The Hit - Страница 43

Decker licked his lips. “I know you’re under a lot of stress, Sam.”

Kent shook his head. “This isn’t stress, Howard. Living in a hole in the ground in the middle of a snake-and mosquito-infested jungle for months on end wondering what was going to get you first, the dysentery eating your insides away or the Viet Cong who kept picking your guys off one by one—now that, my friend, that was stressful.”

“I’m under a lot of pressure too.”

“Right. You get elected and you have your big office and your driver and your staff and the fancy dinners and you go back home and raise money by kissing rich asses and then you come here and occasionally actually do your damn job and vote on something. Lots of pressure. Politics is hell. Glad I never went there. I just wore a uniform and got my ass shot up. You, on the other hand, never wore the uniform.”

“I was too young for Vietnam.”

“So you would have volunteered, like I did?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“And nothing was stopping you from joining over the years.”

“Not everyone is cut out for the military. I had other goals in life.”

“I earned two Purples and a Bronze and would’ve gotten the Silver but my CO didn’t like the fact that his troops would rather follow me than him. After the war I got my college and law degrees. Uncle Sam helped pay for it. No complaints there. I did my time. I got my quid pro quo. You did shit and now you serve the people from a nice, safe office.”

Kent suddenly reached across and gripped the back of Decker’s fleshy neck and jerked him forward until their faces were barely an inch apart. “So the next time you seek to lecture me on anything will be the last time you lecture anyone about anything. Are we crystal clear on that? Because I don’t intend to repeat it.”

Kent let Decker go and sat back. He picked up his fork. “Try the rice. It’s a little spicy, but it goes well with the seasoned broccoli.”

Decker didn’t move. He just sat there staring across at Kent.

Kent finished his lunch and rose. “My clerk will show you out. I hope you have a productive day up there on the Hill serving your country.”

He walked out of the room, leaving Decker trembling in his chair.

Chapter 54

Robie drove slowly down the narrow streets of Titanium, Pennsylvania. It was a small town with the usual assortment of homes and businesses. People ambled down the street, window-shopping at the mom-and-pop stores located there. Cars puttered along. Folks waved at each other. The pace was slow, comfortable.

He had done everything possible to avoid being trailed here. He felt it would have been impossible for even the best agents out there to keep him under surveillance. And if they had, they deserved to put one in the win column.

He eyed his GPS. He was looking for a certain street, and he hoped it was the right one. The computer told him it was a mile or so out of the downtown area.

Marshall Street. As in Ryan Marshall, the senior field agent who showed me and Reel how to stipple our pistol grips. Something only the two of us would know.

Robie had loaded in a specific number address on Marshall Street. It could have been one of two possibilities. He had inputted the one he’d chosen on the flip of a coin back at his apartment. However, in such a small place he figured Marshall Street couldn’t be that long if he had to run down the second choice.

He slowed the car after he’d left the town and reentered a rural area. He made the right on Marshall and drove straight back until the road cut sharply to the right. There didn’t seem to be any street numbers here, because there were no houses. He had just started to fear that his trip had been for nothing when he cleared another curve and saw it up ahead. It looked like a motor court of some sort, dating back to maybe the fifties.

Robie pulled his car to a stop in front of a small office that had a large plate glass window in front. The building formed a horseshoe with the office at the center. It was two stories high and dilapidated.

Robie didn’t focus on that. His gaze went first to the street number painted on the front of the building.

Thirty-three.

The same number as the rounds in Reel’s Glock’s oversize mag.

The other number that Robie had considered was seventeen, the model number of the Glock.

Thirty-three had obviously been the correct one. His coin flip was a winner. But it also made sense. The 17 model was standard. Reel had modified it with the extra-long mag.

His gaze next went to the sign in front of the motor court. Its background was painted white, with narrowly drawn black concentric circles emanating from the center, and the perimeter painted a bold red. The name of the motor court was the Bull’s-Eye Inn; the sign represented the bull’s-eye.

Cheesy, thought Robie, but maybe it had been original and catchy when the place was first built.

The red edge was what had drawn his attention, however.

He held up the photo he’d found in Reel’s locker. The picture of Reel and the unknown gent. The edge of red on the right side of the photo could be from the sign, if they had been standing next to it. More confirmation that he was in the right place.

Robie parked the car and got out and headed to the office. Through the plate glass he could see an elderly white-haired woman sitting behind a waist-high counter. When he opened the door a bell tinkled. The woman looked up from her computer, which was old enough not to be a flat-screen but still had the bubble butt the size of a small TV. She rose to greet him.

Robie looked around. The place didn’t appear to have been changed since opening day. It looked frozen in time from well before a man had walked on the moon or JFK had been elected president.

“Can I help you?” the woman said.

Up close she looked to be in her eighties. Her hair was delicate, cottony, her shoulders rounded and bent, and her knees didn’t look all that sturdy. The metal nameplate on her blouse read “Gwen.”

Robie said, “I was just driving through and saw this place. Quite something.”

“Original owner built it right after WW-Two.”

“Are you the new owner, Gwen?”

She grinned, showing capped teeth. “Honey, there’s nothing ‘new’ about me. And if I were the owner, I wouldn’t be sitting here trying to use a computer. I’d hire someone to do it for me. But I can always phone my great-granddaughter. She tells me what button to hit.”

“You have any rooms available?”

“Yes, we do. Not exactly the busy season for us. Most people come here to get closer with nature. But it’s a little cold to be with nature right about now. We do the best in the summer months, and late spring is pretty good too.”

“Is Room 17 available?”

She looked at him with a quizzical expression. “Room 17? We don’t have a Room 17.”

“But it looks like you have more than seventeen rooms.”

“Oh, we do. But it was the quirk of the original owner. He started with room 100 and worked up from there. Guess he wanted the place to sound a lot bigger than it was. We have twenty-six rooms, thirteen on each floor. That’s unlucky, come to think of it. Thirteen. But we’ve been here a long time, so I guess no harm, no foul.”

Robie had taken a shot in the dark with the number 17. If Reel had left him hidden clues he wanted to try all of them.

“Well, then give me whatever room you have available.”

She slid out a key for Room 106 and handed it to him after he paid for two nights in cash.

“There’s a pretty good place to eat in town called Palisades. That’s the nice restaurant anyway. You know, tablecloths and napkins made of something other than paper towels. They got stuff on the menu I’ve never heard of and couldn’t cook myself to save my life. But it’s real good if you got the money to spend, which most folks around here don’t. Now, if you’re economy-minded you can try the Gettysburg Grill one block over from Palisades. It’s just plain comfort food. Burgers, pizza, and fries. I’m partial to the Neapolitan shake they do. It’s real nice and only costs a buck.”

“Thanks.”

Robie was turning to go back to his car and get his bag when her words made him stop.

“Of course, there is a Cabin 17.”

He turned to face her. “A Cabin 17.”

“Guess I forgot to tell you about our cabins.”

“I guess so,” said Robie, looking at her expectantly.

“But it wouldn’t have done you any good.”

“Why is that?’

“Well, if you had your heart set on Cabin 17, I couldn’t have rented it to you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s already rented. Has been for a long time.”

“A long time. By who?”

She pursed her lips. “Well, that’s confidential, isn’t it?”

“If you say so,” replied Robie with a smile. The last thing he needed was her calling Titanium’s police on him for being overly curious. “Thing is number 17 is the one I wore when I played football in college. Best years of my life. So wherever I go, I always try to stay in number 17. Stupid, I know, but it’s important to me.”

“Hell, honey, I play the same numbers on the lottery every week because they’re my wedding day, 11, 15, and 21, my age when I got married. My big ball Lotto numbers are the year I was born, which I won’t share with you because you’d know I was over twenty-one. Hard to know just by looking at me, right?”