by Chris Holm
“Huh,” Cameron said.
“What?”
“Well, as a matter of course, I’ve been cross-referencing every address we pull up running tags with local tax records.”
“And?”
“And the address on Walters’s registration doesn’t seem to exist.”
That clinches it, Hendricks thought—Evie really is inside. He hoped she was all right. He wondered how long she’d been waiting. He wondered if she was alone or if Stuart had come with her. He wondered—guilt and hope battling—if Stuart even knew she was here.
“That’s the one we’ve been looking for,” he said. “I’m going in.”
“I thought you said I’d go in first to scope the place out before you risked it,” she said, disappointment evident in her tone.
It’s true; he had said that. Cameron made the perfect scout. No one was looking for her. No one would suspect her of working with Hendricks, because there was no obvious connection between them. But he couldn’t stomach the notion of making Evie wait any longer than she already had—or of Cameron somehow spooking her.
“Yeah, well, the plan’s changed.”
He climbed down from the plow gingerly, stitches pulling, and flipped up the hood on his sweatshirt. Then he trudged across the road, hands thrust deep into his sweatshirt pockets, one of which contained Pappas’s .45. The truckers smoking out front eyed him suspiciously when he materialized from the darkness. Hendricks nodded at them as he walked by.
Inside, the restaurant smelled of grease. The floor was institutional tile, scuffed and dulled by wear. The booths and bar stools were emerald-green vinyl. The bar and tables were a matching green veneer that was meant to look like marble but mostly looked dirty. Fox News played on the television in the corner—muted, mercifully. A live shot of the Golden Gate was green-screened in behind the talking heads. It was nearing midnight on the West Coast, but crews still struggled to quell the fires and evacuate the bridge. Plumes of smoke and steam were lit from within by fire and emergency lights.
A cook at the griddle. Neck beard, T-shirt, apron, ponytail. Two men at the bar. One fat and sagging in his stool, ass crack visible between his untucked work shirt and filthy jeans. The other all hard angles—knees, elbows, nose, and Adam’s apple—a skinny leg bouncing as he hunched over his coffee. A married couple who looked as if they hauled freight together made quiet conversation over two plates of chicken-fried steak. Every one of them tense, jumpy, worry-lined.
And then he saw her.
The problem was, it was the wrong her.
Not Evie.
Special Agent Charlotte Thompson.
She held a cup of coffee in both hands. Her eyes were trained on Hendricks as he froze, unsure, in the middle of the dining room.
She heaved a sigh. “Relax,” she said. “I’m alone.” If anyone else heard her, they didn’t bother to acknowledge it. He approached the booth cautiously, mindful of any hint of movement in his peripheral vision that might signal agents closing in, and remained standing.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“That’s a long story.”
“Shorten it.”
“It kinda resists shortening. Sit down—I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and explain.”
“Do you still work for the FBI?”
“Yes.”
“Am I still on their Most Wanted list?”
“Yes.”
“Then I think I’ll buy my own damn coffee somewhere else, thanks.”
He turned to go.
“Wait!” Thompson called. “Please.”
He paused. Looked back at her over his shoulder. His instincts screamed at him to run. His knife wound just plain screamed as his torso twisted.
“Give me one good reason,” Hendricks said. “One good reason why I shouldn’t get as far away from here—and you—as possible.”
She swallowed hard. Her brow furrowed. Hendricks thought that she seemed nervous. “Look,” she said, “the Bureau doesn’t know I’m here. No one does. If I were to die tonight…to disappear…”
“I have no reason to kill you,” he said sharply, disgusted by her insinuation.
“I know that. I do. I just want you to understand the risk I’m taking, meeting with you. My career—my life—is in your hands.”
“Yeah, but why? If you’re so afraid of me, why come here?”
“Because I have no one else to turn to. Because I need your help.”
15.
WHEN THOMPSON LEFT the New Haven field office in her Ford Escape, she’d headed south as promised, toward DC. But once she passed Trenton, New Jersey, she got off I-95 and jagged west toward Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
Verdant fields unspooled on either side of Thompson as she sped through the twilit countryside. The sunset beckoned like a signal flare, pink fading to indigo as she drove. The sky seemed so much bigger out here than it did in DC. The tallest man-made structures were grain silos. Trees were mostly relegated to the scruffy borders between vast swaths of farmland. Hay bales cast long shadows across the fields.
Eventually, she rocked to a halt on a winding country road beside a modest ranch-style house, tidy but in need of paint. Petunias hung in baskets on the porch. A garden occupied the side yard, encircled by protective mesh. Tomato plants rustled in the evening breeze.
The house was lit, inside and out. The curtains were drawn. They parted slightly when Thompson pulled up and fell closed before she got out of the car.
She crossed the lawn—dry grass crunching underfoot—and scaled the porch steps. But before she had a chance to knock, a man behind her spoke.
“Hands where I can see them.”
Thompson complied.
“Good. Now turn around real slow.”
When Thompson turned, she found herself looking down the barrel of a shotgun. Its matte-gray finish gleamed dully in the glow of the porch light.
“If you mean to use that thing,” she said, “you’d do well to hold it tightly to your shoulder. Loose like that against your bicep, you’re likely to miss me—even at this range—and maybe break your arm in the process.”
“Charlie?”
“Evening, Stuart.”
He lowered the shotgun. “Jesus, Charlie, you scared the hell out of us!” Then, louder: “Evie, you can come on out—it’s Charlie!”
The front door opened, and Evelyn Walker stepped outside. She looked beautiful, if harried, in a floral sundress, her hair in a haphazard bun. Her face was sun-kissed, her eyes tired. An apple-cheeked baby was propped on her hip.
Three years ago, Thompson began investigating a new hitman on the scene, one who seemed to go after only other hitters. He was talented, elusive. Always avoided or disabled surveillance cams. Never left fingerprints or DNA. At first, her fellow agents doubted his existence and took to calling him Charlie’s ghost. But eventually, the evidence Charlie amassed was undeniable.
Thompson had assumed he was working for some upstart criminal organization intent on taking out the competition. She was wrong.
Last year, their paths crossed at a casino in Kansas City. She was there tailing a hitter by the name of Leonwood. Her mystery hitman was doing the same. Neither of them realized that Leonwood was bait, intended to draw her ghost out so an assassin called Engelmann could kill him.
Thanks to Engelmann, the casino op went pear-shaped. More than thirty people were killed. Thompson would have been one of them if her ghost hadn’t compromised his anonymity to save her life.
When Engelmann discovered his quarry’s identity, he beelined for Hendricks’s former fiancée, Evelyn Walker. Hendricks beat him to her but was forced to divulge that the report of his death was a lie and that he killed people for a living. Though he eventually dispatched Engelmann, he couldn’t guarantee Evie’s continued safety, so he coerced Thompson into putting Evie and her family into WITSEC.
“My goodness,” Thompson said. “Is that Lucy? She’s so big!”
“Eight months old next week,” Ev
ie said.
“Is she crawling yet?”
“Oh yeah. She’s motoring around like a champ. Poor Abby can’t keep up with her.” Abigail was the Walkers’ bulldog, and upon hearing her name, she toddled out onto the porch, her stubby tail wagging.
“She’ll be driving in no time,” Thompson said.
Evie flashed her a wan smile. “I’m guessing you didn’t stop by just to check up on the baby.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Then maybe you should come inside and tell us what brought you all this way.”
They went inside, and Evie gestured for Thompson to take a seat. Lucy fussed in Evie’s arms and let out a cry. “Looks like it’s past time for someone to go to bed. Stu, how about you get our guest something to drink while I put Lucy down?”
“Sure thing. What can I get you, Charlie? Coffee? Water? Iced tea?”
“Actually,” Thompson replied, “I’d love a beer, if you have one.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I thought agents couldn’t drink on duty.”
“I’m not exactly on duty.”
Stuart headed to the kitchen and returned with two longneck PBRs. He handed one to Thompson. She twisted off the cap and took a sip.
“So,” Evie said when she returned, “what can we do for you?”
They sat in awkward silence for a moment. Thompson drank her beer and wondered how to begin.
“First of all,” she said, “you have to understand I’m not here in any official capacity. In fact, if the Bureau ever finds out I was here, I’ll be out of a job—maybe even arrested.”
“I don’t understand,” Evie said. “What exactly is this about?”
Thompson sighed. “Stuart, would you mind giving us a little privacy?”
“Me and Evie are a team. Anything you say to her, you can say to me.”
Thompson looked Evie in the eye. Evie nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Evie, I need you to help me get in touch with Michael Hendricks.”
Stuart’s face contorted with disgust. “You mean the asshole who blew up our house and forced us into hiding?”
“Easy, Stu,” said Evie. “That’s not helping.” Then she returned her attention to Thompson. “Why do you need to get in touch with him?”
“Have you seen the news today?”
“Yes. It’s terrible. But you can’t possibly think Michael had anything to do with it.”
“No, of course not. But there’s a cell-phone video of the attack going around, and the man who took it is in danger. Years ago, he turned state’s evidence against some very dangerous and powerful criminals. They attempted to kill him before he could testify. Until today, everyone—good guys and bad—thought they’d succeeded. Now that he’s resurfaced, I think they’ll try to kill him again, and I can’t let that happen. I need Michael to protect him.”
“You’re not serious,” Stuart said.
“Unfortunately, I am.”
“Why can’t you do it? You’re FBI, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’ve been ordered not to. The Bureau’s spread too thin. Until we catch the bastards who attacked us, my hands are tied.”
Evie frowned. “Even if I wanted to help you, what makes you think I have the faintest idea how?”
Thompson sighed. “Because for months, you refused to testify against Michael, and then suddenly, you agreed. Because I happen to know he wanted you to accept federal protection, even if that meant cooperating with us to build our case. Because…” she began, and then she glanced at Stuart, uncertain if she should verbalize the rest. Because despite everything, you still care about him. But she didn’t need to. Evie caught her meaning and silenced her with a glance.
“This is bullshit,” Stuart said. “You can’t just show up here and accuse my wife of—”
“Stu, don’t. She’s right. Michael and I have been in touch.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? After everything he put us through?”
“It’s not that simple, Stuart. He saved our lives. And whether you like it or not, he and I have a history. Besides, it’s not like we’ve been secret pen pals. He reached out a few months ago to insist I take the deal the Feds were offering. Told me not to lie or hold back to protect him. Said it was the only way for me to keep my family safe. So I did. For Lucy. For you.”
“And to feed his fucking martyr complex,” Stuart snapped.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it? Sorry, Evie, but your ex-boyfriend’s not some tortured soldier with a heart of gold—he’s a bugfuck whackadoo who murders people for money. The sooner you come to grips with that, the better.”
“Fiancé,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Stuart—indignant.
“He’s not my ex-boyfriend. He’s my ex-fiancé.”
Stuart shook with rage. He cocked his arm back and threw his bottle at the wall. It exploded, raining glass and suds, and Thompson’s hand moved by instinct toward her gun, but Stuart was already halfway to the back door. He banged it open hard enough to shake the house and disappeared into the night.
Tears shone in Evie’s eyes. Abigail cowered at her feet. Down the hall, Lucy began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Thompson said. “The last thing I wanted was to drive a wedge between you two. Believe me, if I had any other choice, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Don’t worry about Stuart. He’ll come around. He just needs time.”
“I hope so,” Thompson replied, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Do you swear that you’re not playing me? Because if you are—”
“I’m not. I swear.”
“And you really think that Michael can protect this man?”
“I honestly don’t know, but if anybody can, it’s him.”
Evie wiped her eyes and nodded.
“Okay,” she said, “I’m in.”
16.
HENDRICKS SLID INTO the booth opposite Thompson. She raised her mug to her lips and sipped, then set it down again but left both hands wrapped around it. It was a calculated gesture, he knew, intended to call attention to the fact that she was unarmed. Hendricks’s own hands remained thrust deep into his sweatshirt pockets, his right palm sweaty against the diamond grip of his stolen .45.
“That Evie’s truck out there?” he asked.
“Yeah. I thought you’d bolt if you saw my car, so I borrowed it.”
“Is she okay?”
“Evie’s fine. She sends her regards.”
Hendricks hesitated. “And the baby?”
“Beautiful,” Thompson said. “Just like her mother. Stuart says hello,” she added.
“Somehow,” Hendricks replied, “I think you got his message wrong.”
A waitress shuffled over to take his order, her tired eyes, oily skin, and frizzy hair suggesting that she’d been on shift since dinner.
Hendricks asked for coffee, black. In his earpiece, Cameron said, “Ooh—get me some!” Truth be told, he’d forgotten she was still on the line. He reached up and tapped the button on the earpiece to terminate the call. Thompson arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
Once the waitress delivered Hendricks’s coffee and retreated out of earshot, Hendricks said, “I’m listening.”
“I assume you know what happened in San Francisco.”
“Yeah. I saw. It’s awful. How are rescue efforts going?”
“Slowly, from what I’m told. Structural damage has made clearing the debris difficult. The wrong move could be catastrophic.”
“What about this True Islamic Caliphate? I confess I’d never heard of them before today. You have a bead on them yet? Any idea what else they might have planned?”
“We’re pursuing a number of leads,” she said—a rote response. As Thompson heard her own words, she rolled her eyes and slumped a little in her seat. “Oh, to hell with it. Who’re you going to tell? Truthfully, until today’s attack, those mopes were barely even on our radar. Nobody thought they had the know-how—or the stone
s—to pull this off. Which means we’re stuck playing catch-up, and we have no idea when or where they might hit next.”
“I imagine finding these bastards is the Bureau’s sole priority right now,” he said. Thompson nodded in assent. “Which begs the question: Why are you here talking to me?”
“Have you seen the cell-phone video the networks have been playing?”
“Of course,” he replied. “Who hasn’t?”
“The old man holding the camera is a former mobster by the name of Frank Segreti. Seven years ago, he walked into our Albuquerque field office, half mad and badly injured, and demanded to speak with the special agent in charge. I was manning the front desk at the time. It was late. Storming. The guy was so bedraggled, I figured he was just some crazy homeless person trying to get out of the rain. I summoned security. He incapacitated them without breaking a sweat. Then he put one of their sidearms to my head and demanded that I call my boss. Once I did, he put the gun down and surrendered.”
“What did he want?”
“Revenge. Protection. An audience to hear his tale. Understand, I wasn’t present when they questioned him, and his file’s so locked down, I still don’t have clearance to see all of it, but I got an earful when I escorted him three hours south to an FBI safe house in Las Cruces. He claimed there was a shadow organization—some kind of criminal UN, to hear him tell it—operating in secret within the United States. That every major outfit in the country had a seat at the table. That you couldn’t move so much as a kilo of coke within the contiguous forty-eight without their say-so. He said he’d worked for them for years. That he was their top lieutenant. He called himself the Devil’s Red Right Hand.”
As Hendricks listened, his mouth went dry. As casually as he could manage, he asked, “What did he say this organization was called?”
“Understand, we’ve never been able to confirm his story, but he said they called themselves the Council.” She sized him up for a sec, her gaze burrowing into him. “That name mean anything to you?”
There was no point lying, he realized. She knew it did. She could see it in his body language, in the dilation of his pupils. “Yes.”