Lukas switched off the light, took the Sig from his belt, threaded in the suppressor. Tariq stepped back, put the tools away, drew his own gun.
Lukas opened the door slowly. They were looking at a dark kitchen, tile floor, a granite countertop. Red lights glowed on appliances on the opposite wall. A sliding glass door with vertical blinds led to a rear deck.
Lukas gestured to Tariq to wait, then stepped quietly into the kitchen.
“Right fucking there, pal. Do not move.”
Ceiling lights flashed on. Lukas turned toward the voice, and there was a man in the hallway off the kitchen, dark-haired and muscular, wearing gym shorts and a gray T-shirt. He was pointing an automatic at Lukas’s chest. Behind him in the hallway were a woman in a bathrobe and a teenage boy in T-shirt and sweatpants.
“Put the gun on the floor, and kick it over here,” the man said. “Then get on your knees.”
Lukas raised his hands, holding the Sig high. “I think I’ve got the wrong house.”
“Yeah, you’ve got the wrong house, all right. Do what I said. Now.”
In his peripheral vision, Lukas saw the connecting doorway was empty. Tariq had backed into the shadows there.
“Karen, the two of you go back to Brendan’s room,” the man said. “Call 911.”
“Be careful,” she said.
“Go!”
Lukas took a step back, conscious of the glass door behind him. “I’m putting the gun down. Just relax. I think there’s a misunderstanding here.”
“No misunderstanding,” the man said. “Put it down or I shoot you where you stand.”
The woman and the boy had gone into a room off the hallway, shut the door. Lukas lowered the Sig slowly, set it on the floor in front of him.
“Kick it over here.”
He put his foot on the Sig, slid it across the tile and into the hallway. It landed near the man’s feet. Lukas could see Tariq just outside the door now, crouched forward, the Shield in both hands. He was listening, trying to place exactly where the man was before he broke cover.
“I thought this house was empty,” Lukas said, trying to keep the man distracted, talking. “I didn’t know there was anybody living here.”
“On your knees. I won’t tell you again.”
“I can explain this,” Lukas said. “I don’t think you—”
Tariq swung out of the doorway and into the kitchen, the gun up. The man shifted his aim and shot him through the throat.
Blood spotted Lukas’s jacket. Tariq fell back, and Lukas closed the distance just as the man swung the gun toward him and fired again. The round went past him and through the sliding glass door. In the bedroom, the woman screamed.
Lukas slapped his right hand on top of the gun, swept his left elbow into the man’s throat, overbalanced him. He kicked out his legs, took him down. The woman and the boy were back in the hallway now, the woman screaming again.
From the corner of his eye, Lukas saw the boy going for the Sig. He stripped the gun from the man’s hand, swept the barrel hard against his forehead, turned and aimed as the boy bent toward the Sig. The woman screamed “No!” and Lukas fired into the floor near the gun, blew up a divot of splintered wood. The boy sprang back, and the woman wrapped her arms around him, dragged him away.
Lukas held the gun on them. The man sat up, a hand to his forehead, blood there.
Lukas picked up the Sig, backed into the kitchen. At his feet, Tariq lay gasping and choking, blood pumping from his wound.
The woman and the boy were frozen. The man was looking up at Lukas, hand still held to his face. Lukas raised the Sig, sighted down the suppressor at him.
Tariq gave a wet rattle and went silent. Lukas steadied the Sig. The man watched him, waiting for the bullet.
If you kill him, you’ll have to kill all of them, Lukas thought. There’s no other way.
He shifted the muzzle of the suppressor to the boy and the woman. They hadn’t moved. Do it, he thought. Do it now.
He could hear a siren in the distance. He lowered the Sig, then turned and fired three times through the vertical blinds and into the sliding door. The glass gave way and cascaded out onto the deck.
Lukas looked back at the man, the woman and boy behind him. Then he turned, pushed through the blinds and onto the deck. A motion sensor clicked on, bathed him in light.
He leaped off the deck, landed in the side yard. He flung the man’s gun into bushes, ran toward the front of the house and the street beyond. Just as he reached the Lexus, a police cruiser with flashing rollers came down the street, caught him in its headlights. He raised the Sig, fired three times, saw the rounds hit the cruiser’s windshield. The driver jerked the wheel to the left, and the cruiser jumped the curb and came to rest on a lawn.
He got in the Lexus, tossed the Sig on the passenger seat, started the engine. There were more flashing lights ahead. He gunned the engine, swung around the rear end of the cruiser. At a side street, he cut a hard left that made the tires squeal, then a right, then another left, all through residential streets, headlights off.
More sirens now, but as he drove they seemed farther away. He tried to calm himself, slow his breathing. At the intersection ahead was a main street he recognized, the way they’d come. He slowed then, turned on the headlights, looked in the rearview. There was no one following.
He headed south.
Dawn was a faint light on the horizon when he got back to the house. He needed to stay organized, clearheaded. If someone had gotten the plate number on the Lexus, it might be traced back here. The house and the work car were full of evidence, fingerprints, DNA.
Too much had happened in the previous weeks, they’d drawn too much attention. Mata’s body, the bar shootings, the attack on Devlin. At some point, someone would put it all together. There was nothing to be done about any of that now. The house was fucked.
You should have killed them all, he thought, left no witnesses. But he’d met the eyes of the woman and the boy, and couldn’t pull the trigger. Maybe there are some things you won’t do after all.
Too late now. Too late to think about anything besides what came next.
He filled a duffel with clothes. The Sig went into the weapons bag. He carried both out to the Lexus, stowed them in the trunk.
Tariq’s Jeep SUV was parked in the garage alongside the Crown Vic. He got both sets of keys, powered down the windows in each vehicle.
There was a six-gallon red plastic gas can under the workbench, almost full. He splashed the interior of the work car with gas, popped open the fuel door, and unscrewed the cap, then did the same with the SUV.
The can was still half full when he carried it into the house. He started upstairs, poured gas in each room, then in a trail down the stairs. He emptied the last of it in the living room, doused the couch, the carpet. The harsh fumes made his eyes water.
He took a last look around. He would miss the house. It had been his only real home for the last five years, a place where he could do as he pleased, live as he wanted, with no one to answer to. And, like all his homes, he knew it would never last.
There was a roadside emergency kit in the Lexus trunk, with three striker flares. He took out two, shut the lid. In the garage, he took the cap off a flare, struck it twice. It flashed and sparked. He tossed it onto the front seat of the Crown Vic. Flames filled the interior, the sudden wave of heat driving him back, singeing his eyebrows. Thick black smoke bloomed up, flattened and spread against the ceiling. The SUV caught almost immediately.
Back in the house, he struck the second flare, tossed it onto the gas-soaked couch. The upholstery burst into flame. Fire raced across the floor.
He left the front door open, got into the Lexus, started the engine, backed away. Smoke began to pour out the door. He wheeled around, headed down the driveway. In the rearview, he saw flames rising up from the house and garage, smoke billowing, hiding the stars. Halfway to the county road, he heard the flat thump as one of the gas tanks ignited. When he looked
back a last time, the sky to the west glowed like a false dawn.
Alone again, as you always were, he thought. As you were meant to be.
Thirty-Six
Devlin’s phone woke him. He heard the buzz, saw the screen glow in the motel-room darkness. He got the phone from the nightstand, saw Brendan’s number and the time—3 a.m. He felt a surge of alarm, kicked off the covers, sat up.
When he answered, it was Vic Ramos on the line.
“There’s some people here want to talk to you,” he said.
Devlin spent twenty minutes on the phone, first with two state cops, then with an Agent Healy from the New Haven FBI field office. He told her about the shooting at the motel, gave her Dwight Malloy’s name. He didn’t mention Dragovic, Farrow, or any of the rest of it.
When Ramos came back on the line, Devlin said, “How are they? I can be up there by morning.” He was in a motel outside D.C., had gone there after leaving Farrow’s house.
“I don’t think we need any more help from you. You’ve done enough damage.”
“I’m sorry about this.”
“You should be. I don’t know what it is you’re involved in that caused this, but you’ll pay for it. I told Healy about your coming up here last week, what you said. They’re going to want to talk to you more. This isn’t over.”
“I gave her my number. Can I talk to Karen?”
“No.”
“How’s Brendan?”
“How do you think he is? They’re both wrecked.”
“Can you put him on the phone?”
“Forget it.”
Devlin paced the room, a hollow feeling in his stomach.
“I didn’t start this,” he said. “But maybe I can finish it.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means take care of Karen and Brendan, whatever happens.”
“You think you need to tell me that?”
“I want them to know I love them. And that I’m sorry. For everything.”
“A little late for that, isn’t it? If it’s up to me, you’ll never talk to either of them again.”
“Tell them, Vic,” he said, and ended the call.
It was dusk when Lukas drove up to the lighted guard booth, powered down his window. The guard inside wore a Core-Tech uniform, was reading a magazine. He slid open his door halfway, was about to speak when Lukas rested the Sig’s suppressor on the windowsill and fired twice. The guard fell backward off his stool, went down.
Lukas got out, pushed open the booth door. The guard lay on the floor, not moving. Lukas put another round into him, then hit the switch to open the gate. When it rose, he got back in the Lexus and drove through.
He parked down the street from Farrow’s house, got out. The house was dark, the driveway and garage empty. He’d been here only once before, but remembered the layout. He kicked in the side door, went in with the gun up, finger on the trigger.
The room was dark except for the light spill from the open bathroom. He stepped inside and away from the door, listening, sensed he was alone. The smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Farrow hadn’t been gone long.
He went up a short flight of stairs into a kitchen, then searched the rest of the house. It was empty.
Thirty-Seven
On her way up to the newsroom, Tracy grabbed a paper from reception. She’d read the final versions of the stories online, wanted to see how they’d been played in the print edition. Alysha’s mainbar took up most of the front page above the fold. A five-column headline read OBSERVER REPORTER ATTACKED. Then under it, TWO HELD IN ASSAULT LINKED TO INVESTIGATION. There were mug shots of both men and, embedded in the copy, a thumbnail photo of herself. It was the same one that was on her laminate.
Rick Carr was talking to Alysha at her desk. He saw her coming and frowned.
Tracy held up the paper. “Nice to see it the old-fashioned way. Headlines could be better, though. Where we at on the follow?”
“I thought we agreed you were staying home today,” he said.
“I was going stir-crazy. Thought maybe if I came in I could help.”
Tired as she was, she hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time. She was dragging now, but the idea of staying in the house depressed her. She needed to be around people. She needed to work.
“How do you feel?” Alysha said.
“Ready to rock.” She’d taken two ibuprofen, but her knees still ached, and her left shoulder and side were sore to the touch. She’d put a fresh bandage over her eye.
Rick took a chair from an empty desk, rolled it over for her to sit.
“Thanks,” Tracy said. “How are we doing?”
Alysha looked at Rick, then back at her. “No breaks yet. The senator’s people got back to me. ‘No comment’ at this time, but they’re promising something later today. I’m sure they’re putting together a judiciously worded press release as we speak. You talk to Devlin?”
Tracy shook her head. “Tried. Can’t reach him. Haven’t seen him since the hospital. Anything new on the two men they arrested?”
“Still in custody in New Hope. No bail,” Rick said. “One of them had a warrant out of Kentucky for agg assault. We’re following up on them as well.”
“What’s the plan?” Tracy said.
“Russ Jones from Metro is on his way down to Unix headquarters in Virginia,” Alysha said. “He’ll see if he can shake something loose from Kemper or his people. He’ll try Farrow’s house in Falls Church as well. I’ll drive down tomorrow to help.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“We’ve got it covered,” Rick said. “We don’t need you here today. Go home. Rest.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” she said. It had come to her on the cab ride there. “Since I can’t be involved in our main stories, objectivity-wise, how about I write a first-person sidebar on what it’s like to be run off the road and shot at?”
“You serious?” he said.
“If you don’t want it, I’ll pitch it to the Inquirer.”
“Funny.” He looked at Alysha, who shrugged.
“All right,” he said. “Write a skedline, and I’ll add it to the budget. Get me a draft by the five o’clock meeting. Call Photo too, have them get a couple shots of you at your desk to run with it. Figure twenty inches for the print version.”
“I’ll need thirty, at least.”
“Make it twenty-five.”
“Got it.”
“It’s all yours,” he said. “Drive it away.”
At her desk, she tried Devlin again from her cell. She was waiting for his voice-mail message when the line picked up.
“Where have you been?” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“I got your messages.”
She heard background noise, traffic.
“Where are you going?” she said. “Are you running out on us?”
“I’m not running out on anything. You did your part. Now I have to do mine.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Something I need to deal with. Something that should have been handled a long time ago.”
“Don’t get cryptic on me.”
“These people you think you’re after,” he said. “They’ll never stop. They have no reason to. And they can buy their way out of anything. You need to understand that.”
“What are you talking about? What are you doing?”
“Look after yourself,” he said, and ended the call.
She tried him back, and this time it went to voice mail. She threw the phone on her desk.
Thirty-Eight
The gate to Kemper’s driveway was open. Farrow turned the Bronco in. Holifield sat beside him, an Uzi across his lap, covered by a jacket. The other three men were in the Tahoe, following close. They’d drawn weapons from the gun cabinet before rolling out.
It was coming to an end, he knew. He’d lit a fuse by giving Lukas’s name to Devlin, lit another by sending Lukas after Devlin’s family.
Risk on all sides, but maybe the way to solve both problems. Now he had to protect himself, cover his own ass.
He’d booked a flight to Thailand via San Francisco that night. Once he was there, he’d figure out what to tell Teresa and the girls. He had enough money squirreled away in offshore accounts to keep him going for a while. Holifield and the others would have to fend for themselves.
They drove up through the oaks. As they neared the house, he saw there were no lights on inside, no vehicles out front.
“Place is empty,” Holifield said.
“Can’t be sure of that. Keep your eyes open.”
“What are we here for anyway?”
“I need to know if there’s anything here ties any of us to this mess.”
“Like what?”
“Files, records, whatever. The old man might have left something behind just to fuck me. I can’t take the chance.”
“Why bring us along?”
Farrow looked at him. “You work for me. I need another reason?”
“Just want to know what we’re getting involved in here.”
“He might have left someone to watch the place. If so, I want leverage in case there’s a problem.”
“We’re the leverage.”
“That’s right.”
Farrow drove up to the porch. The Tahoe pulled in behind him.
He looked up at the house. “I ought to burn this fucking place down. All I put into it.”
“That the way things are now?” Holifield said.
“That’s the way they are.” He took the .38 from his belt, opened the door. “Let’s go see what he left us.”
Lukas drove past the open gate, went up a quarter mile, and pulled into the empty lot of a golf course. The moon was only a glow behind the clouds.
He pulled on his gloves, got out. The Sig was in his waistband, an extra twelve-round magazine in his jacket pocket.
He started back down the road, staying close to the thick hedge that bordered the course. Soon he came to the head-high stone wall that marked the edge of Kemper’s property. He got his arms over the top of it, pulled himself up, rolled his hips across, and dropped down on the other side. He landed in a rosebush, had to disentangle himself, pull thorns from his jacket.
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