“You got your rules, Cole has his,” Sandoval said. “It didn’t matter where you stored your witness. He was as good as dead.”
Harper’s whole life had been dedicated to the Program, to the belief that any witness can be protected. From anyone other than maybe God Himself. You do what you’re told, you’ll be safe. He’d been telling that to witnesses and their families for decades and he’d always believed it. Because it was always true.
Always.
But now McLaren’s body was proof that there’s no such thing as always and that everything he’d based his career on was a lie. Today, Bruce Harper was standing in the middle of the Program’s first failure, the proof of that still soaked into the carpet beneath his feet.
“If you have all the answers,” Harper said, “share them with the whole class. Darius Cole is at Terre Haute, one of the most secure facilities in the country.”
“He could have reached out from the fucking moon.”
Harper shook his head. “He’s not the first criminal with contacts on the outside. How did he find out where we were keeping McLaren? That doesn’t happen, Detective. Ever.”
“That’s something you’re going to have to find out for yourself,” Sandoval said. “All I know is, if you’ve got one marshal with a weakness, Cole has already found him.”
Harper’s mind was already racing through the possibilities. Already making a list of every marshal, deputy marshal, administrator, anyone who might have had access to this information.
It wasn’t a long list.
Unless the leak was here. In Chicago.
He hated to even think it, but it was unavoidable: If you had to pick one city to find the one compromised marshal in the country, which city would you honestly choose?
“So what about the shooter?” Harper said. “You got a name for me or are you just here to say, ‘I told you so’?”
“I can give you a name. Or I can do even better, take you to his house.”
Harper looked at him. “Are you serious, Detective? Because I’m really not up for any more—”
“I know you’re already having a bad day,” Sandoval said. “But when you see where this guy lives, you’re gonna lose your breakfast.”
5
The burner cell phone that Darius Cole would use to call Nick Mason that morning had already changed hands five times on its way to his prison cell.
It had started its journey in a carton of cigarettes that was dropped into the northwest corner of the yard by a remote-controlled four-blade drone after a one-mile flight from its launch vehicle parked on the banks of the Wabash River. The carton contained six ounces of loosely packed marijuana—that was the throwaway payload, strictly for show. The CO stationed on the night shift perimeter post retrieved the carton and removed the marijuana, weighed it and carefully logged it in, before handing it over to the contraband team. He held back the cell phone, the ten hundred-dollar bills, and the dozen fentanyl patches that were also hidden inside the carton, placing the phone, the patches, and five of the bills beneath the seat of his patrol vehicle. The remaining bills he put in his pocket.
The day shift CO in charge of maintaining the patrol vehicles removed the other five bills from beneath the seat and put those in his pocket. Then he put the cell phone and the fentanyl patches in a plain manila envelope and dropped it in the big white mail crate.
A few minutes later, an inmate trustee sorted that mail onto his cart, placing the manila envelope beneath the other mail headed to the Special Housing Unit. But before leaving the mail room, he opened the envelope and removed two of the fentanyl patches. He reached down and placed one on the inside of each thigh. The patches would deliver a continuous seventy-two-hour double dose of synthetic opiate bliss. More than ample payment for making one extra delivery.
The trustee was feeling just about perfect by the time he got to the Special Housing Unit. That’s where most of Terre Haute’s high-profile inmates were kept, and some of those had “special needs” that were addressed there: larger cells, natural light, and better food than the rest of the inmates ate—hell, better than the guards ate.
The grateful inmate who received the unmarked envelope removed the remaining fentanyl patches, and then, as the final step of the journey, walked the phone over to the private cell of Darius Cole. Cole had no use for the patches, of course. He didn’t need any kind of chemical high to escape this prison, at least in his mind. The cell phone was the inmate’s payment to Cole in exchange for Cole’s permission to sell the fentanyl to other inmates in SHU.
Cole had been using cell phones at USP Terre Haute ever since he arrived in 2005. But when the president signed the Cell Phone Contraband Act of 2010, some bureaucrat made it his singular mission in life to decrease the number of cell phones in the prison. As in any open market anywhere, the only thing this succeeded in doing was driving up the price. From stocks on Wall Street to drugs on the street, the principle was the same. If you make it hard to get, you don’t stop it. You just make it more profitable.
When another bureaucrat decided to move the focus back to the flow of illegal drugs, the cell phone market was suddenly flooded. Cole figured half the men in his Special Housing Unit had them that year. Even if you didn’t, you could still buy phone time for a dollar a minute. Then a gang member incarcerated in Baltimore got caught ordering a hit from his cell and suddenly the market was tight again. He couldn’t even rely on one of the guards he kept in his back pocket to bring one in from the outside.
Cole inspected the new phone, made sure it got reception, made sure it was compatible with at least one of the chargers he already had in his cell. Then he dismissed the inmate and dialed ten digits from memory.
• • •
THREE HUNDRED MILES NORTH, Diana Rivelli looked down at the man who lived in her town house, wondering if he was still alive. She had found him when she had come home from work after midnight—he was lying on the couch, his shirt off and bandages wrapped around his neck and right shoulder. Whatever had happened to him, his breathing was shallow, and there was a thin spot of blood coming through the white fabric.
He was still here when she had woken up this morning, hadn’t moved an inch. Diana had sat watching him for almost two hours, waiting to see if he would wake up, wondering if there was anything she could do for him. Not for the first time, she asked herself how he had ended up here, this stranger who slept on the other side of the house, who answered his cell phone and then disappeared without a word.
Diana was dressed for work, already late, and wondering if the staff at Antonia’s would be ready for the lunch rush. But Mason still hadn’t moved. She put one hand on his neck, felt his pulse, kept her hand pressed against his skin for one beat longer, feeling the warmth of his body.
I don’t want to know what happened to him, she told herself. It was a rule she followed, one of many that kept her life in order: Never ask where Mason goes. Never ask what he does.
From somewhere underneath him, she heard his cell phone ringing. Mason stirred, and before he could open his eyes, Diana was already gone.
• • •
AS SOON AS MASON lifted his head, he felt the stitches pull at the skin of his shoulder. He winced in pain and grabbed for the phone, hit the button, and put the phone to his ear. “What do you want, Quintero?”
“Were you as sloppy last night as you are on the phone right now?” Cole asked. “Using a name? And the wrong name at that?”
The instantly recognizable voice jolted Mason upright. He was in the living room, on the couch, had never even made it to his bed. It was just after nine. He’d slept maybe seven hours.
“What happened last night?” Cole asked. It was only the second time he’d ever called Mason directly. “I don’t like what I’m hearing.”
Mason got to his feet slowly, head spinning. He went into the bathroom with the phone still pressed to his ear. He looked at his taped-up shoulder and the multicolored streaks that ran right up his neck.
&
nbsp; “Are you listening to me?”
“I’m right here.”
Mason left the bathroom, went to the refrigerator, and opened it. He was dying for orange juice, settled on a bottle of Goose Island Ale.
“I hit the target,” Mason said. “Then I got out. As soon as I heal up, I’ll be—”
“You’re not focusing on the problem you created.”
“You mean getting shot?” Mason said. “That problem?”
“The fuck you want, a Purple Heart?” Cole asked. “I’ve been shot four times.”
Mason closed the double-door refrigerator and opened the beer. The town house was quiet, like most mornings. His roommate Diana must have already left for the restaurant, preparing for the lunch rush. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had talked to her.
“I did what you told me to do,” Mason said. “Why are you calling?”
He walked out of the kitchen to the deck and stood at the railing as the video camera watched him, the red light blinking. A constant reminder of where he was, even if Mason rarely thought about it anymore. The surface of the pool was rippled by a soft wind coming off the lake.
“I called you,” Cole said, “to let you know what had to happen next.”
That’s the moment Mason should have known something was about to go wrong. But he was distracted as he looked down at the street.
Just below the town house ran Lincoln Park West, then the park itself with its zoo and botanical gardens. Beyond that was Lake Michigan, glittering in the morning sunlight. A perfect, five-million-dollar scene, but today Mason saw only one thing:
A black sedan parked on the street.
“I’ve had enough women in my life,” Cole said. “Only one or two I really cared about.”
Mason saw the window roll down. A face looked up at him. No attempt to hide.
The man who had sent him to Terre Haute, who five years later had sat across from him in Diana’s restaurant and promised that he’d send him back. Who had taken the flash drive with information about the corrupt SIS crew from him, had used it to bring down the entire task force, and had still promised him that nothing would ever change between them.
Detective Frank Sandoval.
“You got to put business first. Way it’s got to be.”
Sandoval nodded his head. He was talking to someone else in the car, an older man with the hard face of a veteran. Both of them looked up at him through the windshield.
Mason raised his beer bottle to Sandoval in mock salute.
“Are you there?”
“Yes.” He put the bottle down and turned away from the railing.
“I didn’t ask you to do this yourself.”
Mason stopped dead. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a loose end. I can’t have it.”
Everything else faded into the background. There was nothing but the sound of one man’s voice coming to him through the air from a prison cell in another state.
“She’s got nothing to do with this,” Mason said. “She’s not going to—”
“You went to her apartment. You bled all over her floor, and today she’s reading about what happened downtown.”
Mason tightened his grip on the phone. “Listen to me. She knows I have another life …”
“If that’s true, then we already had a problem.”
“She doesn’t know anything else,” Mason said. “There’s no reason to—”
“This is on you,” Cole said. “You caused this when you went over there. Remember that.”
Mason heard a click and then nothing but dead air. He quickly dialed Lauren’s number. It rang a few times, then went to voicemail.
“Get away from wherever you are,” Mason said. “Right now. Go someplace safe. And call me.”
Mason wondered if she’d even live to hear the message or if she was already dead. He struggled into some clothes, gritting his teeth as he worked the shirt over his shoulder. Running down to the garage, he opened the door and saw …
Nothing.
Fuck.
Mason had left his car at Lauren’s place the night before and, as Quintero had promised, it was long gone by now, at the chop shop, cut into pieces.
He went out to the street. I’ll make Sandoval take me to her, he thought. I don’t care what he says.
But the parking spot was empty, and he barely caught a glimpse of the black sedan as it disappeared around the corner. He scanned the street for another moving car.
Nothing.
Mason started running, feeling the sharp pain in his shoulder with every step. The pet shop was over a mile away.
Please be there, he thought. Be in that shop, standing behind the counter. You didn’t answer your phone because you were busy with a customer.
He ran down Lincoln Park West and rounded the corner. Another two blocks and he saw the pet shop. His head was spinning as he got to the door and pushed it open.
There was a woman behind the counter. But it wasn’t Lauren.
“Can I help you?”
“Where is she? Where’s Lauren?”
“Not here today. She asked me to—”
Mason went back outside. He saw a taxi coming down the street, ran out, and nearly got himself run over by a car coming the other way. He ignored the honking, stopped the cab, got in the back. Gave the driver the address, pulled out his cell phone.
“Hurry,” he told the driver as he waited for the call to go through. “Don’t stop for anything.”
The call went to voicemail again. He ended the call and tried Quintero. The phone kept ringing. No voicemail.
Fuck. He’s there right now.
He dialed one more number. The restaurant. He asked for Diana, told the man it was an emergency.
“I need you to go somewhere,” he said to her as soon as she got on the line.
“Nick, I’m working.”
“It’s important. I’m going to give you an address.”
He gave her the number on Addison Street, told her to get there as soon as she could. Then he hung up and tried Lauren again. Voicemail.
He pictured Quintero in her apartment. Just like last night, only now he was alone with her.
I did this, Mason said to himself. I brought this into her life. And now her life is over.
“Go faster,” Mason told the cabdriver. “I’ll pay you anything. Just get me there.”
The driver threw up his hands. He was stuck at a light with nowhere to go. Mason started calculating how long it would take him to run there, assuming he didn’t pass out. But then the light changed and the cab moved again. They found some open space on Clark Street, made a good run until it was time to cut in on Addison. As soon as the car stopped again for a light, Mason threw some money over the seat and was out of the car before the wheels stopped moving.
Mason ran the last four blocks down Addison, crossing the intersections in front of cars that barely missed him.
When he got to the building, he saw the black Escalade parked out front.
I’m too late.
He used his key to open the front door, went up the steps two at a time. The door to her apartment was ajar and he could hear Max barking from somewhere inside. He pushed the door open and was hit by the smell of bleach. He looked down at the hardwood floor in the hallway, realized she must have been up half the night cleaning up his blood.
The dog kept barking. He looked around the corner. The living room was empty.
Where are they?
When he went into the bedroom, he saw Quintero sitting on Lauren’s bed. Mason froze, and the two men locked eyes for a long moment. The dog barked again, breaking the spell. He was next door in the spare room Lauren used as an office.
“You don’t want to be here,” Quintero said.
“I’m not letting you do this,” Mason said. It was an obscenity that this man was here in the room, touching her bed.
“That’s not how this is going to work, Mason. You know what I have to do
.”
Mason heard a noise in the bathroom, realized it was the shower being turned off. Quintero had been sitting here, waiting for her.
“I don’t kill women in the shower,” Quintero said, as if reading Mason’s mind.
“You’re not killing anyone today.”
As Quintero stood up, he picked up the gun that had been lying on the bed behind him out of view. It was a black Sig semiautomatic with a suppressor screwed into the barrel.
“It’s already done,” Quintero said, pointing the barrel at Mason’s chest. “Don’t make this worse.”
“Go ahead,” Mason said. “Kill me, too. Then you can tell Cole you’ll be taking over my job.”
The door to the bathroom opened. Quintero looked away for an instant, just long enough for Mason to grab the barrel of the gun and pull. The gun went off, the sound dampened by the suppressor, and the slug going right through the soft wood of the closet door. As Quintero pulled back, Mason went with him, heard Lauren’s scream as he rolled all the way over the bed, onto the floor. Quintero shoved his fingers into Mason’s bullet wound, making him cry out in pain. But he didn’t let go of the gun.
The two men remained locked together, the gun held at an impasse between them. Mason knew he didn’t have the strength to hold on. Not today. Quintero’s face was above him, the face that represented everything in his life that he had no control over, and now as he felt his hands slipping from the gun he wondered if this face would be the last thing he’d ever see.
But then another face came into view. Lauren, standing above and behind them. She had on a white robe and was holding something, a silver pole, which she wielded like a sword. Lauren raised the pole above her head, then brought it down hard on Quintero’s back. The man’s eyes went wide, and the breath left his body, as Lauren swung the pole again, this time hitting him square in the back of the head.
Mason grabbed the gun from him, was about to turn it, when the pole swung one more time and hit him in the shoulder. He almost blacked out then, almost dropped the gun and lost everything, but he held on and waited for his vision to clear.
“Stop,” he said to Lauren. “It’s okay, I’ve got him.”
He kept the barrel of the suppressor pointed at Quintero as he slowly got up. When Quintero moved, he jabbed it in the man’s stomach.
Exit Strategy Page 4