"Yeah, no shit," Dwight Stoner agreed from his sprawled position on the couch. "We shoulda hired Kleinfelter instead. Guy like that woulda caused us a whole lot less trouble."
"As it is, this A1 Grynard is already half convinced that I killed McNulty," Lightstone added, "because he found out Paul had me booked for buying illegal walrus ivory up in Anchorage when I was supposed to be buying dope. Told me not to leave town until he got everything straightened out."
"When was that?" Balloch asked.
Lightstone looked at his watch. "About twenty-four hours ago."
"He get everything straightened out?"
"I don't know, I didn't ask. Too busy trying to sneak out of town."
The veteran San Diego County sheriff's sergeant stared at Lightstone. "Jesus, I'm glad you work for somebody else. I'd hate like hell to be your supervisor." He paused. "So what're you guys going to do now?"
"First thing we've gotta do is find Mike before Alex does," Lightstone said.
"You really believe that these Chareaux assholes are going to try to take out a six-man federal-agent team, just because they got busted for illegal hunting?" Balloch asked in a disbelieving voice.
"It sure looks that way, except that it's brother, singular, now," Lightstone corrected. "Butch and Sonny are dead. But good old Alex, the one who's still running around out there, is the real freak. Likes to cut people up and watch them die. We know he's good for at least two Louisiana game wardens. Probably a whole lot more we don't know about."
"So you figure that if this Alex thinks you guys are out of the picture, then he- Hey, wait a minute." Pete Balloch's head suddenly came up. "How come only two names on the wire, instead of three?" the veteran homicide sergeant demanded suspiciously.
"Because I want him to think I'm still out there, or to at least wonder about it for a while," Lightstone said matter-of-factly.
"You want this asshole coming after you?"
"Not especially," Lightstone shrugged. "But Paul's dead, and if Mike and Carl are too, and he believes he got all three of us, then he's just going to take off. This way, if he thinks I'm the only one left, then maybe he'll leave his commando girlfriend at home and come after me himself."
Sergeant Peter Balloch blinked and then stared curiously at his longtime friend.
"You call that a plan?" he finally asked.
"You got a better one?"
"Yeah, I sure do," Balloch nodded. "Put out an APB and then sit back and let a couple hundred thousand cops hunt this bastard down."
Lightstone shook his head. "He'd just run off to Louisiana and hide out in the swamps for a few years, wait until everything cooled off, and then come back for me when I'm not paying attention. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for a guy like Alex the rest of my life."
"So what are you going to do? Sit around like a piece of mangled bait, wait for him-and maybe his buddies with the dynamite and the H amp;K-to show up, and then take them all on by yourself?"
"Not exactly." Lightstone smiled as he glanced over at Stoner and Paxton. "I've got a couple of ghosts here to help out."
"No offense," Balloch said dubiously as he looked at the three nearly crippled agents, "but right now, you three guys don't look like you could defend yourselves from a couple of pissed-off Girl Scouts."
"If we find Mike or Carl, we'll be fine," Lightstone shrugged. "Besides, we've got some backup on the way. Eskimo kid named Woeshack. One of our rookie agent- pilots who can't fly worth a shit."
"That the guy you said crashed the plane up in Alaska?"
"Uh-huh."
"So what the hell is he going to do, outside of getting you all killed?"
"He's going to be our pilot," Lightstone smiled. "As soon as he manages to steal another plane."
"Ah."
Then, before Sergeant Pete Balloch could say anything more, the phone rang next to his hand.
"Yeah?" Balloch answered, and his voice dropped an octave as he said: "Ah, shit. Are they sure? When?" A long pause. "What about the other guy?" A longer pause. "Yeah, okay, thanks." He sighed as he put down the phone.
"Scoby?" Lightstone asked quietly.
"He's dead," Balloch nodded. "Some of your guys found him this morning. Six rounds in his vest and one in the head, execution style."
All three agents were silent until Lightstone finally said: "What about Mike?"
"No answer at his place, no sign of forced entry, and the neighbors haven't seen anything." Balloch shrugged. "The guys out there are willing to help, but they don't want to bust in and look around unless we can fax them a warrant."
"Tell them not to worry about it, we're heading that way anyway." Henry Lightstone shook his head as he slowly pulled himself to a standing position. He watched as a shaky Larry Paxton helped Stoner up onto one foot, then handed him the set of crutches. "Snoopy likes to cheat when he busts into computers, so I don't think he'll mind too much if we don't bother to get a warrant."
Chapter Thirty-Nine
When the Washoe County sheriff, Sergeant Clinton Hardwell, took one look at the cut, bruised, and swollen faces of the three men who had hobbled off the Southwest Airlines plane, he immediately asked to see some identification.
"Sorry about that," Hardwell apologized as he returned the badge cases to the agents, "but, honest to God, you guys don't look like any federal raid team I've ever seen before."
"New Washington Office concept," Lightstone said as he and the plainclothed sergeant started walking slowly toward the baggage claim area, giving Paxton and Stoner a chance to keep up on their crutches. "Anybody sees us coming, they're not going to be expecting us to kick in the door."
"Yeah, I guess not," the homicide sergeant nodded as he glanced down at Dwight Stoner's horribly swollen knee and then at Larry Paxton's tightly bandaged leg.
After passing the first set of slot machines, the agents took a right turn to the baggage claim area. Their bags were waiting for them, stacked in a neat row next to the stainless- steel carousel and a uniformed sheriff's deputy.
"Uh, listen, you think you guys might be able to stick around a while and give us a hand, in case we run into any trouble?" Lightstone asked as he and Hardwell picked up the bags. They walked through a sliding glass door out into the blazing heat of Reno, Nevada.
"Buddy, let me tell you something," the deeply tanned homicide sergeant said as three of his detectives helped Stoner and Paxton into the back of two of the unmarked detective units. "Pete Balloch vouched for you, and he and I go back a long way, so I really don't care who you guys are, or who you're going after. But I can tell you one thing for sure-" he pointedly looked around at all three agents "-I wouldn't miss this operation for the world."
Just as the Washoe County homicide sergeant had described, the Japanese-style house that Special Agent Mike Takahara had recently purchased in Spanish Springs Valley-a rural development about fifteen miles north of downtown Reno-looked pretty much like all of the other widely scattered ranch-style homes in the quiet and peaceful hillside area.
From their concealed position about a hundred yards down the road, Henry Lightstone listened to the hissing sound of empty tape for another five seconds and then put the cellular phone down on the seat as Hardwell continued to scan the windows with his powerful binoculars.
"Nothing?" the homicide sergeant asked as he lowered the binoculars and looked over at Lightstone.
"No." Lightstone shook his head.
"You sure you got the right number?"
"Yeah, absolutely sure."
"Maybe he forgot to check his machine?" Hardwell shrugged.
"Not Snoopy," Lightstone said as he stared out across the sand-and-sagebrush landscape at the closed garage door. "Guy's a communications freak. Damn near religious about that sort of thing."