By the way up your ass, Gordy thought. ‘That’s right.’
‘So we are left with the interesting possibility that someone in authority pulled the surveillance to facilitate the hit, as you call it.’
‘Or the guys went off for a hot dog,’ Gordy said, trying to keep things simple.
The Master ignored that. ‘And, third, what motivated the hit? Did your brother have any enemies?’
‘Only the people whose wiring he screwed up.’ Gordy felt the other man’s eyes bore into him. ‘Shit, no. No one who would have killed him, at least.’
The Master sat back and dabbed his lips with a napkin. ‘So why was he run down, Gordy?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea, boss.’
‘Well, I have. Someone wants to get at you.’
Lister felt his stomach flip. ‘Me? What have I done?’
The Master raised a hand. ‘Don’t worry, although your sins are many-not least those involving the young and beautiful twins you supplied me with-I don’t think this action was aimed primarily at you.’ He stood up and gathered his black robe around him. ‘It was aimed at me.’
Gordy watched as the other man walked to the door with his head held high.
He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried. On second thought, remembering what he’d heard about Matt Wells and the FBI’s involvement, he went for worried.
I picked up my bags and then stood at a pay phone in the arrivals hall. I wasn’t making a call, but looking at the other passengers at the luggage carousel. Now that I was in the real world again, despite the presence of Quincy nearby, I felt the old vulnerability that Sara used to induce. Even if she wasn’t on my tail now, there was no telling when she might acquire me in her sights. I felt hollow, not just in my stomach, but in my arms and legs. She was merciless, unstoppable, an avenging demon.
I pulled myself together and scanned people as they moved toward the exit. There hadn’t been many women on the flight, and those I could see fell into two groups-business types with smart clothes and leather briefcases, and students going home for Christmas. None of them looked even remotely like Sara, even assuming she had changed her appearance considerably. Then again, she could easily have disguised herself as a male. More of those were traveling business class, though many had a very Texan way of power dressing-cowboy boots under tailored suits and belts with large buckles. There were even a few outsize hats. I had to give up. Nobody looked like my ex-lover. Then again, I had no idea what she would look like when she came for me.
I went out into the main concourse and located the passenger information desk. A pretty girl with turquoise eyes handed me an envelope for Mr. William A. Ronson. Pretty soon, she’d be giving another to Mr. Jerome Quincy-Sebastian reckoned that the soldier didn’t need a major change of identity. I kept my eyes to the front and headed to the luggage lockers. The key fitted the relevant lock and I took out the small bag inside. It didn’t weigh much and I wondered whether going after Rothmann armed was such a good idea. He was bound to be surrounded by trained and probably conditioned personnel. I told myself to stick with the plan. Then again, turning up empty-handed was an even worse option.
I went over to the Hertz desk and picked up the SUV keys. It was a Mercedes with only a couple of thousand on the clock-nothing but the best for the FBI’s brown-eyed boy. Then I took the bus to the parking lot and found the car. It was big, green and a serious gasguzzler. Welcome to the Lone Star State.
The hotel was only half a mile away. I was on the twelfth floor, with a view of the airport lights. I showered, ordered a steak from room service and called my partner in crime fighting.
‘You in the hotel?’
‘That’s a positive.’
‘Anyone on your tail?’
‘I ain’t that lucky, man.’
‘Are you in the bar?’
‘Check.’
‘Don’t get drunk, Mr. Quincy.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Don’t talk to any strange women. I’m serious.’
‘Check.’
‘How are you going to pay?’
‘Check.’
I hung up. Quincy was a good man and I was glad to have him watching my back. But even he could only do so much against Heinz Rothmann and his band of brainwashed Nazi devil-worshippers.
Abaddon had decided that steering clear of Portland was a good idea. She drove north for ten miles, then got off the Maine Turnpike and found a quiet side road to hole up. She drank a bottle of water and ate an eggsalad sandwich that she’d bought earlier. That made her feel slightly better, but she wasn’t looking forward to what she was going to have to do next. She booted up her laptop, checked the wireless connection was functioning, and then accessed the secure site. It was monitored on an ongoing basis.
666-request subject location update, she typed, hoping for a simple answer. As the seconds turned into minutes, she realized she was going to get more than that.
Commander-what happened? r u compromised?
Abaddon groaned. It was the big boss himself and, as usual, he wanted to know everything. She answered as briefly as she could, stressing the role of the woman with long black hair in the parking lot, and waited to be dismissed from the operation since she couldn’t guarantee that she hadn’t been spotted. Long minutes passed. She concentrated on keeping her breathing steady. Failure was not something she had experienced often.
Commander-proceed-subject en route houston tx-assume id watson georgina-meet aircraft lewiston me 1800-ditch rental, came the reply.
Abaddon clenched her fists in triumph. She was still on the case. The truth was, she’d have found a way to stay on it even if she’d been fired. She logged off and packed away the laptop. Then she got out of the Grand Cherokee and opened the bag on the backseat. She had worn gloves ever since she had picked up the SUV, so prints were not a problem. She took out the outfit that she would wear as Georgina Watson, an unironed denim shirt and patched Levi’s, and took off the wig. Instead of short brown curls, Georgina, a tree-hugger, favored blond dreadlocks. She undid the buttons of her blouse and reached for its replacement.
‘You know, this is private land.’
Abaddon froze, then moved her eyes up to the mirror. It showed a large man in a checkered shirt and jeans close to the rear of the vehicle. He was carrying what looked like a tire iron. Her own weapons were out of reach.
‘I said, this is private land, lady.’
She left the blouse unbuttoned and turned to face him. There was a sharp intake of breath as his eyes fixed on her red brassiere and its contents.
‘You…you see,’ he mumbled, ‘we…we get a lot of people stopping here to do the drugs they got in the city. They make a mess, scare the kids…’
The woman looked around. She hadn’t noticed any buildings in the immediate vicinity. The sound of traffic on the turnpike was audible in the distance, above the cackle of starlings.
‘But I don’t do drugs,’ she said, taking a step toward him.
The man raised the tire iron to chest height. ‘They…they attacked me more than once.’
She smiled. ‘Come on now, do I look like I’m going to do much attacking?’ She glanced down at her front.
He laughed uneasily. ‘No, ma’am, that you don’t.’
Abaddon took another couple of steps forward. ‘See anything you like?’
The guy was in his forties and he looked like he hadn’t ever seen a woman in a state of undress before, save maybe in the movies. Lights-off-sex with the wife would be the rule. His eyes widened as she flicked off one of her straps and tugged down the cup.
Then she crushed his windpipe with the back of her hand. He died with a wet smile on his lips.
Twenty
I woke before six the next morning, in a cold sweat despite the warmth of the hotel room. They had come to me again, the ones I had lost, dressed in white like the sheets that had covered them in the morgue. My son’s face wasn’t blue anymore, but corpse-gray like his mother’s. She had her hand stretched out to me again, her face twisted in pain and longing. And then she turned and started to walk down a rough track between trees. I knew immediately that it was the path everyone eventually had to take, the way to the land of the countless, nameless dead.