G. Moffat - Blindside

‘You coming back here today?’

‘Probably not. There’re still some people I can talk to. Maybe hit the streets as well, to find some sources.’

Irvine looked at her watch. It was approaching four in the afternoon.

‘I guess we’ve done what we can today,’ she said. ‘It all starts again tomorrow with the lab results from Hall’s scene.’

‘We’re a step closer than we were. That’s something.’

‘Sure,’ she said, not convinced.

‘You heard from your new best pal yet?’

She didn’t know what he was talking about and said so.

‘Frank Parker.’

Irvine sighed. ‘No. And get over it.’

Seth Raines dressed in a pair of Khaki Dockers and a black shirt. He was watching TV when his mobile phone rang. He recognised the number as being the passenger that he had taken up to the compound.

‘Everything is checked out at my end,’ the man on the other end of the line said. ‘Now it’s up to you. When do you want to exchange?’

‘I need to speak to my team.’

‘I appreciate that there’s a lot to prepare.’ The man paused. ‘Do you have any security concerns?’

Raines wondered if the man was also having him followed and knew about his FBI shadows. Whatever. Honesty was how he liked to do business.

‘The FBI are following me.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘They don’t have anything on me. It’s harassment.’

‘Why?’

‘In the past I’ve had occasion to put some things in writing that may have upset some people. Given them a false impression of who I am and what I might do.’

‘False impression?’

‘Yes. Plus, we think that one of them was trying to infiltrate our team.’

That brought a long silence. Raines said nothing for the duration.

‘This is the first I have heard of this.’

‘It’s sorted now. And, anyway, he never got close enough to know what we were planning.’

‘But they suspect something?’

‘They don’t have a clue what this is about.’

‘In my experience, they are not lateral thinkers.’

‘I agree. We’re safe.’

‘Do you have a contingency for dealing with the current FBI interest in you?’

‘Yes.’

They both knew what he meant.

‘Good. You’ll be in touch when the final timing is set?’

‘Yes.’

The man ended the call without saying anything else.

Raines knew that he needed to make at least one final trip up to the mountain compound before he finalised the arrangements with the man. That would prove awkward with the FBI tail. He wondered if it might be possible to go part of the way by bus or train and get one of the team to pick him up at the other end. That might be enough to get them off his tail.

He dialled Matt Horn’s number.

‘How’s your head after last night, Seth?’

‘I’m fine. I didn’t have much anyway.’

‘Can’t say the same. What’s up?’

‘I got a call from the guy this morning.’

‘And?’

‘He’s looking to finalise things. You’re okay with that now?’

‘Yes. But it doesn’t mean I have to sing and dance about it.’

‘No one’s asking you to. Listen, I need to go to the mountain to wrap things up. You have to be there as well.’

‘I know. When?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘What about your friends at the FBI?’

‘I’m still thinking about how to deal with them. Leave it with me.’

Cahill left the hotel room after seven on Thursday morning with Logan still asleep. He went down to the bar area and sat by the window before calling Tom Hardy. It was mid-afternoon back in the UK.

‘Tom, it’s me. I’m going to need to visit that contact you were arranging over here.’

The gun.

‘Sure. Want me to e-mail you the details?’

‘Yeah. You got it now?’

‘I do. I’ll hang up and send it.’

‘Who is he?’

‘She. It’s a woman.’

‘How do we know her? I mean, what’s her background?’

‘I didn’t enquire. She runs a legit gun shop. Does a sideline for those in need of something untraceable. I’m told that she is very careful to ensure that it’s only those with right on their side that she deals with.’

Cahill smiled.

‘Use my name,’ Hardy said. ‘That’ll be good enough.’

Cahill took a taxi to a suburb in the predominantly white South Denver area. The city was like a lot of the big metropolitan centres in the US — the neighbourhoods were divided largely by race. In Denver it was African Americans in the east, Hispanics on the north and west sides and whites in the south. There were always exceptions and, as the cab drew up on the opposite side of the street from the gun shop, Cahill saw a black woman behind the counter. It was eight-thirty and the shop was already open.

He got out of the cab and spent a little time checking out the area. It was unremarkable. Neither particularly affluent nor poor, and the houses were clean and tidy with small, well-kept front yards. It was a good place for wanting to go unnoticed.

Cahill walked across the street and went into the shop, a bell above his head ringing as he pushed the front door open. The woman behind the counter looked over at him and smiled. She was serving a man in a checked shirt wearing a Broncos cap.

‘Be with you in a minute,’ she said to him in a Boston accent — all elongated vowels. ‘Have a look around.’

Cahill nodded and said he would. He didn’t know if she recognised him as one of her other customers.

He walked around the small shop, marvelling again, now that he was home, at the availability of such destructive weapons to members of the public and seeing posters advertising gun clubs and shooting ranges. He was a trained soldier and knew how to use these things, but any idiot could walk in here and buy one if they checked out okay.

Cahill was at the back of the shop when he heard the bell ring again as the other customer left. He walked over to the counter and smiled at the woman, offering his hand in greeting. She shook it.

‘I’m Elizabeth Holmes. Call me Lizzie. What can I do for you?’

She had a firm handshake and wore a white T-shirt with a Smith amp; Wesson logo. Cahill could see the slender, well-toned muscles of her forearm as she shook his hand. Her hair was short and she had wide-set brown eyes. He made her for late forties.

‘Tom Hardy said I should come see you if I was in town,’ Cahill said.

She held his hand a moment longer then released it, putting both her hands on her hips. It was a girlish pose, but she pulled it off.

‘I’m always happy to meet new friends,’ she said.

‘Likewise.’

‘You an ex-cop or what?’

‘Army then Secret Service.’

‘You get around. What you up to now?’

Getting to know you.

‘Close protection. Corporates, politicians. That kind of thing, you know.’

Her eyes opened wider. ‘Any celebrities?’

‘Sometimes. I mean, try to avoid them.’

‘Very sensible. Bet they pay well, though.’

‘That they do, Lizzie.’

She looked at him for a moment and walked around the counter, heading for the front door.

‘Give me a second to close up and I’ll take you downstairs.’

She turned a lock on the door and put a sign in the window telling her customers that she’d be back in a half-hour.

‘Follow me,’ she said as she went towards a door at the back of the counter area.

He went through the door behind her and down a narrow set of stairs. There was another door at the bottom with three heavy-duty locks which she opened. The door swung inwards and Cahill could tell from the way she held it that it was armoured — the wood fascia intended as a disguise.