“Sounds like a cover.”
“Definitely a cover. I already have someone tracing ownership. Following the money, as they say.”
“Good. That’s also what we’re doing on this end. We found one of the thugs who tried to snatch Kendra the other night.”
“Excellent. I hope you gave him a good punch in the gut from me.”
“Don’t worry, I made sure he felt some pain. So what’s your next move?”
Rye put down his tablet. “As much value as I place on old-fashioned research, sometimes you just have to get your hands dirty. Filthy dirty.”
Lynch chuckled. “That sounds ominous, Rye.”
“Come now. It’s why you called me, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is.”
“Then let me do what I do best.”
“You mean cause trouble, raise hell, and make the world safe for democracy?”
“Something like that. But I have to call your attention to the fact that I’m a Socialist. Parliament would much prefer I choose to make our little corner of the world safe. Say hello to beautiful Kendra for me.”
“Will do, Rye. Thanks.”
11:40 P.M.
Rye crouched next to the factory’s east wall, which he’d identified as the spot least likely to be equipped with cameras or motion sensors.
He looked around. The town was dead. The pub was the last of the businesses to close for the evening, and he hadn’t seen a soul in over an hour.
He unzipped his black canvas duffel and pulled out a grappling hook and twenty-five feet of canvas rope. He’d sprayed the rope with adhesive that afternoon, and it was reassuringly tacky to the touch.
One… Two… Three!
Rye tossed the hook over the wall and it took hold immediately. He climbed hand over hand over the twenty-foot wall, and it was difficult enough that he was reminded how long it had been since he’d been in the field. Damn. Need to get out more often.
He straddled the top of the wall, reversed the hook, and surveyed the factory yard. Quiet, like any other sad, old factory that had been closed for decades. Had those people at the bar been pulling his leg?
Only one way to tell.
Rye rappelled down the inside of the wall, finally letting go and dropping the last few feet. He adjusted his black turtleneck shirt and slacks. He’d felt slightly silly when he donned the outfit-this wasn’t the Kremlin, after all-but he was now happy to be as invisible as humanly possible.
He crept around the side of the building until he approached a cracked, peeling wooden door that had practically rotted off its hinges. Close enough to the target area. Might as well give it a shot.
He slid his fingers behind the hinges and tugged on the crumbling door. It pulled away easily. He slid in through the opening and switched on his tiny flashlight. He was in a machinist’s work area, where oily, dusty assembly-line parts littered the floor. He took a photo. He’d take photos throughout the entire factory and examine them later. You could never tell when the ordinary could become extraordinary on close inspection. He stepped over the gear and made his way to a door on the far side. He opened it and peered out.
Darkness.
Silence.
Not completely dark, he realized. There was something down the corridor to the right.
Exactly where the heat signature had shown up in his scan.
He took another photo. Then he moved toward the dim glow, keeping his eyes and ears peeled for any sign of activity.
The light was coming from a doorway at the end of the hallway. As he drew closer, he was aware of a low hum coming from the same place.
He stopped and listened. Still no sounds of footsteps or other movements.
He moved through the doorway, amazed that the dark, dusty factory abruptly gave way to an antiseptic, white-tiled room bathed in purple-tinged light.
What in the bloody hell…
Two modern, tripod-mounted cameras leaned against a wall on the other side of four desks equipped with laptop computers. The room faced a glass door and a wall of double-paned windows that looked into a much larger room illuminated by the same purplish glow.
He stepped past the desks and looked through the windows. More antiseptic white walls and white tile. But this room was outfitted with row upon row of small stations, approximately three feet wide. Each station was in use, but he wasn’t entirely sure how. It looked almost as if…
Holy shit.
The stations were topped by glass domes. Underneath the glass, something appeared to undulate in the purplish glow.
Could this be…?
He stared, squinted at the stations. As if that would suddenly help it to make sense.
There was no sense to be made here. None.
Holy shit.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and squeezed off a series of photos. Now to transmit them to Lynch and Kendra. He hoped they would know what to do with them once they arrived in their-
Pfffft.
He heard the sound an instant before he felt an icy chill. He looked down.
A long silver blade was protruding from his chest. It was coated with blood. His blood.
Only then did he hear the breathing of his attacker behind him.
Darkness.
KENDRA DRUMMED HER FINGERS as she sat in the passenger seat of Lynch’s car. They’d been on the way to the FBI offices when Lynch’s phone rang with an insistent tone she’d only heard twice before. Each time, Lynch had stepped away and took the call someplace where she couldn’t hear him. Classified stuff, she’d been told. Not that she really cared.
This time Lynch abruptly pulled his car over on Fifth Street and spent the first minutes pacing back and forth on the sidewalk next to her with the phone pressed to his ear. Then he leaned against the brick wall of the restaurant where he’d parked. His posture slumped, and he was frozen in place for a long moment even after he ended the call.
This wasn’t high-impact Lynch. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
She climbed out of the car and walked over to him. “What’s going on?”
His face was tense, his lips tight. “I have to go to England.”
“Another one of your assignments?”
“No, it’s just…” He looked away. “Rye is dead.”
Her breath left her. “What?”
“His body was found in a landfill a hundred kilometers outside of London. It so happened there were cadaver dogs on-site for another investigation. It’s the only reason they found him. They think he was bagged and tossed into a Dumpster.”
The words didn’t sound real to her as they tumbled from Lynch’s mouth. Neither the words nor the terrible vision of that amusing, lively man just tossed away like so much garbage. Lynch was obviously having trouble believing them, too.
Kendra placed her hand on his. “I’m so sorry. I really liked him.”
“And Rye liked you.”
“I feel guilty,” she said unsteadily.
“For what?”
“For pulling him into this. He didn’t know what we were getting him into.”
“We didn’t know much ourselves.” Lynch took a deep breath. “Rye never did anything he didn’t want to do. I feel bad ten different ways right now, but guilt doesn’t enter into it. Rye loved living on the edge. He almost died on three separate occasions in the years since I met him. It’s who he was.”
“I feel bad that he was doing it for us.”
Lynch nodded. “I guess I am feeling some guilt there. If I hadn’t called him, he’d be in his cottage reading and drinking wine right now.”
“What was he doing the last time you spoke to him?”
“He was tracking a lead from the auto investigation system of our Big Bear corpse, Dr. Porter Shaw. Shaw’s supposed workplace didn’t exist, but Rye found an old factory where he’d been going.”
“That was the last time you talked to him?”
“Yes. He texted me the address. It may be nothing, but as far as I know, it’s the last place he went. I have to go there.”