“Look, you’ve got to understand, that wasn’t my call. I was on the Council for all of a week when they decided to sic that guy on you.”
Hendricks stepped on the hand Pappas held to the bullet wound in his thigh. Pappas screamed and writhed in pain. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Hendricks said. “My best friend is dead.”
Hendricks lifted his foot. Pappas’s screaming ceased. “So, what,” he said between gasps, “you plan to take down the Council single-handedly?”
“Of course not. You’re going to help me.”
“You’re out of your goddamn mind-particularly if you think I’m going to talk.”
“It’s not a matter of if. Just when. To be clear, I plan to kill you either way, but you get to decide how quick and painless your death will be.”
Pappas flashed a manic smile that teetered between terror and bravado. “Gee, thanks.”
“Don’t blame me. It’s the Council that put you in this position. If you’d like to return the favor, you’ll tell me everything I want to know.”
“You don’t understand. If I talk, they’ll kill my family.”
“What do you care? Half your family wants you dead.”
“That doesn’t mean that I don’t love them,” he said. “Listen, you’re a businessman. Let’s talk about this. I’m sure we can reach some kind of agreement.”
“We’re done talking for now. There’ll be plenty of time for us to chat once we get to where we’re going. I’ve got a car out front. Get up, or I will get you up.”
As Hendricks turned toward the door, Pappas shouted, “Wait!”
That’s when Hendricks realized that Pappas had been stalling for time all along.
Too late, he wheeled and saw Noah lunging toward him, the fillet knife from the upturned table in his hand.
Goddamn it.
Hendricks tried to bring the.22 around, but there was neither time nor space. The knife slid into his side as Noah slammed into him. Its blade, still specked with salt crust, felt like it was on fire.
Noah drove the knife forward with all his weight. Hendricks dropped his gun, wrapped his hands around Noah’s wrists, and tried desperately to halt the blade’s progress as they fell, limbs tangled, to the floor.
Noah had gravity on his side. Hendricks had momentum on his. Rather than halt the blade’s forward progress, Hendricks wrenched Noah’s wrists sideways, angling the blade away from his vital organs. The blade glanced off a rib, parting skin and stinging like a motherfucker, and then wedged itself in the floorboards. Hendricks landed right beside it, but Noah’s forward motion sent him tumbling. Hendricks kept hold of Noah’s wrists, and Noah somersaulted over him and slammed hard into the floor. He sounded like a sack of flour when he hit. Hendricks yanked out the knife, scrabbled to his feet, and buried it in Noah’s chest. Noah’s chef’s whites blossomed red. His eyelids fluttered, then stilled.
Fool me once, Hendricks thought.
He held his left arm to his side as he rose, trying to stanch the flow of blood from his wound, and looked for the.22.
Then he spotted it-in Pappas’s hand. He was aiming it at Hendricks’s head.
Pappas stood a few feet away, his weight on his good leg, his thigh wound seeping. “You piece of shit,” he said. “These men were family to me. I promise yours will pay for what you’ve done.”
“I’ve got no family left,” Hendricks replied. “The Council took them from me. That’s why I’m here.”
The statement was true enough, if intentionally misleading. When Engelmann came after Hendricks, he did so by targeting the only two people in the world that Hendricks cared about: his partner, Lester, and his former fiancée, Evie. Engelmann tortured Lester to death, extracting Evie’s location from him in the process. But Lester held on long enough to tip Hendricks off and afford him the advantage he needed to kill Engelmann. Afterward, Evie and her husband, Stuart, entered witness protection. Hendricks had no idea where they were or how to find them.
Evie had been pregnant when Hendricks last laid eyes on her. By now, she must’ve had the baby, which meant there were again two people in the world that he cared about.
Hendricks’s hand crept toward the gun he’d pocketed. Pappas slowly shook his head, a teasing gesture. “You’ll never get to it in time.”
Pappas was probably right, but Hendricks didn’t have a better play to make.
He went for the gun. His wound made him clumsy. Dulled his reflexes. The hammer snagged on his pocket, which gave Pappas time to react. A shot rang out. Hendricks’s eyes clenched shut as he braced for the bullet’s impact-a useless reflex.
But the impact never came.
Then Pappas hit the floor.
Hendricks opened his eyes. Wobbled a little from blood loss. Saw the waitress in a textbook shooting stance a few feet away. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide. Her hands were white-knuckled around the grip of Dimitris’s gun.
Hendricks’s thoughts were a jumble. “What…who…how the hell did you get out?”
“The walk-in’s interior is equipped with a safety release so employees don’t freeze to death. You can lock people out, but you can’t lock anybody in. Next time, barricade the door. If I weren’t on your side, you’d be fucked.”
“But-”
“Shhh.” She tilted her head and squinted as if straining to hear something. A second later, he heard it too.
Sirens.
“We have to leave,” she said. “Now.”
6.
THE HEELS OF Kathryn O’Brien’s sandals clacked against the polished tile floor as she strode purposefully across the bustling lobby. Her capri-length chinos and sleeveless blouse looked out of place in a building dominated by men in somber business suits, but the crowd parted deferentially around her nonetheless. Thompson-who felt woefully underdressed in shorts and a V-neck T-shirt-wasn’t sure whether that was because they recognized O’Brien or because her every movement exuded authority, but either way, it was something to see.
The FBI’s New Haven, Connecticut, field office was a modern red-brick building occupying a full city block a short walk from Yale’s campus. It was indistinguishable from most office buildings in the area but for the fact that it was set back from the road and encircled by a fence of galvanized steel painted black to look like wrought iron. Small, unobtrusive NO TRESPASSING signs were posted here and there along the fence, and all entrances, automotive and pedestrian, were gated. The building’s clean lines and manicured lawn lent the property a serene air. Inside-today, at least-the mood was anything but.
At forty miles away from Thompson’s parents’ house, the New Haven field office was the nearest FBI facility in the area. Thompson and O’Brien had made it there in under half an hour. In the car, Thompson tried to apologize for her dad’s harsh reaction to their visit. O’Brien shrugged it off-said it wasn’t fair to hold Thompson responsible for what her father thought-but Thompson could tell that it bothered her.
When they reached the front desk, O’Brien said, “What’s the situation?”
“Ma’am?” The kid behind the desk was wide-eyed, overwhelmed.
“The situation. I’ll need a briefing, the sooner the better.” O’Brien noted his confusion. “Someone told you I was coming, right?”
“Uh…” It was clear he had no idea what was going on. Thompson felt a pang of sympathy for him. He was a baby agent thrown into the deep end, and she remembered all too well what that felt like.
“Director O’Brien!” A forty-something black man in a polo shirt and khaki shorts trotted over to them, tennis shoes squeaking, and stuck out his hand. “Ty Russell-special agent in charge of the New Haven field office.”
The agent behind the front desk blanched when he realized the woman standing before him was the ranking officer on-site, and he shrunk a little in his seat.
“Good to meet you, Ty. Please, call me Kathryn. This is Charlie Thompson. She’s with me.”