“You brought backup,” said Lucas.
Bacalov briefly looked over his shoulder in the direction of Smalls. “He is just a friend who drives the car.”
“I don’t mean him,” said Lucas, and he began to walk forward. “I’m talking about the one in the woods.”
“Stop,” said Bacalov, but Lucas walked on.
Bacalov pulled the Glock from behind his back, flipped off its safety, and racked its slide. Lucas stopped walking.
“Now we have problem,” said Bacalov.
Lucas stood at ease, his arms at his sides.
Up in the woods, Billy King looked through a pair of 10x50 binoculars at Serge and the man who had come to meet him. Beside King lay a Bushmaster M4 with a sixteen-inch barrel and a Nikon scope, resting on a blanket at the base of an oak. He had brought the rifle along for insurance, but there was little likelihood that he would use it. He was more than one hundred yards away, and though it was well within range for this weapon, he was not a superior marksman. He wasn’t about to shoot someone and bring in the law over a small botched deal. Also, the man who’d baited Serge had begun to interest him.
Obviously he was not who he claimed to be. He wasn’t a young husband looking to make his wife happy with the purchase of a car. Short black hair, strong build... the man in the art shop, as Lumley had described him. Then there was his clothing: white T-shirt, blue work pants, lug-soled boots. He was working. Plus, his loose-limbed posture and athletic gait said “I don’t give a fuck.” And it said “private heat.” Even now, after Serge had pulled his Glock, his face gone angry and heated, the man remained calm. King thinking, I’d like to meet this one myself.
He picked up the two-way radio that was on the blanket, keyed it, and got Smalls on his headset.
“Louis,” said King. “Tell Serge to abort. It’s over.”
“Copy,” said Smalls. “But we’ve got another problem. I think we got tailed into the lot. Could be this dude has a partner.”
“Disable him,” said King.
“Right.”
King folded the stock of the Bushmaster and placed the rifle and the rest of his gear in a zippered nylon bag. He walked through the woods in the opposite direction of the mall to a clearing, and found the street where he’d parked his Monte Carlo. He stowed the bag in the trunk and drove off. He wasn’t worried about Smalls. The kid was good, and he’d figure out his exit. As for Serge, the fuckup was on his own.
“Now what?” said Lucas.
“Is cash in the bag?” Bacalov, pointing the gun at Lucas, nodded at the backpack slung over his shoulder.
“I brought the paper,” said Lucas.
“Give it to me.”
“Okay.”
Lucas raised one hand and with the other removed the backpack. He tossed it by its strap to the asphalt at Bacalov’s feet. Still holding the gun on Lucas, Bacalov squatted and used his free hand to unzip the pack. He found the late edition of the Washington Post folded neatly inside. Bacalov stood and angrily kicked the backpack across the lot.
“I read it already,” said Lucas. “You can keep it.”
“Cocksucker.”
“You can’t do better than that?”
“Sosi hui,” said Bacalov, repeating a variation of the vulgarity in one of his mother tongues. A vein had appeared on his forehead.
“What is that? Slovakian? Russian? What?”
“Let’s go,” said Smalls, calling out the open window of the Vic. “It’s time.”
It was over now. Defused. Lucas knew he should let Serge and his driver leave, give Marquis a chance to tail them and complete the task. But the boy in him couldn’t let it go.
“You shouldn’t impersonate a marine,” said Lucas.
“What did you say?”
“Your e-mail claimed you were in the Fourth Combat Engineer Battalion. Shit. Those guys built and repaired bunkers and bridges under heavy enemy assault. They cleared land mines without fire support. You couldn’t have a dream about wearing their uniform. A guy like you wouldn’t even make it through boot.”
“You...”
“What?”
“I should—”
“What?”
“Let’s go,” yelled Smalls from the car.
Bacalov, red-faced, turned and stalked back to the Crown Vic. He got in and slammed the door shut. Lucas watched them pull away, feeling a slight, satisfying shake in his hands. The car turned the corner and left his sight. He heard the big V-8 of the police-package sedan, and a growl of acceleration.
There was a sonic collision of metal to metal. Lucas sprinted across the lot.
As soon as they had turned the corner of the rear lot, Smalls saw the black Nissan Maxima parked to the side of the last building, facing them.
“Seat belt,” said Smalls.
Bacalov clicked the belt into place as Smalls slammed his foot to the floor and flooded the Vic with gas. The car lifted and flew forward, accelerating wildly toward the Nissan’s nose. The driver of the Nissan tried to back up, but his tires couldn’t find purchase.
“Louis,” said Bacalov, very quietly. The color had drained from his face.
There was a metallic explosion as the Crown Victoria plowed into the front of the Maxima. The Nissan’s air bags blew out and the car was driven backward into a brick wall. The grille and front end were accordioned, and smoke poured from the crumpled hood. The driver had disappeared behind the bags that filled the windshield.
Smalls backed up, made a Y maneuver, then drove from the lot. There didn’t seem to be much damage to his Ford.
“Awesome,” said Smalls.
“You could have warned me you were going to do that.”
“Billy said to disable him,” said Smalls. “There wasn’t time to ask your permission.”
“How did you know we wouldn’t be injured?”
“It’s a police car. I figured the bumpers were fortified.”
“You figured,” said Bacalov. “Fucking idiot.”
Smalls screwed a cigarette into his mouth and gave himself a light.
Lucas opened the driver’s side door of the mangled Maxima and found Marquis pinned against his seat behind the air bag, which had begun to deflate. Marquis was somewhat stunned but relatively intact. His glasses were askew on his face, and his earpiece had been knocked clean off.
“Help me out of here, brother.”
“You all right?”
“My flesh-and-bone knee is a little sore. I think it came up on the wheel. And my face is burning some.”
“That’s the jet fuel from the bag. Come on.” Lucas grabbed Marquis’s forearm and gave him support.
Marquis began to move out of the seat, then stopped to rest. He looked up and shook his head. “I’m tired.”
“Take your time.”
“Hope you took the full comprehensive on this vehicle.”
“I’ll call my man, get a tow truck out here. He’s not gonna be happy, but he’s insured.”
“I know you told me to hang back.”
“Don’t worry about it. You did right.”
“I was just trying to cover you, man.”
“I know it.”
Lucas helped Marquis out of the car. Marquis leaned against the rear quarter panel and examined his eyeglasses. The left stem was bent.
“I’ll take care of that,” said Lucas.
“These are designer frames.”