Dan O'Shea - Penance

“So this Lynch guy could be a problem.”

“It is possible, sir.”

“You think on that then, Chen. Let me know if it looks like we’ve got to make his life interesting.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pull up your map for a second,” Weaver said. Chen pressed a few keys and turned the laptop so both she and Weaver could see the screen. “Snyder thinks Fisher will head to a town called Moriah. Some biblical bullshit.”

“It’s here,” said Chen, moving the cursor.

“Gimme some detail.”

Chen zoomed in on the town.

“Jesus,” said Weaver, “Welcome to Mayberry. They got a Catholic church?”

Chen switched out of the map program and into a local directory. “Holy Angels. Hill Street.”

“When they do confessions there?”

“The next scheduled time is 3pm tomorrow.”

“Go back to the map, show me the church. Switch to topo,” said Weaver.

Chen pressed another key, bringing up a topographical map of the area. Weaver took one look at the dense concentration of curved contour lines and let out a low whistle.

“Fergie’s gonna love this,” he said.

Richter popped into the cabin, followed by Ferguson, Lawrence, and Capelli. Weaver got up. He went to clap Chen on the shoulder, habit, just what he did with the troops. But he stopped. Every time he touched her, he felt like he’d just put his hand in a snake pit and gotten away with it.

While Lynch slept, Johnson went out and bought food. She could hear Lynch in the shower when she got back. He came out from the bedroom in a pair of khakis and a white T-shirt just as she set breakfast on the table. Eggs, sausage, bagels, grapefruit, coffee.

“Thought you’d gone in to work,” said Lynch.

“I’ll have to, after we eat. How are you feeling?”

“Leg hurts, but not too bad. Head itches. Listen, thanks for last night. Hope I wasn’t too much of a wuss.”

“I don’t think you’ve got much wuss in you, Lynch.”

“Still, bawling in your lap. Not my usual move on a third date.”

“I give all my boyfriends a pass when they get shot.”

“Wasn’t the getting shot. Second time I’ve had to kill somebody. Doesn’t sit too well with me.”

Johnson reached across the table and took his hand. “You might have a little wuss in you after all. But it’s the good kind.”

Lynch pushed his food around on his plate.

“What are you going to do with yourself today?” Johnson asked.

“Figure I’ll visit my mom, then I need to get over to her place. She’s been in Resurrection for better than a week. Better start getting shit in order over there. Not sure if she’s going to get back home again, but she hasn’t been able to keep on top of things for a while. Doesn’t feel right letting the place go.”

“Well, don’t push things. You did get shot last night, in case you forgot.”

“Shot’s when you get a bullet in you. I just got peppered with some shit.”

“Guess you’re not a wuss after all.”

“Don’t worry, I have to move any furniture or anything, I’ll give you a call.”

After breakfast, Johnson looked at Lynch and made a face. “We’ve got to do something about your hair.” The emergency room staff had shaved off three patches of hair on the right side of Lynch’s head to get at the bullet and cement fragments.

He gave her a lopsided smile. “You think?”

She took him into the bathroom and draped a towel over his shoulders. She trimmed the hair back to stubble with scissors, then used his razor to shave it off. She carefully peeled the gauze from over his eye. She opened a fresh gauze pad, spread ointment on it, and taped it down.

“I’ve got a present for you,” she said, opening the white bag she had brought back that morning. She pulled out a black eyepatch, and Lynch laughed. She lifted the towel off his shoulders and shook it out into the bathtub. Then she wiped his scalp with a warm washcloth and, stretching the elastic over his head, fitted the patch over the gauze pad on his eye. Lynch stood up and looked in the mirror.

“Won’t Bernstein be thrilled,” he said. “I look like Moshe Dayan.”

Fisher finished fueling the truck. The line was established. The electronics were in place, and Weaver would know to look for the signal by now. With each sacrifice, Weaver would know more. It was time.

Fisher pushed the nozzle of the gas pump back into the pump housing, walked into the station, and placed the American Express card on the counter. The attendant ran the card through the machine and passed it back.

“Thanks, Mr McBride,” the attendant said. “Come and see us again soon.”

Fisher just smiled.

The Gulfstream was cruising over eastern Kentucky, and Weaver had settled into the starboard seat in front with a glass of Macallan’s and a Cohiba. Technically, smoking was forbidden. Of course, technically, he wasn’t supposed to be in a plane full of armed thugs plotting a murder, so he lit up the cigar.

Things were looking up. Chen had gotten a call from Kankakee. They had a positive ID on Fisher. He was holding the line. Still didn’t know what he was driving, though. But the Moriah thing felt right. And it was a small town. Population 328. Shit, Fergie’d packed enough hardware to take it right off the map.

Weaver finished the scotch and was thinking about a nap when someone tapped his shoulder. Chen.

“Yeah?”

“The McBride identity has surfaced, sir. Fisher just used the American Express card at a gas station.”

“Where?”

“Moriah.”

Weaver smiled. He could smell blood. He stood up. “Gentlemen, listen up. We have confirmed that Fisher is on the ground in the target area. Fergie? You seen the map?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And he’ll have more hides than crab lice on a crack whore, boss.” Some general laughter with that one.

“Tough terrain, Fergie, I’ll grant you that. Everybody be ready to roll when we touch down. We are not loitering in the LZ. Chen, you’ve got recon. Check the church for electronics then take a drive around, see what you can pick up. Richter, Capelli, you’ve got the trail maps for the state forest. Give me a sweep around that ridge. Fergie, you and me and Lawrence are gonna work up some tactics. Big day tomorrow, boys and girls, and not a lot of sleep tonight. We’ve got ninety minutes before landing. I’m sacking out.”

Weaver sank back into his seat and, in the habit of soldiers everywhere, was out in seconds.

Chen pulled her rented Toyota in the lot in front of St Holy Angels just before 5pm, parking just long enough to let her cell phone run through the frequencies Paravola had programmed in. In a couple of seconds, she picked up some video from inside the church. Fisher had been here. He was ready.

The ridge around the church concerned her. Too much ground and too many potential hides for Fisher. They’d have to wait until Fisher took the shot and be ready for a counter-sniper action. That could get ugly.

Capelli and Richter parked at one of the trailheads north of the church and walked through the woods to the top of the ridgeline that overlooked the parking lot. Sight lines through the woods varied but were not as bad as they could have been. A fair amount of low brush grew in clumps, but the trees were well established, oak and maple mostly. There wasn’t much secondary growth, and the ground evidently got some traffic. The state maintained an extensive network of marked trails through the area, and numerous other footpaths were worn into the ground. The late sun drilled down through the bare trees, dappling the ground. Richter and Capelli didn’t expect Fisher to be in the woods now, but they both wore silenced H amp;K MP5s on slings under their coats. They worked up the back of the ridge abreast, fifteen yards apart. Richter would move forward while Capelli provided cover, then Capelli would leapfrog him and work ahead.