William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

A slow smile spread across the man’s face. For some strange, inexplicable reason, the smile made Travis shudder.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” he replied.

“Good,” Cavanaugh said. “Maybe you could call for some FBI backup.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. All my men are out on assignment. And by the time I got men reassigned from other departments—”

Travis completed his sentence. “Moroconi would’ve flown the coop.”

The man tilted his head in assent.

“Well, at least you can join us.” Travis glanced at Curran. “Any problems?”

Curran didn’t say anything.

“Cavanaugh?”

“No. I like the idea of having a trained FBI agent along for the ride. As long as he doesn’t shoot Moroconi before we can talk to him.”

“I won’t,” the man replied. “I’d like to ask that gentleman a few questions myself.”

“Good,” Travis said. “Let’s not waste any more time. Moroconi has almost an hour’s lead on us as it is.”

He agreed, still smiling. “Your car or mine?”

Kramer walked back to their cars with them. Not a bad recovery from a near-fatal blunder. He had been so intent on eavesdropping that he hadn’t seen that idiot commando until he was flying over the hedge.

He had to think hard and fast if he was going to make this masquerade fly. At least he had managed to come up with the Henderson bluff, using the name and password he found in Travis’s car. It was a calculated risk. He wasn’t absolutely positive Byrne had never met Henderson, although it seemed unlikely. Henderson was a desk jockey—someone more likely to send flunkeys out to put the fear into a two-bit criminal attorney.

Apparently, Mario had blown it. Crumbled like a cracker. Gave away Jack’s address. If Jack went down, he’d take the rest of the corporation with him. Byrne had to be stopped.

Of course, he’d been planning to take Byrne out anyway. Now he could be more than a paid assassin. He could be a hero. It wouldn’t matter what Mario said about him, or what Mario tried to do to him. Mario would be the traitor, the weasel, the one who talked. Kramer would be the knight in shining armor, the mastermind who saved the family after Mario’s blunder.

As they approached the Jeep Kramer noticed that the kid—Curran, they called him—remained a few steps behind him. Come to think of it, he was watching Kramer very carefully. Apparently the punk had some doubts about this alleged FBI man who dropped in out of the blue. Smart punk.

It was a perfect setup. He would stick to these people like glue, and let them lead him to Moroconi. Once that was done, he would simply wait for the right moment and blow Byrne’s head off. On second thought, a bullet through the kneecap might be better—extremely painful and not immediately fatal. Then he would fire another bullet into an extremity every few minutes or so. Then set fire to his clothes. Slowly. It might take Byrne hours to die. Good. He wanted that shithead lawyer to suffer for what he had put him through. He wanted him to hurt.

He would just wait for the right moment, when this Curran punk was out of the way and not in a position to retaliate. Or he would kill Curran first. Whatever. He would probably have to kill them all, come to think of it, now that they had seen his face. Not that that particularly bothered him.

“We have to find Moroconi before midnight,” Travis said. “Otherwise—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but Kramer knew what he meant. He knew all about Staci’s midnight deadline—since he’d created it himself and leaked it to his pigeon at the paper.

Byrne was holding the gun Curran had knocked out of Kramer’s hand. He was obviously uncertain what to do with it.

“If it makes you more comfortable,” Kramer bluffed, “you keep the gun.”

“No,” Travis said. “You’re going to need it.” He returned the pistol.

Kramer had to exert extreme control, but he managed to suppress his strong desire to laugh.

Thanks for the murder weapon, Byrne. Yours.

68

7:10 P.M.

IN A SMALL OFFICE ON the penthouse floor of a high-rise in downtown Dallas, the real Special Agent Henderson stormed into Agent Simpson’s office. He was behind Simpson’s desk before the man had a chance to blink.

“Mr. Henderson!” Simpson cried, startled.

“Don’t bother getting up,” Henderson growled.

“Oh no,” Simpson said, pushing himself out of his chair. I wouldn’t dream—”

Henderson shoved him back down. “I want to know what’s really going on, Simpson. And you’re going to tell me.”

“I don’t know what you mean—”

“Bureau 99 is going to hell in a handbasket, that’s what I mean. I had a clean, perfectly functioning little team here, and suddenly it’s all gone to shit. I think we have a mole.”

“A mole?” Simpson did his best to feign surprise. “Surely not.”

“Spare me the crap. I’m onto you.”

“Don’t tell me you suspect that I —”

“No, I don’t. You haven’t the imagination.” He hovered over Simpson’s chair; Simpson could feel his hot breath on his face. “But I think you know who it is.”

“Why me?”

“You’ve always been a mindless little toady. Anything anyone wanted you to do, no matter how dirty, you were ready to do it.”

Simpson tried to squirm out of his chair, but Henderson didn’t give him an opening. “But, sir—”

“Mind you, I’m not complaining. There’s a place for mindless toadies in every operation, as long as you know who they are and who they’re working for. So that’s my question, Simpson. Who are you working for?”

“You, sir!” Beads of sweat trickled down his brow. “I only take orders from you.”

“Is that right? I just had some phone records pulled up from the central database in Quantico. Maybe you didn’t know we had a double check on the phone monitor?”

Simpson’s befuddled expression showed that Henderson had guessed correctly. “I didn’t—”

“Funny thing. I found several unauthorized, unrecorded phone calls to Mr. Janicek’s extension. And they all occurred while either you or the late Agent Mooney were supposed to be monitoring the phones.”

Simpson desperately wanted to loosen his collar but feared it would be a dead giveaway. “You know, sometimes the switchboard gets so busy, it’s possible I might miss a call—”

Henderson grabbed him by his shirt. “What really happened at that shopping mall, Simpson? I never believed for a minute that Travis Byrne killed Mooney.”

“B-but—he did, sir. It was just like—”

“Bull. Makes no sense. And if he wasn’t killed by Byrne; that means it was either you or Janicek.”

He tightened his grip on Simpson’s shirt, lifting him out of his chair. “One of you is going up the river, Simpson. Who’s it going to be?”

69

8:12 P.M.

TRAVIS AND CAVANAUGH HID in a grove of trees north of the large ranch-style home they had determined was the elusive Jack’s current residence. It was a lovely, secluded area not far from Mountain Creek Lake. Curran had volunteered to make a preliminary sweep of the grounds. Although Travis had a hard time believing Henderson could be much help to him, for some reason, Curran had insisted on dragging the man along with him.

Travis tried to keep them in sight, using Curran’s high-powered infrared glasses, but the slope of the hill obscured his view before they had traveled two hundred feet.

“How long have they been gone?” Cavanaugh whispered.

“Only about twenty minutes. Not long, really.”

“Curran said he’d be back in ten.”

“He was estimating.”