“Don’t worry about Middle Bay,” he said, when he’d regained control over his emotions. “I’ve hired the best forensic accountants in the business. That work is getting done. But, understand, it’s extremely delicate in nature. It can’t be rushed.”
“Agreed.” The president sighed and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Hank, I sometimes worry about you.”
Carson forced a smile. “I’m fine, Arlen. Just a little unnerved by my niece’s recent activity.”
Crawford nodded judicially. “I understand.” He loved playing the father figure. “Completely.” His hand squeezed his friend’s shoulder.
You understand nothing, Carson thought as he took his leave of the president and the Rose Garden. It was Caroline, pure and simple—if anything in life could be deemed pure or simple. This difficult-to-control rage—the urge to personal vendetta—hadn’t always been with him. It had manifested itself directly after Caroline’s disappearance. Sometimes he felt possessed by the rage, as if he’d turned into some mysterious person with whom he had only a passing acquaintance. At those times, he went down to the soundproof basement of his town house and spent an hour with his handguns—a Glock .38, a Mauser 9mm, and a .357 Magnum—squeezing off round after round, blowing holes in the center of the target. The growing stench of cordite helped, but not as much as the shooting, which cooled the boiling of his blood, but not his need to know.
If he squeezed his eyes shut he could see Caro, as if she were the subject of a photo from some lost time he’d found in a dusty trunk in his attic. Over the years, she had ceased to be a real person. Rather, she had become an icon, a symbol of his rage and frustration, because in this one instance all his power and all his money had availed him nothing. She was as lost to him as if he were a beggar on the street who had turned his back to scrounge a bite to eat, only to find his daughter had walked off or been taken from him.
In the dead of night, when he screamed in his sleep, it was because in his dream he knew that she had simply walked away, evidence of her rejection of him, a possibility he could neither condone nor tolerate. So, a man drowning in his own guilt, he clung to the theory that she had been taken, because then he could find her, he could bring her home. She would want to come home.
* * *
IN THE face of the constant peppering fire, Jack calmed himself, closed his eyes, and imagined the terrain as a three-dimensional puzzle. The steep falloff to the right meant that Xhafa’s soldiers must be up in the trees in order to fire on them. They had the advantage of elevation, but it also meant that they were essentially immobile, unlike the men on the left, who seemed to be moving closer.
Then he understood: The trap wasn’t a classic pincers maneuver, but a herd-and-kill mission. The object for the contingent on their left was to force the enemy to retreat down the slope where they could be picked off by the snipers in the trees.
The firing from the left was louder now, proof that his theory was correct. Jack knew he had little time to act. But before he could do anything, he heard an infernal whooshing and, to his right, the shock wave from an explosion rolling him across the ground away from where Alli was hiding. A fireball rose into the night sky as the fired rocket detonated, and Jack, cursing under his breath, thought, Dennis has given Xhafa advance warning of the weaponry we’re carrying.
Then the night was lit up by another explosion, this one smaller, but much closer. Xhafa’s men must have tossed a grenade in counterattack.
Crawling on his stomach, Jack snaked his way to the clump of underbrush and told Alli to hold her ground.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
He read her lips because the ringing in his ears made voice communication impossible.
He gestured and pointed emphatically. “Stay put. I’m going to find Paull,” he mouthed.
Alli began to crawl out. “I’m going with you.” When he began to protest, she put her lips against his ear. “What if you get lost or, worse, pinned down and can’t get back here?”
After a moment’s hesitation, he gestured, and together they eeled their way along the rocky ground. The volleying gunfire assaulted them as their hearing came back. Xhafa’s men were trying their best to mow down the man who had fired the rocket at them.
Jack stopped them in the lee of a large boulder. He had caught a glimpse of movement just ahead and suspected they were near Paull’s position.
“Dennis is less than ten yards from here,” he said into Alli’s ear. “Stay put and I’ll be right back with him.” He gave her a tight smile. “From this distance I can’t get lost.” He handed her his assault rifle and took out a Sig Sauer. “Whatever you do, don’t fire your weapon. I don’t want them to know we’re here.”
She nodded, and, rounding the boulder, he slithered off. He found himself on a slight incline, which made the going tougher. On the other hand, there was plenty of cover to conceal his movement. Halfway there, a break in the firing caused him to freeze. For a moment, he wondered whether Paull had been killed. Then the firing began again and he pressed on.
Just ahead of him was the ridge beyond which, from his previous vantage point, he’d spotted Paull. Now, however, he could not see over the ridge; he was effectively blind to what was happening, a particularly dangerous position to be in. He scrambled up to the lip of the ridge and cautiously peered over. This was met with a volley of fire that almost took the top of his head off.
Ducking back down, he took a look around. To his left, the topography rose steeply, to his right, it fell off. He needed to go left in order to surmount the ridge, but a problem presented itself. There was far less cover in that direction. In fact, there were several spots made bald by small rock slides. They weren’t large. Nevertheless, they presented danger zones; crossing them would leave him totally unprotected.
Moving off to his left, he picked up a couple of rocks the size of his fist. As he came upon the first rockfall, he launched the first rock at a boulder off to his right. As it struck, he dived across the rocky ground, hearing a short volley of semiautomatic fire spang off the boulder.
He continued his climb past the far side of the rockfall. He could see the second. It was larger than the first, and flatter, which made it more dangerous still, like traversing a frozen lake with snipers in the surrounding trees.
This time, he threw the rock to his left, into the tops of the trees. As they shook and swayed, and more fire sprayed in that direction, he dashed across the open space. Just as he dived into the underbrush at the far side, a shot whizzed over his back. He rolled up onto the ridge and slid down the other side, all in one motion.
Silence now. Xhafa’s men knew where he had been a moment ago; it would not take them long to vector in new coordinates. His best option now was to move and keep moving. On elbows and knees, he snaked through the understory, grateful for the web of tree branches over his head. Once he got to Paull, he’d have to find another way back to where Alli waited; he’d been lucky, but the two of them couldn’t afford to expose themselves via the same path.
It was very quiet. No firing from either side, but there were also no bird sounds, which meant that Xhafa’s men were on the move, presumably heading toward where he had last been spotted; to assume otherwise was foolhardy. The silence made any movement more perilous. All he needed to do was crack a branch underfoot to bring the guerillas on the run.
A fitful breeze stirred the treetops, but the sky was entirely occluded by the branches. Darkness hung in the air like eternal twilight. There were no shadows. Jack brought his head up to get his bearings. From where he lay he could see where he’d spotted Dennis. It was possible that Paull had moved from there, but it was just as likely he’d hunkered down, waiting to make his break. Jack strongly suspected this was what Xhafa’s men were waiting for—the moment he showed himself their gunfire would tear him to ribbons. He had to get to his friend first.
Rolling across the ground in deep shade, he inched his way forward until he could get a better look at where
Paull might be holed up. Just ahead was a trio of huge trees.
Jack moved slightly, and now he saw Paull, crouched in the center of the space between the trees. He’d hacked down some of the surrounding underbrush, building himself a makeshift camouflaged hidey-hole. Jack could see him because of his angle and ground-level perspective.
As he stole closer, Paull stirred.
“Dennis, it’s me,” Jack whispered.
Paull froze. “Jack?”
“I’ve come to get you out of here.”
There was a small silence. “I fucked up, Jack.”
“Don’t expect me to say I told you so.”
“Ha-ha,” Paull said without a hint of mirth.
Jack extended his left arm. “Let’s go. On your belly. I’ll cover you.”
As Paull began to creep out from his rough, trembling shelter Jack gave him a smile. “We’ll get out of this.”
At that moment, a hail of semiautomatic fire ripped through the silence. Paull shoved his face into the ground, but it wasn’t aimed at them. The firing was coming from behind them, where Alli was hidden.
* * *
GUNN EXITED his apartment building dressed in a navy blue chalk stripe high-end bespoke suit, John Lobb shoes, blue chambray shirt, and scarlet tie. He unlocked his BMW 5-series with the wireless opener, slid behind the wheel, and, after waiting for a break in the traffic, pulled out into the street. The break wasn’t quite large enough and he had to peel out with a squeal of tire rubber and an angry blast of the horn from a car behind him.
Several moments later, a tan Chevy sedan pulled out, tailing him. Gunn stopped at a gas station, fueled up, then drove until pulling into a 7-Eleven. He walked briskly inside as the tan Chevy pulled up across the street, its motor running.
Five or so minutes later, the Chevy’s driver noted him coming out, ducking into the car, and taking off. The driver put the Chevy in gear and dutifully followed.
Gunn stood at the back of the 7-Eleven in a spot out of sight of the rear wall-mounted convex security mirrors. After checking that his double’s identical scarlet tie was tied with a Windsor knot like his own and assuring himself that every other detail of the man’s haberdashery conformed to his profile, he had placed the keys to the BMW in the man’s hand.
“You know what to do.”
The man had nodded and, mimicking Gunn’s stride, departed.
Now Gunn looked at his watch and started counting off the seconds to himself. By the time he had reached thirty, a man emerged from the toilets and came and stood beside him.
“It’s a fuckup,” Gunn said. “A total cluster-fuck.”
“Calm down,” his companion said. “We’ve gone through shit before, we’ll get through this, too.”
“I have been calm,” Gunn said, “through all of this.” He threw up his arms. “I sat back and let you do the planning. And guess what? One of my men is dead, and the two others wish they were.”
“I’ll take care of their rehab,” his companion said. “Put the money out of your mind.”
Gunn took a deep breath and leaned back against the cold-drink case. As always, it was impossible to get a read on John Pawnhill. He was in his late thirties, good-looking in an anonymous kind of way. He had thick, dark hair that covered the top half of his ears. His eyes were hooded and inscrutable. Gunn was acutely uncomfortable around him. It was as if Pawnhill generated a current that made those who stood near him jittery.
“It’s not just the money.”
“Oh?” Pawnhill said. “What, then?”
“It’s the way this came apart.”
Pawnhill seemed as relaxed as ever. “How did it come apart?”
“All at once and all over the place—like a terrier with a rag doll.” Gunn felt his anger building—anger at events that were out of his control, anger that he had been put squarely in Henry Holt Carson’s gun sight, just where he didn’t want to be. “I made a mistake by ignoring my own dictum: If you want it done right, do it yourself.”
Pawnhill nodded, as if agreeing. An instant later, Gunn felt the tip of a switchblade at his throat. Pawnhill had stepped in front of him, pinning him back against the glass and stainless-steel case.
“Listen, motherfucker, you came to me, remember? And do you remember that I lost a half million when the Stem was infiltrated last night? Was I to blame for that? Was I to blame for Arjeta Kraja opening her big mouth to that little shitbird Billy Warren? And, by the way, how the fuck did she find out about Middle Bay in the first place? Think it was from me?”
“Not you, no, that’s absurd.” Gunn tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry, and, anyway, his heart seemed to be beating at the back of his throat. “It must’ve been Dardan. He’s the only other person who knew about the bank.”
Pawnhill drew the blade lightly across Gunn’s throat, inking a line of red. “Dardan liked to fuck, not talk.”
“Fuck and kill.” Gunn stared into the other’s pitiless eyes. “Listen, I have no doubt if you’d done the job Alli Carson would be dead now.”
“Too dangerous. It wasn’t possible.” Pawnhill’s black ardor appeared to have cooled somewhat. “We both needed an extra layer of protection. Your men provided that.”
“The Secret Service agent—the girl—came snooping around.”
“And what will she find out about those three?”
“Nothing,” Gunn said. “They’re squeaky clean. I told you that.”
Pawnhill removed the knife and, after cleaning the blade on Gunn’s crimson tie, folded it away. “You made a big fucking mistake accusing me—”
“I didn’t accuse you.”
“Don’t fucking say you didn’t do something when you fucking well did.” Pawnhill held up an admonishing finger. “And neither Willowicz nor O’Banion are squeaky clean.”
“Those two are professional ghosts. No one can connect them with Fortress or me personally.”
“They’re loose ends,” Pawnhill said. “Tie them up and throw them away.”
“Jesus, these guys are valuable.”
Pawnhill leaned in. “Their liability outweighs whatever value you put on them. I want it done and done now. Understood?”
Gunn would just as soon kill this fucker where he stood, but he knew that would be disastrous for business, not to mention for himself. He had too many black deals going to risk the spotlight being turned on him more than it already was. Naomi Wilde was a smart and tenacious agent—McKinsey had told him so. He also knew that the three men she was investigating were a dead end; he’d seen to that himself. Soon enough, she’d have no other recourse but to turn her investigative spotlight elsewhere.
On the other hand, Pawnhill was daily becoming more of a danger. This incident was merely the last straw. Gunn knew now that sooner rather than later he’d have to do something about Pawnhill, because everyone else involved lacked the guts to go after him. He wasn’t afraid of the man’s physical prowess or his connections, but he had to find a way to take him out without being hit by the inevitable shitstorm.
He felt a trickle of blood run down inside his collar and he smiled. He wouldn’t forget Pawnhill’s assault on his person. On the contrary, it would color the method of his demise.
“I apologize if I’ve offended you in any way, John. That was not my intention.” He shrugged. “I don’t like failure, that’s all.”
“Neither of us does.” Pawnhill reached around Gunn and, opening the glass door, took out a couple of Coca-Colas. He handed one to Gunn and they popped the tops, clinked bottles, and took good, long swigs. “Who murdered our people at Twilight? Have you gotten anywhere with that?”
“It’s too soon to—”
“It’s clear they were killed for the badge that got Dardan’s murderer into the Stem. That never should have happened, Gunn. You were in charge.”
“I can’t have my people everywhere, John. That kind of visibility in the midst of Billy Warren’s murder would have been lethal.”
“That fucking murder,” Pa
wnhill said. “That fucking murder started it all.” He tapped the neck of the bottle against his forehead. “Who’s mucking around in our patch?” He downed more Coke. “Shit, we’ll all suffer for Dardan’s death.”
Now Gunn understood the real reason why Pawnhill was on edge. “What will the reaction be?”
Pawnhill grunted. “One thing I know, the man who murdered Dardan is a dead man. No matter where he is or where he goes, Arian will hunt him down and kill him like a rabid dog.”
“And what of us?”
“What, indeed?” Pawnhill took another swig of Coke and swallowed noisily. “Someone will be coming, Gunn.” He glanced around the store as if the individual might already be there. “Someone who won’t be as easy to handle as Dardan was. Someone who will make us all pay the price for Dardan’s death.”
EIGHTEEN
NAOMI AND McKinsey were out canvassing the area around Twilight, still trying to find someone—anyone—who knew Arjeta Kraja. It seemed increasingly odd to them that she could be living in the neighborhood without anyone knowing her or even seeing her, save at the club.
In addition to this frustration, Naomi felt increasingly uncomfortable in McKinsey’s presence. How much he was keeping from her she had no idea, but the fact that he was keeping anything creeped her out.
And there was the matter of Willowicz. If she could believe Annika Dementieva—and having crossed paths with him she was inclined to believe her—he was responsible for the torture and murder of Billy Warren, plus the murders of the two Twilight employees. In the normal course of things, she would have told Pete immediately. But this was definitely not the normal course of things and she felt the need to keep her own counsel. Still, how could she be effective on this case if she couldn’t rely on her partner?
Briefly, she had contemplated going to their superior at the Secret Service, but she had no real proof of any wrongdoing on his part. Plus, she couldn’t mention Roosevelt Island without spooking the mysterious Mbreti. And the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that “the King” was the key to Arian Xhafa’s operations in Washington—for all she knew, the entire United States.
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