by Brad Thor
“Not really,” he replied. “I did protective work.”
“Why the change?”
“There were great people there, but I came to the conclusion that I didn’t like being on defense. Too often, it felt like I was just sitting around waiting for something to happen.”
“Kind of like now.”
“Ironic, huh?”
“But that’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it? Without some major breakthrough, there’s probably going to be another victim. Maybe even more than one.”
He nodded.
She looked at him. “It bothers me, too.”
“So what do we do about it?”
Cordero took a sip of her wine. “We hope for a major break-through.”
“I’d settle for even a minor breakthrough,” Harvath replied as he picked up his menu.
“Patience is the companion of wisdom.”
“I’ve heard that before. Who said that?”
“St. Augustine.”
Harvath smiled knowingly.
“What?” she asked.
“I had a commanding officer a long time ago who liked to quote St. Augustine. His favorite line was no eulogy is due to a man who simply does his duty and nothing more.
“Apparently, it stuck with you.”
Harvath nodded. It was his turn now to switch gears. “Why did you ask me to dinner?”
“I wanted to get you drunk.”
He laughed. “And then what?”
“And then I’m going to pry every secret I can out of you.”
“Well, that’s a relief. For a minute there, I was worried you were going to take advantage of me.”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who gets taken advantage of.”
“Are you kidding? I’m the softest touch on the planet. Anything having to do with kids or animals—”
“Right,” she said, interrupting him. “For your information, I’m not the kind of person who gets taken advantage of, either.”
“You think I’m kidding?” he asked as he pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. Scrolling through some pictures, he found the one he wanted and showed it to her.
Cordero’s eyes widened. “What kind of horse is that?”
“That’s not a horse,” he laughed. “That’s my dog.”
“What breed?”
“He’s a Russian Ovcharka.”
“A what?” she asked with a grin, trying to pronounce the name, but not doing very well.
“Ovcharka,” Harvath replied, drawing the word out slowly. “They’re also known as Caucasian sheepdogs. The Russian military and the East German border patrol loved these dogs. They’re very fast, very loyal, and let’s just say you wouldn’t want to make one angry.”
“I’ll take your word for it. He’s huge. What’s his name?”
“Bullet.”
“You named your dog Bullet?”
“He’s named after a pal of mine whose nickname was Bullet Bob.”
“Was?”
“Bob was a counterterrorism operative. He died doing what he loved.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
‘It’s okay.”
“How do you keep a dog that big in D.C.?”
“He doesn’t live with me. I travel too much.”
“Where’s he live, then?”
“With an old girlfriend.”
“You share custody of your dog with an ex? You really are a soft touch,” said Cordero.
“Do you have a picture of your son?”
“I do,” she said, reaching into her purse and removing her phone.
It was taken at the beach on a beautiful sunny day. He was a handsome little boy with a big smile.
“He’s very cute,” Harvath replied. “He looks a lot like you.”
The detective smiled. “He actually looks a lot like his father.”
“Do you mind if I ask how he died?”
Taking the phone back, she looked at her son’s picture for a moment and then placed it in her purse. “No. I don’t mind you asking. He drowned. It was at that same stretch of beach in the photo I just showed you. We used to go there every summer with friends. It was the middle of the day. It was hot, sunny. We were all swimming, having a good time. One moment he was there and the next he was just . . . gone.”
“Is that why your partner took over the scene at the Charles River this morning? Is that kind of thing hard for you?”
“Not usually. I guess it depends.”
“Well, you seemed like you had it together. You were pretty tough on me.”
Cordero smiled. “I enjoyed being tough on you.”
“I could tell. Both of you did.”
“Sal can be a bit overprotective.”
“No kidding,” replied Harvath.
“As far as kicking me loose to go interview those girls with you, I’ll fill you in on a little secret. Sal’s also a bit of a snob. He’s from Southie, you know.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Joined the Army to escape his old neighborhood. Ended up coming home and becoming a cop. He helped me out a lot after my husband died.”
“Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Me, too, but mostly for Marco. Children need fathers.”
“You know, I lost my dad the same way,” said Harvath.
“He drowned?”
“He did. Not too long after I graduated from high school.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. At least you knew him. You were lucky to have had the time that you did.”
“I know that now. My father was a good man.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Harvath grinned. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I’m very intuitive.”
She was flirting with him and he definitely felt attracted to her, but business and pleasure were often a bad mix. “I think we’d better order dinner,” he said, raising his hand to get the waiter’s attention.
• • •
They polished off a bottle of wine together and Harvath wondered if maybe she really was trying to get him drunk when she asked if he wanted to order another one. He declined, but did say yes to some grappa.
They talked about many things: how Cordero became a cop, what it was like balancing her career with being a mom, what they both did to stay in shape, how Cordero’s partner had not helped him at all regarding the Four Seasons, and how Harvath had subsequently checked into the W hotel on points.
They spent the majority of their time discussing the case, and they did so in detail. Harvath admitted that even though he’d offered up Fort Hill as a likely site for the killer, it was still a long shot. He’d been trying to think outside the box. The fact was, though, that if the killer had remained in Boston, he could end up striking anywhere. For all Harvath knew, the killer was gone. He was growing more and more certain that the next time his phone rang, it would be with news of the killer having struck in Chicago, San Francisco, or Seattle. He’d hop back on the plane, fly to wherever it had happened, and start another murder investigation from square one. It was not only frustrating, it made him angry.
But there was also something else. On top of his professional reasons for not wanting to leave Boston, he also had a personal one. The more time he spent with Cordero, the more he liked being around her.
It was a beautiful night and still early, so they decided to walk for a while. They passed several historic sites, like Faneuil Hall, the Old Corner Bookstore, and the Old South Meeting House, where they stopped to read their weathered bronze plaques. Harvath showed off his knowledge of Boston’s role in the American Revolution and teased her good-naturedly from time to time, but she took it all in stride with a smile.
By the time they reached Boston Common and his hotel, neither wanted their evening to end. He invited her in for a nightcap, but she demurred. It was already later than she had intended to be out. She joked that the one thing you could count on with children and cr
iminals was that neither class cared how little sleep or how much to drink you’d had the night before; both would try to turn your weakness to their advantage.
He waited with her while the hotel doorman flagged a cab and then helped her climb in. “I had a very nice evening, Lara,” he said. “Thank you.”
“I had a nice time, too. And it’s still Detective Cordero,” she replied with a mischievous grin as she closed the door and gave the driver her address.
Harvath smiled and stood back as the taxi pulled away. Her sense of humor was one of the many things that were growing on him.
He stopped in the bar and ordered a cup of coffee to take up to his room. He needed to check his email, and undoubtedly the Old Man, who was a night owl, would be up and would want to talk. He might even have some good news for him. At least that was what Harvath told himself as he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for his floor. In his gut, though, he had a very bad feeling that something evil was hovering on the horizon and would make itself known sooner, rather than later.
CHAPTER 43
Garden Court in Boston’s North End was a one-way street that only allowed parking along one side. It being Boston, parking was always at a premium and there were no spaces available. The killer hadn’t expected there to be any. Pulling his van up as far as he could onto the sidewalk, he made sure there was enough space for traffic to get by and placed a placard on his dashboard that read EMERGENCY PLUMBING REPAIR IN PROGRESS. It wouldn’t stop a cop determined to give him a hard time, but he hoped not to be here long enough to draw much attention. In the meantime, the sign might prevent an angry local from calling the police because of how the van was parked.
He parked as close as he could to 5 Garden Court Street in order to use the van to obscure the entrance. Stepping into the cargo area, he opened the sliding door from inside and had unfettered access to the building’s front door.
With his pick gun, he made quick work of the cheap lock. In the blink of an eye, the door to the empty, unoccupied ground-floor apartment was open. Stepping inside, he did a quick check to make sure no squatters had taken up residence since his last reconnaissance. It was clear.
He used a collapsible aluminum loading ramp to wheel the gang box out of the van and into the squalid apartment. As soon as it was in, he quickly offloaded the rest of his equipment, including the van’s spare tire.
The window facing the street had been covered over with newspaper and he had no idea if the apartment even had functioning electricity. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t risk any light from inside spilling out and drawing attention. Snapping a series of glow sticks, he tossed them into corners of the tiny apartment and then used a staple gun to hang the padded moving blanket over the inside of the window.
With that complete, he focused on getting the buckets cooking. Using his knife, he pried off their lids and with the cinder blocks and bricks, he created a series of raised platforms for each, in order to get them up off the cracked linoleum floor.
Next, he ignited the torches and placed them around the metal buckets in order to start heating their contents. The trick was getting them close enough to bring the ingredients to a boil without rupturing the buckets themselves and having them spill their contents all over the floor. It had taken him some practice in the days leading up to this moment to get it just right, but he had been able to perfect his technique and was confident that he could reproduce the results once he arrived in the apartment.
Very soon the air was filled with the liquid’s pungent odor. He knew that it wouldn’t take long to spread farther up into the three-story building. As he had at the Liberty Tree Building, he kept a silenced pistol at hand while he worked. If anyone came to investigate the source of the smell, they’d be immediately dispatched. The lion would not be deterred from his kill.
He used a professional-grade infrared thermometer to monitor the temperature in each of the buckets. As they started climbing closer to their boiling points, he assembled the rolling winch system that would allow him to move each of the buckets to where he needed them without risk of spilling any of the liquid on himself.
When the winch system was assembled, he rolled the spare tire into the bathroom, placed it in the tub, unscrewed the lid of a large jug, and poured the contents over it. He then placed the timing mechanism and rapidly made his way back to the living room and extinguished all the blowtorches.
Unlocking the lid of the gang box, he lifted it up and looked inside. The man inside had been stripped of all his clothing and his head had been shaved. His hands, feet, and neck were shackled to eyehooks welded to the bottom of the box. He had also been gagged. The gag was necessary not only for quietly transporting him, but to silence the screaming he was about to do.
The killer knew he was deviating from his instructions, but nevertheless he had chosen not to administer the paralytic this time. He wanted his victim to thrash and spasm. When they later examined the body, he wanted all involved to see the signs of the man’s struggle and to envision how painful his death must have been.
Making sure that the casters beneath the gang box were locked, so that it would stay in place and not begin moving across the floor, he used the rolling winch system to pick up the first boiling bucket and bring it to the box.
It took a moment to get it to the correct height, just above the rim of the box, but once he had it where he wanted it he hooked two claw hammers underneath and splashed the boiling liquid inside.
The naked man writhed and screamed in agony as the hot substance boiled off his flesh. Quickly, the killer fetched the next bucket and poured it in.
The gang box was made of thick metal panels, which helped retain the liquid’s intense heat, while its welded seams prevented even one drop from leaking.
It took him exactly eight and a half more minutes to empty the remaining buckets and then five more minutes to clean up and make sure he hadn’t left any clues. His hair and clothing reeked, as did the rest of the apartment, but it was nothing compared to what it was going to smell like soon enough.
Confident that the scene was exactly as he wanted it, he retreated outside, pulled the apartment door shut behind him, and climbed into the van. He looked at his watch and reached into his backpack for a small handheld scanner. Turning it on, he set it on the seat next to him and turned the key in the ignition. As he drove off the curb and headed away, he smiled. Sleepy Garden Court Street was about to get very, very active.
CHAPTER 44
WASHINGTON
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
The bald-headed CIA operative watching the house had a thick neck, broad shoulders, and meaty hands that looked like a bunch of sausages sewn together. His were not the hands of a surgeon or a pianist, but they nevertheless conducted very skilled labor. If this were not so, he never would have risen to the level he had.
When he picked up the phone vibrating on the armrest next to him, it looked like a child’s toy being held in a baseball mitt. He activated the call. “Samuel speaking,” he said.
“You’re being retasked. Priority one,” a voice said on the other end.
“Same targets?” Samuel asked, his eyes never leaving the house.
“No.”
“What is my new target, please?”
“It’s all in the file. You know where to find it.”
“When?”
“Now,” said the voice. “I’m sending someone to relieve you. They should be arriving any moment.”
“Understood,” Samuel replied and disconnected the call. Less than ten minutes later, another black Lincoln Town Car pulled up across the street and turned off its lights. The parking lights came on momentarily before being extinguished. The relief shift had arrived. Samuel started his car, checked for traffic, and pulled away.
• • •
As he did, there was a third car just up the street whose occupants had watched the changing of the guard transpire.
“Did you see that?” McGee asked. “No Hello Ig
or how are you? How is Natasha and little Boris? No nothing. That’s not how these limo drivers are. They’re all tight, they all come from the same part of the world, and they all clump at the same companies. That was way too fast.”
Ryan agreed. “You’re right,” she replied. “He wasn’t here for some late-night airport run. They’ve got all the team members under surveillance. He was watching Tara’s building to see if we’d show up.”
“Or to follow her if she left,” McGee said as he looked at the clock on the dash. “It’s your call. What do you want to do?”
She didn’t need to think about it. She knew exactly what she wanted to do. “Follow him.”
“Roger that,” he replied.
After letting two cars pass, McGee pulled into the street and began tailing the black Town Car.
It was the only move they could make at this point; the only move that Phil Durkin wouldn’t see coming.
The comparison of the espionage world to chess was quite apt, except that to be the best, your mind had to be trained to see the board in all three dimensions. Of all the former teammates Ryan could have reached out to, Florentino was the most obvious. They had not only anticipated that she would do it, they had been ready for her. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty and she and McGee both now realized what a mistake it had been.
For his part, though, McGee didn’t seem to have fully learned the lesson. He wanted to go after another team member, this time being “more careful.” As far as Ryan was concerned, being “more careful” was not a clever enough plan. They needed to be more cunning. There was no use trying to grab another gazelle from the back of the herd if there was a predator hiding in the bushes waiting to spring once you made your move.
Ryan’s plan was to wait until the predator had left the safety of the bushes and then spring her own trap. Was the man driving the Town Car their predator? She couldn’t be one hundred percent sure yet, but her gut told her that they were right on the money, and her gut was seldom, if ever, wrong.
As they followed him, the driver conducted multiple SDRs to ascertain if he had anyone on his tail.
