Dead Wrong by Allen Wyler

Author:Allen Wyler [Wyler, Allen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, Medical, Dead Wrong
ISBN: 9781938231179
Google: TAuaMQEACAAJ
Amazon: B009P51D66
Goodreads: 15842516
Publisher: Astor + Blue Editions
Published: 2011-12-31T18:30:00+00:00

28

SUBBASEMENT, DOCTORS HOSPITAL

WARREN SIKES WAS fuming, but he’d be damned if he’d show the slightest hint to Hansen because it’d be interpreted as a sign of weakness and lack of control. He stood in the long hall, hands on hips, taking in slow, measured breaths. At the moment his molars could crush stones, as the possibility that McCarthy might’ve actually escaped the medical center seemed to increase. Initially, he’d thought it improbable. But now, after the hours dragged by without a hint of him, he’d been forced to admit—only to himself—the fucking amateur might’ve gotten lucky. Every now and then it happened. Fucking McCarthy.

Abandon searching the medical center and focus their attention elsewhere? The problem was where would that be? The obvious place—McCarthy’s house—was covered by Womack, and if the son of a bitch had any smarts at all, he wouldn’t go near the place. In all likelihood, he’d head straight to the shyster lawyer. Which, far as he knew, hadn’t happened. Reports from the SPD officer surveilling Davidson’s office had David-son holed up inside, alone. Since putting him under surveillance no one had come or gone from his office. Which, in itself, was suspicious as hell, considering the three-day weekend was about to begin. He suspected Davidson was communicating with McCarthy by phone.

An hour ago, expedited by Cunningham’s claim of national security, Sikes had been granted a seventy-two-hour wire on Davidson’s office and cellular phones. Since activating the wire Davidson had neither instituted nor answered a call. But who knew how many conversations might have taken place before they got their ears.

A drop of sweat slid down Sikes’s temple but he ignored it, preferring to stare down the long cinderblock corridor. The sickly yellow paint, the rows of pipes strung along the ceiling and walls, the heavy humid smell of laundry detergent, reminded him of the countless army institutions in which he’d served through the world. He loved the army. Loved the structure, the rigidity of a known code, the chain of command, for the way it simplified life. Follow the rules and you can easily chalk up your twenty years without ever worrying about a layoff, unions, or your employer going broke. You could walk away with a pension before your fortieth birthday. Sweet! The downside? Endless hours of boredom during some deployments. Lack of boredom was precisely the reason he loved working for Cunningham. This job made you think, consider minute details, recognize patterns, and put it all together like one big puzzle. None of which was happening now. Fucking McCarthy.

Hansen stood to his right, constantly fidgeting, constantly tugging up his pants and tucking in the front of his shirt, irritating Sikes, making him want to slap the little twat silly.

He, Hansen, Hansen’s men, and Franklin’s detail had been scouring these drab yellow halls for four hours and had come away with zip. He didn’t even want to try to calculate the wasted man-hours it represented. Made him sick.

In all that time, no one had found one shred of evidence that McCarthy was either in or out of the building.

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