He watched her playing, using some kind of make-up as she painted Carson’s face with a brush. She seemed happy enough. I wonder what’s going on under the surface though, he thought. Foster had witnessed post-traumatic stress disorder a number of times. He’d suffered a bout of it himself after his first tour in the Gulf in ’91, and was something that had taken all of his mental strength to defeat. He’d learned early how dangerous and unforgettably gruesome life could be on the frontline and he knew a number of soldiers, some of them good friends of his, who’d returned from combat and never shaken that thousand-yard stare, a look only people who’d witnessed some terrible things possessed.
He recognised the tell-tale signs; often they could be delayed, triggered by the strangest of things, but so far the disorder hadn’t seemed to have manifested itself in the girl. Children’s imaginations meant they could often filter things in a way adults couldn’t, protecting them and cushioning them from the brutal realities of life. Foster had four kids himself, all boys, who were grown up now and living their own lives. He liked children; they were innocent. Having spent most of his life engaged with people who represented the worst side of human nature, he found a child’s perspective of the world refreshing. Untainted. Honest.
As the thought crossed his mind, his eyes narrowed. The same couldn’t be said for the people hunting her.
She’d been placed in protective custody as a standard precaution, but particular measures were being taken on this operation considering who she was. There was bound to be a large street bounty on her head and there would be people out there right now trying to claim it. However, Foster had the upper hand. He, his team and the girl could be in any city in the United States and the five boroughs of New York City alone covered 468 square miles, with over eight million people living in them. It was conceivable that the men after the child had guessed Foster wouldn’t want to travel too far and would go to ground, remaining in their own back yard. However, Manhattan was a big place, full of tall buildings and apartment complexes with a sea of people, not to mention the possibility that they could be hiding out somewhere in The Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn or Staten Island. A concrete maze of potential hiding places. One small girl amongst eight million people; a true needle in a haystack. If you knew what you were doing, it was pretty easy to hide out in New York.
If you were as experienced as Foster, you could just disappear.
Across the room, sitting in his chair, Barlow had finished some fries and was now eating a burger out of a greasy wrapper, his leg jiggling out of boredom and pent-up energy, not enjoying being cooped up inside. They were all dressed in casual clothes, jeans, t-shirts and shirts to cover the holsters on their hips and around their shoulders. Vargas was sitting beside the child and talking with her while she worked on Carson. Something she said made the girl giggle. Even though he didn’t know or fully trust her, Foster had to admit that having the woman as part of his team for the last eight days had been helpful. She’d struck up a real rapport with the child in a way neither he nor Barlow or Carson could have done. She was also in charge of the girl’s medication; Jennifer was epileptic and needed to take some tablets each morning and night, a process Vargas ensured happened right on schedule.
She’d stepped out earlier to collect some things from CVS to entertain the kid and the girl was now using whatever Vargas had picked up on Carson, giving him a makeover. Across the table, he had his eyes closed, patiently waiting as she applied makeup to his face, her brow furrowed in concentration. Foster shook his head and hid a smile; Carson looked ridiculous, the small powdery brush catching in the stubble on his cheeks, glitter around his eyes. However, it was keeping the child occupied so he didn’t intrude or say anything. Considering everything she’d been through in the past few weeks, any moment she was happy was a good one.
He shot his cuff and checked his Tag. 1745. They were due to drive to a safe house in Spokane, Virginia shortly, getting the girl out of the city. They’d only been in New York for the past three days but despite it being a great place to go to ground, Foster had a bad feeling in his gut which life and experience had taught him to never ignore. He was looking forward to getting out of Manhattan; it was probably safe here, but it was claustrophobic and was also the stomping ground of the men who would be hunting the girl. According to official protocol, Foster and his team were scheduled to head to a DOJ place in Baltimore tonight but Foster was calling an audible and taking the girl to a safe house no-one other than he knew about. Aside from the fact there had been leaks inside the Service before and people had been killed as a result, this was the first time in his career that Foster had protected a child; it was making him extra cautious. He often did this, going off grid with a witness.
That was why he was so good at his job. That was why he’d survived for so long.
Apart from Carson and Barlow, he didn’t trust anybody.
In a car on the Park-side of the street below, two men sat side by side in the front seats in silence, facing uptown. Dressed in baggy jeans and loose tops, they were both armed with steel handguns, held low against their thighs, full magazines slotted into the base of each weapon.
The guy behind the wheel was lean, brown-skinned and tall, with thick blond dreadlocks hanging down his back and over his shoulders. He was currently the lead suspect in three city homicides without sufficient evidence to charge, and had committed almost a dozen others that the NYPD had no idea he was connected to.
He was the leader. His name was Braeten.
He didn’t view himself as a murderer per se. He was more of a problem solver, willing to do work that others couldn’t either out of fear, or for moral reasons. He didn’t suffer from either, so if you wanted someone gone, he and his four other guys would make it happen for the right price. He’d been hired by a variety of clients in the past; city gangs, the Mob, cartels. Even a businessman who was screwing some guy’s wife and wanted her husband out of the picture for good. New York was a city built on competition, money and greed, which meant there would always be a call for teams like Braeten’s. Somewhere in the five boroughs, there was always someone who wanted someone else killed.
That was where Braeten and his crew came in.
He’d have preferred to get this particular job done indoors, out of sight and at close quarters. Manhattan was always crawling with cops and the people they were dealing with here were trained professionals, armed and more than prepared. They also needed surprise on their side; trying to force entry against this group wouldn’t work. They’d be ready for that. Also, they’d be checking the street constantly. If Braeten and his crew walked into the apartment building they might as well ring ahead and schedule an appointment.
He’d settled on an ambush in the street. Not ideal, but the best they could do given the circumstances and timescale. They’d have to get it done hard and fast, and be gone before the pigs showed up. Eye witnesses would be plentiful but Braeten was planning to lay low and get out of New York for a while anyway. He could certainly afford it now after the down-payment he’d received for this gig.
He glanced at the pistol in his hand, resting against his thigh. He’d wanted some heavier fire power, something automatic like an Uzi or an assault rifle, but he’d only been called twenty four hours ago which had left him little time to sufficiently prepare. Even from a short distance, handguns required aim and precision; considering three of his team were prolific cocaine abusers, they’d have to get up close and personal to be accurate. Normally, that wasn’t a problem, the killings taking place in tight proximity, often with a blade or a bat or a length of wire. This time, however, it could well be.