Terminal Guidance. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
for cash. Henning didn’t view him as idealistic. There was no visible altruistic reason why Winch would be passing along sensitive information without receiving some kind of reward.
Henning brought himself back to the present. He played with the details he had, using his desk pad to list them, then stared at the penciled notations.
Lewis Winch—supposedly on Henning’s side of the fence, though emerging facts were suggesting otherwise.
Samman Prem—a suspect who had received a personal visit from Winch a couple weeks back.
Jack Coyle’s face-to-face with Prem, which had been followed by a violent attack on Coyle and his team.
Henning doodled with his pencil, still unsure of the full intent of his gathered information. When he glanced at his watch he saw it was late. He threw the pencil down and stood up, clicking off his computer. He tore the sheet of paper from his pad and slid it into the office shredder, grabbed his coat and headed out. The department was empty except for the evening team.
Winch had left much earlier.
In the elevator Henning leaned against the side of the car, glad to leave the office behind. The image of a tender steak and a foamy pint of beer crossed his mind. He was still thinking about food as he climbed into his car and drove out of the basement garage. Light rain had wet the road, and multicolored reflections of street and store lights spread across the tarmac. There was heavy rush-hour traffic and it took Henning forty-five minutes to negotiate the distance to his home.
Reaching his destination, he turned in at the archway that fronted the residential mews where he lived. He came to a stop a few yards from his front door, cut the engine, climbed out and locked his car.
And that was when he heard someone call his name.
CHAPTER FIVE
Greg Henning paused as he searched in his pocket for his house key. Stalling by pretending he couldn’t find it, he slid his right hand inside his coat, located the butt of his handgun and released the breakaway strap. His already alerted senses ratcheted up a notch when he heard his name being spoken again.
He knew now he hadn’t been mistaken.
Someone was standing in the deep shadow at the end of the cul-de-sac. Under Henning’s coat his hand closed around the butt of his 9 mm Glock. He took out his key and inserted it into the lock.
Henning turned the key. Felt the lock give. He pushed against the door and it swung inward. At the same time he pulled his Glock, angling it across his body as he made a swift turn.
He caught a fragmented glimpse of the figure closing in fast. He heard the subdued snap of a suppressed shot and felt a hard blow just below his left shoulder. The impact tipped him off balance. He hit the edge of the door frame, stumbling partway inside. Henning struggled to stay upright as he triggered a shot from the Glock. The report sounded extremely loud in the quiet surroundings.
The other shooter’s weapon fired again, twice. Henning gasped in shock as the slugs struck home. He fired again himself, pulling the trigger as many time as he could. He saw the shooter stop in midstride, and knew he’d scored some kind of hit. The man turned aside, pulling away, and as he passed through the light thrown from the wall lamp above the door Henning saw his face in profile. It was only for a fleeting second but long enough for him to recognize the man.
It was Lewis Winch.
Henning went down in a heavy sprawl, blood pulsing from the bullet wounds in his chest. He didn’t really register hitting the ground, just saw the strange angle of the open door looming above him. The night sky was sprinkled with stars. There was a rush of pain, then a comforting numbness that spread with alarming speed. He picked up sounds far off.
Unconnected.
Henning fumbled his cell from his coat, peering at the screen as he pressed keys for a text message. The effort cost him, pain making him gasp, fingers feeling thick and clumsy. When he located the number for Jack Coyle, he sent a text.
He felt the phone slip from his hand. He sensed people around him, bending over him, anxious voices. Henning couldn’t make sense of any of it. He hoped his text had got through. That was the last thing he remembered.
MCCARTER TOOK OUT his cell, checking the incoming call. It was from Stony Man. He answered and heard Barbara Price’s voice.
“Text message rerouted via the cover number,” she said. “From your cop buddy in London. Henning. He’s in trouble. Something about being shot and knowing who the mole is.”
“I’m on it, Barb.”
“Merry England isn’t sounding too merry.”
“You don’t know the half.”
“Progress?”
“We’re picking up scraps here and there. Names you guys supplied are tying up, but nothing too definite yet. Just feed us anything you find.” McCarter paused. “Heard from the others yet?”
“Only that they’ve located themselves and it’s hot.”
McCarter smiled. “That will be our Canadian member,” he said. “He prefers snow and ice.”
“Let us know about Henning.”
“Thanks, love, I’ll keep you updated.”
MCCARTER MANAGED TO maintain his composure in the face of hospital protocol. It took all his patience and persuasion to even get to the nurses’ station on Henning’s floor. The young woman in charge, an attractive redhead, at least had an engaging personality. She listened to McCarter’s story in silence, lips pursed in a gentle smile.
“You must understand hospital rules,” she said finally. “We can’t have people wandering in unannounced. Mr. Henning is lucky to be alive. He was shot three times. One bullet clipped his left lung. He lost a great deal of blood before the ambulance crew arrived, and he’s had serious surgery.”
“You know he’s a security officer?” McCarter said.
The nurse chuckled at that. “Don’t I know it. Seems as if we’ve had half the Met in here. There’s even an officer on duty outside his room. Look, we’ve been told no one is allowed in unless they’ve been vetted, so there isn’t much I can do.”
McCarter took a breath. He peered at the name tag on the young woman’s uniform. “Nurse Jenny…”
“Actually, it’s Sister Jenny.”
“Sorry,” McCarter said. “Look, Sister Jenny, I’m in the same business. Working undercover with Greg Henning. I’m pretty sure his shooting was because of the case we’re involved with. Right now my only contact is through Greg. I can’t go any higher because our investigation concerns leaks within the security department itself.”
McCarter took out his cell and opened Henning’s text message. He showed it to Jenny. She checked it out, and murmured, “The time on that message is five minutes before the ambulance arrived at Mr. Henning’s address.”
“He must have sent it just after he’d been shot. He was trying to let me know something.”
“I still can’t let you into his room.”
“But you can go in.”
She eyed him warily. “Yes…”
“If he’s awake, ask him if he has anything for me. Just tell him Jack Coyle wants to know.”
Jenny’s expression told McCarter he’d made a connection. “You’re Jack Coyle?”
“Yes. Why?”
“He asked me if you’d been around. As soon as he woke up.”
McCarter smiled. “Good old Gregory.”
She frowned. “Gregory?”
“Mention