"Whoa! That's slander, Agent, ‘cause it ain't true. I'm a security man for a legitimate company. Better be careful what you say — you could get sued, you know. Our lawyers don't have enough to do."
"You are criminal scum," Ruzhyo said. "And you will pay for it very soon."
Sampson laughed. "Good luck proving it, pal. Better men than you have tried." He leaned back into the seat, his face going hard. "I'll be back on the street in time for dinner."
"You will not," Ruzhyo said.
"Yeah? Well, you're stupid if you think that."
"No. You are the stupid one—you believe we are with the FBI."
The look on Sampson's face was a mix of fear and disbelief, but by then the Snake had his gun out and pressed it into the man's side. "And you would be extremely stupid to attempt to move," the Snake said. The Russian accent was so thick in his voice you could lean against it without falling.
"Jesus!" Sampson said.
"Afraid he ain't gonna be offering you much help, hoss," Winters said.
"What the hell is going on? Who are you? What do you want?"
"To feed the wolves a poisoned bait," Ruzhyo said.
The criminal frowned. He did not understand. Nor would he have time to worry over it. Fate had reached into the lottery basket and closed his cold hard fingers.
Luigi Sampson's number had been drawn.
10
Ray Genaloni was mad enough to kill somebody with his bare hands. The man who stood in front of his desk, one of Luigi's bodyguards, was not delivering good news and he was the only target of opportunity — but that would be a bad idea, to kill him. Instead, Ray kept his temper held down, as if pressing a lid on a boiling pot to keep the steam from escaping.
"Excuse me, Donald," Genaloni said, "but what exactly do you mean the FBI doesn't have him?"
"We sent the lawyers, Boss. The feds say they didn't pick up Luigi."
"But you and Randall say they did?"
"We had just come out of Chen's. There were two of ‘em, another one in the car. Luigi made them, and Randall and I know feds when we see them. Their IDs checked out, they are on the New York Bureau list, the car they were in had no-hit plates — which we ran through our police contacts and found they were blind-issued to the New York City FBI motor pool. They got him, all right."
"Then why are they telling the lawyers they never heard of him?"
Donald shook his head. "I don't know."
Genaloni sat silent for maybe fifteen seconds. He saw the bodyguard's sweat. Good. Let him be nervous. Finally, he said, "That's all. Go find something to do."
After the bodyguard left, Genaloni sat and stared at the wall. What the hell were the feds up to? Why were they putting the squeeze on him? Luigi was stand-up, they could threaten him with anything they wanted and he wouldn't give them shit, but We-ain't-got-him was a new game. And it was one he didn't like. They were up to something and whatever it was, he didn't fucking like it.
Fine. They want to play cloak-and-dagger? No problem. He had a knife sharp enough to shave with just sitting around doing nothing. All he had to do was reach out and grab it. We'll just see about this crap.
He picked up his phone. "Scramble, code two-four-three-five, Sunshine," he said.
The phone said, "Scrambled."
He punched in a number.
We'll just see about this crap.
"I understand," Mora Sullivan said, knowing her voice would not give her away.
She waved the phone off, stood and began a measured pacing.
Three steps this way, turn, three steps back, turn, then repeat, as she began to assimilate the assignment. The Selkie did not sit and meditate. Yes, she could be still when necessary, when the stalk required it, but at this stage the Selkie thought best when she moved, when she was on her feet, exploring avenues, watching for side roads, scheming.
She could become anything, anybody, and the world was her chew toy, but this would be a dangerous one. There could be no room for error. Nearly always on her assignments there was wiggle room, space for small mistakes. Though she never left anything undone if she knew about it, there had been occasions when she had made errors. Tiny things, those errors, not wide pathways upon which a pursuer could have traveled to catch her. But now and then, she had missed something. She was the best, but even the best could overlook some bit of business, realizing it only afterward, when it was beyond her control to repair.
Step, step, step, turn—
People had not noticed the little clues she had accidentally dropped, because most people never thought to look for them. And eventually the links had rusted away under time and weather, become no more than stains on her trail, small, dark blotches that offered nothing to normal vision.
But this time? This time there would be a microscope turned upon her actions. Police officers, no matter what their organization, were special cases. First and foremost, the police protected their own. The message was simple: You may do many heinous acts and escape, but killing a cop is not one of these acts. Do so, and you rise to the top of the list, never to be removed until you are caught or killed — preferably killed. Sullivan knew this. Her father had been one of those who had gunned down a policeman, and paid for that with his own life. The policemen who had caught him had executed him, and it had been no chore for the killers to justify their revenge, no chore at all.
Step, step, step, turn—
Killing her target would not be the problem. That was the easy part. An assassin who was willing to be caught or to die herself could pretty much take out anybody in the public eye, from the President on down.
Getting away with such an assassination was another thing. Especially when the best and brightest lights of the top anticrime organization in the world would be shined into your escape tunnel. There would be no wiggle room on this one, no errors permitted. The smallest clue would be found, magnified, analyzed, tested, followed.
The thought was both scary and attractive. The Selkie thrived on the risk. She enjoyed epinephrine as if it were a fine wine, savoring the jolt it gave. The truth was, she could walk away tomorrow and live a long and well-supplied life. Once you had more than a few million working for you, you didn't really need more. She had a goal and she would reach it because she always reached her goals, but she was self-aware enough to realize that for her, the game was as important as the get. And this would be a challenge. She'd never deleted an FBI agent before, especially one who was head of a sub-agency.
Step, step, step, turn.
So, the plan would require a meticulous surveillance, an undivided attention to every possible problem and enough time to make certain everything was covered. Everything.
Before she left, she would take on a new identity. She would become a woman who belonged in Washington, D.C., who had reason to be near her target, who would pass any inspection if necessary.
Sullivan stopped pacing, and grinned to herself. Already, the adrenaline bubbled in her, made her skin and muscles tight, gave her breathtaking rushes.
She was a creature of the were. She could change her look as easily as some people changed their clothes, could become anything she wished.
Already the Selkie's metamorphosis had begun.