Thin gloves, clean and black, fidgeted. Waiting was perhaps the hardest part of the gloved, hooded figure's line of work. He took a deep breath—they would be along soon enough.
He crouched nestled within a stand of trees overlooking an old warehouse. A narrow alley ran between the building below and the slope on which he squatted. As usual, that alley would be the meeting place. With dusk falling, he should be sufficiently well concealed in the brush here. He checked his watch—just a few more minutes. Both men were prompt, always. They would be here on time.
The figure cautiously permitted his mind to wander, keeping a careful lookout all the same. Those papers retrieved weeks ago from McWrait's secret convenience store vault had proved useful indeed—the names, of course, and he had already tracked down several of them. Most of them had proved to be of little interest, naturally, but two of those names had led to new acquisitions on his part—small hoards of cash, drug money. They had made nice donations.
He was not here for a hoard of cash tonight, though. Tonight he had come out of pure curiosity. His sixteen hours in Ditch's cellar had brought a new name to his attention, one Albert K. It was a name he had heard before, and he had spent the past few weeks researching it—watching, listening, snooping. Even Robin Hood must have done a little snooping now and then in preparation for his grander heists.
Whether a heist would result from this investigation was uncertain. Something was amiss. Albert K.'s exploits were…strangely placed. He seemed to be a buyer, but he moved around the metropolitan area a lot, from Issaquah to Seattle to Tacoma. Most buyers held to fewer sellers, usually only one or two they trusted. But this guy, he was too active—subtly, but still too active.
Another glance at his watch, and the figure fidgeted again. Still a couple more minutes to wait, unless they arrived early, which they never did. He had watched the two men separately enough times to know that.
His thoughts meandered again, this time to the Fleming home. All had gone well there thus far. The plan had worked, it seemed; admittedly, it had been a long shot. But so far, all was well. Indeed, the boy's situation had worked out better than the figure had anticipated. The boy believed he was home; the Flemings believed it, too. And as for the man who could thwart his plans, the figure was simply waiting for him to—
They approached. A polished, black SUV came first, pulling in from the north. The occupants, two men, remained inside the vehicle. Ninety seconds later, a gray sedan, dented and scarred, pulled in from the south and parked facing the SUV. Its lone occupant exited the vehicle, and the passenger inside the SUV—Ditch—followed suit. The SUV's driver remained inside; he would be Ditch's bodyguard. The black-gloved figure atop the slope lifted the camera in his hand and double-checked—yes, the flash was off. In the dusk, that detail was vital to his concealment.
"Albert!" Ditch greeted the other man as they met between the vehicles. Albert K. was darker-skinned—Hispanic, perhaps, with dark hair, a lean figure, and a solemn face. Ditch, fair-skinned and heavy by comparison, wore the same ball cap that he had been wearing when the figure was trapped in his cellar.
"Ditch, how are ya?" Albert greeted him cordially, though without smiling. Albert didn't look like the type who smiled often. By contrast, Ditch opened his arms in a wide embrace of Albert.
"Any news?" Ditch asked.
Albert held his hands open. "You're in the clear, big guy. I removed a couple of papers from Agent Nyler's files. He's off on another trail."
Agent Nyler? The figure knew that name. FBI. He was the lead agent trying to track down McWrait's dealings, among other things.
"You're a life saver," Ditch thanked him. "It's nice to have a friend in the Bureau."
Albert K. is FBI? The figure's pulse accelerated at the thought. He must be an undercover agent, but gone bad—a double agent. On the slope, the figure lifted his camera and began snapping pictures of the two men together. That alone would not be enough to prove anything; an undercover agent was supposed to be seen with dealers. Still, the right photo might be helpful later.
The two men stood and chatted a while, lowering their voices so that the hooded figure could not make out their words. Was there no deal going down tonight? They must have met only to talk and plan together. Sure enough, they eventually parted ways, each turning back to his vehicle. The figure shut off his camera and shifted his weight. This evening had been less useful than he had hoped. No, quite the contrary, he reminded himself—Albert K. was a double agent connected to McWrait's drug ring; this was a significant revelation, and one the figure might be able to make use of.
Neither man climbed into his vehicle. That was odd. In fact, after a moment, they returned to their meeting spot, each with something in hand. The figure powered the camera back on. They weren't done here yet. There was indeed a deal going down.
The sunlight was dimming, the sun having already dipped below the mountain peaks to the west, but the figure could see clearly enough to tell that Albert was displaying the contents of a package, and nothing you could buy at the grocery store, to be sure. But this was backward! Ditch was the dealer—it should have been he who was selling, not Albert. Already, though, he was counting out cash to Albert, even as Albert talked him through the contents of the package.
The figure zoomed the camera in as far as it would go and snapped a picture. The flash went off. It immediately faded, but not before it caught the eyes of the two men below. Instantly, they swung around, peering up the slope toward him. He had failed to check the flash after switching the camera back on!
Ditch pulled a gun. His bodyguard leapt from the driver's seat of the SUV. The figure on the hill spun and ran, the camera still in his hand. He knew they would see the movement, but there was no avoiding being found now—they had seen the flash and would come hunting for him.
A shot rang out. He heard the bullet whiz past somewhere to his right. This was bad. He scrambled up the slope all the faster. Thankfully, the slope was steepest at the bottom, where he could hear the men yelling and scrambling up after him.
They fired a second shot that ricocheted off a tree on his left, blasting shards of bark from the trunk. He ducked—too late to make any difference, of course, but out of instinct—and kept running. He reached the road above, where his getaway car was parked. Out of their sight for a moment, he threw himself inside the vehicle and sped away. Only when he had driven ten minutes without any sign of them following did he begin to relax. That had been a close call. Much too close—and thoroughly exhilarating, he had to admit. The figure loved his work.
At a stoplight, he picked the camera up again and brought the last photo onto the screen. It showed Albert displaying the package and Ditch counting out cash. The picture was perfect. Not worth getting shot for, to be sure, but since he had not been hit… Yes, it would be useful indeed.
The Boy Who Appeared from the Rain Page 70