“It’s a scary world,” Collins agreed.
“Look, I’ve talked more in the last thirty minutes than I usually say in a week. How ‘bout you give me a break and knock off the questions for a while?”
“Just one more—you fight professionally or for fun?”
“What?”
Collins pointed at her own eyebrows as she spoke. “I’ve noticed some scarring in and around your eyebrows—common injuries sustained by boxers. Your knuckles look like you go home and argue with a tree every night, and you also have the beginning of cauliflower ear on the right side—not to mention your nose is slightly askew.”
Fighters and wrestlers take repeated blows to the ears. A deformity can result when sacs of blood collect between the injured cartilage and the skin. Those familiar with combat sports refer to the condition as cauliflower ear.
“Gee, thanks. Now you know why I wear a hoodie all the time,” Thorpe joked, deflecting the question.
Collins tripped over her words. “I’m sorry, you’re still attrac… you’re not… it doesn’t look bad. It’s hardly noticeable.”
“You’re such a flatterer. Had a wild youth, is all. I don’t look for fights, but sometimes they come my way…you analyze everyone like this?”
“Sorry…bad habit.”
Shit. Thorpe wanted the woman out of his head. Was she here to gather information on the department, or on him specifically? The coincidences were adding up to the makings of a trap: an attractive FBI agent, who just happens to be a criminal profiler, singled out Thorpe to be her partner. She was not only in charge of the protective detail but was also involved with the investigation itself. She garnered Thorpe’s opinion on departmental race relations, and now she was asking increasingly personal questions. Based on how the other FBI agents behaved around her, Thorpe figured Collins was not a person given to getting cozy with her coworkers. For the finishing blow, she’d begun to say she found him attractive, before clumsily trying to word her way out of the supposed slip. Agent Collins, Doctor Collins, didn’t strike Thorpe as a woman who said a thing without careful forethought.
No doubt—he was definitely being played.
“Where to next?”
Collins read the next address on their checklist. As Thorpe drove, he collected his thoughts and focused on Andrew Phipps. The man had to be seeking an opportunity to strike. But where? He doubted Phipps had access to the operation’s particulars; if he asked too many questions, he’d only draw attention to himself. However, he’d be sure to know the locations of the protective details. Fortunately, Thorpe wasn’t assigned to a fixed position, and he refrained from broadcasting over the radio. His unregulated and undocumented movement would make it difficult for Phipps to isolate him. The man would be forced into shadowing a surveillance team until Thorpe showed his face.
If Phipps were patient, sooner or later Thorpe and Collins would roll up to a location and the sniper would have his opportunity. Collins might end up with Thorpe’s brain in her lap; that’d force her to rethink whatever theories danced in her head. The situation would become much clearer when crime-scene detectives discovered the note on his headless torso.
If he survived the night, he needed to spend a few minutes explaining recent events in a hand-written letter. He’d place both his and Leon’s documents in a safety deposit box and then alert his attorney as to their existence and location.
Thorpe wondered if Phipps would make a move tonight; if so, it wouldn’t be well-planned. Just in case, Thorpe decided to play it safe; from now on, he’d be sure and survey the area around the security detail before approaching. He’d tell Collins he was conducting a risk assessment for each location. She might smell his bullshit, but screw it, better for her to be suspicious than for him to be dead.
ANDREW PHIPPS WAS HAVING A difficult time. His military deployments had always been in support of a larger force. Now, he operated alone. He’d decided to find a place of cover near a protected officer’s home, wait for Thorpe to show his face, and perforate it with a bullet.
The difficulty had been in finding a suitable location without being spotted by the security detail. If he drove down the street in an effort to locate the officers, the license plate might be recorded and traced. The friend from whom he’d borrowed the car would talk, and Phipps would have to explain why he’d cruised the area shortly before a TPD sergeant had his head removed by a .308 round. The fact that Phipps was an ex-Recon marine and current police sniper wouldn’t bode well.
His only option was to move in on foot and attempt to avoid the detail. He’d need to find a nest where he could observe from a distance. If and when Thorpe showed, Phipps would have to be able to take the shot and get to his car before the detail could respond. Even then, the shooting would be broadcast over the police radio in seconds, lessening his chances of escaping the neighborhood undetected. Plus, he’d have to move into position with a rifle. Nosey neighbors are prone to report such sights. Assassinating someone on domestic soil and not getting caught was proving more difficult than he’d hoped.
If he targeted Thorpe at his home, Phipps would have to deal with those fucking dogs again. And the last time he’d visited, Thorpe had rigged the tree line with a curtain of light. The next encounter might entail booby-traps of a more sinister nature. Phipps didn’t relish the possibility of piercing his feet on punji sticks or losing a leg to an IED.
His options were almost as distressing as what he’d just heard broadcast over the tactical channel. An anonymous caller reported seeing a man leave the back door of 1506 West Queen Street—his home—and jump the fence. The protective detail announced they were at Phipps’ front door and unable to make contact. Then Thorpe came on the radio and told the officers to force entry.
What the fuck was going on? They’d soon discover Phipps had slipped out of his residence. Now he’d be forced to explain his whereabouts and reasons for skulking away.
Shit! And who the hell had broken into his house?
WHILE THORPE DROVE TO THEIR assorted scouting locations, Collins busied herself with a series of cryptic phone calls. Thorpe hadn’t been able to gather any intelligence from the one-sided communications; Collins’ input consisted mostly of yeses, nos, and uh-huhs. Only one thing had been made clear: he wasn’t a welcome participant to the conversations.
She’d been engaged in one of those exchanges when the call referencing Phipps’ house was broadcast over the tactical channel. Collins terminated the phone call and told Thorpe to order officers to force entry.
After issuing the order, Thorpe conducted a U-turn and—aware he could be heading into a trap—responded to their location.
By the time he and Collins arrived, the security detail had searched the house and found no signs of an intruder, nor had they located Officer Phipps.
Collins grabbed an accordion folder out of the back seat, withdrew a photocopy of a TPD contact card and phoned Phipps’ cell phone.
EN ROUTE BACK TO HIS home, Phipps looked down at his ringing cell phone. He didn’t recognize the number and guessed the caller was someone with the department or FBI. He considered not answering, but surmised ignoring the call would create more havoc than picking up. If they weren’t able to establish contact, they’d make a full-scale effort to locate him.
“Yeah?”
“Officer Phipps, this is Special Agent Collins of the FBI. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking,” Phipps answered, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.
“I’m sorry to say this isn’t a social call. We just had a report of a man leaving the back door of your residence and jumping the fence. Fearing for your safety, I authorized officers to breech the front door. The good news is they didn’t find anyone inside. And while I’m relieved to hear that you’re okay, I’m disappointed to learn you purposely slipped away from our protection detail.”