by Lee Child
He shut off the engine. “I’ll check it out, just in case. Stay here.”
“Are you serious?”
She opened her door, climbed out, and headed around to the back deck.
He followed and said to her, “Stand back.” Inside he saw Max, still on the couch, looking at him. He didn’t think he needed to draw his gun, so he slid the door open with Bennie right behind him. Max jumped off the couch and ran directly to Bennie.
He locked the sliders as a standard precaution, then said, “I’ll go upstairs and get your bag. You haven’t unpacked anything, right?”
She shook her head. “I’ll get my purse and some stuff in the cabinets.” Then she did a double take. “How do you know where my bag is or that it’s still packed?”
“I was searching for clues.”
“To what? And where’s the probable cause?”
He grinned. “It’s not like I went looking for undies.”
Max was wagging his tail at a bag of dog food on the counter. He felt his own stomach rumbling. “Did you bring any people food?”
“There’s yogurt in the fridge. Help yourself.”
“I’d rather eat the dog food.”
She grabbed Max by the collar. “Let me get him in the car before he runs away again.” She left with the dog through the sliders, leaving them open, and he headed upstairs, lifted her small suitcase off the bed, then returned downstairs.
Two men in ski masks held Bennie at gunpoint in the living room.
“Put your hands up,” one said to him.
He stood looking at the two men.
The taller man was pointing a Glock at him, holding it in a two-hand grip. The other guy had his gun at the port arms position, his head and eyes darting around the room.
They were professionals.
But professional what?
They both wore black pants, black running shoes, dark, quilted jackets, and gloves. Along with black ski masks. So he couldn’t tell their ages or their ethnic origins or read their faces. But he had the impression that they were both young. He didn’t know if they were drug dealers, mobsters, terrorists, or some other variety of assholes, but he’d find out soon enough.
Or maybe not.
“Hands up,” one of them ordered.
He knew from experience that if these guys wanted him dead, they’d have just blasted away and left. So they wanted something else. Not that this meant they wouldn’t kill him later.
“Hands up, asshole. Now.”
He didn’t detect an accent, and he noted the proper grammatical use of the word asshole, so they weren’t from Sandland. But they could be homegrown extremists, or whatever Washington was calling them this week. “What do I do with this overnight bag?”
“Shove it up your ass.”
Not a bad idea. That’s where his gun was. Near his ass.
The shorter guy yelled, “Put it down.”
He crouched and placed the bag on the floor.
The taller guy, who seemed in charge, said to Corey, “Stay down. Hands on your head.”
He remained in the crouched position and placed his hands on his head. The couch, which sat in the middle of the floor, was to his right. He could dive behind it as he drew his own Glock and get off two rounds.
The smaller guy asked, “You got a gun?”
He shook his head. His mind raced. Dive behind the couch, pop up, and fire? Or maybe shoulder roll left, draw, and fire? Or just draw and fire? The big guy was taking no chances, keeping his head and eyes locked, holding his gun in a steady two-hand grip.
“Get down. Face on the floor. Hands behind your back.”
He lay facedown on the floor, otherwise known as the prone firing position. This could work. As his right hand moved behind his back, the smaller guy kicked his hand away, and quickly snatched the Glock from his holster.
Close, but no cigar.
He replayed the last five minutes in his mind. “You guys on the job?”
The small guy asked, “Who the hell are you?”
“John Corey, NYPD, retired.”
“Yeah, and I’m Billy the Kid.”
“Really? I thought you were dead.”
The big guy produced a pair of handcuffs and cuffed Bennie’s hands behind her back. “Cuff him. I’ll cover.”
He felt the cuffs snap shut around his wrists.
So that’s what it feels like.
The big guy said, “Stand up. Both of you on the couch.”
He came to his feet and made eye contact with Bennie. “It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t,” she shot back, tense. The bigger guy directed her to one end of the couch and the small guy holstered his Glock and pushed Corey onto the other end.
He turned to the men. “I really am John Corey.”
The two men exchanged glances. The smaller guy asked, “You got ID?”
“In my jacket. Right-side pocket.”
The guy plucked the cred case from his pocket, opened and looked at it. He passed the creds to the other guy who also studied it.
Just then, the big guy’s cell phone chimed and he glanced at it. He said to the other guy, “BMW is registered to a Benedetta Rosato, Philadelphia.” He looked at Bennie. “That you?”
She nodded.
The big guy continued, “Jeep belongs to John Corey.”
“Until my wife gets it in court.”
Both men looked at Corey, and the bigger man said, “Holy shit, you’re the John Corey.”
Bennie looked at the two men, then at Corey. He imagined what she was thinking. The menfolk were measuring their egos. But women knew that size there didn’t matter. In fact, with respect to egos, every woman preferred the inverse relationship.
The bigger guy asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Relaxing.”
Both men laughed.
So he asked them, “Who you working for?”
The big guy replied, “ATTF. Out of Albany.”
“FBI?”
“Don’t insult us.”
He smiled. “PD?”
“SP.”
Bennie frowned. “What the hell are you guys talking about?”
He explained, “These gentlemen are New York State Police, working with the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”
The big guy said to Bennie, “Sorry if we frightened you, Ms. Rosato. We didn’t know who you were.”
“I’m a lawyer. I prosecute excessive-force cases, among other things.”
“You shouldn’t have said that,” Corey noted. “Now they’ll kill us.”
The two guys laughed again.
She jangled her handcuffs. “Take these off, please. Along with those masks.”
Both men removed their ski masks. Corey looked at their faces. The bigger guy was about thirty and sort of Irish-looking. The smaller guy was younger and looked maybe Hispanic or Mediterranean.
Bennie stood with her back to them and the big guy unlocked her cuffs. The smaller guy uncuffed Corey.
The big guy said, “I’m Kevin.” He put out his hand to Corey and they shook. “This is an honor.’
Bennie rubbed her wrists. “And to think, I actually shook John Corey’s hand.”
The other guy returned Corey’s credentials and handed him his Glock, butt first, and Corey slid it back into his holster, telling him, “You’re good.”
The man introduced himself and said, “I’m Ahmed, the token Arab. I know, I looked better with the ski mask.”
Cops had a wonderfully warped sense of humor.
“Officers, aren’t you supposed to identify yourselves when confronting civilians?” Bennie asked, staying on lawyer mode.
Kevin replied, “We’re deep undercover.”
Bennie said, “You should have run our plates earlier.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kevin said. “But we thought we had a situation of hot pursuit. Your friend here is a legend. Detective Corey was one of the best and most successful and respected agents in the Anti-Terrorist Task Force
.”
She glanced at Corey with a smile. “So he’s smarter than he looks?”
“Bingo.”
He recalculated his odds of getting laid, which remained slim to none.
“We’re all still talking about that case you had up here with that nut job at the Custer Hill Club,” Kevin said.
“Just another day of preventing nuclear Armageddon.”
Ahmed and Kevin laughed.
Then he said to Bennie, “Forget you heard that.”
She rolled her eyes.
Kevin asked, “Didn’t you work for the DSG for a while?”
“Still with them.” He added, “On leave.”
Kevin let him know, “You came to the right place to relax. Great fishing. And it’s bow season now.”
“Can’t wait to get mine out.”
“So, Officers, can you fill us in on what’s going on?” Bennie asked.
Kevin and Ahmed exchanged glances, then Ahmed said, “We were setting up a training facility in the woods. That’s all I can say. Please keep this to yourself—in the interest of national security.”
She gestured to Corey. “But do me a favor, Ahmed. Please tell the Legend here that it was Arabic I heard.”
Before Ahmed could reply, Kevin said something in what Corey recognized as Arabic.
Funny, coming from an Irishman.
Kevin said, “I’m learning the language. It’s just a training exercise. There are no terrorists in the woods. You can relax.”
Corey didn’t think he was getting the whole truth, and there was no reason why he should. But if he had to guess, this was more of a sting operation than a training exercise. In a week, or a month, or a year, there would be terrorists at that site, lured there by Ahmed or other Arab-Americans on the Task Force. He had a sudden nostalgia for the ATTF. He disliked the bureaucracy, the political correctness, and working with the FBI, but he missed the excitement. And the satisfaction of doing something important for the country.
But that train had left the station.
Bennie said to Kevin and Ahmed, “Well, thank you, Officers. But even if I’m safe, I’m going back to Philly tonight.”
Kevin assured her, “You’re safer here than in Philadelphia.”
Which was true.
Thousands of people died in Philly every year from boredom. But Corey kept that wisecrack to himself.
Kevin and Ahmed said good night and left.
He gestured to the sliders. “If you’d locked them when you got back in the house, we wouldn’t have been terrorized by terrorists.”
“They weren’t terrorists.”
“But they were terrifying.”
She smiled. “And apparently you’re a big deal.”
“No apparently about it.”
“I like a modest man.”
“Some men have a lot to be modest about. I don’t.” He looked at his watch. “You’re really going back tonight?”
“I wouldn’t sleep tonight anyway, after all that.” He sensed that they’d reached their good-byes sooner than either of them had wanted. He thought about offering to stay in touch, exchanging numbers and e-mails but decided to only stick out his hand, which she shook.
“Thank you,” she said. “And I’m seeing someone.”
“Figures. Nice meeting you, and have a good trip back to Philly. Tell Max I said good-bye.”
“Will do.”
“And lock the door after I leave.”
“Will do that, too.”
“Good night, Benedetta.”
He left the cabin.
He wished they could’ve gotten to know each other better, and he thought she felt the same way. He liked strong women, and she was one of the strongest yet.
They’d have made a good match.
He climbed into his Jeep and drove away.
Not a total loss, though.
He had her cell-phone number in his phone and she had his. So maybe one day he’d get a call or a text.
Or maybe someday he’d need a Philadelphia lawyer.
But, if not, they’d always have Lake Whatever.
J.A. JANCE AND ERIC VAN LUSTBADER
OF ALL THE TEAMS, THIS one may have had the most difficulty. Eric’s character, Braverman “Bravo” Shaw is an accomplished medieval scholar and cryptanalyst, a solid East Coast kind of guy. Judith’s character is all western, born one afternoon while she was watching the news in Tucson. Her favorite female newscaster was not on that day. She later learned that the new thirtysomething news director had decided that, at age fifty-three, the woman had to go. That’s when ex-newscaster, Ali Reynolds, was born.
Like their characters, both writers live and breathe from different sides of the country. Further complicating things was the fact that collaboration was foreign to both of them. Neither had much worked with someone else on a story.
They’re both loners.
Their styles are quite different.
Eventually, though, they realized that those differences were actually strengths. Eric wrote a first draft, then Judith took it from there. In the end, despite all the hurdles, these two were the first, among the eleven teams, to finish their story, five months ahead of the deadline.
Not bad for a couple of loners.
You’re going to enjoy learning about—
Taking the Veil.
TAKING THE VEIL
BLACK HILLS, ARIZONA
1601