Lee Child - MatchUp

They were professionals.

But professional what?

They both wore black pants, black running shoes, dark, quilted jackets, and gloves. Along with black ski masks. So he couldn’t tell their ages or their ethnic origins or read their faces. But he had the impression that they were both young. He didn’t know if they were drug dealers, mobsters, terrorists, or some other variety of assholes, but he’d find out soon enough.

Or maybe not.

“Hands up,” one of them ordered.

He knew from experience that if these guys wanted him dead, they’d have just blasted away and left. So they wanted something else. Not that this meant they wouldn’t kill him later.

“Hands up, asshole. Now.”

He didn’t detect an accent, and he noted the proper grammatical use of the word asshole, so they weren’t from Sandland. But they could be homegrown extremists, or whatever Washington was calling them this week. “What do I do with this overnight bag?”

“Shove it up your ass.”

Not a bad idea. That’s where his gun was. Near his ass.

The shorter guy yelled, “Put it down.”

He crouched and placed the bag on the floor.

The taller guy, who seemed in charge, said to Corey, “Stay down. Hands on your head.”

He remained in the crouched position and placed his hands on his head. The couch, which sat in the middle of the floor, was to his right. He could dive behind it as he drew his own Glock and get off two rounds.

The smaller guy asked, “You got a gun?”

He shook his head. His mind raced. Dive behind the couch, pop up, and fire? Or maybe shoulder roll left, draw, and fire? Or just draw and fire? The big guy was taking no chances, keeping his head and eyes locked, holding his gun in a steady two-hand grip.

“Get down. Face on the floor. Hands behind your back.”

He lay facedown on the floor, otherwise known as the prone firing position. This could work. As his right hand moved behind his back, the smaller guy kicked his hand away, and quickly snatched the Glock from his holster.

Close, but no cigar.

He replayed the last five minutes in his mind. “You guys on the job?”

The small guy asked, “Who the hell are you?”

“John Corey, NYPD, retired.”

“Yeah, and I’m Billy the Kid.”

“Really? I thought you were dead.”

The big guy produced a pair of handcuffs and cuffed Bennie’s hands behind her back. “Cuff him. I’ll cover.”

He felt the cuffs snap shut around his wrists.

So that’s what it feels like.

The big guy said, “Stand up. Both of you on the couch.”

He came to his feet and made eye contact with Bennie. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t,” she shot back, tense. The bigger guy directed her to one end of the couch and the small guy holstered his Glock and pushed Corey onto the other end.

He turned to the men. “I really am John Corey.”

The two men exchanged glances. The smaller guy asked, “You got ID?”

“In my jacket. Right-side pocket.”

The guy plucked the cred case from his pocket, opened and looked at it. He passed the creds to the other guy who also studied it.

Just then, the big guy’s cell phone chimed and he glanced at it. He said to the other guy, “BMW is registered to a Benedetta Rosato, Philadelphia.” He looked at Bennie. “That you?”

She nodded.

The big guy continued, “Jeep belongs to John Corey.”

“Until my wife gets it in court.”

Both men looked at Corey, and the bigger man said, “Holy shit, you’re the John Corey.”

Bennie looked at the two men, then at Corey. He imagined what she was thinking. The menfolk were measuring their egos. But women knew that size there didn’t matter. In fact, with respect to egos, every woman preferred the inverse relationship.

The bigger guy asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Relaxing.”

Both men laughed.

So he asked them, “Who you working for?”

The big guy replied, “ATTF. Out of Albany.”

“FBI?”

“Don’t insult us.”

He smiled. “PD?”

“SP.”

Bennie frowned. “What the hell are you guys talking about?”

He explained, “These gentlemen are New York State Police, working with the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”

The big guy said to Bennie, “Sorry if we frightened you, Ms. Rosato. We didn’t know who you were.”

“I’m a lawyer. I prosecute excessive-force cases, among other things.”

“You shouldn’t have said that,” Corey noted. “Now they’ll kill us.”

The two guys laughed again.

She jangled her handcuffs. “Take these off, please. Along with those masks.”

Both men removed their ski masks. Corey looked at their faces. The bigger guy was about thirty and sort of Irish-looking. The smaller guy was younger and looked maybe Hispanic or Mediterranean.

Bennie stood with her back to them and the big guy unlocked her cuffs. The smaller guy uncuffed Corey.

The big guy said, “I’m Kevin.” He put out his hand to Corey and they shook. “This is an honor.’

Bennie rubbed her wrists. “And to think, I actually shook John Corey’s hand.”

The other guy returned Corey’s credentials and handed him his Glock, butt first, and Corey slid it back into his holster, telling him, “You’re good.”

The man introduced himself and said, “I’m Ahmed, the token Arab. I know, I looked better with the ski mask.”

Cops had a wonderfully warped sense of humor.

“Officers, aren’t you supposed to identify yourselves when confronting civilians?” Bennie asked, staying on lawyer mode.

Kevin replied, “We’re deep undercover.”

Bennie said, “You should have run our plates earlier.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kevin said. “But we thought we had a situation of hot pursuit. Your friend here is a legend. Detective Corey was one of the best and most successful and respected agents in the Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”

She glanced at Corey with a smile. “So he’s smarter than he looks?”

“Bingo.”

He recalculated his odds of getting laid, which remained slim to none.

“We’re all still talking about that case you had up here with that nut job at the Custer Hill Club,” Kevin said.

“Just another day of preventing nuclear Armageddon.”

Ahmed and Kevin laughed.

Then he said to Bennie, “Forget you heard that.”

She rolled her eyes.

Kevin asked, “Didn’t you work for the DSG for a while?”

“Still with them.” He added, “On leave.”

Kevin let him know, “You came to the right place to relax. Great fishing. And it’s bow season now.”

“Can’t wait to get mine out.”

“So, Officers, can you fill us in on what’s going on?” Bennie asked.

Kevin and Ahmed exchanged glances, then Ahmed said, “We were setting up a training facility in the woods. That’s all I can say. Please keep this to yourself—in the interest of national security.”

She gestured to Corey. “But do me a favor, Ahmed. Please tell the Legend here that it was Arabic I heard.”

Before Ahmed could reply, Kevin said something in what Corey recognized as Arabic.

Funny, coming from an Irishman.

Kevin said, “I’m learning the language. It’s just a training exercise. There are no terrorists in the woods. You can relax.”

Corey didn’t think he was getting the whole truth, and there was no reason why he should. But if he had to guess, this was more of a sting operation than a training exercise. In a week, or a month, or a year, there would be terrorists at that site, lured there by Ahmed or other Arab-Americans on the Task Force. He had a sudden nostalgia for the ATTF. He disliked the bureaucracy, the political correctness, and working with the FBI, but he missed the excitement. And the satisfaction of doing something important for the country.