And he had succeeded.
She froze the screen on the image of Robie walking back to his car.
Could I have just done what he did? Am I as good as he is?
She stared at the screen, looking into Robie’s face, trying to read the man’s mind, to delve into what he was thinking at just that moment in time.
But the face was inscrutable.
A good poker player.
No, a great poker player.
She closed the laptop and sat back on her bed. She pulled a Glock nine-millimeter from her belt holster and started disassembling it. She did it without looking, as she had been trained to do.
Then she started to put it back together, again without looking.
This exercise always served to calm her, make her think more clearly. And she needed to think as clearly as possible right now.
She was fighting an engagement on two flanks.
She had her list with more names on it. These people were now forewarned. Their protective shells were being hardened as she sat there.
And she had Will Robie, who was now more than a little angry at almost being killed by her. He would be coming hard on her rear flank.
That meant she had to have eyes in the back of her head, see both combat fronts at the same time. Difficult, but not impossible to do.
Robie had gone to her cottage on the Eastern Shore to learn more about her. He had found nothing except an attempt on his life.
But now Reel needed more information on Robie. She had thought he would be the one to come after her. The episode at the cottage had confirmed this.
She rose, made a phone call, and then slipped into jeans, sweater, boots, and a hoodie. Her gun rested in her belt holster. A Ka-Bar knife rode in a leather sleeve wrapped around her left arm and hidden under the hoodie. She could pull it free in a second if need be.
Her main problem was that despite her changed appearance there were eyes everywhere. Much of the United States and the civilized world was now one big camera. Her former employer would be using sophisticated search and facial recognition software, going through databases housing billions of images, in a 24/7 attempt to track her down.
With that many resources leveled against her, Reel had no margin of error. She had built a nice bulwark of defenses, but nothing was perfect. Nearly every defensive line in every war had been pierced at some point. And she was under no delusions that she would be one of the rare exceptions.
She took a cab to a major intersection and then got out. The rest of the way would be on foot. It took her thirty minutes to walk it, unhurried, seemingly out for a casual stroll. Along the way she used every skill she possessed to attempt to see anyone watching her. Her antennae never quivered.
She reached the spot ahead of schedule and surveyed it from a hidden observation point. If something were going to happen, here was where it would transpire.
Twenty minutes passed and she saw him approach. He was dressed in a suit and looked like a bureaucrat. Which he was. He didn’t carry a bulky manila file with him. That would have been the old days.
And I’m old enough to remember some of the “old days,” she thought.
He bought a newspaper from a machine and clanged the metal and glass door shut, checking it once to make certain it had closed properly. It was a routine sort of thing and would not warrant any attention from anyone.
He turned and walked away.
Reel watched him go and then strolled over to the machine, inserted her coins, opened the door, and withdrew the next paper that sat on top of the pile. At the same instant her hand closed around the black thumb drive the man had placed there.
It was an old-fashioned drop procedure to retrieve modern-day digital info. Her informant was an old friend who owed her a favor and was not yet aware that others in the intelligence field were after her. It had worked to her advantage that the agency had chosen to close ranks on her little detour from duty. This she had confirmed by using electronic back doors into the agency’s databases, back doors she had set up a long time ago. Soon these back doors would be firmly closed and her old friends would be doing their best to kill her. But for now, she had access.
Reel turned and walked away, her steps unhurried, but every sense on alert. She slipped inside a fast-food restaurant and made her way to the ladies’ room. She took out the drive and a device in her other pocket, which enabled her to check the drive for malware or an electronic tracker. An old friend was an old friend, but in the spy business you really didn’t have any friends, just enemies and people who could become your enemy.
The thumb drive was clear.
She took a circuitous route back to her hotel, using a cab, a bus, the Metro, and finally her feet. Two hours later she was back in her room, nearly certain that all that had elapsed during the last three hours had passed by unobserved by anyone looking for her.
She kicked off her shoes and sat at the desk set against one wall. She opened her laptop and plugged the drive into the USB slot. She opened the file on the drive and the information started to spread across her screen.
This was Will Robie’s life—well, as much as his employer knew of it. Some she was already aware of, but there was much fresh information on here. In many profound ways, his early life mirrored her own.
Neither had had a real family growing up.
Both had been loners.
Both had gone down certain paths in life, only to be pulled from what would probably have been early deaths, to serve on behalf of their country.
Both had problems with authority.
Both liked to go their own way.
Both were extremely good at their job.
Neither had ever failed.
Now one of them would be guaranteed to do so.
Only one winner per contest.
No ties allowed.
She scrolled down until she came to two photos on the screen.
The first was an attractive, tenacious-looking woman in her late thirties. Even if Reel hadn’t known she was a federal cop, she would have assumed it from the look.
Special Agent Nicole Vance, known as Nikki to her friends, of which she didn’t appear to have many, according to the notes accompanying the picture.
She was a die-hard FBI agent. She had bucked the gender bias that lived in every agency and workplace. Her professional star had risen like a shuttle rocket blasting off from Florida, all based on pure merit and sheer guts.
She was the one investigating the death of Doug Jacobs.
She knew Robie. They had worked together.
She could be a problem. Or an unlikely asset. Only time would tell.
Reel memorized every feature of Vance’s face and all the accompanying information as well. Memorization was a skill that one grew adept at in this field, or one did not survive in this field.
She focused on the second photo.
The girl was young, fourteen, the notes said.
Julie Getty.
Foster care. Parents murdered.
She had worked with Robie, in an unofficial capacity of course. She had shown herself to be resilient, quick-witted, and adaptable. She had survived things most adults would have succumbed to. Most importantly, Robie seemed to care about her. He had risked a lot to help her.
Reel rested her chin on her knuckles as she gazed into that youthful countenance. In its depths she saw age beyond the official years. Julie Getty had clearly suffered much. She had clearly survived much. But the suffering never really left you. It became a part of you, like a second skin that you could never shed no matter how much you wanted to.
It was the shell one showed to the world every day, hardened, nearly puncture-proof, yet nothing really could be. That was not how humans were built.