“What do you want, DeMarco?” Hopper said. “Money to stay out of this thing?”
“No, I don’t want money. I just want to know what’s going on.”
Dillon smiled when he heard this; DeMarco was a stubborn bastard.
Tell him that Russo is a classified op and you need to know where he’s getting his information from.
“Okay, I’m gonna level with you,” Hopper said. “Russo’s death is connected to a classified operation, and that’s why I had to take the case away from Arlington and why I haven’t been straight with you. You’ve stumbled into something way over your head, pal, something related to national security, but that’s all I can tell you. So now you listen to me. I need to know who’s feeding you information, and don’t tell me fuckin’ traffic cameras.”
“No, no,” DeMarco said. “I’m not buying that classified national-security crap. You feds chuck that out whenever you want to hide the truth.”
“DeMarco, goddammit, I’m telling you the truth. And if you don’t tell me what I need to know, I’m gonna call your boss and get your dumb ass fired for sticking your nose into an FBI case after you were told to back off.”
DeMarco doubted Hopper knew who his boss was, but he didn’t say that. Instead he said, “You’re not gonna talk to my boss, because if you do, I’ll have to tell him what you’re up to-and then you’ll have Congress all over your ass.”
Hopper, make him talk. Take out your gun and threaten to kill him. Shoot him in the knee if he doesn’t talk.
Thirty-five miles away, in the operations room at Fort Meade, Dillon screamed, “No!”
He knew what was going to happen the instant Hopper pulled his weapon.
“Alice!” Dillon yelled. “Tell Alpha not to kill Hopper!”
Dillon was too late.
DeMarco watched Hopper’s right hand go up, toward his chest-and he immediately realized that Hopper was going for a gun in a shoulder holster. DeMarco was too stunned at first to move, then he started to back up, holding his hands in front of his chest, saying, “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.”
But Hopper didn’t wait. His drew his gun and started to bring the weapon to bear on DeMarco-and then he dropped to the ground like his legs had evaporated and there was a small red-black hole in the exact center of his forehead.
DeMarco had no idea who had killed Hopper.
No one had told DeMarco about Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie.
Levy saw Hopper fall, and his mind registered that, a millisecond before Hopper fell, he’d seen a muzzle flash from a weapon that he thought came from behind DeMarco, from the bleachers, but everything happened so fast he wasn’t sure.
Now DeMarco was running. Why was he running if he had protection? And why was he running toward the woods and not up to the street where he’d most likely parked his car?
All Levy knew for sure was that he couldn’t let DeMarco leave the ball park. The damn guy knew too much.
Levy picked up the object he’d taken from the backseat of his SUV: a short barreled rifle with a sound suppressor and night-vision scope.
Cadillac has a weapon. I repeat. Cadillac has a weapon.
It was one of Alice’s spotters speaking.
Dillon cried out, “Alice! Tell your men they can’t kill Cadillac.”
Dillon wanted to use Cadillac to squeeze Charles Bradford if he could. Cadillac dead was of no use to him.
Alice immediately relayed the order, speaking rapidly, sounding like an auctioneer.
Bravo, Charlie. Do not shoot Cadillac. I repeat, do not shoot Cadillac.
When Hopper had been shot, DeMarco didn’t know who had shot him. He’d stood there for about a second, stunned by what had happened, and then sprinted toward the bleachers. He wasn’t going to stand in the middle of a baseball diamond, a perfect target for whoever was shooting, and the bleachers were the closest cover he could see.
The bleachers suddenly seemed a mile away.
Levy raised the rifle to his shoulder, sighted in on DeMarco’s running form-and fired. He watched without emotion as DeMarco fell headlong into the dirt, right near third base, like a ballplayer sliding into the bag.
DeMarco was hit in the back, just to the left of his spine, with something that felt like a sledgehammer. His hands, then his chin, scraped the dirt. His right hand was touching third base. Thank God for the vest Alice had given him. He got up and started running again. He had to get under cover. The next shot might hit someplace where he wasn’t protected-like his head.
DeMarco’s been hit.
It was Alice speaking.
Bravo, Charlie! Put rounds near Cadillac. Drive off Cadillac but do not hit him. Fire, fire!
Without the satellite, Dillon couldn’t see what was happening at the ball field, but he understood what was going on. Cadillac had shot DeMarco. He wondered if DeMarco was dead.
Levy didn’t understand what had happened. DeMarco had gone down but now he was back up and running again. He must be wearing a vest. Levy aimed again. This time he aimed for DeMarco’s head.
John Levy was an excellent shot.
He started to pull the trigger, but before he could, bullets began to strike the ground near him. Tree bark and dirt blew back into his face. He scooted backward where there was a slight depression in the ground but the bullets continued to hit near his head, missing him by inches. He got up and started running. The hedge would provide some cover until he reached his vehicle.
Dying wouldn’t help the general.
As Levy drove away from the park, tires squealing, he was thinking that he had failed miserably. DeMarco was still alive, Levy still didn’t know who was helping him, and still didn’t know the extent of DeMarco’s knowledge regarding General Breed.
He had failed Charles Bradford completely. He had failed him for the first time in his career.
With a small smile on his face, Dillon watched as three green blinking lights moved on the electronic map-Alice’s spotters were following Cadillac.
DeMarco crouched beneath the bleachers, his heart hammering. His back hurt from where the bullet had struck the vest, he’d skinned a hand when he fell, and he was panting like he’d just run a marathon instead of maybe a hundred feet from the pitcher’s mound to the bleachers.
Who the hell was out there? Who killed Hopper?
“Sir.”
DeMarco whipped his head to his right. Whoever had just spoken was close-it sounded like the guy was under the bleachers with him-but he couldn’t see anyone! He started to scoot backward on his hands and knees, to get out from under the bleachers as fast as he could, but the voice said. “Sir, it’s okay. Calm down. You’re safe.”
Safe my ass! And where the fuck was the guy?
“Sir, it’s all over. I’m going to show myself now.”
And then DeMarco saw a man literally rise up out of the earth. One minute there was what looked like a mound of dirt near the bleachers and the next thing he saw was the mound turn into a man dressed in mottled black and green combat fatigues with dark green camouflage paint smeared on his face. He was holding a short barreled rifle in his hands, and there was a sound suppressor attached to the rifle along with a high-tech scope that probably allowed the man to see in the dark. The man had been less than ten feet from DeMarco. If this guy had wanted to kill him, DeMarco knew he’d be dead already.
“Sir,” the man said, “you’re directed to return to your vehicle and wait for further instructions.”
DeMarco didn’t move; he just put his head down on the dirt. “Holy shit,” he said-and he didn’t care how many spies heard him.
Dillon had allowed DeMarco to drive his own car to the ball field. DeMarco figured Dillon did that because it would have looked funny if Hopper had arrived at the rendezvous before him and saw someone dropping him off. DeMarco also knew Dillon wasn’t worried about losing him because his car undoubtedly had some little tracking gizmo attached to it and, for all he knew, he had tracking gizmos attached to him, sewn into his damn clothes or something.