Stuart Woods - Heat

He turned to see the police chief standing with Jack Gene Coldwater, who was gazing expectantly at Jesse.

“Jack Gene, I want to introduce you to Jesse Barron, a new member of our community. Jesse, this is Jack Gene Coldwater, our pastor.”

Jesse’s hand was enveloped in Coldwater’s, which was large and surprisingly soft.

“Jesse,” Coldwater said, “I want to welcome you to our church. This is the first of many visits, I hope.” He did not let go of Jesse’s hand.

Jesse stood, fixed in Coldwater’s gaze, suddenly seized with the feeling that the man could see inside him, see who he really was and why he was there. “Thank you, pastor,” he managed to say. “It was a very fine dinner.”

“Those who dine at my table never want for anything,” Coldwater replied. “Anything,” he repeated.

Jesse didn’t know how to respond to that, so he said nothing.

Coldwater continued to clasp Jesse’s hand. “Come and see me Monday, after work,” he said. He gave Jesse’s hand a final shake, then turned and walked away without acknowledging Jenny or Carey.

“Come around to the station when you get off,” Casey said. “I’ll take you up there to see him.”

“All right,” Jesse replied. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.

“Let’s go home,” Jenny said, taking his arm.

On the drive home she said nothing.

“You’re very quiet,” he said. “For you, I mean.”

She smiled up at him. “I’m just full,” she said. “Eating that much always makes me sleepy.”

“I’d better get you home to bed,” he said.

“I guess you’d better,” she said, then winked at him.

Jesse drove home, looking forward to bed, looking forward to the weekend off and looking forward to his appointed meeting with Jack Gene Coldwater.

The four men arrived separately in Seattle: two at Seattle-Tacoma International airport on different flights from different destinations. The third arrived by Greyhound bus a little after nine in the evening, and inside an hour had stolen an anonymous van and changed its license plates with those of a Toyota Corolla parked nearby. He then picked up the two men at Seattle-Tacoma airport.

After midnight, the fourth man landed a light airplane, a fixed-gear Cessna 182, at Tacoma Narrows, a small, general-aviation airport on one of the many islands in the area. He taxied to a remote end of the tie-down area and cut the engine. Immediately, the van pulled up to the airplane, and its contents were quickly transferred to the vehicle. Two of the men refilled the airplane’s fuel tanks from jerry cans stowed in the luggage compartment. Not a word was spoken. The men got into the van and drove toward Seattle.

The four men were named, for the occasion, Black, Gray, Brown and White. Black, who had piloted the Cessna, held a flashlight to a map of the city and gave monosyllabic instructions to Brown, who drove, while Gray and White quietly slipped into boiler suits in the back of the van. It was nearly 2 A.M. when the van arrived at its destination.

“Around the block at twenty-five miles an hour,” Black said. As they turned the first corner, a police car passed them going in the opposite direction.

Brown stiffened at the wheel, but Black put a hand on his arm. “It’s all right; in fact it’s good. Better now than in half an hour.” He began climbing into a boiler suit. “Stop there and change,” he said, pointing to the curb. When Brown had donned his suit, he drove back toward their destination.

Black pointed to the parking lot of a printing company across the street, and Brown pulled into a parking place. Two small canvas duffles were handed forward from the rear of the van, and the occupants got out. Wordlessly, the four men crossed the street and walked at a moderate pace down the sidewalk along a high hedge, each carrying an identical canvas bag. Black was counting paces under his breath.

He raised a hand, and his companions stopped. Gray and White plunged their arms into the hedge and parted it, while Black and Brown stepped through; then Gray and White followed them. The hedge closed behind them.

Quickly now, Black led them to the rear door of the building. Each man unzipped his canvas bag and removed a pistol with a silencer affixed. Black produced a key, unlocked the door, and the four men stepped inside, then their leader went to a security keypad just inside the door and tapped in a four-digit code. A soft beep sounded. Black turned to his companions and shone his flashlight on his wristwatch. He held up three fingers, for three minutes. His companions nodded, and on a hand signal from Black they spread out into the building.

Black found room number one, sat cross-legged on the floor under the central table and laid his pistol on the floor beside him. He took a small packet from his canvas bag and taped it to the table pedestal, making sure to leave a six-inch length of aerial wire exposed. He went back into the hallway and to the rear door, where he was joined by his three companions. He took another packet from his bag and taped it to the rear door. Glancing at his wristwatch, he tapped a number into a keypad on the unit, then looked at the others and nodded.

Black opened the rear door. To his astonishment he was staring down the barrel of a .38 caliber pistol.

“Freeze! All of you!” The uniformed man cried.

Black did not hesitate; he swung his canvas bag at the man’s weapon and felt a round blow past his head. He fired one shot into the middle of the man’s face, then stepped over his body and waved the others to follow.

“Jesus Christ,” White said.

“Shut up,” Black barked. “Nothing has changed.” He looked carefully through the parted hedge, up and down the street. It was deserted, but he saw a light come on in a house across the street. “Don’t run, walk,” Black growled at the others. They made their way toward the van, and Black heard a door open and voices. “Walk!” he said again.

They reached the van and got in. Brown started the engine, and Black put a hand on his shoulder. “Twenty-five miles an hour, no more,” he said. He switched on his flashlight and started to give instructions again. From the distance came the sound of a police siren.

“Jesus Christ!” Brown shouted, then floored the accelerator.

“Slow down!” Black yelled. “Twenty-five; no more!”

“People came out of that house,” Brown said. “They had to get a look at the van.”

At that moment a huge explosion erupted behind them, and the interior of the van was lit with a fiery light. The two men in the rear of the van cheered.

“Shut up,” Black said to them. “We can’t return the van to where you stole it,” he said to Brown. “We go to Plan B. Right at the next intersection; we’ll stay off the big streets and go through neighborhoods to the Plan B rendezvous. We’ve got a local contact waiting there for us, just in case. Now left at the corner. And slow down!” He turned and looked over his shoulder at the two men in back. “Listen to me carefully. If a cop car gets on our tail, we won’t run. Brown will slow down; you kick open the back doors and pour everything into their windshield.”

“We’ve already killed one cop,” Brown said.

“That was a security guard, and anyway, we’ve already bought the death penalty if they get us, so another cop or two won’t matter.”

Brown set his jaw and drove.

“Two rights, now.” In a moment they were approaching a school. “Turn in here; drive around back.” As they came around the corner of the building the van’s headlights picked up a Lincoln Town Car parked near a dumpster. “That’s our ride,” Black said. “Make sure everything is out of the van. Everybody still wearing gloves?”