, who pulled the trigger on Tranter, who pulled the trigger on Grampus—who pulled it on me.”

“Yeah. But Pearce…” Wolfe was in the bedroom of the safehouse. She could hear the murmur of voices, Seline talking to Bullock in the next room. “…the attack. If Bullock’s right about that…”

“It fits in with what we know. It’s the last piece of the puzzle, Wolfe. We have to assume it’s true. You’re going to have to go to a guy I know at the Justice Department. Or—I have a friend who’s a friend of his. Kiskel knows him. He’ll see you. There’s an office right here in Chicago. You warn them—Homeland Security will ground those planes and put out an alert for drones.”

“You believe that?”

“Sure, they go on high alert every time a Muslim baby burps. They’re almost as worried about militia nut jobs. And this is pretty much what these Purity guys are.”

“But—Van Ness is a connected son of a bitch. And Purity has a lot of money. You know as well as I do that money talks in this country. Did the Department of Justice go after all those Wall Street lowlifes? I don’t know if they’re going to raid Verrick and Iceberg on my say-so.”

“Look, I’m not a law and order guy. I’m a wanted man. But —we’ve got an obligation to tell people about this. I think Department of Justice is more reliable than Homeland Security. Those dopes at HS will probably arrest you before they’ll detain Van Ness… they’ll figure it’s all a veiled threat from you. But Doolin at DoJ—Kiskel says he’s all right. Go to him, Pearce. Fast. I’ll try to set it up.”

It was dusk by the time Seline drove Bullock to the train station.

They were just approaching the curb near the station, when Bullock said, suddenly, “Young lady—you wouldn’t really have carved me up, would you?”

She hesitated. But she couldn’t keep up the pretense anymore. “No. And we wouldn’t have given you to Verrick. But we’d have turned you over to Pearce, probably. And who knows what he’d have done with you…”

He looked up at the station. “I don’t know if this is safe…”

“You want to try to drive out?”

“No. Verrick’ll be watching my house. I don’t want to use a credit card—I’d need that for a rental.”

“You could try O’Hare…”

“No, couldn’t go out through O’Hare. Not with a lot of crashing planes a possibility. But… I don’t feel good about this either. They could be looking for me here. Would you at least come in with me?”

“Okay, Bullock.” She took a left, and lucked into a parking place almost immediately. They parked, got out and walked through the cold gray evening to Union Station. She had the remote camera scrambler Wolfe had given her, in her pocket, and she pressed it several times as they approached. She didn’t know if they were looking for her but she didn’t want to take a chance.

They went through the glass doors, down the hallway, into the big ticketing room. Seline looked around. It was mostly just a room full of busy people, or waiting people. They were bustling off to a train, waiting in lines, or waiting in wooden benches. There were a couple of cops across the room, chatting, paying them no harm. An announcer’s voice boomed out, warning that a train to Kansas City was about to depart.

“You sure you want to go to Los Angeles, Bullock?” she asked. He was planning to pay for the ticket cash, at the ticket windows.

“Yes. I didn’t know if you were going to really bring me here…” He looked around nervously. “I don’t see anyone watching me.”

“There wasn’t any doubt, once Wolfe made you a promise, that he was going to let you go. He’s a pretty square guy. Tough but… honest.”

“You like him, don’t you? I mean… in a big way.”

“None of your business.”

The ticket cashier, a gray haired man in thick glasses, was staring at them, as they got closer in the line. He excused himself for a moment, as the fat lady up ahead fumbled in her purse for cash, and then stepped away from the window, talking quickly into a cell phone.

I shouldn’t be paranoid about that, Seline told herself. The man could’ve just realized he had to call his wife. Could be anything.

The cashier quickly returned to the window and took the fat lady’s money.

Seline tried to relax. It took a couple more minutes, but at last Bullock stepped up to the window, and asked for a ticket to Los Angeles.

Then Seline realized the cashier was staring past Bullock—past her. At someone…

She turned, saw a flabby pot bellied man in coveralls rushing up toward Bullock. In his hand was something like a walkie-talkie. It seemed modified, with extra wiring on the outside—and he was pointing it at Bullock.

“Bullock!” Seline called.

He turned—saw the man… stared at the device in his hand…

Then Bullock began to sway. He looked dizzy. White foam showed at the corners of his lips. “Insulin… shock. He…”

Bullock collapsed.

Seline automatically knelt by him—tried to hold Bullock still as he convulsed, his eyes rolling back in his head…

She shouted, “Someone! We need an ambulance!”

The cops ran over to her, looking genuinely concerned. Seline looked around for the man with the device in his hand…

But he was gone. Vanished into the crowd.

She backed away. The cops were kneeling by Bullock, one of them taking his pulse. “This man’s dying…”

Seline slipped into the crowd herself.

“Wolfe?”

“Yeah, you get him on a train?”

“No. They were watching for him. He’s dead. He said something about his insulin… There was a man there who was pointing a… a machine of some kind at him…”

Wolfe was driving a “borrowed” car to the justice department, listening to Seline on his bluetooth.

She described the man with the “device”.

“That’s Starling,” Wolfe said. “He must’ve been nearby. But then Blume’s headquarters is about half a block away. Must’ve hacked into Bullock’s insulin injector. Made it dump three months worth at once. Too much insulin—you die.”

“Oh, God.”

“You get away without being followed?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. Go back to the safehouse. I’ll call you. I’ve got to go in and see Doolin. Kiskel got me an appointment. I want to get this over with fast before they start looking at me for… other stuff.”

Wolfe ended the call, pulled the car up to the nearest curb. It was a red curb but he didn’t care—he didn’t plan to drive it again.

He hurried through the increasing wind across the street to the Federal Building, sizing it up as he went.

It was old granite building, about eight stories high, with a U.S. flag out front and curving stone eaves. The Department of Justice’s offices in Chicago were housed in two buildings and this was the older one.

Wolfe went in, half expecting to be arrested on sight. He wasn’t sure to what extent law enforcement might be looking for him now.

In the old, echoing marble faced lobby was a scanning machine and a metal detection framework. He’d been expecting this and he’d left his gun in the car.

He went through it, removing off his shoes and belt as at the airport, aware of the curious stares of the Federal Marshals as he put them back on. He didn’t look like the usual visitor.

Wolfe went to the downstairs admissions desk where a brisk black woman in a suit looked him over. “My name’s Wolfe. Agent Doolin’s waiting for me.” She looked at her appointment book.

“Yes sir.”

Doolin was expecting him. His identification was checked, then he was sent upstairs to room 325.

The door had the old fashioned white glazed glass in it; painted in black on the glass was Edward Doolin, Special Agent .

Wolfe reached for the doorknob—then he heard a man whispering inside. Another door opening. The hair went up on the back of his neck. Something was wrong here. He could feel it.

And then he saw it… he looked down and saw blood spreading slowly out from under the door.

Wolfe thought, If you were smart, you’d beat it out of here, now.

He opened the door. Never said I was terribly smart.

Inside two men were duct taped to chairs; one, a hefty middle aged man in a suit, was behind a desk; the other was facing the desk. That one, Wolfe figured, was Kiskel, who was supposed to meet him here. The other one was Edward Doolin.

They were both dead—their throats cut. Their eyes were open and unblinkingly staring. Their clothes were soaked in blood.

Wolfe theorized that a couple guys had come in with guns, one had taped them down, the other had slashed their throats. Quieter that way. Silencers weren’t really very silent.

There was another door with glazed glass in it, to the left—and Wolfe could see the shadow of a man there.

Wolfe thought about going downstairs, calling a general alarm. But these guys would have a way out of this. And he didn’t. The feds would hold him for questioning, to see what he might know about these deaths. And he’d probably end up with his throat cut too. Somebody on the inside would find him alone in an interrogation room…

He crossed the room, stepping carefully around the blood, and quietly opened two of Doolin’s desk drawers. It was in the second one—a .44 semiauto police special. He took it out, checked it—it was loaded.

Voices from the next room. Maybe they were expecting him but they didn’t seem to know he was here.

“…that chopper has to be on the roof, Van Ness. That was the deal…”

Wolfe walked over to the door, readied the gun—and opened it.

Two men stared at him in shock. One was probably a Graywater—he just had that look about him. He wore a long coat, had his hair cut short like the others. There was a time-blurred tattoo on his neck. In his hands was a plastic sack, sealed with duct tape. Probably had the knife in it they’d used for cutting throats.

The other man was General Van Ness, now in civilian clothes. He was a stocky man, mid sixties, in a charcoal suit, with iron-gray hair, a square jaw and hooded blue eyes.

“Wolfe,” Van Ness muttered.

“I’m guessing you guys have been wiretapping Kiskel. Pearce told him what was going down; he told Doolin. Came over to talk about it with me. So you guys took those two out… Kind of a desperate way to deal with it, Van Ness.”

“Timetable’s been moved up, thanks to you, Wolfe.” He was looking at Wolfe’s gun. “When it all goes down—you can take credit. In fact we plan to give you credit.”

Van Ness smiled, showing a lot of large yellow teeth.

“You got your pal here in the building, Van Ness? You have another contact in here? Who is it?”

“Why should I tell you? You going to shoot me? Then they come up here and find you shot a Brigadier General. And they find those bodies…”

“How about if I just shoot you in the—don’t go for that!”

But the Graywater already had the Mack 10 out, was spraying metal toward Wolfe—who fired the .44 as he threw himself back.

Machine pistol rounds tore up the doorframe and thudded into the dead men behind Wolfe. Then Van Ness gasped, fell back, spitting blood.

Wolfe wasn’t sure who’d hit Van Ness, him or the Graywater.

The mercenary was running across the other office, and out into the hallway. He was heading toward the roof. And even from here Wolfe could just hear the sound of chuffing rotors.

Wolfe got up, and saw that the mercenary had dropped the plastic sack. Maybe hoping to implicate Wolfe in the execution of the two men in the office. And it might work.

There wasn’t time to chase the Merc down—the shots would’ve been heard. The marshals would be up here in a minute.

Wolfe stuck the gun in his waistband, turned to the window behind Doolin’s body, and unlocked it. The old style office window opened fairly easily. He could hear shouting from the hallway. Pretty soon, the sirens would start.

He looked out the window—he was three stories up. Cold wind cut at his face; the air smelled of snow, and car exhaust.

Below him was a parking lot, mostly full. To his right, about six feet away, was a drainage pipe. To his left were rows of windows. No easy way down.

He probably should surrender. But…

It wasn’t going to look good. And they weren’t going to be in the mood to listen to crazy stories about drones and planes.

Then, in his mind’s eye, he saw himself taking off his belt earlier, when he went through the metal detector.

He removed his belt, and slung it over his neck, and then climbed through the window. Placing his feet carefully on the ledge, and holding to the inside of the window frame with his left hand, he closed the window with his right. Then he edged toward along the slippery ledge, balancing carefully, holding on with the tips of his fingers along the tops of the granite blocks…

One slip, he’d go over backwards, probably shatter his spine on one of those cars down there.

He heard voices from the window to his right. They were looking at the bodies, in there. No one seemed to have checked the window yet. The door would be open from the adjoining room to the hall. With luck that’d draw them that way.

The chopper on the roof was about to take off. He could hear its engine roaring… Distant sirens approached…

He kept moving, crabwise, step by excruciatingly careful step… and then he wasn’t careful enough. He slipped. He swayed, near falling back…

But the drainage pipe was in reach. He grabbed the pipe with his left hand, and steadied himself. With his right he slipped the belt off his neck, threaded it behind the pipe. He took hold of the pipe with his right hand, then grabbed the belt on both sides—and slid down, rappelling down the side of the building with his own belt.

It was a fast trip down—Wolfe was able to slow it some by braking on the wall with his boots, and his hands burned as he struggled to keep a grip on the belt.

Then he struck the asphalt with both feet. He sucked air through his teeth at the pain, but it didn’t feel as if anything was broken.

He pulled the belt free, and hurried away, weaving past cars to get quickly out of the parking lot.

The sirens were loud, now. And overhead, the helicopter was taking off.

“General Van Ness is dead?” Pearce asked, surprise in his voice.

“Looked pretty dead to me. I didn’t stick around to take his pulse.”

Wolfe was in the corner booth of a crowded bar, talking to Pearce on his phone. He had an untouched beer in front of him.

“You kill Van Ness?”

“Not sure. Hope so.”

“You think you’re going to get blamed for that—and the other two dead men? I mean—you signed in, you went up there. And then there were gunshots…”

“I think they’ll piece together that Van Ness and the guy with him went in at the right time. There are cameras in the lobby. They had to have signed in… Eventually the feds will figure it out.”

“You better hope so. Wait… hold on… holy shit… Verrick is…”

“Pearce—Verrick is what?”

Someone put some loud music on the jukebox. Hip hop of some kind. Wolfe stuck a finger in his other ear to block the noise.

“Wolfe—Verrick’s gone out to the airport…”

“How do you know this?”

“I’ve been monitoring his movements on ctOS. What do you think? He’s heading for the cargo jet area. And—Seline uploaded everything on Bullock’s phone to me.”

“She did?”

“What do you think, she sits around and waits for you to do everything because you’re a macho badass?”

“I kind of was hoping for something like that, yeah. What about Bullock’s phone?”

“I’ve been monitoring his contacts. One of them is this Winters you were talking to. Apparently Verrick didn’t tell him what the plans were for Bullock. He tried to leave a message on Bullock’s phone.”

“To what effect, for crying out loud, Pearce?”

“To this effect, and I quote: Iceberg Project has been moved up. Head to safety zones. It’s happening tonight. In two hours.”