Chapter 6
Northwestern Memorial Hospital
“That sorry sonofabitch left survivors.”
Yang grunted his agreement as he sat in the lobby of the large hospital building and watched people shuffle in and out of the automatic exit doors. There were those who wore smiles and carried flowers, no doubt headed to the maternity ward to congratulate someone on a new arrival. Others wore the haggard, downtrodden expression of loving someone who was desperately ill or actively dying.
Most people loathed hospitals. Loathed the idea of disease and death. Not Yang.
Disease and death were as common as birth and life. As inevitable too. Which meant they were nothing to fear. Plus, he didn’t know of another place where one could witness the full gamut of human emotions—from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. And for someone who’d made a career of studying people, it was a bit of an academic experience.
“He was not a professional,” he said matter-of-factly. His eyes narrowed on the petite, blond FBI agent when she stepped from one of the four elevators. He knew she was FBI from the way she carried herself, with an air of authority.
Others probably looked at her and saw little more than her long ponytail and lack of height. But Yang knew better than to judge a book by its cover. He recognized the expression in the lady agent’s eyes. It was one of whip-sharp intelligence.
The square-jawed man who towered next to her had the look of a federal agent. But Yang would bet his next ticket to China that Blondie had the brains of one.
I had hoped to beat them here.
“He was paid to do a job.” The voice on the other end of the call was filled with derision. “Or at least his family will be paid. And payment made him a professional.”
Yang—that wasn’t his real name; it was simply the codename he used on this side of the world—didn’t argue. There was no point. Besides, he had work to do.
“I assume you want me to finish what he started?”
“I think you’d better. Just in case,” Bishop’s tone had gone from disgusted to tired.
Bishop wasn’t the man’s real name either. But it was the only name Yang had ever called him.
“Just so you are aware,” he warned, “the feds beat me here.”
A grunt sounded through the phone. “No surprise there. Four members of Congress are dead along with various and sundry of their family members. The bodies probably hadn’t even begun to cool before the local branch had their best team investigating.”
“From what I can glean, Professor Chastain has not regained consciousness. But I am sure Senator Chastain was only too happy to answer their questions.”
“And that’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it?” Bishop sighed heavily. “Because we have no idea what answers she might have given.”
“Mmm.” Yang pretended to study his shoes, but his eyes tracked the agents as they exited through the automatic doors. “But your source who is overseeing the investigation will no doubt make his report soon enough. And then you will know.”
“I’ll know if it’s not too late. I’ll know if I haven’t been outed.”
“You have not been outed,” Yang assured Bishop. “Sullivan called and said as much. He said Senator McClean had not had a chance to tell the group why he had gathered them together.”
“Sullivan said he hadn’t heard McClean make any sort of announcement. That doesn’t mean the bastard hadn’t gotten the chance to pull people aside and share his suspicions one-on-one.”
“So then we simply do what we must.” Yang turned toward the lobby when the glass doors slid shut behind the FBI agents.
“Right.” There was determination in Bishop’s voice. “We finish the job Sullivan started, frame that kiddy-loving sonofabitch from Indiana, and hope John McClean didn’t have time to share his suspicions about me with Eliza or either of the Chastains.”
“Precisely,” Bishop agreed.
For a handful of seconds, there was quiet on the other end of the call. Then, Bishop cursed. “Damnit! You just know that two more suspicious deaths are going to sharpen the feds’ focus and make things more difficult for us.”
“Only two more?” Yang’s tone didn’t change. But he knew, if anyone could see inside the dark shadow cast by the brim of his pulled-low baseball cap, they would find curiosity in his eyes.
“Eliza Meadows and Black Knights Inc. are a far more complicated issue. I need to think about how to handle them.”