by Barry Eisler
—everything all at once, with no questions, no surprise, nothing at all other than the need to react now.
Using his grip on the second-level pipe for stability, he dropped into a squat atop the ground-level pipe, brought the Wilson up and across his body, and got off three rounds at the face he saw emerging from the opening of the top-level pipe up and to his left. The guy fell back, but Dox knew he hadn’t hit him, the angle was for shit and all he’d been trying for was an extra second. If he leaped to the ground he would have been wide open against a shooter with cover, concealment, and an elevated position. So instead he fired again, just suppressive fire to keep the guy from getting back in the game while Dox was out of position, and he kept on firing while he scrambled like a spider monkey on speed up the pipes, right past the opening of the sniper’s pipe but so fast the guy didn’t have time to access a pistol and acquire him. He reached the top pipe and hauled himself over it just as the spotter finally got off two shots of his own, the rounds whizzing by so close despite the tough angle that Dox could feel them practically kissing his calves as he swung his legs around.
Lord almighty, that’s a no-shit shooter if ever I saw one
He jumped to his feet, dropped the near-empty magazine, slammed in a fresh one, and scanned, searching for an angle. He didn’t see one.
Fuck, maybe you should have scrambled into the sniper’s pipe instead of up here but too late now
Presumably, the sniper had a pistol, too—Dox sure would have—which meant that in about a second and a half Dox was going to be facing two skilled operators, accustomed to working as a team, who could come at him from either end of the pipes, separately or together.
Not good odds. But one slim chance.
He raised his leg and stomped the near side of the pipe to the left of the one the spotter was in, which was the last in the top row. The kick landed with a huge metallic boom! and the pipe rocked, but didn’t go over.
Fuck, someone must have wedged something between the pipes to stabilize them. Okay, do or die. He took three steps back, then ran forward and leaped into the air, retracting both legs and bronco stomping the side of the end pipe as he landed. And somehow, the pipe shot off whatever had been holding it and dropped over the side. Dox landed on his ass but was up again even before he heard the falling pipe slam into the ground with a bass-note thud—just in time to see the spotter trying to acquire him again. Dox fired three rounds and the spotter ducked back into his pipe. Dox backed up as far as he could, then ran forward, and as he leaped into the air he saw the spotter again, drawing a bead on him—
His heels slammed into the near side of the spotter’s pipe, and the guy’s shot went wild. The pipe rolled to the edge, but didn’t go over. The guy disappeared for a second, presumably having some trouble keeping his position after suddenly finding himself upside down in a rolling pipe. Dox backed up again, everything moving in slow motion now in his adrenalized vision, sure he was taking too long, that the guy was going to adjust to his tactics and this time drill him clean, and he leaped, and there was the guy again, but this time Dox was a half second ahead, and his boot heels slammed into the near side of the pipe, and the guy didn’t even get off his shot before the pipe went over with the guy halfway out the opening and shouting, “Fuck!” on the way down.
The falling pipe smacked into the one that had preceded it with the kind of clang that must have cracked the Liberty Bell. The guy’s head and torso bounced violently on impact, and before he had any chance to recover, Dox had the Wilson’s sights on him from above and put two rounds in his face.
Okay, but now what?
Repeat the operation on the other side? He’d have to kick over two more pipes just to reach the one the sniper was holed up in, which would take a lot of time. Besides which, the sniper would understand his tactics by now, and would react by . . .
By what?
Well, not by just waiting for his own pipe to go spinning off the edge, that was for damn sure. A picture flashed in Dox’s mind, the guy easing out of the pipe on the river side, a pistol in hand, and having all the time in the world to creep up and aim carefully while Dox jumped purposelessly on one pipe after another—
He moved quickly to the openings of the pipes facing the trees and glanced over the edge. Nothing.
Goddamn it, which is it? Does he stay put, or move out?
They’re good. What would you do?
No time to think it through further than that. If the guy was good, and he was, he would get off the X. One way or the other.
Okay. Dox dropped to his stomach along the top pipe on the far side, where he’d kicked the two over. He darted his head down and then back, and in the instant during which he’d glanced, he’d seen nothing, no one clambering up the tree-side openings. He grabbed the edge of the top pipe with his free hand and swung down so that his feet were on top of the one at ground level.
Employing a weird sideways shuffle he sensed would be characteristic of a pigeon on LSD, he bobbed his head right, saw the pipe to that side was empty and that no one was trying to climb past it, then scooted in that direction and repeated the process. Everything was still moving in slow motion, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds before he’d reached the opening of the pipe where the sniper had his hide. He flash checked it—empty.
Fear gripped him. Where the hell is he?
He pictured it an instant before it happened. Yeah, he’d been thinking these guys were good. And they were thinking it about him, too—the sniper especially, who understood now what had become of his spotter partner. So the sniper hadn’t done the smart thing, the expected thing, which would have been to climb up. Instead, he’d done the risky thing, which was to jump down. If Dox had stayed on top, the guy would have been in a bad position. But now Dox realized the guy had outthought him and was circling around right now while Dox clung to the side of a bunch of rusting pipes like a dumb kid on the world’s most awkward monkey bars—
He didn’t think. If he had, he would have realized it was too high risk and second-guessed himself. Instead, he just let go and dropped to his back onto the weeds, his feet toward the side where he sensed, for no reason he could articulate, the guy would be coming from. If he had sensed wrong, he was dead.
But he wasn’t wrong. The guy popped from around the side, his gun up in a two-handed grip, and aimed high, at about the point where he expected to see Dox clinging to the pipes. Except Dox wasn’t clinging to the pipes. He was on his back, his knees up and the most beautiful Wilson Combat Tactical Supergrade God ever made steadied between his crossed ankles. The guy realized his mistake, and for a split instant Dox saw fear and horror in his expression as he tried to adjust. But too late. Dox put three rounds in his chest. The guy staggered back, let loose two rounds that went way high, tripped on something, and fell to his back, losing his pistol on the way down.
Dox sprang to his feet and closed on the guy, the Wilson up at chin level and zeroed on the guy’s face. He walked in slowly, careful not to trip on whatever underbrush had just cost the guy his own footing, then stood close, the muzzle of the Wilson pointed directly at the guy’s face. He did a quick scan and confirmed they were alone.
“Doctor,” the guy said with a burbling gasp. “Call . . . a doctor.”
“You bet,” Dox said, still sighting down the Wilson. “Just as soon as you tell me all the things you know I’m interested in.”
The guy seemed to rally a bit at the possibility of a doctor. His eyes rolled, then focused on Dox. “Who are you?” he said.
“No sir, you have it wrong. There’s only one person asking questions here and that person ain’t you. What outfit are you with? Spit it out and I’ll have the paramedics here faster than you can say ‘Help me, I’m dying from a sucking chest wound and bleeding out besides.’”
The guy nodded, seeming intent on signaling his willingness to cooperate. “OGE.”
“Yeah? Why’d they send you?”
The guy wheezed for a
moment, then said, “To kill the woman.”
“Yeah, dumbass, that much I figured out on my own. I’m asking you why her. Why OGE wants her dead.”
“How the fuck should I know? Come on, I’m just a contractor.”
Unfortunately, that had the ring of truth. This guy was nothing but a trigger puller. Why would anyone tell him anything not need-to-know?
Well, there wasn’t much time, anyway. That was a whole lot of shots fired. Even if Bob hadn’t alerted the authorities, they’d sure as shit be getting alerted now.
His silence must have made the guy nervous, because he gave a weak cough and said, “Come on, man. I can tell you get it. Whoever she is, it’s just business.”
Dox looked at him. “Yeah?” he said. “Well, your shit luck, asshole, ’cause it ain’t just business for me.” He put a round into the guy’s forehead.
The guy jerked and then was still. Under other circumstances, Dox might have savored the moment. But he had to beat feet. Damn, how the hell was he going to get to Labee’s place? He knew from the maps that he could go overland from here to the bridge and not have to retrace his steps. But the bridge was a long, exposed walk for a guy fitting the description old Bob might have given, covered in gunshot residue, and whose prints were going to match the shell casings and a dropped magazine the cops were soon to find all over a gruesome crime scene.
He heard the first siren, then a second, and thought, Well, I won’t lie to you, it looks bleak for our hero.
chapter
twenty-four
GRAHAM
After Treven left, Graham had Curtis close the door, with orders of no disturbances barring emergencies.
He sat on the couch and looked out at the Blue Ridge Mountains. He loved this view. Not just for its beauty, but for the way it helped him focus on the big picture. The less parochial concerns. The things that would outlast him.
Treven, he thought. What a waste.
The man was an exceptional operator. Trained, experienced, with top-of-the-food-chain urban-combat judgment and reflexes.
A warrior, no doubt. But fundamentally a solo operator, not a leader. And for God’s sake, not a salesman. The notion of Treven selling a group of cynics and survivors like Hort, Larison, and Rain . . . well, it would have been laughable if it wasn’t so sad.
Whatever Treven told them, they’d never buy it. They’d assume it was a setup.
Which wouldn’t make Treven’s efforts useless. Far from it. Believing Treven was setting them up wouldn’t stop Hort and company from coming at Graham. They’d just come around the setup. Which would, of course, be the real setup.
For a moment, he was bothered that Treven seemed to believe Graham would actually blow up a civilian airliner just to cover up a child-pornography ring. It was insulting, really. What kind of values did Treven think Graham had? He would never do something so monumental for stakes so small.
He sighed and poured himself a cup of coffee. It was all right. It wasn’t really Treven’s fault. The man simply didn’t understand that the stakes were far, far larger.
chapter
twenty-five
DOX
Dox followed a trail under the First Street South Bridge, the foliage thick around him. When he was sufficiently concealed from the road and felt safe for the moment, he immediately got the shakes. He crouched and breathed steadily in and out until they started to subside. Then he took the sat phone from the pack and called Labee.
She picked up instantly. “Are you okay? I’m hearing reports of shots fired and officers on the way.”
“I’m fine, darlin’. Now the bad news is, there were two guys waiting for you across the river—a sniper and a spotter. The good news is, they’re dead now. The bad news is, I can’t get out of here because, right, there are sirens all around and it would be better if the local gendarmerie didn’t see me walking away from the crime scene.”
Two cop cars raced over the bridge above, their sirens howling.
“Where are you?” she said.
“Crouching in the underbrush near a homeless encampment under the First Avenue South Bridge. West side of the bridge, by a stream, if that means anything to you.”
“South Park. Highland Parkway Southwest. I know exactly where you are.”
“Well, that’s great, because if asked, I would describe my current circumstances as ‘in need of a rescue.’”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes? Not to be ungrateful, but I thought you were going to be close by.”
“I am. But I need to stop at my loft first.”
“My lord, whatever you need, it can’t be that important. K. can deliver you pretty much any weapon you—”
“It’s not a weapon.”
“What, then? Look, I was expecting only one shooter across the river, and instead I found two. I don’t know for sure there won’t be another at your loft. Or inside it. At least let me come with you.”
“There are cameras all around the perimeter of the building. We can’t let you get recorded by them.”
“I don’t care about that. Why are you—”
“I’ll explain later. Just stay put. I’ll be by in ten minutes. Maybe less.”
“Damn it, Labee, would you just listen to me for a minute?”
But he was talking to a dead line.
“Shit,” he said aloud. “Why does she have to be so stubborn?”
He heard footsteps moving through the underbrush to his left. Nothing stealthy about the approach—in fact, it was pretty damn noisy—but juiced as he was from his recent near-death experience, he shot to his feet, his hand going under the fleece and around the grip of the Wilson.
But it wasn’t a problem, just a skinny old dude who must have been one of the people sleeping in the tents under the bridge. His hair was white, he was missing most of his teeth, and the skin on his face was as brown and wrinkled as tobacco dried by the sun.
“Hello, my friend,” the old guy called out to him with the trace of a Mexican accent. “I thought I heard someone back here.”
“Well, hey there,” Dox said, releasing the Wilson and sliding the phone back into the pack. “Sorry for disturbing you. My lady friend and I had an argument, and I needed to walk it off to cool down. You look like a man who’s acquired some wisdom over the years. Can you tell me, why are women so difficult? I mean, I love them, but why?”
The old guy shrugged. “Because they’re people. It’s not women who are difficult. It’s people.”
Dox looked at the old guy, perplexed. He’d just been trying to throw out a little distraction. He hadn’t expected to receive actual insights in return. Shame on him for underestimating the man.
“Well, sir, I have to say, I think that’s profound. We haven’t known each other long, but you’ve given me a lot to consider, and I’m grateful.”
The old guy gave him a smile, sunny even though it was mostly gums. “Just imagine how difficult we seem to them. It’s hard to walk in another person’s shoes. If I’ve learned anything, I’ve learned that.”
Dox nodded, feeling both humbled and impressed. “Say, I hope you won’t consider it rude for me to ask, but if you find yourself temporarily short on cash, it would be my pleasure to share a bit of my good fortune, just as a way of thanking you for opening my eyes now.”
The old guy straightened a little and shook his head. “You don’t have to.”
Damn, the dignity of the man, to refuse charity he so obviously needed.
“I know that, sir. But I’d like to. Would you be kind enough to oblige me?”
There was a pause, and the guy nodded. “All right.”
Dox pulled out his billfold and peeled off ten twenties. “I hope this’ll make things a little easier,” he said.
The old guy stared at the bills, his eyes wide. Then he looked at Dox and nodded. “Thank you.”
Dox shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t do more. But what I have left, I think I might need.”
More sirens sounded. The old guy cocked his head as though listening. “All these sirens. My ears aren’t what they once were, but I thought I heard shooting. I guess I was right.”
Dox suppressed a smile. The old guy’s ears had certainly been good enough to hear Dox on the phone earlier.
“Yeah, I heard it, too,” he said. “Thought it was fireworks, but maybe you’re right, with all these cops racing around.”
“They’re just doing their job. But I’ll tell you, I make it a habit not to talk to them. They do their thing, I do mine. You are going to be okay?”
Dox appreciated the man’s message—both its subtleness and its apparent sincerity. “Appreciate your asking, sir, but I’ll be fine. In fact, my lady friend will likely be by to pick me up any minute now.”
“She’ll forgive you?”
“I think it was more a matter of my forgiving her, but . . . well, maybe you’re right. I need to think about it in light of what you’ve shared with me today.”
The old guy gave him the sunny, toothless smile. “Just don’t be afraid to let her know you love her. Love really does conquer all.”
“No, no, it ain’t like that. I mean, I’m very fond of her, of course, but . . . well, anyway, it’s complicated.”
The old guy gave him another smile, this one a little on the knowing side. “People are complicated. Thank you for the help just now.” With that, he gave a little bow and disappeared back into the foliage.
Dox shook his head, trying to clear it. Two mysterious oldsters in one day, both of them philosophers. It made him less concerned about growing old himself. Hell, at the moment, he was glad just to be alive.
A few minutes later, he saw a car pulling over and moving slowly along the shoulder. A Jeep. He crept through the foliage, and saw it was her. Labee.
He moved out briskly, not running, but sure as shit not taking his time, either. She saw him coming and popped open the passenger door. The second he was inside, she was smoothly pulling away.
“Labee, darlin’,” he said, overwhelmed by the sight of her. He’d almost forgotten how beautiful she was, he supposed because he’d been trying to. No makeup, hair back in a ponytail, jeans and a fleece—not working it at all, and still, there was just something about her that could make his head spin.