Chris Mooney - The Missing

Cunney paused for a moment. He wanted his next point to sink in.

'Slavick spent a lot of time at the Hand of the Lord's training camp in Arkansas,' he said. 'Not only does he know how to shoot, he's considered somewhat of an explosives expert. You all know he destroyed a hospital with a fertilizer bomb and a homemade plastic explosive stuffed inside a FedEx box took down to the Boston Crime lab. Our man also killed two of our agents with dynamite packed inside a van. Going in, we've got to assume he's rigged some of the buildings.

'It will be nightfall by the time we arrive. Intel says there are other people on Slavick's property – probably some local weekend warrior assholes he's recruited for his movement. I want to hit him hard and fast. We're not going to have another goddamn firefight, not if I can help it.'

The ghost of Waco passed through the faces.

Cunney looked to his two best snipers, Sammy DiBattista and Jim Hagman.

'Sam, Haggy, you're not to fire until you have the go-ahead from me, understood?'

Both men nodded. Cunney wasn't worried. He had seen these two men in actual combat and knew their capabilities.

'We don't know how many women Slavick's got trapped in there with him,' Cunney said. 'We're going in with the assumption they're alive. Rescuing those women is our primary objective. This is a tactical operation. There will be no negotiating.

'One last thing. This is strictly a home team affair. We don't have to worry about any interference from ATF or the locals. Crisis Management has assembled all the technical and tactical help we need. That's all I have right now. Questions?'

Sammy DiBattista asked the question on every one's mind: 'What do we do if Slavick decides to engage us?'

'Simple,' Cunney said. 'We take the son of a bitch down.'

The computers at the Massachusetts DMV were terribly slow. It took over two hours to assemble a twenty-page list of drivers who owned or had owned one of the twelve Aston Martin Lagondas imported into the United States.

Darby hunted through the sheets of tiny print for recent owners while Banville talked on one of the secured phones inside the surveillance van. More than four hours had passed since the feds had taken over the investigation. During that time, he had assembled a small group of detectives he could trust to handle the investigation discreetly.

Out of the twelve Lagondas, only eight were still active. The other four had been junked. Darby was in the process of compiling her notes when Banville hung up.

'Rachel Swanson died of an air embolism,' he said. 'Someone pumped air through her IV line. The feds confiscated it along with the security tapes for ICU.'

'Wonderful,' Darby said. The feds were certainly covering their tracks.

'We interviewed the ICU nurses, but nobody remembers anything but the news of the bomb. That's why Traveler bombed the hospital, didn't he? Create all that confusion and fear and the son of a bitch slipped right in.'

'It was just like 9/11. Everyone is running around, trying to find an exit. Nobody is paying attention to anyone.'

'Pretty slick.' Banville rubbed his chin. 'I'm still trying to figure out why he just didn't pack up and leave.'

'Ego, maybe. None of his victims had ever escaped. Or maybe he was afraid Rachel knew too much and he didn't want to take the risk of her talking to us. Let me show you what I have on the car.'

Darby picked up the sheets where eight names were highlighted. 'The closest states with recent Lagonda owners are Connecticut, Pennsylvania and New York.'

'Wasn't one of Traveler's victims from Connecticut?'

Darby nodded. 'Take a look at this name.'

'Thomas Preston, from New Caanan, Connecticut,' Banville said. 'Owned the vehicle for two years, then sold it a little over two months ago. That Lagonda hasn't been registered yet.'

'Traveler could be the guy who bought the car. Let's look into Preston first, see how long he's lived in Connecticut, and if he owns a van.'

Banville reached across the console and grabbed the wall phone.

'Steve, it's Mat. Take a look at page fifteen. About halfway down the page, you'll see the name Thomas Preston from New Caanan, Connecticut. Find out everything you can about him. I need to know if he owns a van.'

Twenty minutes later, the phone rang. Banville listened for a moment, then covered the receiver with his hand. 'Preston doesn't have a record. He's fifty-nine, a lawyer, divorced and has lived in his house for the past twenty years. He's never owned a van.'

Scratch Preston.

'We need to find out who Preston sold the car to,' Darby said. 'We need to find his name. Ask your man to get Preston's home number – get all of his numbers, business, cell phones, everything. And get the name of his insurance agency.'

Banville relayed the information and hung up. 'If the buyer is Traveler, and he gave Preston a phony name, there's no way we can track him.'

'Let's keep our fingers crossed. We're overdue for some luck.'

'Why did you want the name of his insurance agency?'

'The safest way to play it is to call and pretend to be someone from his insurance company. The guy's an attorney. You know how these guys act when you try to ask them questions about a criminal case. He'll bury us in legal bullshit and paperwork. It will be a week until he gives us an answer. But if we call and say we're from his insurance agency, he'll give us the info.'

'I agree.'

Banville's contact called back ten minutes later.

'Do you mind if I make the phone call?' Darby didn't want Banville's rough manner to turn away Preston.

Banville handed her the phone.

Darby tried the office number first. The secretary said Mr Preston was on another line. Darby had to wait through several minutes of soft elevator music.

'Tom Preston.'

'Mr Preston, I'm calling from Sheer Insurance in regards to your Aston Martin Lagonda.'

'I sold it about two months ago.'

'Did you turn in the plates?'

'Of course I did.'

'According to our records, the DMV says you didn't.'

Preston went on the defensive. 'I turned in the plates. If there's a problem, take it up with the DMV.'

'Clearly some mistake has been made. Did you make a copy of the title?'

'I sure as hell did. I made copies of everything. Goddamn registry, if I ran my practice like they did, I'd be disbarred.'

'I understand your frustration. Tell you what: Give me the name and address of the person you transferred the title to, and I'll see if I can save you a trip to the registry.'

'I don't remember his name. The copy of the title's at home. I'll call you first thing tomorrow morning. What's your name again?'

'Mr Preston, I really need to take care of this matter now. Is there someone you can call at home?'

'No, I live alone – wait, I mailed him the owner's manual.'

'Excuse me?'

'When he came to pick up the car, I didn't have the original owner's manual,' Preston said. 'I couldn't find it. He wanted it and any other documentation I might have, so I told him I'd take a look. He gave me his address and I said I'd mail it to him. I wrote it down in my date book… Here it is. Fifteen Carson Lane in Glen, New Hampshire.'

'What's the man's name?'

'Daniel Boyle.'

Banville's detective at the Massachusetts Registry had already coordinated efforts with New Hampshire's Department of Motor Vehicles. According to their computer records, Daniel Boyle had sold his van two days ago but hadn't turned in the plates. There was no information in his registry file about an Aston Martin Lagonda.

New Hampshire DMV was transmitting Boyle's license picture.

Coming up on the monitor was the driver's license for Daniel Boyle, a white male, forty-eight years old. Boyle had thick blond hair and a pleasant-looking face with dead green eyes.