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 that to him. It’ll prove who I am. No one else calls him that.” McCarter touched her arm. “It’s important, love.”
“Okay.” The nurse relented.
“So you’ll ask him?”
“Only if you stay right here.”
“Word of honor, Sister Jenny.”
McCarter watched her as she crossed the room, pushed through the double doors and vanished down the corridor. She made the nurse’s uniform look good on her trim, shapely figure. If anything could make Henning sit up and take notice it would be Sister Jenny.
Fifteen minutes later she returned. McCarter was sitting one of the plastic visitor chairs, nursing a can of Coke he’d purchased from the vending machine. He glanced up when she appeared.
“How is he?”
“Weak. In considerable pain. But stubborn and determined. And set on sending you this message.” She held out a sheet of notepaper. “He dictated it, I wrote it. He could barely speak, but he made me listen.”
McCarter took the note and scanned the neat writing.
“Is it helpful?”
“It’s certainly that, Jenny, my girl.” McCarter grabbed her by her shoulders and laid a gentle kiss on her cheek. “Thanks.”
HENNING’S NOTE TO McCarter was characterized by precise detail. The Briton could only marvel at Henning’s ability to be so comprehensive in his current condition.