William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

“You’re right,” Travis whispered. “He’s waiting for something.”

“Probably for us to leave so he can drill us. He’s got a very suspicious bulge inside his windbreaker.” She laid her notepad on the carrel. “I’m going to talk to him.”

“Wait.” Travis grabbed her wrist. “I’ll go. I’m the one he’s looking for.”

“All the more reason you should stay here. While I distract him you can get the car.”

“No way.”

Cavanaugh pushed him back down. “Relax. He won’t try anything here. And he may not recognize me. Let me see what I can find out. Who knows? We might actually learn something if you don’t kick his teeth out first. Just make sure you have the car waiting outside if I have to make a break for it.”

“Too risky.”

“I’m willing to take the risk.”

“For me?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’re starting to sound like you might give a damn what happens to me.”

“Perish the thought.”

Cavanaugh walked the long way around the room, past the law reviews and through the regional reporters. She came up behind the man, hoping to catch him by surprise.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you a law student?”

The man turned around slowly. His eyes were masked with dark sunglasses, his hair was covered by a baseball cap.

“Uh … yeah,” he answered. “I am.”

“Great. Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for the Pacific Reporters. Can you tell me where they are?”

“Uh, right. I always forget where those are shelved.” His voice was muffled and indistinct. He scanned the identifier tabs on the end of each row of books. “Yeah, here they are. I thought so.”

“Thanks a million,” Cavanaugh said. “And could you help me find this cite?” She scribbled a citation on her legal pad— 512 P.2d 1204. “I’m a secretary, see, and this complex legal gibberish baffles me.”

The man shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “You know, I’m just a first-year student, and I haven’t figured those codes out either. Sorry.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’m sorry to bother you. Oops!” Cavanaugh dropped her legal pad so that it fell almost between his legs. After a moment’s hesitation the man picked it up. While he was bent over, his windbreaker rose and Cavanaugh spotted the equipment belt strapped around his waist.

“I’m sorry,” she said, bopping herself on the side of the head. “I’m such a klutz sometimes. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“No problem.”

“I feel awful about interrupting your studies. You’ve probably got finals this week.”

He nodded. “Yeah, finals. They’re a bear.”

“Right. Finals in mid-April.”

The man moved toward her, arms extended.

Cavanaugh started to move away, but the man seized her wrist. He tightened his grip and twisted, sending flashes of pain through her arm. He pushed her backward into the relative seclusion of the stacks. She tried to pull away, but he grabbed her other arm and held fast. She tried to toss him over her shoulder, but he was too heavy and too strong.

“You’ve already blown it,” Cavanaugh said, her teeth clenched. “No one has finals in April. Just as no one could get through a semester in law school without learning how to look up a case citation. If you don’t let go of me in two seconds, I’ll scream.”

“If you scream, you die,” the man replied matter-of-factly. He pressed his thumb against a spot behind and below her ear. “Feel that? Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Cavanaugh tried to answer, but couldn’t. The sudden pain shot through her head like a lightning bolt. Her eyes watered. This man knew what he was doing.

“The right amount of pressure applied to the right point can kill someone in the blink of an eye,” he said. He pressed even harder. “And I know exactly where to apply the pressure.”

Tears streamed out of Cavanaugh’s eyes. What had happened? This man had placed her entirely under his control in a matter of seconds.

“I saw your boyfriend leave.” His lips brushed against her ear. “Take me to him.” He twisted her arm behind her back.

Cavanaugh could barely think, the pain had become so intense; it was as if he had driven an iron spike through her skull. She couldn’t take him to Travis, but she knew she couldn’t take much more of this, either. She felt as if her head might snap off at any moment. She began to pray for unconsciousness.

“Three seconds,” the man whispered. “Then I’ll finish you off. Where is he?” He pressed his other thumb on the same point behind her other ear, doubling the pain. Cavanaugh’s lips parted, but the sound she made was merely a whimper. It was all she could do.

“Let go of her.”

Cavanaugh heard a deep voice behind her. Travis? But he had gone to the car. …

She felt a jerking, then a loosening of the man’s grip. She opened her eyes, tried to focus. It was Travis. He had come behind them and wrapped his necktie around the man’s throat.

“Let go of her!” Travis barked, twisting the ends of the tie. The man slowly removed his fingers. She felt a great rush as blood streamed back into her head. The pressure points still ached, but it was an aching of relieved tension, not of impending death.

“Don’t even think about going for any of those fancy weapons you’re carrying,” Travis ordered. “Who are you?”

The man didn’t answer.

“What is it you want?”

The only reply was a defiant glare.

Travis twisted the tie as firmly as possible around the man’s windpipe. Still no response.

Travis heard a stirring noise from the front of the library. Apparently they’d caught the attention of the front desk librarian. Using the necktie like a leash, Travis swung the man around and sent him reeling into a nearby reading room. He slammed the door shut and pushed a carrel in front of the doorway.

“That’ll slow him down for thirty seconds or so,” Travis said, grabbing Cavanaugh’s hand. “The car’s outside. Let’s go.”

48

7:25 P.M.

CAVANAUGH DOVE INTO THE passenger seat and slammed the door behind her. “Drive like hell, Byrne.”

“Got it.” He threw the stick into first and zoomed out of the parking lot.

Cavanaugh didn’t speak for several minutes. Then, finally: “You saw the belt he was wearing?”

Travis nodded.

“I can’t be sure,” Cavanaugh said, “but I think that’s what some of my military clients call a Sam Browne belt.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s specially designed for people going into combat situations. Soldiers, spies, terrorists. It holds a lot of ammo and assault gizmos.”

“I saw a bulge under his jacket, too,” he said. “A holster with a gun in it?”

“I think that’s a safe assumption.”

“Did you recognize any of the gadgets on his belt?”

“I only got a quick look, but I’ve seen some of it before, usually in narcotics cases. He had an infrared nightscope, for instance. High-powered, compact binoculars. What the pros call a Puukko knife—specially designed for quick, clean kills.”

“Who would carry lethal crap like that?”

“Anyone who wants to. It’s available. Pawnshops, soldier-of-fortune mail-order houses, wherever.” She paused. “But you know who really loves this stuff?”

“Who?”

“Spooks. CIA agents.”

“ CIA ?” Travis felt a sudden catching in his throat. In addition to the mob? On top of the police and the FBI? Who wasn’t involved in this? Who didn’t want a piece of Travis Byrne?

“Why the CIA?”

“Beats me. But of course I don’t really understand why anyone is involved, or what it is they’re involved in.”