The remaining gunfire from his team ceased.
With no time to waste, he made his way down the bank, reaching the woman just a few seconds after Torres.
Torres rolled her over as Tom trained the rifle on her.
The woman, her face bloodied by superficial abrasions, was stunned but alive. Torres knelt and searched her for weapons.
“We’re taking her with us,” Tom said. “We need to get out of here now.”
Torres found a nine-mil SIG Sauer 238 and stiletto switchblade, both of which she pocketed.
She and Tom were getting the woman to her feet when Lyman called, “Sexton.”
Though Tom barely knew the man, he nonetheless identified something in his tone—something grave.
Lyman was standing by the half-buried rock.
Tom hurried the rest of the way down the bank toward it, but a part of him already knew what he was going to find there.
Reaching the rock, he looked over it and down at Garrick’s body lying lifeless in the mud.
He’d been killed by a head shot, and the condition of his skull told Tom what weapon had inflicted the instantly fatal wound.
It wasn’t the .308 he was holding.
Lyman nodded toward the woman beside Torres. “She got him.”
Tom said nothing, simply looked down at the man who had promised to keep him alive if Tom did the same.
Garrick had died keeping the promise that Tom couldn’t.
“I’ll carry him out,” Lyman said.
Tom shook his head. “He stays here.”
“We don’t leave anyone behind, dead or alive.”
“There’s no time. He’ll just slow us down. We’ve pressed our luck as it is.”
“I have a man in the SUV.”
“Same goes for him.”
“It’s my op, I’m team leader.”
Turning, Tom handed Lyman the M14 and said, “Good for you.”
Torres was beside the woman, keeping her on her feet. As Tom approached them, the woman lifted her head and looked at him.
Tom locked eyes with her as he closed the distance, each step he took faster than the one before. A look of concern crossed Torres’s eyes, but when Tom reached the woman, he simply bent at the waist and placed his right shoulder into her pelvis, then straightened his back, hoisting her off the ground and into a fireman’s carry.
“Let’s go,” he ordered.
Torres pointed out that they didn’t have a vehicle.
“We’ll take theirs.”
Lyman said, “It may have a tracking device.”
“We have to risk it. Torres, contact Raveis, have him send transportation. We’ll get as far away as we can, then ditch the vehicle and wait.”
Tom started up the steep bank. Torres followed him, Lyman behind her.
He and his team were twenty feet from the crest when the whooshing sound of a fast-approaching vehicle caused them to stop.
The unknown vehicle decelerated.
There were no good scenarios here—a late-night traveler playing good Samaritan was a potential witness, and law enforcement would cause both complications and delays they could not afford.
Those two were the better options, the third and worst being that this was backup for the hit squad that had attacked them.
Torres moved up and took position beside Tom, her carbine held ready. Lyman did the same.
The vehicle rolled to a stop behind the waiting sedan, its headlights eliminating the roadside darkness that Tom had been counting on.
A single door opened, and this sound was followed by audible footsteps on pavement.
Moving fast but also lightly.
Someone was checking the sedan first, confirming that it was empty.
Torres and Lyman shouldered their weapons, their points of aim converging on the same six-foot-wide space at the top of the bank.
There were no more sounds for a moment, nothing to tell them what was going on, but then finally out of the darkness came a voice.
A female voice, calling Tom’s name.
He recognized it immediately.
Sixteen
Tom replied, “Grunn!”
A stoic by both nature and philosophy, Tom was a little surprised by the excitement in his own voice.
Grunn appeared at the top of the bank, her pistol held ready in a two-handed grip, its muzzle pointed safely at the ground. Peering down at Tom and quickly assessing the situation, she muttered, “Shit,” and holstered her weapon as she stepped to the edge.
Torres, reading her leader, lowered her weapon first, followed by Lyman.
Grunn held out one hand for Tom. “C’mon.”
Tom continued the rest of the way up the bank, his legs nearly drained, Grunn straining to grab him by the shoulder. Even before he was all the way up, he sought out Grunn’s vehicle parked behind the sedan.
It was the white Ford Bronco.
Reaching the pavement, Tom headed toward the vehicle. Grunn moved around so she was ahead of him, ran to the back of the Bronco, and swung open the rear gate.
She asked if the person he was carrying was wounded.
Tom shook his head. “Prisoner.”
He bent forward and sat the woman on the rear bumper, then took a step back as Grunn grabbed the woman, as much to restrain her as to hold her up.
Torres rushed in and raised her carbine, aiming it point-blank at the woman’s face.
The message she was sending to their captive was clear.
“Search her again,” Tom ordered. “Make sure you got everything, then put her inside.”
He walked to Lyman, who was standing over the sharpshooter Tom had shot.
“We’ll need to identify him,” Tom said.
He removed his smartphone and activated the camera, taking a photograph of the man’s face.
“We’re going to need more than a picture,” Lyman said.
Tom understood what he meant. “Make it quick.”
Removing a folding knife that was clipped to his vest, Lyman released the spring-assisted blade.
Tom stepped around to the nose of the Bronco, glancing at the sedan’s rear license plate as he went, committing the sequence of letters and numbers to memory.
Then he got in behind the wheel.
Torres was in the back compartment with the woman, the two seated face-to-face.
Tom asked her if she had found anything in the second search of the woman’s pockets.
“Nothing more,” Torres said. “Maybe there’s something in their vehicle.”
Tom doubted it, and anyway, there wasn’t time to conduct a search.
Grunn swung the rear gate closed, then hurried into the back seat, where she sat sideways so she was facing the captive.
Her sidearm, a nine-mil commander-size 1911, was out and aimed at the side of the woman’s head.
The last to enter the vehicle was Lyman, his opened knife in one hand and a severed index finger in the other.
Grunn picked an empty takeout cup off the floor, peeled off its lid, and handed the cup to Lyman. He dropped the finger inside, then replaced the lid. Closing the knife, he returned it to his vest as he pulled the passenger door shut.
Tom shifted into gear and steered around the sedan, getting the aged Bronco up to highway speed as fast as he could.
He glanced at the rearview mirror for any indication of a tail.
But he was also studying Grunn.
Knowing where to look, he could make out the faint scars that had resulted from the beating she had taken at the hands of the Algerian’s men.
What wasn’t clear by looking at his friend was her current state of mind—what internal scars she might be carrying.
The fact that Grunn did not appear damaged or broken didn’t necessarily mean anything.
One of the many skills learned by those trained under Raveis was the art of masking one’s true self.
Lyman had turned in his seat and was looking at Grunn as well. “I take it she’s a friend of
yours,” he said to Tom.
Tom nodded.
Lyman started asking Grunn questions—why was she following them, what the fuck was she doing passing them the way she did—but Tom put a stop to that right away.
“No one talks,” he said.
He was looking at the rearview mirror again, though this time his attention was fixed on the woman in the back compartment.
Lyman looked at her, too, before turning forward.
“She may have a tracking device on her,” he said to Tom.
Tom nodded. “We have to risk it.” He looked at Grunn. “Is there a place near here?”
“Yes. You’re heading in the right direction.”
“We should get off the Merritt as soon as we can.”
“It’s just two more exits, then I can get us where we’re going by side streets.”
“If you have people waiting there, let them know what’s coming their way.”
“Durand is already there,” Grunn said. She began composing a text on her cell phone.
Tom looked at Torres, who was mud covered and bloodied. He studied her for a moment, then said, “You did good.”
She nodded, but Tom noted a faraway stare in her eyes.
He’d seen that exact look in the eyes of many who had faced the choice of killing or being killed.
Man, woman, soldier, sailor, marine—Tom had yet to meet anyone who was spared the shock that comes with the first kill.
Not even Raveis could train away that.
Tom focused on the woman seated across from Torres.
As if sensing his attention, she turned her head and returned his long stare. The blood flowing from the shallow cuts had caused her thick black curls to cling to her face, but this did not conceal her, nor did it prevent Tom from seeing the most obvious thing about her.
She was older than he, probably in her fifties.
Even more than before, he couldn’t look at her and not think of Stella.
He had no way of knowing if this was intentional, but if it were, it meant that whoever had sent this woman had anticipated Tom’s reaction to the sight of her.
Perhaps her employer had hopes of triggering the very hesitation Tom had experienced, or something more basic than that, a moment of fear.
If this woman was experiencing fear of her own—or any other primal human emotion—she was hiding it well.
Though her face was expressionless, there was something in her eyes that caught Tom’s attention.
Cold determination.
And now he had no doubt that he was who she had been sent to kill.
He said to Grunn, “Find something to secure her hands, and cover her head.”
Grunn found a baggie of large zip-ties in a small toolkit and handed it to Torres, who used several of the ties to bind the woman’s wrists together.
A drawstring nylon pouch that had contained a pair of jumper cables made an adequate hood.
The woman remained passive, her eyes on Tom until the hood was finally over her head.
After that, no one said a word.
It would take roughly ten minutes for the Bronco to reach the exit. As Tom drove, his passengers each chose a direction and searched it for any indication of an ambush.
Eventually, Tom glanced at his own reflection in the mirror and spotted a cut on his forehead that he hadn’t been aware of.
Caked mud had served as a clotting agent, but not before a trail of blood had covered the left side of his face.
The rendezvous point was an out-of-business cab company in Bridgeport, only a few blocks from the elevated platform where Tom, Torres, and Garrick had waited for the train to Ansonia.
The building was small, just an office connected to a two-bay garage. Its windows were boarded over and dark; the lot on which it stood—barely a quarter acre—was surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence topped with a single coiled strand of razor wire.
It occurred to Tom that Carrington’s operation was larger than he had first thought.
This wasn’t simply the case of a man teaming up with the two women who owed Tom their lives.
More than that, Carrington’s tradecraft was even greater than Tom had recognized back in that factory, when every minute had been accounted for, every act by Raveis anticipated.
Now he knew that the real reason he’d been lured to that out-of-the-way place was so that Grunn could follow him as he exited and ensure that he got back to the city in one piece.
What had Carrington said when Tom had stated that he wanted to see Grunn?
If you’re lucky, you won’t, not for a while, anyway.
Tom’s appreciation for his former CO increased even more when he spotted a familiar figure waiting by the gate to the fenced-in lot.
It was the man in the barn coat from the train platform.
The man swung the gate open, letting the Bronco enter, and then closed it again, securing it with a heavy chain and a padlock.
One of the two garage doors was opened.
Standing ready to pull it closed was Durand.
She and Tom looked at each other as he steered inside.
Durand waited for the man in the barn coat to follow the Bronco into the garage before pulling the metal door down.
In the next bay over, a Chevy Blazer was parked.
Like the Bronco, it had seen better days.
Looking at it, Tom understood his next move.
He checked his pocket to confirm that the flash drive was still there.
It was, and intact.
PART TWO
Seventeen
Grunn was in charge, giving the orders.
She called the man in the barn coat Rickerson. He hurried to the Bronco’s tailgate, Durand right behind him.
Rickerson opened the gate and grabbed the hooded woman, pulling her out roughly and standing her up.
He held her by the back of the hood as though she were an animal he was grabbing by the scruff. Durand removed a handheld GPS tracker detector from the pocket of her leather jacket and held it an inch from the woman, moving it down the front of her body from head to toe, then up her back from heel to head.
“No signal,” Durand announced.
Tom said to Grunn, “Is there another location your people can take her to? Somewhere more out of the way.”
“Yes. We have a few to choose from, just in case.”
“Don’t tell me where. Have Durand and Rickerson take her there. Torres and Lyman should go with them.”
Lyman said, “My orders were to bring you back to Raveis.”
“Change of plans.”
“Not for me.”
Tom waved for Lyman and Grunn to follow him, then led them to the other side of the bay, out of earshot of the others—the woman in particular.
Tom said to Grunn, “You were outside the factory, correct? Waiting for us to leave.”
“Yes.”
“Was the SUV in your line of sight the entire time?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anyone go near it?”
“No.”
“You’re certain.”
“Of course.”
Tom turned to Lyman. “If Grunn, here, was watching your vehicle while we were inside the factory and no one went near it, then the device that took out your front tire had to have been attached before you left New York. Who else but someone on the inside could have done that? Someone who knew where you were going and what vehicle you were taking?”
It took Lyman a moment to respond. “If you suspect Raveis, I can give you five reasons why that’s bullshit.”
“You want to go back and find out the hard way, be my guest. But not with Torres, and not with my prisoner.” Tom paused. “Whoever did this was willing to sacrifice you and your men. Until we’ve started ruling people out, you might want to reconsider reporting in.”
Lyman fell silent.
Tom turned to Grunn. “Tell your team to take the Blazer and bring everyone to a safe house. When I’m ready, I’ll te
xt Torres, and she can let me know where they are.” He turned back to Lyman. “In the meantime, we need to know what the woman knows. Get her ready but don’t ask her any questions until I’m there. Understand?”
“I know what to do,” Lyman said.
“Go and get everyone ready.”
Lyman stepped back to the Bronco and began issuing orders, leaving Tom and Grunn alone.
Tom spoke softly. “What happened back there on the highway?”
“I picked up a tail, wasn’t sure if it was following me or just behind me as I was following you. If I got ahead of you, I’d know who they were tailing. I didn’t mean for you to get onto the Merritt.” She paused. “Things might have gone differently if you’d stayed on the main highway.”
“Don’t dwell on it,” Tom said. “For all we know, crashing down into that ravine might have saved us. Otherwise, they could have killed us right away.” He looked around the garage. “This place, these vehicles, the safe houses you have access to, it all costs money. Either Carrington is wealthier than I thought he was or someone with resources is helping him.”
“He has never mentioned anyone else.”
“Are you three the extent of his team?”
“As far as I know, yes—aside from a bodyguard who is always with him.”
Tom remembered the second set of footsteps he’d heard as Carrington was exiting the factory.
He also remembered the drop phone going dead in his hand.
“Can you contact Carrington?”
“No. Every time I hear from him, he uses a different phone. I have no way of reaching him.”
“Raveis said you were back in the field, on deep cover. How did Carrington find you to recruit you?”
“He came to me while I was at Krista’s farm. About a month after we got there.”
“Carrington recruited her,” Tom said. “So he knew where she came from.”
“Exactly.”
“So Krista knows about this.”
“Yes.”
“The breakup was cover.”
“Yes.”
“So that whole thing with you requesting to be assigned to Carrington’s kill squad, that was all part of the plan.”
“Yes. That way I could tip him off in case they closed in on him before he could find who he was looking for and get to you.”
The Shadow Agent Page 10