“I’m glad you found what you were searching for.”
She took in a deep breath through her nose and closed her eyes, as if savoring it. “This must be what it’s like when an alcoholic gets off the booze and realizes she can smell things again, taste things she hasn’t tasted in years.” She opened her eyes. “That’s what it’s like for me, Nick. Yes, I started out just wanting Michael back. But now I want more. I want to put an end to all this.”
Bradley nodded as if he understood, then grabbed the car keys off the dresser. “It’ll all be over soon, Lauren. That much I can promise you.”
Lauren pulled her arms across her chest and warded off a shiver. Bradley had said those same words to her once before, when they were preparing to head into Fredericksburg.
And that ended up being a total disaster.
68
On the off chance Scarponi’s henchmen would come looking for him, Bradley fabricated an excuse and moved Lauren to a different motel, the Days Inn in downtown D.C. They checked in under the assumed names of Adrienne and Chad Kendall and paid cash in advance. Bradley told the night clerk they had a child, and they were given a room with two double beds.
From the next morning until four-thirty in the afternoon, Lauren sat in the room flipping the television channels, passing time while Bradley was out attempting to arrange a rendezvous with Michael. She was to wait in the room in the event he needed her to meet with a Bureau official. He explained it would be best if he went alone because he might need to stretch the truth, and it was easier for one person to lie than for two to coordinate their stories on the fly.
Meanwhile, Lauren remained on edge, listening to the news repeat the top story of the day — of the month, and perhaps the past few months. Even though she knew it was untrue, it bothered her to hear, over and over, what a tragic death her husband had endured. Not until one of the stations mentioned Harper Payne’s former wife and child did the full impact of Michael’s private, past life hit her. How she would deal with this she did not know. But for the moment, it was something she chose not to think about. First and foremost, she wanted Michael back.
A half hour ago she had ventured over to the window for the umpteenth time and gazed out at the charcoal blotches of clouds hanging against the gray sky. Although it only had been a little before four, the black clouds hovering above were bringing darkness a bit earlier.
With the Colt resting on her lap and the television volume turned low, a loud knock on the door broke the tedium and made her heart drop down to her stomach. She grabbed the handle of her weapon and slid off the bed.
“It’s me,” Bradley said through the door. “I’m coming in.”
Lauren listened as he slipped his magnetic key card in the lock and opened the door. His face was taut, and as he stood there straddling the threshold, Lauren knew something was brewing.
“We’ve got to go,” Bradley said. “Now.”
69
Jonathan Waller was summoned to Director Knox’s office at seven o’clock in the evening. Waller had just arrived home and spoken to his girlfriend, who was on her way over to have a romantic dinner with him. And she was bringing “a special something” for dessert. The way the Scarponi case had been going, they had not had much time together. Unable to reach her while she was en route, Waller left a note on his door containing a huge apology. He could only imagine her reaction when she got to his house expecting a long-awaited evening together, only to find a note and no significant other.
He pulled into the Hoover Building’s underground parking garage at five after seven and was admitted into the director’s office a few minutes later. Knox was in sweats and running shoes, his suit coat hanging in the far corner of his suite, on his bathroom door.
“You’re not my favorite person right now,” Knox said to Waller before he could sit. The director was leaning against the windowsill, his arms folded across his chest.
“No, sir.”
“I’d like to give you a chance to make amends for the abominable work you’ve been passing off as a member of the Bureau, to show me you can follow orders and procedure and complete an assignment without screwing up.”
Waller kept his mouth shut, something Haviland often said he should do in times like these — but rarely did.
“I’ve assigned you to part of the group that rides with me during Agent Payne’s transport tonight to Vandenheim Air Force Base.”
Waller nodded, pleased that he was being given the opportunity, but confused all the same. He had assumed he was automatically going to be included. Not wanting to stir up problems, he again held his thoughts. “Thank you, sir. I’d like that.”
“I thought you might. There’s a briefing that starts in ten minutes, in Strategic Planning One. I’ll be there as soon as I can shower and throw my clothes on.”
Waller thanked Knox again, and then headed to the elevators. If Waller was to have any hopes of getting a favorable final evaluation from the director to his superior, SAC Lindsey — if he was to have any hopes of salvaging his career — then he had to make sure the role he played in Payne’s transfer was significant. Without screwups. Without variance from established procedure.
He walked into the elevator and pressed 4, then chuckled. Well, best he could hope for was to avoid screwups.
70
Thunder was blasting the countryside and a light rain had begun to fall as darkness descended on the outskirts of Bristow, Virginia. The Advanced Paramedic Response ambulance was tooling along Route 28 at fifty miles per hour, its headlights beating down on the one-lane road.
In front of and behind the ambulance were unmarked FBI escort vehicles, navy blue Ford Crown Victorias. Hanging back a mile and a quarter was a black Lincoln Navigator, running with nothing but its windshield wipers on. It was closing ground on the ambulance, and Anthony Scarponi, driving the tank of a vehicle, was like a hungry animal closing in on its quarry. Before leaving the States for good, he was intent on making this hit his last big hurrah.
“Looks like the mole came through for us,” Scarponi said. “A PR ambulance with two escorts, just like he said.”
In the front passenger seat was Rocko McCabe, a Vietnam War veteran, a man who had never quite recovered from his post-traumatic stress disorder. In and out of VA hospitals for twenty years, he had come under the tutelage of Scarponi during one of the assassin’s trips to the United States in the late 1980s.
McCabe had long, flowing hair drawn back into a ponytail. His face was leathery with deep-set grooves, worry lines he had acquired during his army days when he was a sniper — a legal, and lethal, assassin. If there was one thing the drugs, depression, and poverty hadn’t taken away from him, it was his steady eye for a rifle scope. It was the one skill Scarponi considered essential to his colleague’s employment.
The M20 three-and-a-half-inch bazooka was straddling McCabe’s lap in pieces. They had three eight-pound armor-piercing rockets in the vehicle with them, though one close-range shot from McCabe’s hands would be more than enough to take out an ambulance carrying Harper Payne on a one-lane road in northern Virginia.
“I’ve been waiting for this day for six years,” Scarponi said. “I’ve dreamt about it more times than I can remember.” His hands were pearl white from gripping the steering wheel. “There’s something about revenge that’s so… I don’t know, fulfilling.”