Jeffery Deaver - Edge

Gray or tan could have been beige. Loving’s car from West Virginia? I suggested this and they took note.

The slow transit in itself might not be suspicious. A lot of roads in the District were riddled with potholes, the asphalt was crumbling and traffic signs were missing. Kids stole them for souvenirs. Which could explain the car’s leisurely pace. But then the bad conditions would also provide a good excuse for Loving to drive slowly and be less suspicious.

“You have a sniper?” I asked Freddy.

He snorted a laugh. “Sniper? You’ve been watching too many movies, Corte. Best we have is Bushmasters.”

“Accurate is what we want, Freddy. It’s not about size.”

“Was that a joke, Corte? You never make jokes.”

“A map?” I asked.

“Here, sir.” The woman agent produced one.

I looked it over carefully, though I was keenly aware we didn’t have a lot of time. Either Loving would move fast or he wouldn’t try for the assault at all. I turned to the agents and explained my plan for the takedown, then pointed out the best placement for everyone and for the hardware. Freddy made a few suggestions, which I thought were good.

I looked at the building that was supposedly our safe house. A few lights were on inside. And there was a machine that Hermes had developed, a nice little toy, like a slow-motion fan whose blades cast shadows randomly on shades and curtains, giving the impression that somebody was inside and walking occasionally from room to room. It also produced a light that mimicked the glow of a TV screen. You could program voices to sound like people having conversations. There was even a mode selector: argumentative, humorous, conspiratorial-to make any eavesdropping lifters or hitters believe the warehouse was populated by principals under guard, and not workers.

“How’re the Kesslers?” Freddy asked.

“Calmer than a lot of my principals.” But, I told him, Joanne was a zombie and would be in therapy for a year; her husband was drinking and wanted to shoot anything that moved, and Maree-when she wasn’t hysterical-was more concerned about boyfriend trouble than professional killers.

“I warned you about that sister, Corte. You know, you get tired of this job, you should think about doing some kind of Dr. Phil show.”

Then I said, “I’m going into position.”

He gave me one of his looks. It was a container of a dozen messages that I read instinctively. Freddy, whom I’d met years ago under unusual circumstances, was the only person in the world I could be partnered with in operations like this. Of the two of us, I’m the strategist-I pick the moves-and he’s the tactician, figuring out how to implement my choices.

In terms of games, I decide rock… and Freddy makes the fist.

I trekked through a long weedy gully, bordered by a thick stand of trees to my right, the smelly canal beyond and, on the left, grass and piles of machinery. At the end, under cover of the sad foliage, I set up a Big Ear unit-a twelve-inch parabolic dish that was an ultrasensitive microphone-and slipped on a headset. I turned this toward the warehouse, aiming the device below the window, which had purposely been left open.

I focused beyond the warehouse and noted in the middle of our property two civilian vehicles up on blocks. A Chevy sedan and a Dodge van, rusty and covered with graffiti, some of which I myself had helped spray on a few years ago.

Alone now, feeling very alone, I looked around once more, as a trickle of excitement and anticipation danced down my spine.

Fear too, of course.

As Abe Fallow had told me and I told my protégés, you have to be afraid in this business. If you don’t get scared, you can’t be effective.

Ten minutes passed, a long, long ten minutes.

“Team One to Command Post,” a voice clattered through our earphones. “Got some movement north.”

“Command Post to One. Go ahead.”

“Be advised. Unknown person moving slow. Dark clothing, male probably. Gone from sight now. He’s in grid eighteen.”

“Weapon?”

“Not obvious.”

I strained, leaning forward to look where the subject had been spotted-the opposite side of the property from where I was. After a moment of staring at blond and green weeds, I too noted some motion. The subject was moving furtively from a dead end road toward the warehouse.

“I’ve got him,” the woman agent said. “No weapon. Doesn’t appear to be Loving.”

“Probably the partner,” I radioed, “but he’s not alone. Loving’ll be here too.”

The others called in, reporting what they saw-or, mostly, didn’t see-from their respective positions. The figure tentatively approaching the warehouse had stopped.

Then a whisper: “Team Two. He’s noticed the Dodge, he’s interested in it.”

I kept quiet. I’d be getting the details as soon they were verified. It was inefficient to waste time by asking professionals for more information. It was like urging, “Be careful” as you’re moving in for a takedown. I wiped my hands on my slacks.

“This is Team One. He’s on the move again. Slow.”

“Team Two. Copy that. He’s real interested in the Dodge.” One of the agents asked, “Any equipment in there?”

“No,” Freddy said. “It’s clean. Let him poke around… Team Four, you see anything more? Any sign of Loving?”

“Negative.”

“Three?”

“Negative.”

Then: “This is Team Two. The partner’s getting closer… hand in pocket… looking behind him… has something in his hand. A mobile.”

I pulled out my Alpen 10x32 Long Eye binoculars and scanned the area but couldn’t see him.

Working on calming my breathing-which was shallow and fast. I tried thinking one of my mantras. Rock, paper, scissors. Rock, paper, scissors.

It was then that I heard: Snap .

Directly behind me.

I froze and turned my head slowly.

Holding his silenced pistol steadily on me, Henry Loving glanced down briefly, his mouth curling with faint disappointment at not having avoided the dry branch he’d just stepped on.

LOVING NOTED A bit of body armor protruding from beneath my jacket. He lifted his gun and aimed at my exposed neck.

Then his pale left hand moved slightly, delivering instructions.

I stood. I was to remove the radio mike bud from one ear and the listening device earpiece from the other. And to pull my weapon from the holster with thumb and index finger.

I complied with all of his requests, assessing him calmly.

The way the game was moving was now clear. Loving had guessed that this was a trap and had decided to engage me personally. A rational decision. Which explained why he’d ordered the partner to hold back, near the Dodge, and not approach the warehouse itself, which he would have done if Loving had fallen for the setup.

He’d known it was a trap but he’d taken the risk. Not to get Ryan Kessler, of course, but to kidnap me. Who, after sufficient coercion, would tell him where exactly the Kesslers were. I had suddenly become a principal.

Loving’s murky eyes in the fleshy, nondescript face of a businessman approaching middle age took in the scene quickly and noticed no threat around him, here at a distance from the command post and the warehouse.

I realized that this was the closest I’d ever gotten to the man who’d tortured and killed my mentor. In Rhode Island, in the botched takedown, I’d never been nearer than a hundred feet or so. Close enough to see him squint slightly as he pulled the trigger-an instant before realizing that he’d walked into a trap and the principal was really an undercover agent, behind an invisible bulletproof shield.

Neither of us said anything now. His plan was that we would talk, of course, but later and in the back of his vehicle or in another grim abandoned warehouse somewhere far away. He’d be thinking how long I could last before I told him where Ryan Kessler was.