Ridley Pearson - Cut and Run

He spotted one tree among all the trees that would serve well as his lookout. The apple trees had been trimmed and cut back for many years, keeping them full and at a height convenient to harvest. He couldn’t tell if they were alive or dead-they looked as inert as gravestones-but they’d lost that look of being tended to.

He crept carefully through the separating rows, the trees as regimented as soldiers, starting and stopping, alert for the slightest sound, change of color, shift of light or shape. Once into the tree, he climbed to the small branches, from where he could see the gray geometry of the farmhouse. Farther to his right and slightly down a hill, a large milking shed with a metal roof bisected a free-stacked stone wall, jutting into a fallow field thick with grass. The hint of an approaching moon warmed the horizon with a yellowish glow, seen through the gray haze of ground fog, just lifting out of the ground as if sucked by the retreating light.

Paolo waited, as was his way. Worked alone, as he and the Romeros preferred it. If he’d been trained in anything, it was patience. He could sit immobile for hours, never bothered by stiff joints or the urge to do something. Ten minutes passed before he detected the red pulsing light. In another season, another color, he might have mistaken it for a lightning bug, but well into October, the evening air chill, its perfectly timed flashing meant electronics, more than likely a cell phone or radio. It was clipped at a height that made sense for a belt. A waist. A guard.

He warmed with anticipation, the falling temperature meaning nothing to him. The information had been good: The dilapidated farmhouse might indeed be a safe house, given that he’d now spotted a patrol. But police and federal agents were like termites-for every one you saw there could be many more in the nest. Overcoming them one at a time presented the kind of challenge Paolo lived for. Subterfuge, stealth, baiting, razor work-all his skills would be required here.

He gave no thought of calling for backup. Of waiting hours or days. Opportunity had presented itself, and he intended to capitalize, to prove himself.

The red flashing stopped. Either the guard had turned, or the phone had been briefly exposed as he’d gone for a stick of gum, scratched an itch, or donned a sweater or jacket against the cold. A small mistake lasting no more than a few seconds, but enough to signal the warning to Paolo. A God-given blessing.

A few minutes later his eyes adjusted to where he was quite certain he saw the guard that belonged to the flashing red light-a large lump of black neatly attached to a tree trunk in the side yard. Then, to his delight, another such lump moved from his left to right, and then left again. It took several seconds for him to identify this pattern as circular: This guard was slowly orbiting the farmhouse clockwise. Eight minutes later, around he came again, the original guard still not moving from his post in the side yard. The repetition of this, the combination of one moving object, one stationary, told him there were far fewer deputies than he’d anticipated. As few as two. No more than three. Eight minutes later, there he came again, around the near side of the house. They were lazy, these two. Typical government agents. They’d established a pattern, well conceived, but flawed in execution. Their undoing.

Having just driven onto 270 North, Larson received the call from Rotem, still twenty minutes or more from the farmhouse.

Larson rocketed into the far left lane and brought his speed up in excess of eighty as he spoke into his BlackBerry.

Rotem said, “There’s something else you need to hear.

WITSEC is reporting five protected witnesses dead, all executed.”

Laena, Markowitz’s defection or abduction. It seemed a world away from Penny and Hope, but only for Larson. For Rotem and most of the Justice Department the recovery of Laena was now a matter of national security.

Larson heard small sparkles of static on the line. “Why only five?”

“You catch on fast,” Rotem said. “Now add this into the mix: The Bureau’s OC unit is reporting increased chatter among the top West Coast crime families. A meeting has been called for this Friday. All the big guys. Undisclosed location.”

Larson put it together. “So the Romeros sold off or gave up those five witnesses to prove they had the real thing-that they could deliver the master list.”

“And now they intend to auction it off.”

“ This Friday?”

“Two days,” Rotem confirmed.

Two days to find Markowitz. Two days to locate the Romeros. How long would they keep Penny alive?

“Listen,” Rotem said, “there’s one other thing, we don’t know how much weight to give it, if any. It’s a compromised source…”

“What’s going on, Scott?” Larson didn’t appreciate all the qualifiers.

“This source appears to have accessed utility records for our safe houses-including Orchard House. But… and I want to emphasize this: There’s no indication that information went any farther.”

“Jesus, Scott!” He disconnected the call.

Larson had to warn Carlyle and Marland that Orchard House may have been compromised.

He tried Marland first but when Marland failed to pick up he called Hope.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Everything all right?” He worked to keep his voice level and calm.

“Fine.”

“Listen, the house may be compromised. I couldn’t raise Marland so I’m going to try Carlyle next, but I wanted to get to you first.”

“You want me to go find them?”

“No!” he said a little too loudly. “ Do not go outside! Not under any conditions. Not for any reason. You keep the doors locked until I arrive. Hide somewhere inside.”

“Hide? You’re scaring me, Lars.”

“Just until I get there. It’s serious , Hope. Okay? Don’t hide anyplace obvious. Not under the bed or in the closet. Find a place you can be comfortable without moving around.” He told her to put the phone into vibrate mode and then double-checked that she’d done it correctly. “I’ll be there in minutes.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know myself,” he said.

Paolo went well out of his way to approach the far side of the house and lie in wait for the deputy on the circular patrol, costing him valuable minutes. He was warming to the kill now, and so took little notice of the sustained hush delivered into the wilds by the further setting of the sun. Only the very distant barking of a dog, almost a howl, interrupted the night’s still, quiet air-a yap-yap-yap that paused for a half minute before barking out into the void, a male no doubt, longing for company. The ground fog lifted like bedsheets, rolling and twisting and yet languishing at chest height. Paolo’s movement broke these plumes like a finger through cigarette smoke, creating feathers of vapor that slowly dissipated and dissolved.

The farmhouse, now within a stone’s throw, continued to appear empty and uninhabited. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was all an elaborate trap to snare him-leak the location, set up a patrol, lure him in. So he again practiced his patience, in no hurry to find himself in federal custody.

He allowed the circling deputy to pass, to complete yet another full loop, but decided against such foolishness. He wasn’t going to blow his chance by being overly cautious. He belly-crawled GI-style into the overgrown perimeter shrubbery that surrounded the farmhouse and lay low, razor at the ready.

When it came time, he felt no great adrenaline rush; to the contrary, he found a quiet stillness within himself, an immediacy that led him into a graceful movement, a silent, one-man ballet, choreographed to deliver death.