Дэвид Балдаччи - King and Maxwell

“We need to hook back up with Wingo and Tyler. He’s the only path forward that I can see. Otherwise we’ll keep going around in circles until one bullet or bomb doesn’t miss.”

“So how do we ‘hook back up’ with them?”

“You ask a lot of questions. Want to give some answers a try on your own?” he said grumpily.

“Well, we know what Wingo currently looks like. He changed his appearance quite a bit.”

“So?”

“If we can get ahold of some footage at the airports we might get a line on how he got back in the country. He had to come by plane. Ocean freighter would’ve taken a lot longer.”

“Good idea.”

“Thanks,” she said curtly. “I have one a year.”

“So do we go to McKinney or Littlefield with the request?”

“Oh, why let one have fun over the other? Let’s go to both and hit them together.”

“Okay, sounds like a plan.”

“Let’s hope,” said Michelle doubtfully.

ALAN GRANT HAD BEEN LISTENING to the news with great interest. Milo Pratt’s body had been discovered in his car, his throat smashed, his life gone. The police had no clues and no suspects and were hoping the public would come forward with some leads to help them track down the murderer.

Grant knew there would be no public coming forward and no leads to help track down the suspect. He had not allowed himself to be seen. He did not leave evidence behind.

The body of Jean Shepherd had not been discovered. He doubted it ever would be. But even if it were, he was not unduly worried. He had effectively covered his trail. There would be no way for the police to connect him with her.

He continued driving out of the city until he reached his final destination. He passed the checkpoint, drove up the steep, narrow road, and got out of his car. Grant walked around the perimeter of his new purchase. The radio station looked remarkably different than it had a short time ago. The electricity had been turned on. His men were moving with precision and urgency. When they were done, the tech team would come in and work their magic.

The transmission tower was being outfitted with satellite dishes. He watched as one of his men rode high up in a cherry picker, a dish next to him in the lift bucket. Grant then turned his attention to the electronic tablet sitting on his car’s hood. He needed a bit of quiet to compose this email, and the sounds of construction going on within the old radio station would not provide it.

He was using an untraceable email portal. It didn’t seem like anything was really untraceable these days. But that wasn’t the case if you knew what you were doing. And he did.

He wrote out the email, editing it over the next several minutes. As his fingers typed in the words Afghanistan and poppies he smiled broadly. Then, satisfied with the email’s contents, he hit the send key. It was like launching a torpedo. He expected this one to slam into its target with even more devastating results than had the first one, about certain rebels being funded by the U.S. government.

He performed an NSA [37] NSA – National Security Agency. -level wipe on the tablet, obliterating any trace of the email on it, and then slipped the device into his pocket. His phone buzzed. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. His smile quickly became a frown.

King and Maxwell were true escape artists, it seemed. Maxwell had shot two of his men while King had incapacitated a third. A fourth man had been killed by Sam Wingo, who had also managed to escape with his son, Tyler.

Grant put the phone back into his pocket, leaned against his car, looked at the dark sky, and shut his eyes. He hummed the melody from Rhapsody in Blue , a favorite method of his to relax. When he finished he opened his eyes, looked over at the radio station, and calmly thought about his next move.

The email he had just sent would detonate like a bombshell in D.C. Then the shock waves would emanate out from there. It was so easy to get a message to go viral these days what with all the outlets on social media, and with all the idle eyeballs looking for the next big thing to pass on through the digital spectrum.

So his plan was good there. Not so good on other counts.

The former Secret Service agents were seriously hampering his efforts. But for them, he would be much farther ahead. And Wingo now would go deep under. And take his son with him. It made no sense to go full-bore after him right now. Better to go after a target that wasn’t as hardened or as elusive.

King and Maxwell were the low-hanging fruit. The pair obviously wasn’t an easy target, but Grant played the percentages. And that way of looking at things told him they were the ones to focus on. And there were ways to do that without necessarily going after either of them directly. He didn’t want any more casualties on his end.

He pulled out his tablet and entered some search terms. The response was fast and illuminating. He looked at the Facebook page of the person – young, sweet, innocent. She could have no idea what was about to hit her like a tsunami.

King and Maxwell would be his go-to target. Once he got to them he could leverage them to get to Wingo. With him off the board Grant could feel far more confident about his plan succeeding.

He made a call and conveyed his instructions. They would be carried out quickly and efficiently, he was certain of that.

Then he looked at his radio station. This was the key. This was the whole ball game right here. If he could make this work, nothing else really mattered.

TYLER SAT ON THE THIN mattress and stared over at him.

Sam Wingo was at the window of the hotel room peering out, a gun in one hand, his other hand curled around the window drape.

“Dad?” said Tyler in a shaky voice.

Wingo held up a hand to quiet his son. He lingered at the window for a few more minutes, his gaze running up and down the streets, to the tops of the buildings and the windows facing him, to the cars parked down below, to the people moving along the sidewalks.

Finally, he closed the drapes, slipped the gun into his holster, and turned to his son. Wingo started to say something but then stopped as he saw the terror in his son’s eyes. He drew up a chair next to the bed and sat down in it, his knees nearly touching Tyler’s.

“I’m sorry, Tyler. I’m sorry for all of this. Everything I’ve put you through.”

“I’m… I’m just glad you’re alive, Dad.”

Wingo wrapped his arms around Tyler, and they sat there swaying a bit. When Wingo drew back, he took a deep breath and began speaking.

“First, I know all the stuff you’ve heard on the news. I didn’t steal the money. And I’m not a traitor to my country. I was set up.”

“I know that, Dad. I never thought you did any of that stuff.”

“I’m going to find out who did set me up, though.”

“I know you will.”

They grew silent, each staring at the other intently.

Wingo finally rose and paced the small room.

Tyler looked around the space. “Are we going to stay here? I mean, I’ve got school and a swim meet coming up”

Wingo stopped pacing and looked over at him.

“We can’t stay here, no. And as for school and swimming.…” He started pacing again.

“What about Jean?” asked Tyler.

His father sat down in the chair. “What about her?”

“Who was she?”

Wingo looked markedly uncomfortable by this question.

Tyler hurried on, “See, I heard she was a plant. That you thought she was working with you. But maybe she was really working for someone else. Like a spy.”

“Who told you that?”

“Sean and Michelle.”