by Mel Odom
“I know.” Wilson pushed his unfinished pizza away.
“You went to Boston trailing a jackal network that was supposed to be off-limits, to try and build a case against DiVarco. Both your possible witnesses are out of the picture. If you can’t make your case on the evidence related to the jackals, you don’t belong there. Isaacs will be within his rights to ask for you to be pulled out of his territory.”
“Has he done that yet?”
“He’s been calling. So far I’ve been out each time, but it won’t be long before he decides to bother the Director with it. When it gets that far, there’s not a lot I can do for you.”
“Can you work anything up regarding the Korean angle? Anything that will keep me in place here until something breaks?”
Vache sighed. “Even if I could, I don’t know if I would. You’re in the middle of no-man’s-land up there, guy.”
Wilson leaned back in the typist’s chair and it creaked under his weight. “I’m at the eye of the storm. DiVarco’s got fingers in every crooked pie in this city, and the Koreans have helped him put them there. I want to know the reason.”
“So do I. But sometimes you’ve just got to wait until you get a better swing at the ball.”
“How much time do we have?”
“With your potential witnesses both dead? I’d say hours. Unless you can turn up someone else to support the jackal investigation.”
“That’s doubtful.”
“Have you got anything else working?”
“Not yet. We impounded Hobart’s personal records at the bank, and Valentine is sorting through them now. He’s turned up some files, but they’re in code. He’s still trying to suss it out,” Wilson said.
Vache grunted.
“Is there any way I can get some leverage with Isaacs?” Wilson asked.
“Everything I’ve looked at concerning the man shows he’s clean.”
“According to Triumbari, Isaacs is bought and paid for.”
“Not surprising, but it’s going to be hard to prove. Triumbari couldn’t give you a handle?”
“No.”
“Then I’d say sometime tomorrow morning you’re going to be out of luck, kid.”
“Unless I can make something break tonight.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m thinking that Isaacs gave up my witnesses to DiVarco’s people,” Wilson said. “Both of them were hit only a short time after I dropped the paperwork off with him.”
“I’ve already thought of that. Find a way to prove it and I might be able to leverage you enough weight to investigate that conspiracy you’ve mentioned. But I’m betting Isaacs is keeping himself covered. Push him to the wall on it, and there’s probably a secretary or pencil pusher somewhere he can lay the blame off on who’ll be willing to take the heat.”
Wilson considered that and realized Vache was right. Until he had something solid on Isaacs, he had no business bracing the police commissioner.
“Another problem’s cropping up on the horizon,” Vache went on.
Wilson listened.
“Cashion’s coming around a little faster than you thought. Obviously he’s thinking he’s more politically invulnerable than you wanted him to believe. He made a few off-the-record comments earlier in the day to a reporter friend of mine that the Omega Blue unit was coming under review before long, and that he thought the controls in place were way too lenient. Once he finds out the money you were using to hold over his head is gone, he’s going to be ticked and more than willing to shut you down for restructuring.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. But there’s not a lot I can do about it.”
“Hang in there, kid. We haven’t gotten beaten by too many of these last-minute situations. I’m going to be rattling cages all night myself to see if I can’t find something you can use up there. Somewhere in this town, there’s got to be somebody who knows something we could use and who owes me their life or their firstborn child. If I’m hard to get hold of, keep trying.”
Wilson said he would, then broke the connection. His mind swirled as he tried to fit the Koreans, DiVarco, and Police Commissioner Isaacs together in anything that made sense. After a few long minutes, when a fresh headache started, he gave it up. There were no shortcuts.
Maybe Vache was right and the team needed to back off to take a fresh tack. But he had the feeling that they’d tumbled onto DiVarco’s action too late. If he was wrong, there was every chance that Cashion would get him pulled from the unit, especially in light of the scene on the Hill yesterday afternoon. And once he was released from the Bureau, he could forget about the insurance that kept Kasey at the center, and write off any possibility of freeing his daughter from autism using the procedures Dr. Culley had suggested.
So many things hung in the balance, and on either side he was gambling with the lives of other people. But how many people would continue to be hurt by DiVarco and the Koreans if they weren’t stopped?
He glanced out at his unit, all working diligently at the different tasks they’d been assigned, finding information and collating it into some kind of arsenal they could use when the time was right. The Omega Blue unit hadn’t been designed to back down. Once Wilson started doing that, the unit’s edge would be blunted, and everybody on the team would know it.
Scuderi rapped on the door and interrupted his thoughts.
He waved her in.
“It’s time,” she said. “If we’re still going.”
Wilson saw that she knew what was going on in his mind. “We’re still going.” He finished his coffee and shoved the pizza into the wastebasket.
“Was that Vache on the phone?”
“Yeah.”
“I assume it wasn’t good news.”
“No news is good news,” Wilson reminded her.
“He’s thinking about pulling us since we lost Dodd and Hobart.”
“Plus Isaacs is working to make sure the Director gives him no choice,” Wilson said.
“Whatever this is,” Scuderi said, “it’s big. You can feel it out on the street.”
“I know.” Wilson took his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged it on. “How’s Valentine coming with Hobart’s files?”
“I don’t know. He’s cocky, but I watched him while he worked with it. He’s good, fast, and he’s creative. I’d put my money on him.”
“We are. Have any of Isaacs’s detectives asked for Hobart’s files yet?”
“No, but maybe they don’t know about these.”
“They will, and when they do, they’ll scream until they get them. Officially, they’re more entitled to investigate Hobart’s homicide than we are to check into Hobart’s link to the jackal network. I want to hang onto those original records as long as possible before we have to give them up. Have back-up copies been made?”
Scuderi nodded.
“Let’s roll.” Wilson glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was 8:14P.M. Time was relentless as it moved forward.
*
A cool breeze blew in from the Atlantic Ocean and ghosted around the tall buildings in downtown Boston, stirring up debris in the streets and making the few homeless people clustered in the shadows turn up their coat collars.
Slade Wilson viewed the target through infrared binoculars from his perch atop the office building across the street. Clad in a special cybernetically enhanced SensiSkin camouflage night suit, he was indistinguishable from the stone wall behind him as long as he didn’t move quickly. Woven from silicon-based polymers chosen for their refractive properties and sensitivity to computer circuitry, the SensiSkins were programmed to imitate their surroundings in the same fashion a chameleon did. However, the shadowsuit had a much broader palette than the lizard. It came equipped with boots, gloves, and a pullover hood that covered the entire face, all of which were wired into the computer-assisted protective coloring systems. Second Chance armor plates, designed to shield the major organs, were sewn into the fabric. Wilson carried the Delta Elite on his left t
high in a counterterrorist rig made of the chameleon material, while the H&K VP7 OZ rode in his boot, and the Crain combat knife was strapped to his forearm. A .12-guage South African Striker shotgun was sheathed down his back so he could reach it easily. The SensiSkin held additional magazines for all his weapons, plus a few incendiary surprises that he’d thought might be needed.
The target was a five-story building that housed a number of independent businesses above two floors of furniture and household appliances in a large sales office. The furniture store had closed at five. Most of the other businesses had closed by six, and none later than eight. The travel agency, carpet cleaner , and lawyer’s office had been the last to close. A one-man detective agency had advertised twenty-four-hour availability, but the windows of the office were dark.
The bookmaking operation Wilson was after had opened at three o’clock to take advantage of the last-minute bettors who’d gotten a lucky feeling before the opening kickoff of the game that night. According to Triumbari’s notes, the handle for the operation fluctuated between a million and a million and a quarter on a good night, after taking on some of the laid-off action stemming from the Midwest and West Coast. As Darnell January had pointed out, tonight’s game between the Dallas Cowboys and Philadelphia Eagles was highly speculative because of severe injuries sustained by both teams during last week’s games.
Whatever the handle ultimately was, Wilson knew it would hurt DiVarco financially. He waited, perched on the edge of the building, and scanned the interior of the room on the third floor.
Even with the infrared binoculars, he couldn’t see much. The actual bookmaking operation was beyond the corridor in suite 313, the biggest on the floor. Two men patrolled the hallway and occasionally looked through the plate-glass windows over the city. They didn’t try to conceal the hardware they wore, and Wilson had to assume they were licensed to carry.
The T-jack crackled, and Maggie Scuderi’s voice followed. “Slade.”
“Go.”
“We’re on green. Vache just called to confirm.”
Already not trusting circumstances in the city, Wilson was prepping each request for a warrant only minutes before pulling the actual raid. Vache had to pull in some markers to get the warrants issued this late, but this system cut down on the number of legal channels and meant that they didn’t have to go through Isaacs.
“Hit it!” Wilson ordered. He raised the long C02 rifle from his side and made sure the tri-bladed piton was locked into the barrel. It was heavy and unwieldy, not meant to be used quickly. Shouldering it, he checked the distance gauge he’d preset, sighted on a place on the building’s wall a foot above the window fronting the corridor near room 313. He squeezed the trigger, rode out the shoving recoil, and heard the explosion of escaping gases.
The piton sparked as it cored into the stone wall.
The tensile wire trailing from it, leading back to the coiled reservoir inside the C02 rifle, was one-third of an inch in diameter and capable of supporting almost half a ton.
Working quickly, aware that one of the guards had approached the window to check out the resulting thump and the spark, Wilson looped the wire through the stake he’d already planted in the wall behind him. He pulled it tight, then clipped on the safety harness he wore over the SensiSkin, and stepped off the building’s edge.
He dropped immediately, taking up the slack he’d programmed into the reservoir’s release, using his hands and feet to keep from smashing into the side of the building he was leaving. Dangling from one hand clasping the safety harness, he slid quickly toward the target building, but not so fast that he had no control over his movements. His fingers tightened on the hand brake.
Reaching over his shoulder, he drew the .12-gauge Striker and flicked off the pistol grip safety with his thumb. At eighteen inches, the combat shotgun’s barrel had already been short. Wilson had modified it to ten inches, chopping it off just ahead of the forward grip.
Twenty feet from the window, as the SensiSkin frantically tried to adjust to the landscape of shadows, he saw the guard become aware of him. The guy’s mouth opened as he shouted a warning, then his hand reached under his jacket for his pistol.
Wilson dropped the shotgun into target acquisition and pulled the trigger. With the revolving cylinder design, the weapon had a long trigger pull, but he was still able to get off three rounds.
The double-ought buck shattered d e window and dropped gleaming shards inside and outside the building. After chewing through the glass, they punched the guard backward and turned his shirt bloody.
Wilson was trying to bring his second target into his sights when the safety harness caught on the stop block he’d clamped onto the line to help him keep from smashing into the building. He was jerked off balance and felt a pistol round smash into the Kevlar armor covering his chest. The force took his breath away.
Already swinging forward because of his initial momentum at the end of the safety harness, Wilson released the catch on the harness and threw his free arm across his face. He smashed through the weakened safety glass filling the window, tearing it out of the frame. The glass draped itself over him as he fell on the floor. The spiderwebbed remains of the window felt like a heavy cape that tried to contain him. Somewhere in the confusion he’d lost the Striker.
The remaining guard brought his-pistol to bear in a two-handed grip. The muzzle flamed.
Aware of the bullet digging into the carpet somewhere only inches to his left, Wilson charged forward, loosing a martial-arts yell to rattle his opponent. The SensiSkin’s hood might have the mimicking properties of the suit, but it had none of the bulletproof armor. It was a gamble, but a better gamble than if he’d gone for his pistols locked into their holsters.
The guard fired again, but Wilson whipped to one side. The round skated off his protected ribs and jarred him with its passing.
Closing, Wilson grasped the man’s gun arm and threw an elbow forward. Already, the SensiSkin was starting to take on characteristics of the man’s clothing as protective camouflage. The elbow connected with a meaty crunch and popped the guard’s head back. Bones broke in the man’s arm as Wilson twisted and triggered two rounds from the man’s own gun into his stomach.
The gun fell from nerveless fingers as the man staggered back and slumped against the wall. The eyes flickered, then glazed over.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway behind Wilson, and he turned to face the new threat.
An alarm was sounding behind the door of suite 313, and men’s voices were yelling frenziedly at each other.
Wilson saw the Striker lying on the ground at the same time that he saw the two armed men closing in on him. He dived for the shotgun just as they opened fire. He was aware of the SensiSkin patterning itself after the carpet as his hand closed around the Striker’s grip. Rolling, he came up on his elbows firing. Four rounds cleared the hallway and left the air stinking of cordite.
Mac’s voice broke in over the T-jack’s frequency. “Slade.”
“Go.”
“We’re in place.”
The message was quickly repeated by the rest of the team, except for Rawley, who came into view as Valentine cleared the channel.
”Do it,” Wilson said.
Rawley fell in beside the door and shoved the shaped charges Darnell January had prepped into position. Wilson nodded, and Rawley touched off the electronic detonator.
A backdraft of wind filled with smoke and debris whipped over Wilson and Rawley. The door was flattened inside the suite.
Cradling the Striker in both hands, aware that he only had five rounds left, Wilson stepped into the room and yelled, “FBI! Put your weapons down, your hands on your head, and move back against the wall!”
The room was filled with tables, looking like an obstacle course for a corporate executive. Every table had at least a half-dozen phones with nearly as many lines per unit. The twenty-plus men and women working the phones were in rolled-up shirtsleeves and didn’t look like the kind tha
t would be predisposed to firearms. One wall was nearly filled by a large-screen projection monitor showing the betting line and the numbers taken by the bookmaking operation.
“Do what the man says,” Rawley called out as he stepped through the destroyed doorway as well.
Mac and Valentine halted the trickle of warm bodies easing their way toward the back door by stepping through it themselves. Both carried M4s. They looked like something out of a nightmare, as their SensiSkins kept trying to pattern themselves after the eddying smoke and the wall behind them.
Scuderi and January were holding positions at the elevators and fire escape.
Aiming at the ceiling, Wilson triggered the Striker.
The double-ought pellets ripped the track lighting down and scattered pieces of the tiles in all directions, leaving a gaping hole that revealed electrical wiring and concrete supports.
Guns hit the floor as the men obeyed the instructions and lined up around the walls.
Wilson blew on his mike to access the T-jack. “Maggie.”
“Go.”
“The situation?”
“One down. No more in sight.”
“Alive?”
“No. He didn’t give me a choice.”
“Darnell?”
“I’m clear here.”
“Okay,” Wilson said, “close it in and let’s process these clowns. Maggie, call in the support troops and let them know where we are.”
Unwilling to have to depend on the police department, Wilson had put the Boston FBI team on standby, not filling them in on what or where the operation would be going down, in case DiVarco had someone placed inside their bureau as well.
*
Minutes later, everyone in the room was handcuffed and lying on the floor. The weapons had been collected in a rolling linen basket January had found in a janitor’s closet. The building security guards had come up to see what was going on, but Wilson had frozen them out of it immediately. Even if they weren’t on DiVarco’s payroll, he didn’t want them underfoot.
