He tugged at the shotgun, and Merullo, seeing no choice, let go.
“We’re gonna go inside, nice and slow. And we’re going to have that chat you ran away from yesterday. Nod if you understand.”
Merullo nodded.
“Good. Now march.”
Merullo backed up inside to the kitchen and Morgan shut the door behind them. Merullo’s kitchen was grimy, the floor covered in food stains and dog hair. A single wooden chair, covered in crumbling baby blue paint, sat at an old table of peeling linoleum.
“Sit,” Morgan said.
Morgan heard a rhythmic thumping and clicking against the wooden floor of the house. His attention turned to its source, at the door to the living room.
The dog, black and tan with a thick snout and big scary teeth.
Rottweiler.
“Oh damn it.”
Morgan leapt back as the dog lunged and avoided losing his fingers by inches. Merullo took the moment to attack. He wrested Morgan’s gun away, letting it fall to the ground, and then broke free, running for the living room. Fluffy made another try for Morgan, who grabbed an oven mitt from the counter and waved it in front of the dog’s face. Crazed, it grabbed the mitt between its teeth, shaking it from side to side. Morgan ran after Merullo.
The mitt didn’t distract the dog for long. He let go of it and ran for Morgan again, nails clicking against the floor, picking up speed as he crossed the kitchen. Morgan kicked the kitchen door closed. It shuddered on its hinges as the dog hit it with a bang and a whimper.
That would hold him.
Morgan turned his attention to Merullo just in time to see his fleshy fist coming at his face. He took the punch hard, staggering back. But while Merullo had street smarts and instinct, he also had no training, and in this, Morgan had him beat. Morgan dodged the encore, snapping to the side and grabbing Merullo’s arm in a lock, which he negotiated into a choke hold.
Merullo winced with pain, but he didn’t cry out. That didn’t bode well for interrogation.
“If you’re gonna kill me, just get to it,” Merullo said. “ ’Cause I ain’t talking.”
Morgan pushed him against the wall and bound his hands with disposable plastic restraints. Then he sat the meathead down on his ratty old sofa.
“Your house stinks,” said Morgan. “You know that? This is a goddamn dump. You bring women back here?”
“Your mother sure didn’t complain when I screwed her last night.”
Morgan brought his heel down on Merullo’s kneecap. Merullo hollered in pain.
“Who hired you to kill me?”
“Don’t I have rights?” Merullo demanded. “I want my lawyer!”
“I’m not a goddamned cop, Merullo. I am, in fact, a very pissed-off man with no accountability. Who happens to be the man you tried to kill yesterday. So are you going to start talking or are you going to piss me off even more?”
Merullo snorted and spat brown phlegm onto Morgan’s black sweater.
Morgan came back hard with a slap to his face.
“Let me make it clear how this works,” he said. “You talk, or you die. It’s that simple.”
“Law of the streets,” said Merullo. “If I talk, I die. And I don’t think you have the balls to kill me.”
This was going nowhere. Merullo was smart enough to know where his interest lay. Morgan wasn’t going to kill him in cold blood, and he had no doubt that whoever hired him would.
Morgan’s attention was drawn to the dog scratching at the door from the kitchen, letting out the occasional bark. He looked around at the house again. Beer cans lying around the floor, ashtrays and dishes and takeout boxes filled with cigarette butts, the smell of dog piss pervading the air. No, Merullo hadn’t had anyone over in a very, very long time. If Morgan had to guess, it would be that Merullo was a lonely man with a single friend in the world.
Morgan wound up for what he was about to do. It required precision to the millisecond.
He opened the kitchen door like a toreador.
The dog sprung into action, taking a running jump. Morgan swung out of the way and pushed the dog against the wall, just hard enough to stun it. The dog hit the wood with a bang and whimper and fell to the ground, dazed. Morgan put his right boot against the dog’s neck, careful not to press too hard.
Sorry, you old mutt. It’s not your fault your owner is an asshole.
“You’d better get talking,” said Morgan. “Or else it’s not going to be you who gets it. It’s going to be Sparky here.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I’m not police. I can do whatever I want.”
Morgan pushed harder against the dog’s neck. The dog whimpered.
“I think you have one good thing in your miserable life, and that’s this dog.” Another push, another whimper. “So let’s get talking.”
Morgan saw him cast his gaze about the room for some way out of the cuffs. He found a serrated knife that lay in an empty pizza box on the floor.
“Don’t even think about it,” Morgan said. “I’ve got people on us. You’re not getting out of here.”
“You’re full of it.”
“Spartan?”
She heard him through the comm. Another window shattered, this one in the kitchen.
“All right? So behave.”
Merullo’s eyes were on the dog. “It’s all right, Nancy. I’m not gonna let the bad man hurt you.”
“Then you’d better start talking.”
“Look, I got the assignment over the Internet, all right? That deep web bullshit. I never met anyone face-to-face, never even heard a voice.”
“You got something to show me?” Morgan asked. “E-mails? Chat logs?”
“You think I keep them?”
“And how did you contact them?”
“They contacted me,” Merullo said.
“How did you get paid?
“You ever heard of Bitcoin? It’s untraceable.”
“He’s right,” said Shepard over the comm. “If these people are as professional as they seem to be, there’s no way we’ll trace that deposit.”
“All right,” said Morgan, shoving the subdued dog into the kitchen and closing the door, relieved he didn’t have to follow through with his threat. He then walked over to Merullo and rested his boot on the couch next to him. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to monitor your phone. Any communication you get from them comes to us as well. And when there’s a hit, you stay out of the way. Understand?”
“Yeah.”
Morgan drew a burner phone from his pocket and tossed it on Merullo’s lap.
“Keep this on you at all times. We’ll be in touch.”
Morgan turned to leave.
“Hey!” He held up his hands, still restrained. “You gonna leave me like this?”
Morgan opened the front door. “You’re a tough guy. You’ll figure something out.”
Chapter 70
By the time the single working elevator dinged its arrival on the nineteenth floor of the Acevedo building, everyone but Alex Morgan had already gotten off.
“I’m here to see Mr. McGovern,” Alex said to the receptionist.
She peered out the window, from which she could see the Charles River in the distance. The Acevedo building towered over most others in downtown Boston, and she was very near the top.
As a Deputy Vice President, her quarry, Leonard McGovern was an important man.
“Oh, are you the student?” The receptionist was perky and friendly and there was a slight condescension to her voice. Good. Being underestimated was its own kind of power. “Please, take a seat.” She motioned at some leather office chairs to her left. “Can I get you anything while you wait?”
“I’m good, thank you so much.”
Alex nestled into a comfy leather couch, arm around her purse at her side. She had nothing of her usual sporty look today. Instead, she looked the part of a student angling for an interview—gray herringbone pantsuit, hair in a neat cl
ip, and even—gasp—makeup.
Alex’s phone vibrated. Message from Simon.
Is it time yet?
She typed back to him:
Hold your horses. I’m still waiting to be called in.
She felt the familiar flutter in her gut, that blend of fear and excitement she lived for. She distracted herself by taking in the surroundings. The office this high up was a long way from the plywood and gray walls of the worker drones. Through her mother’s professional eyes, Alex saw everything that made the decor expensive: the bold color scheme in clashing metallic colors, furniture made out of real wood, and the sprinkling of flowers, orchids and crocuses and Spathiphyllum.
“Mr. McGovern will see you now.”
The inner office had an open plan, with a couple of closed-off conference rooms and private offices against two sides of the building, among which was McGovern’s, light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows on Alex’s right.
Alex played up the difficulty of walking on her crutches as the receptionist led her to her destination. Another rather surly receptionist opened the door marked with McGovern’s name.
“Please, come in,” McGovern said. “Alex, right?”
McGovern was a bald man with yellowed teeth and a shiny nose. He had a friendly but overeager manner. Alex liked him right away, which didn’t make the assignment any easier.
“Thank you so much for seeing me, Mr. McGovern.”
McGovern’s office had a sprawling view of the North End’s chaotic mass of red brick buildings and the water beyond, shimmering in the sun.
The receptionist pulled out the chair for Alex—an Eames Mesh, if she wasn’t mistaken. Worth about fifteen hundred each.
“It’s always a pleasure to talk to an alumna. Go Raptors!”
Alex pumped a fist. “Boola boola.”
“Would you like anything?”
“Oh, I don’t want to impose.”
“Oh, goodness, it’s no imposition! Agnes, get me a coffee, and for Alex . . . ?”
“A water, please. Thanks so much.”
Agnes left to collect the drinks and McGovern turned his full attention to Alex, resting his jaw on the heel of his hand. “Now, what can I do you for?”
Alex played the role of the enthusiastic future corporate climber. “I have so many questions, I’d hardly know where to begin.”
“You’re interested in management as a career, is that right?”
“I just like to get things done.” She did her best simulation of starry eyes. “Like, give me a spreadsheet and data and watch me entertain myself for hours.”
Agnes returned to the office and set a mug of coffee in front of McGovern and a glass of water for Alex.
“Well, that’s certainly good to hear.” He put two lumps of sugar in the coffee, just like they’d told her he would. “It’s a never-ending challenge,” he said, stirring the liquid with a spoon. “There’s something new to deal with every day.
“I’ll bet.”
He took a sip of his coffee and exhaled hard. “Hot.”
She reached in her pocket and sent Simon the signal message they’d prearranged.
Seconds later, McGovern’s cell rang. Polemarch had rigged it so that the call would appear as coming from the CEO.
“I’m sorry. I’m going to have to take this. Could you just give me a minute?”
Alex shifted, making a big show of collecting her crutches, making herself seem about fifty percent more incompetent than she really was. “You know what?” he said as he stood. “Stay put. I’ll take this outside. Would you excuse me?”
He walked out of the office. That was her cue.
She reached into her purse and opened the mint tin inside. She popped the lid and turned it over onto her palm. The tiny pill rolled in the grooves of her hand. She took it between her finger and thumb and, stretching forward, dropped it into the mug of coffee. She picked up the spoon and stirred, watching it dissolve as readily as the sugar had.
Alex started in her seat when the door opened. Amateur.
“How strange,” said McGovern to himself. “Anyway, where were we?” She watched as he slurped his coffee, ending with a lip smack and an aaah.
“You were just telling me about the challenges of working in management.”
“Ah, yes,” Another sip of coffee, which Alex now noticed he used to stall for time as he was thinking of something to say. That’s what her father might call actionable information. Ask complex questions, make him drink. “You have to have the creativity of an artist, you know, and, and”—another sip—“and the discipline of a long-distance runner. You know what I mean?”
“I think I get the picture,” she said. “So what would you say is your favorite part of this job?”
“Helping people.” Slurp. “It’s knowing that my work is going to impact the lives of the literally millions of people that benefit from the products that we ship around the world.” Slurp. “But the best part is the work we do with the US military. We provide support for—for operations in—”
Sweat was forming on his bald head. He kept rubbing the nape of his neck and fidgeting with objects on his desk. She could hear his breathing as it grew shallow and rapid.
“Are you okay, Mr. McGovern?”
“So sorry,” he said, just about jumping to his feet. “Excuse me for a moment.”
He sprinted out of his office. Alex saw Agnes stand at her desk and stare as he ran down the hallway. Alex didn’t see him go into the bathroom as the door to his office swung shut.
She was alone. McGovern wouldn’t be back for a few more minutes, at least. And there it was, his computer, open and logged on. Yahtzee.
Alex turned the monitor to face her and pulled the wireless mouse and keyboard where she could use them. She opened a browser window in private mode and then typed in the complex URL she had committed to memory for the purposes of this mission.
She hit Enter.
The screen only flashed the text THANK YOU, and the browser window shut itself down.
The door handle turned and Alex looked up, startled. It was Agnes, the receptionist. Alex looked guilty as hell, keyboard on her lap, monitor turned 180 degrees from its usual position. No use acting innocent.
“Um, I’m sorry, I just really needed to check my e-mail,” she said. “Phone went dead.” She held up her cell phone with a helpless shrug.
The assistant looked at her with narrowed eyes. Had she seen something? Did she suspect?
“You kids,” she clucked. “Can’t disconnect for five minutes.”
“I’ve just been expecting this e-mail—”
“Don’t explain. Just don’t do it again.” She seemed nervous, like she was afraid her boss would blame her for not preventing Alex’s transgression. “I’m afraid Mr. McGovern appears to be ill. He asked whether he might be able to reschedule another day.”
“Oh, no problem at all,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear he’s not feeling well.”
“Do me a favor and don’t leave any sign that you used his computer,” she said. “Mr. McGovern is very protective of his privacy.”
“Oh, of course. Not a trace, I promise.”
“All right, dear. Can I help you with those?” She motioned toward the crutches.
“Oh, no, I’ve gotten pretty good at it. Watch.” She got up off the chair in a half-graceful motion. “It’s done wonders for my upper arms.”
Agnes held the door open for Alex. “Thank you so much,” Alex said as she hobbled through. “Should I e-mail about setting up another date?”
“Please do. We’ll be in touch.”
Alex grinned as she moved away. “Most definitely.”
Alex settled into the passenger seat of Simon’s beater 1996 Corolla. Her skin was tingling, but she kept her poker face while they were still in view of the Acevedo Tower.
He set off down Water Street.
“Did you do it?” he asked.
She waited until they reached the corner and laughed in
exhilaration. “It’s done, baby.”
“Wow.” Simon took a left on Kilby. “We really did it. Were you scared? Did he—”
He was interrupted by Alex’s ringing phone. “Shut up, it’s gotta be Polemarch.” She answered in speakerphone. “Hello?”
“You’ve done well. We’ve gained access to McGovern’s computer. This is an important piece in our ongoing operation. With your help, we’re going to bring down Acevedo.”
“Heck yeah,” said Simon.
“This is all I’ll need from you at the moment. Stand by for further contact.”
He hung up. Alex squealed in joy. “Simon! We’re in! We’re doing it!”
Things had never felt more right for Alex Morgan.
Chapter 71
Morgan woke up in the Barracks—what they called the room lined with bunk beds adjoining the Zeta gym. With nothing to go home for—Jenny gone, Neika at a dog sitter’s—he had spent the night there. It must have been morning, but underground that didn’t mean much.
He took a shower and was pulling on denim pants when Shepard called him from the hallway outside. “Come out when you can. I’ve got something for you.”
He put on a shirt and walked out into the War Room, where Bloch was waiting, arms crossed, leaning on the table by Shepard. “Merullo got in touch with us earlier this morning,” she said. “The Legion has made contact.”
“Can we trace them?” Morgan asked.
“No,” said Shepard. “Not even the NSA can crack deep web encryption.”
“What did Merullo say?”
“They want to meet,” Bloch said. “Today. In about an hour and a half at the Common.”
“It’s a trap.”
“It’s definitely a trap,” said Shepard, swiveling in his chair.
“So we set our own,” said Morgan. “We scatter tactical around the Common and see what crops up when I show. Unless,” he said to Bloch, “you’ve got a problem with this.”
“I’ve already called in tactical,” she said. “I know when a risk is worth taking, Morgan. And this one is.”
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