Page 145 of Agency

The beeping and heavy, mechanical breathing grew louder.

I went low and pressed myself against the hallway wall, flipped up a tactical mirror mounted to my optics rail. I bent down and angled my weapon out around the doorway, so I could see inside.

A hospital bed dominated the far end of the room, flanked on both sides by heart monitor, oxygen machine, and rolling IV stand. Sitting upright in bed but looking like a withered husk, was Management himself, a Mossberg 500 shotgun gripped in his trembling, unsteady hands. Tubes and wires ran from the loose, sallow skin sagging from his straining arms, connecting him like a violent, bio-mechanical infant to its mother.

Dying. He was fucking dying.

All this effort for a dying man, who looked like he wouldn’t last even a week longer, let alone long enough to strike back at me, or my triad of lovers. True, we were wiping the servers, and ensuring my long-term survival from whatever amoral director came along to replace Management. And that was necessary.

But, Management himself wasn’t going to last out the year! Had I missed this in Aunt Val’s dossier? Had the other guys, too? Or had that intel simply been an unnecessary detail, and intentionally omitted by my aunt?

Withdrawing my weapon, I dropped lower and pressed back flat against the wall as I called out: “Lajos Backlund?”

Raspy breathing.

“I think you know who I am, sir.”

More rasping breaths. “X-2418.” A long pause, more breaths. When he continued, the lightly accented words were methodical, spaced-out, and chosen as if they were some of the last he’d ever speak. Which, they probably were.

“Ambyr Jaros. I assume your aunt sent you to kill me?”

“In a sense.” I stayed back behind the wall, fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to angle the shotgun down towards me while staying in the bed. “Seems nature’s doing that for me, though. You’re terminal, right?”

“You are correct. Stage Four.”

“What kind?”

“Does it matter where the rot began? The cancer reached my lymphatic system over a year ago. Now, the disease permeates me.”

Morgan had arrived from clearing the rest of the floor, and was now down low next to me. The look on his face said everything I was already thinking: Was this even necessary anymore?

I nodded to him. This was still necessary.

“We wiped your servers, by the way,” I said. “All that intel, contacts, blackmail, financial records… Everything. It’s gone already, or soon will be. And you can fire your big ol’ shotgun, if you want, but I’m pretty sure the recoil will break your shoulder and probably kill you. Let it go, and we can just talk.”

A loud clatter of heavy metal sounded against somewhere within Management’s sick room, and I whipped the gun around so I could use the mirror’s reflection to see what had happened. The shotgun lay on the floor in front of the nightstand, and the dying man had sunk back so deep into his pillows that only his bright, flinty eyes seemed visible as they peered down over the foot of his hospital bed at my peeking weapon.

Retracting my weapon, I nodded to Morgan and went to stand. I lowered the carbine and began digging for both my smart phone and black ski mask.

“You able to do this?” I asked Morgan as he began to retrieve his own face cover.

“Better me than you,” he said, stripping off his blue beanie and pulling the black mask down over his face. “How do I look?” The mask had two eyeholes cut, along with one for the mouth.

“Like you’re not you.” Adjusting the position of my eyeholes, I made sure mine was still snug. “How about me?”

“Kissable as ever.”

“That’s only because you’re such a slut,” I said with a small smile as I pulled a glove off and began working on setting up my burner phone. “Seriously, though, if you’re even the least bit shy, we can switch places.”

“I don’t want you anywhere near being caught on this recording. If I’m recognized in some way, there’s no evidence of my being involved. I’m just a concerned citizen in this. You, on the other hand? Plenty of liability, there.”

“Fair.” We exchanged nods and went around the corner.

Backlund’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly when he saw the phone in my hand.

“Here’s how this will work,” I said. “You can either agree to be quiet, or my partner can gag you.”

A long silence reigned over the room, broken only by his unsteady respiration. “If you gag me, I may die.”