The Hit - Страница 36

It was the heaviest sleep he’d had in years.

When he woke it was fully dark again. He had lost nearly a day of his life.

But he could have easily lost his life a day earlier.

He found a diner and ravenously ate two meals in one. He couldn’t seem to get enough to eat or drink. When he set his coffee cup down for the last time and rose from the table he felt his energy returning.

He sat in his truck in the parking lot, staring at the dashboard.

He’d had Reel lined up in his gunsight. One trigger pull and it would have been over. Reel dead. His mission accomplished. All worries gone.

His finger had actually slipped to the trigger. Every other time in his entire professional life when his finger had gone to that point he had fired.

Every single time.

Except that time.

Jessica Reel.

He had ordered her to close her eyes. When he had done so Robie was fully committed to making the kill shot.

And walking away.

To let someone else figure this whole thing out. He was just the triggerman. All he had to do was pull the damn trigger.

And I didn’t.

Once before in his life he had failed to make the shot. It had turned out to be the right decision.

Robie didn’t know if that would be so in this case.

Reel looked different. Not totally, just subtly. But that was enough. Most people were terrible observers. And even those good at observing were not very adept at it. Reel had done just enough to beat the odds that someone would spot her. Not too much. Not too little. Just enough.

Robie would have done the same thing in her position.

And by not pulling the trigger maybe I am in her position now.

He drove back to the motel, went to his room, stripped down, and stood in the shower, letting the water wash off the grit he felt over every part of his body.

But the water couldn’t get to his brain, where it felt like muck a foot deep had gathered, dulling his senses, obstructing his ability to think clearly.

He dried off and dressed. He leaned against the wall and slammed both hands into it so hard he felt the drywall crack. He dropped fifty bucks on the bed to repair the wall and grabbed his bag.

He had a long drive ahead of him. He had better get to it.

He switched on the radio when he reached the interstate highway. The news was full of it. A massacre on a lonely ridge in the middle of nowhere, Arkansas. No one was talking, but apparently rival militias had had a go at each other. A cabin had been blown up. Trucks too. Men lay dead.

One of them was identified as Roy West, a former intelligence analyst in D.C. When and why he had headed to Arkansas and taken up his new life of guns and bombs was as yet unknown. There were intimations that folks from D.C. were heading to the site now to begin an investigation.

Robie looked up, almost expecting to see a government jet fly over en route to the crime scene.

As the news went off in other directions, Robie thought more about what Reel had told him.

West had written the apocalypse. What exactly did that mean?

West had worked at the agency. His official title had been “analyst.” That could cover lots of different things. Most analysts whom Robie had encountered spent their days on real-time issues. But there were some who didn’t.

Robie had heard that the agency had papers written on lots of different scenarios. They took into account the changing geopolitical landscape. These white papers would almost all end up on the shredder pile, unexecuted and largely forgotten. But maybe West’s hadn’t ended up on that pile. Maybe someone was taking it seriously.

Writing the apocalypse.

Reel had risked a lot to come out here. If Robie hadn’t been there too she would be dead. Reel was a first-class killer with few peers. But she had been outgunned more than twenty to one. Even the best trained person could not survive that.

If she knew that West wrote the apocalypse, this meant she had either read the paper or knew of its contents. In fact, she’d said she had the document. So she probably hadn’t come out here to ask West about it. Robie doubted she cared what his inspiration or reason was for doing it.

So what then?

He drove on for fifteen more miles before the answer hit him.

She wanted to know who he’d given the report to.

If it hadn’t gone through official channels, then it could have gone to someone who wasn’t official. That must have been what Reel wanted. The name of the person or persons who had seen the apocalypse paper.

More miles went by. Robie stopped for gas and another meal. He sat at the counter, his attention focused on the food in front of him, but his mind racing well beyond the confines of the roadside diner.

There was her shot list.

Jacobs first. Gelder next. She said they were traitors.

She also said there were others.

But she had killed Jacobs and Gelder before she’d come out to see Roy West. So she had to know they were part of the apocalypse paper before she’d confronted West.

That could only mean one thing.

Robie had lifted the glass of iced tea to his lips but then slowly set it down without drinking.

There had to be someone else out there. Maybe more than one who knew about the paper, who were perhaps actively pursuing its goals but were still unknown to Reel.

She was methodically killing off these conspirators—that was how Robie naturally started to think of them—but her list was incomplete.

So many more questions assailed him now, chief of which was why and how Reel had become involved in all this. What was the catalyst that had prompted her to risk everything to do what she was doing?

He had looked the woman in the eyes. He had come away with a definite conclusion.

This was not simply another mission. This was personal.

And if Robie was right about that, there had to be a reason. No, there had to be a person involved who made it personal for her. She said they had killed someone who meant a lot to her. And he or she had been killed because they were going to expose the plot.

Robie had lots of questions and no answers. But he knew one thing.

An apocalypse was never how you wanted it to end.

Chapter 45

Children whooping. Balloons all the colors of the rainbow. Presents that each cost well into three figures.

Judge Samuel Kent looked around the room and smiled at the antics of the elementary school–age kids in the large sunroom where the birthday party was taking place. Kent had married later in life, and his youngest child was a guest here at the home of a well-heeled lobbyist who made his money by selling whatever needed selling on Capitol Hill.

Kent’s wife, nearly twenty years younger, was not in attendance. A spa trip to Napa valley with her girlfriends had taken priority over her son’s friend’s party. Yet Kent was happy to fill in. It gave him certain opportunities.

He scanned the room once more and nodded his head.

The man walked briskly toward him.

He was taller than Kent, running to flab, and his hair was receding rapidly. And though it was a party, he wasn’t smiling. He looked, in fact, like he was going to be sick.

“Howard?” said Kent, holding out his hand, which the other man quickly shook. His skin was clammy.

Congressman Howard Decker said, “We need to talk.”

Kent smiled and indicated a large piñata hanging from the ceiling in one corner of the room. “I don’t want to be here when they start attacking that thing. Shall we take a walk outside? The garden is very impressive.”

The two men went out the French doors and started strolling through the elaborate gardens that covered the better part of three acres. There was a pool, a guesthouse, an outdoor stone pavilion, a reflecting pond, benches and gates and side gardens, and a potting shed. Both men were wealthy and thus felt right at home in such a palatial setting.

When they were well away from the house in an isolated stretch of the property, they stopped walking.

Kent said, “How’re things on the Hill?”

“That’s not what I want to talk about and you know it.”

“I do know, Howard. I’m just trying to keep your nerves from running away with you. Poker faces are important.”

“And you’re not concerned? I understand she nearly got you,” said Decker.

“We were prepared. The only problem was she was more nimble than we thought.”

“You know Roy West is dead.”

“Neither significant nor relevant,” replied Kent.

“Reel?”

“Again, neither significant nor relevant.”

“I think she is very significant and relevant. Jacobs, Gelder, you? She has a list. How?” he demanded.

“It’s obvious,” said Kent. “I trusted Joe Stockwell when I shouldn’t have. I thought he was one of us. He wasn’t. He fooled me and it cost us.”

“So he told Reel?”

Kent nodded, looking thoughtful. “That seems to be the case. Too bad we didn’t kill him sooner.”

“Why? What’s the connection between Stockwell and Reel?”

“I don’t know,” replied Kent. “But there must have been one. He was with the U.S. Marshals at one point and had good connections. I tried to find what those were after we learned he was spying on us instead of working with us. But a lot of it is classified. I couldn’t push too hard without raising suspicions.”

“Then we’re all compromised. I’m probably on that list. He knew about me.”