He concluded there was a better option than making a beeline for Building 93—and that was to immediately go on the offensive. He would strike hard at Ozmian the moment he exited Building 44. Moving with cat-like swiftness over the frozen ground, being careful to leave no trail, he circled the building, performing a quick reconnaissance. It was a two-story structure of brick, dilapidated but still sound, with a steeply pitched roof. The windows of both stories had been blocked with plywood covered in tin, and sealed so effectively that no light from inside leaked out. There would be no exit from one of those.
As he rounded the corner at the back of the building he spied a rear door. He gently touched the handle and found it was locked, then ran a finger along the exposed hinges and brought it to his nose. Fresh oil. A further examination revealed the hinges had recently been cleaned, as well.
Completing the reconnoiter, Pendergast understood that Building 44 had only two means of egress — front and back. The roof was too steep and exposed to allow for any escape that way. It was an ideal setup for an ambush.
Perhaps too ideaclass="underline" it felt almost like a setup. In fact, as he reflected further, it was a setup: Ozmian was expecting him to hold back and press an attack the moment the man exited.
But setup or not, even if he chose to cover one of the exits at random, he still had a 50 percent chance of getting the drop on Ozmian. By anticipating Ozmian’s strategy, he could improve those odds.
Pendergast ran through the logic. Since Ozmian had previously prepared this rear door, he intended for this to be his exit point while Pendergast was staking out the front loading dock entrance. Given this train of deduction, Pendergast should therefore stake out the rear door.
But that logic, complex as it was, might still be too simple. If Ozmian were truly a clever man, he would anticipate that he, Pendergast, would discover the rear door, observe the freshly oiled hinges, and therefore stake out that exit point.
Therefore, Ozmian will leave by the front door. It was a clear case of double-reverse psychology. This oiled back door, so carefully prepared, was a red herring, a trap, created to lure Pendergast into making this an ambush point.
Four minutes left in his head start.
Pendergast slipped around to the front of the building once again, now convinced that this was where Ozmian would exit. As he scanned the frozen landscape, he saw an excellent point of cover: a dead oak tree still cloaked in the long moon-shadow cast by Building 93. He sprinted over to it, leapt up to grasp a low branch, swung himself up, climbed to a higher limb, and took up a crouching position, hidden behind the trunk. He removed his Les Baer, its cold weight a physical reassurance. Bracing himself against the trunk, he took a bead on the front loading dock.
Thirty seconds.
But then, even as the seconds ticked off, Pendergast once again had misgivings. Was he overthinking the situation, giving Ozmian too much credit? Perhaps the man had a simple plan after all to exit by the rear door. If he did, Pendergast not only would miss his chance but would be highly vulnerable in his position on the tree limb, especially if Ozmian did indeed plan to circle around from the rear and fire at him from the weedy knoll.
Ten seconds.
For better or worse he had made his choice. Iron sights trained on the metal rolling door, his shoulder braced against the trunk, he waited, stilling his breath.
54
Vincent D’Agosta, trussed and gagged, watched as Ozmian sat calmly in the chair opposite him. The man, who had been so shifty and restless before Pendergast’s arrival, was now supremely calm, his eyes closed, his hands on his knees, his back straight in the old wooden chair. He appeared to be meditating.
D’Agosta cast his eyes about the large, unheated space. It was so cold that the blood that had drained from Longstreet’s head, puddled on the metal table, was already freezing. A harsh fluorescent illumination came from a trio of remotely controlled spotlights hung in the corners of the room.
Once again, his mind began racing. He savagely upbraided himself for his own gullibility: not only for falling into the trap, but for being angry with Pendergast and refusing to try to see things his way. Longstreet was already dead — and a most horrible, agonizing death it had been. And now, because of his stupidity, Pendergast might well be killed, too.
Above all, his hatred of Ozmian and thirst for revenge glowed like a furnace inside him. But even as he considered every one of his options, everything he might do to turn the situation around, he knew that he was helpless to act. It was all in Pendergast’s hands. Ozmian would not get away with it. He would underestimate Pendergast, as so many had done in the past, to their great sorrow. And what was he thinking? Pendergast would not be killed — an absurd idea. All this would be over soon. He kept repeating it like a mantra: All over soon.
A few long minutes passed, and then Ozmian stirred. He opened his eyes, stood up, raised his arms, and went through a series of stretches. Walking over to the table where his equipment was laid out, he tested his flashlight and put it in a pocket, slipped the knife into his belt, checked his pistol, made sure a round was in the chamber, and shoved it into his waistband. The extra magazine went into another pocket. Then he turned to D’Agosta. The look on his face was one of eagerness and focus. D’Agosta found the calm assurance unnerving.
“Let’s play a little game, you and I,” he said. “Let’s see if, in the five minutes remaining before I begin my pursuit, I’m able to anticipate your friend’s moves.” He took a step, then another, trailing his hand on the metal table. “Shall we?”
A queer smile played about his lips. D’Agosta, of course, could not respond even if he wanted to.
“My first guess is your partner doesn’t make a beeline for Building Ninety-Three. He’s not a man to run.”
Another pensive turn around the table.
“No…Instead, he decides to press the attack immediately. He decides to ambush me as I emerge from this building.”
Ozmian made another turn. He was certainly enjoying himself, D’Agosta thought, and he wondered how much the bastard would enjoy taking a round in the brainpan from Pendergast’s .45. He was going to be in for the surprise of his life.
“So your partner reconnoiters this building. Lo and behold, he discovers the back entrance. And then he notices the hinges have been cleaned and oiled.”
He paused. D’Agosta stared, eyes full of hatred.
“Naturally, he concludes that I have secretly prepared this back door as my exit point. He stakes it out, ready to take me down as soon as I emerge.”
How the scumbag was enjoying the sound of his own voice.
“What do you think, Lieutenant? Following me so far?” He put a pensive finger to his chin. “But you know what? I don’t think he’s staking out the back door. Do you know why?”
He resumed his slow pacing. “Being a clever man, and knowing how clever I am, your friend will think further. And he will decide that the oiled hinges are, in fact, a ruse. He will think I oiled the door to mislead him into thinking I’d be leaving by that exit.”
He took a few more pensive steps. “And so what does he do? He stakes out the front door!”
A low chuckle. “Okay, now he’s staking out the front door. But from what vantage point? As every hunter knows, big game don’t normally expect an attack from above. The best way to hunt deer, for example, is from a stand in a tree.”