The Hit (2013)

by David Baldacci

  The world, after all, was a very complicated place. And America, as the only remaining superpower, was right in the middle of all the complications. And no matter what the United States did, half the world would hate it and the other half would complain that the Americans were not doing enough.

  Robie refocused when the door opened. The man entering the room was largely unknown to a public that would have a hard time naming any cabinet member and sometimes even tripped over the vice president’s name.

  Robie assumed he preferred the anonymity.

  His name was Gus Whitcomb. He was sixty-eight years old, a little soft in the gut, but he still had broad shoulders carried over from his days as a linebacker at the Naval Academy. He must not have taken too many hits to the head, because his brain seemed to be working on all cylinders. He had the reputation of going after America’s enemies with a potent mixture of passion and ruthlessness. And he was thoroughly relied on by the president.

  He sat down across from Robie, put on wire-rimmed spectacles, and glanced down at the e-tablet he had carried in with him. The White House, like the rest of the world, was going paperless. He read down the screen, took off his glasses, slipped them into his jacket pocket, and looked up at Robie.

  “The president sends his best.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Well, he appreciates you.”

  The niceties over, Whitcomb shifted gears. “Tough night for you.”

  “Unexpected, yes.”

  “Last update on DiCarlo looks better. They think she’ll pull through.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I’ve read your account several times. But it gives no indication of who the attackers could have been.”

  “I never got a clear look at any of them. They were firing from long range. Forensics on the ground provide anything?”

  “Lots of shell casings.”

  Robie nodded. “Any bodies?”

  Whitcomb looked at him sharply. “Why would that be? You could hardly have hit them with your pistol from that range.”

  Robie had walked right into that one. He never should have offered anything other than what was in his official report. He must be more tired than he thought.

  “They were advancing on us when I got us out of there. But I fired some shots right at them. You never know if you’re going to get lucky or not.”

  Whitcomb didn’t seem to be listening to this, which was troubling to Robie. That made it seem as though Whitcomb had already made up his mind about something. Then what the man had said registered in Robie’s brain, and he tried hard to keep the realization off his features.

  Shell casings. Lots of them.

  As though he had actually read Robie’s mind, Whitcomb said, “More than forty shell casings were found by a tree to the left of DiCarlo’s home. The way most of the casings were positioned when they were found on the ground indicates that the shooter was firing toward where you reported the other shooters to be and also where blood and different shell casings were discovered. Also found there were glass shards that have been identified as being from both sniper scopes and flashlights. So the question becomes, who else was out there?”

  He stared pointedly at Robie.

  When Robie said nothing, Whitcomb said, “You could hardly have missed seeing the person who fired over forty high-powered rifle rounds at a target that was firing on you. So who was your guardian angel? That’s the first question. The second question is, why wasn’t that information already in your report?”

  “It’s an issue of trust, sir.”

  From his slack expression, this was not the response Whitcomb was expecting. “Excuse me?” he said sharply.

  “Ms. DiCarlo expressed to me that things were not as they should be at the agency and other places. Things that troubled her. She indicated that a crisis was approaching. She only had two men guarding her because they were the only two she trusted.”

  Whitcomb put his glasses back on, as though doing so would make him see more clearly what Robie had just said.

  “Am I to believe that the number two at the agency didn’t trust her employer? Meaning the CIA?” He shook his head slowly. “That is very, very difficult to comprehend, Mr. Robie.”

  “I’m just telling you what she told me.”

  “And yet that extraordinary assertion also was not in your report. And Ms. DiCarlo unfortunately is not available to corroborate your statement.”

  “She invited me to her house, sir. To tell me these things.”

  “Again, your word only.”

  “So you don’t believe me?” Robie said.

  “Well, you apparently don’t believe anything either.”

  Robie shook his head but didn’t respond.

  Whitcomb pressed on. “My briefings indicate that we have a rogue agent killing agency personnel. You were assigned to come on board, find, and terminate said rogue agent. It does not seem to me that you are any closer to finding her. Indeed, it seems that you are starting to believe that the true enemy is located on the inside instead of on the outside.”

  “When one’s own side withholds information from me I think it only natural that my confidence in my side goes down. And it also makes it a lot harder to do my job.”

  “Withholds information?”

  “Redacted files, corrupted crime scenes, cryptic meetings where more is left unsaid than said. Agendas that seem to keep shifting. Not an ideal platform for success in the field.”

  Whitcomb stared down at his hands for a few moments before looking up and saying, “Just answer this simple question. Did you see the person who fired off those rounds?”

  Robie knew if he hesitated with his answer it would be calamitous. “It was a woman. I didn’t see the face clearly. But it was definitely a woman.”

  “And you didn’t attempt to confirm who it was?” Now Robie had a ready answer that not even a hardass like Whitcomb could dispute. “I had a badly wounded person in the backseat who could expire at any time. There were shooters zeroing in our location. I had no time to do anything other than leave the scene as quickly as possible. My paramount concern was Ms. DiCarlo’s survival.”

  Whitcomb was nodding even before Robie finished speaking. “Of course, Robie. Of course, completely understandable. And your prompt actions have, hopefully, resulted in DiCarlo’s survival, for which you are to be commended.”

  He paused, seeming to marshal his thoughts while Robie waited for the next query.

  “Do you have any idea who this woman might have been?”

  “Sir, it would only be a guess on my part at this point in time.”

  “I’ll take that, at this point in time,” Whitcomb shot back.

  “I think it was Jessica Reel, the rogue agent I’ve been assigned to hunt down.”

  CHAPTER

  34

  GAMESTOP WOULD NOT BE OPEN for several more hours. Yet she knew he always got in early. So Reel sat in her car outside the mall entrance that he would use. She flicked her lights when she saw him drive up and park his vintage black Mustang.

  He walked over to her car and got in.

  She drove off.

  Michael Gioffre wore an unzipped hoodie, baggy jeans, and his “Day of Doom” T-shirt. Reel assumed he had dozens of them.

  “Where are we going?” he asked. “I’ve got inventory to check.”

  “Not far. And it won’t be long if you have what I need. Just time for a cup of coffee.”

  She pointed to the coffee sitting in the cup holder. He picked it up, took a sip.

  “You didn’t give me much time,” he mumbled.

  “My recollection of you is that you never needed much time. Am I wrong?”

  Gioffre took another sip and then wiped his mouth. “I could get in a lot of trouble doing this.”

  “Yes, you could.”

  “But you still expect me to help you?”

  “Yes, I do. If the positions were reversed, wouldn’t you?”

  Gioffre sighed.
“I hate it when you’re logical.”

  “You’re a gamer. I thought you lived by logic.”

  “I also appreciate fantasy. I kill guys on the screen. You kill them for real.”

  They drove in silence for a while.

  “Stupid comment, sorry,” Gioffre finally said.

  “It’s the truth, so how stupid can it be?”

  “Logic again,” he said. “You have an endless supply.”

  “I’ve always chosen that over chaos. When I had a choice, that is.”

  For Reel they could have been in a time tunnel, ten years ago, in a car, driving in some foreign land, her seeking information and Gioffre providing it. But then again, every place seemed foreign to her now. Even the one she used to call home.

  They drove in silence for another mile. Each plunk of a raindrop on the windshield seemed to Reel to represent a second of their lives draining away.

  “Did they deserve it?” Gioffre asked, quietly breaking the silence.

  Reel didn’t answer.

  He shifted in his seat. “Because knowing you the way I know you, I think they must have.”

  “Don’t give me credit for something I didn’t earn.”

  “What do you mean?” Gioffre said sharply.

  “I’ve terminated lots of people I never even met because someone higher up in the pecking order told me it was not only the right thing to do, it was my duty. Whether they actually deserved it or not never entered into the equation. That’s what I mean.”

  “But that’s what you signed up for. That’s what I signed up for way back when. We were on the side of right and justice. At least that’s what we were told.”

  “It was mostly true, Mike. But just mostly. You have human beings in the cycle so nothing is perfect, in fact everything is de facto imperfect.”

  “So did they deserve it? This time, I mean.”

  Reel made a quick turn, pulled to the curb, and put the car in park. She turned sideways in her seat and looked at him.

  “Yes, they did deserve it. But it’s both simple and complicated. The simple part is done. Or at least it’s in progress. The complicated part will take a long time. And it may never get done.”

  “So there’s more to come?” he asked.

  “Do I look like I’m done?”

  “No.”

  She put the car in gear and pulled off. “And if I tell you any more you become an accomplice for everything I do. So let’s cut to the end. Do you have what I need?”

  He pulled a flash drive from his pocket and handed it to her. Reel put it in her pocket.

  “I’ve haven’t looked at it,” he said.

  “Good.”

  “How did you know it even existed?”

  “Because they’re executing on it. You don’t do something like that without planning. Without a map to go forward. Someone had to white paper it. That’s not a puzzle you can reverse engineer. Every piece needs to be in place with every upside and downside considered beforehand.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  She shook her head. “Not going there.”

  “Guess you’d have to kill me too.”

  “Guess so,” said Reel. She was not smiling even a little bit.

  Gioffre rubbed a hand though his straggly hair and looked away.

  “Your coffee the way you like it?” she asked.

  He gripped the cup. “Perfect. You have a good memory.”

  “When you’re always two seconds from dying violently you remember the little things. One cream put in before the coffee, then one sugar. Don’t stir it. What kept me sane. Probably the same for you, right?”

  “What else do you remember from those days?”

  Reel stared out the windshield. In her mind’s eye lots of images popped up. Most she would never forget no matter how hard she tried.

  “The wind was always blowing. The sand hurt my skin and kept jamming my weapons. I could never get enough to eat or enough water to drink. But most of all I remember wondering what the hell we were all doing there. Because it was going to look exactly the same once we left. And all we were really going to leave behind was a lot of blood, much of it ours.”

  Gioffre turned and looked out the windshield. He drank his coffee slowly, methodically, like it would be his last cup ever.

  “Mike, you did close the path back to you on this, right?”

  “I did the best I could. They would have to be better than me to get to me. And I don’t think they are. I know sixteen-year-old punks who’ve never even kissed a girl who can program circles around the best the NSA has out there.”

  “All the same, watch your back. No room for overconfidence on this.”

  He said, “Looks like it’s going to rain all day.”

  “Looks like it’s going to rain the rest of my life.”

  “How long might that be?” he asked. “Your life, I mean?”

  “Your guess is probably better than mine. I’m no longer an objective observer.”

  “You shouldn’t go out this way, Jess. Not after all you’ve done.”

  “It’s because of what I’ve done that I have to go out this way. Because there’s no other way to go and be able to look at myself in the mirror. If people did that simple test they wouldn’t do three-quarters of the crap they end up doing. But at the end of the day people can justify anything they want. It’s just how we’re wired.”

  “They must have really hurt you.”

  They really hurt someone I cared about, thought Reel. They hurt him so much he’s dead. And when they hurt him, they hurt me. And now it’s my turn to hurt them back.

  “Yeah, I guess they did,” she replied.

  She drove him back to the mall, parked near the GameStop, and let him out.

  “I appreciate the assist, Mike. No one will ever know where it came from.”

  “I know that.”

  He started to leave but then ducked back inside the car as the rain pelted him.

  “I hope you make it.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Who do they have coming after you?”

  “Will Robie.”

  Gioffre sucked in a breath and his eyes grew wide with fear. “Shit. Robie?”

  “I know. But he might cut me some slack.”

  “Why the hell would he do that?”

  “Because I saved his life last night.”

  She drove on, leaving Gioffre standing in the rain watching her. She drove for some miles and then pulled into a parking garage, stopped the car, but kept the engine running. She popped the flash drive into her laptop and thoroughly read the contents.

  This would require a plane ride.

  And what would be would be.

  She drove off.

  CHAPTER

  35

  THE SUV DROPPED ROBIE OFF in front of his apartment building. The men said nothing to him on the short ride over from the White House, nor did they speak as they opened the door and let him out. Robie watched the vehicle disappear into the early morning rush hour traffic.

  Whitcomb hadn’t said much after Robie had told him he believed that Jessica Reel had come to his and DiCarlo’s aid the night before. He had written some things down in his electronic tablet, given Robie a few suspicious glances, and then risen from his chair and left.

  Robie had remained sitting until a guard came and retrieved him a few minutes later. It was both a memorable and disturbing visit to the White House.

  Now he stared at his apartment building and couldn’t remember feeling this tired before. That was saying a lot, because he had gone days without sleep and not much to eat, laboring under the most intense conditions.

  Maybe I really am too old for this anymore.

  It was not a concession he wanted to make, but his aching body and tired mind were two stark reminders that there was probably more truth in that statement than not.

  He took the elevator up to his apartment, opened the door, turned off the alarm, and closed the door behind him. He had turned off
his phone while at the White House because they had asked him to. He now turned it back on and the text popped up on the screen:

  Everything I do has a reason. Just open the lock.

  Robie sat down in a chair and stared at the screen for a full five minutes. Then he laid his phone down on the table and took a twenty-minute shower, letting the hot water pound the exhaustion out of him. He dressed and had a glass of orange juice. Then he sat back down with the text.

  Everything I do has a reason. Just open the lock.

  Reel had done many things. Which ones was he supposed to focus on? What was he supposed to unlock?

  The killings?

  Her coming to his aid?

  Her sending this latest text?

  All of the above?

  He expected to get another phone call from the agency. They would have already read this text and probably had a dozen analysts trying to decipher it. But no call came. Maybe they didn’t know what else to say to him. He thought about texting Reel back, asking her what she meant. But she knew as well as he that the agency would be able to read every word. He decided not to bother answering.

  He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket, stood, and stretched. He should try to get some sleep, but there was no time for that.

  He suddenly realized he needed to rent a car. His was lying shot full of holes at some secure government evidence lot.

  He had run through quite a few vehicles in the past year. He was glad the rental fees were deductible. Sanctioned assassins didn’t get many tax breaks.

  He took a cab to a car rental outlet and signed the papers on an Audi 6. The last one he’d driven had gotten shot up too. He wondered if he was on some rental car company watch list of bad-risk clients. If he was, the place he’d just done the deal with hadn’t gotten the message to stay the hell away from him.

  He drove off in his new vehicle, toward the hospital where Janet DiCarlo was currently a patient. He’d gotten the necessary info from Blue Man in an email that morning. He arrived there forty minutes later after the weather and rush-hour traffic took their toll on his journey.