Inside Out

  70

  Richmond, Virginia

  Just before dawn, a gray van edged to the curb across the street from the pay phone that Sean had used to make a couple of calls four hours earlier. Until after those calls were made, the hunter in the van had never heard of Sean Devlin, and even now he had no idea what she had done to warrant his attention.

  The hunter, known as Hawk, had taken a leased jet from Memphis, arriving an hour after his assigned partner, a man he had never met, who'd had the necessary vehicles waiting when he arrived.

  He stared out at the stretch of street and studied the environment surrounding his prey. He opened the envelope, slipped out its contents, and flipped through the pictures, physical description, and background information he had downloaded before he left home.

  He lifted his secure cell phone, keyed in a number, waited for the line to be answered, and said, “Hawk. I'm in position.”

  “Hawk, I'm waiting for another voice intercept. As soon as I have it, I'll call.”

  After Hawk ended the call, he glanced at his own reflection in the window, noting the deep Y-shaped scar on the side of his chin, his dark eyes like dry flints in the dim light, the parting in his long hair sharp as a knife's edge. “If she's still here, I'll know soon enough,” he said to himself.

  He put the phone down beside the target's picture. She was attractive. He scanned the biographical information. Exceptional student. Financially independent. Self-starter. Nothing in the bio suggested why she would be in Richmond. But she had come here, most likely because she needed something—money, a secret lover, shelter. He liked the area. There were lots of vagrants, vacant buildings, not much traffic, an old hotel. If he was her, he'd be in there. Eight floors, lots of rooms.

  The hunter's mind was racing. Maybe she was just passing through town, but even so, why pass through this neighborhood? The street was not that close to the main traffic arteries. On the phone she had told the deputy she was moving around, and mentioned a flight out. Would she ask a cabdriver to take her to a bleak neighborhood just so she could make a call? Not likely. She came here. Such an elegant woman would stick out, and either she had picked the phone in this neighborhood knowing people would notice and recognize her picture if it was shown around, or she was disguised so she wouldn't be noticed.

  Hawk was expert in prey behavior and how a woman like his target might think—if she was a normal woman. According to her file she was not a professional, she had merely married one. But the hunter knew from experience that files could be falsified.

  Nothing Sean had done of late seemed to point to her being a citizen. According to his information she had not panicked when she and the deputy had faced pros, so she was calm under fire, which belied what he had been told. And she had slipped a very competent team of deputy marshals.

  Hawk was like a pilot in the fog who had to trust his instruments—his instincts. Even if she was pants-pissing terrified, a bullet fired by a scared woman was just as deadly as one fired by a professional.

  The hunter was in his element, feeling the thrill of the hunt. He scanned the shadowy street and leaned the seat back, prepared for a long wait.

  71

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Tuesday

  A pair of guards came to escort Sam Manelli from his cell to processing and, an hour later, he passed a trio of scowling FBI agents and strolled out through the prison gates toward where Johnny Russo stood waiting beside a limousine. A group of reporters gathered behind a fence shouted questions.

  Sam embraced Johnny. “Man, let's get back down to New Orleans,” Sam told him. “I need to get some real food in me.” In a move that was totally out of character, he waved at the assembled reporters like a victorious politician.

  “We got a jet waiting, boss. Compliments of some friends of ours,” Johnny Russo informed him. “You'll be back home in a couple hours.”

  “Man,” Sam said loudly, “I wish to God Bertran Stern was alive to see justice served.” He took a cigar from his pocket and bit the tip off before putting it into his mouth. Once inside the limo, however, Sam instantly lost the festive facade.

  As they pulled off, several cars filled with photographers and reporters fell into traffic behind the limo.

  “Where'd you get this car from?” he asked Russo.

  “From the Rizzo brothers. We checked it over good anyway.”

  Sam didn't want to talk any business in any car, but he needed to make an exception. “Let me hear some music.”

  Johnny called out to Spiro. “Let's have some music!” Spiro turned the music up loud and fiddled with the controls until the rear speakers were fully engaged.

  “What you found out about Sean?” Sam asked, speaking into Johnny's ear.

  “Nothing,” Russo admitted. “Like she vanished off the face of the planet.”

  “You tellin' me you still don't know where she's at? What did Herman say?”

  “I haven't been able to contact him. Maybe he's lying low.”

  Sam shook his head. “No reason to. Nobody can touch him.”

  “All I know is he ain't answering his phone.”

  Manelli chewed down hard on his cigar. “Do this,” he hissed softly, his lips almost touching Johnny's ear. “I gotta get her. You find her and bring her to me. You put the word out to everybody with eyes in the country. Every airport, bus, train, car rentals, cabbies, Teamsters, whatever. A hundred grand, a quarter million, whatever it takes and no questions. You need special people, hire them. You just make it happen.”

  He sat back. “Tell me, how was Bertran's funeral?”

  “I didn't go,” Johnny said, swallowing hard. “I couldn't make it with everything that's going on. It was on Sunday.”

  “They put their folks in the ground fast,” Sam agreed. “He was a good lawyer.”

  Finished talking, Sam removed the cigar and yelled at the driver, “Spiro, cut that noise! You killing my ears.”

  72

  Richmond, Virginia

  Sean had left the hotel using a group of youthful German tourists for camouflage. She ate a late lunch at the coffee shop two blocks up the street. On the way back to the hotel, she stopped into the convenience store to pick up a six-pack of Evian. The clerk had the television set on—the words CNN NEWS UPDATE filled the screen.

  The announcement said that two of the eight passengers aboard the Justice Department's jet that crashed Thursday night in Virginia were protected witnesses in transit along with five United States marshals and Assistant United States Attorney Avery Whitehead from New Orleans. The reporter stated that Whitehead had been spearheading the prosecution of Sam Manelli for conspiracy to commit murder. The names of the six marshals were being withheld until the next of kin were all notified. The newscaster said that the director of the FBI and the attorney general had scheduled a press conference for Thursday, to make further announcements on the status of the investigation into the crashed jet. There was no mention of the four UNSUBs or that a deputy marshal was killed on Rook Island, and the news report didn't connect the deaths of the sailors to the crash in rural Virginia.

  The newscaster announced that there was breaking news in Atlanta, and the screen changed to show a reporter holding a microphone. The camera panned to a door where a stocky man strode toward a waiting limousine. Sean felt so dizzy she feared she would throw up.

  The CNN reporter tied Manelli's release to the downed jet and reported that the dead witness had been a “confessed” contract killer who had implicated Manelli as having hired him to commit a dozen murders. The reporter said that all of the charges against Sam Manelli, which had been based on the deceased killer's accusations, had been dropped.

  On the screen, Sam, standing beside Johnny Russo, waved at the reporters, a frown on his face. Sean felt as though someone had winded her. It was as if he was waving at her, that he could see her, knew she was there, watching him, fearing him.

  Sean turned for the door, but the clerk's frantic calls brought her back to the
counter where she had abandoned the six-pack of water and her twenty dollar bill. Sean smiled, waited for her change, and carried the sack out.

  As she turned and made her way down the street she became aware of twin shadows—hers and another closing in from behind. Her heart started to pound as she slipped her hand into her coat pocket, gripping the Smith & Wesson. The shadow man reached out—Sean spun and found herself facing Wire Dog.

  “Sally!” The cabdriver's smile evaporated at the ferocity of her glare.

  “You son of a bitch!” she hissed, leaving the gun in her coat pocket. “You scared me.”

  Sally,” Wire Dog started. “I—”

  “Are you crazy?” she snapped.

  “I saw you go inside. I thought—”

  Sean could see Wire Dog's cab parked in front of the hotel as she stormed up the street. “Don't you know better than to sneak up on people?” she demanded.

  “I'm sorry.”

  Checking for traffic, Sean crossed the street, Wire Dog beside her. “I have to leave tonight,” she said. “There's been a change in my deadline.”

  “I'll take you to the airport—what time?”

  “Eight o'clock sharp.” She had decided she would just grab the first flight to anywhere.

  It looked like most of the residents of the hotel were in the lobby, socializing. Max was sorting through the mail at the counter. He set it aside when Sean approached.

  “Miss McSorley,” he said. “I hope you are finding our ‘Wolfe' room inspirational.”

  “I've gotten a lot done. It turns out I have to leave tonight. I want to tell you how much I've enjoyed my stay.”

  “It has been a grand pleasure having you.” Max bowed his head. “I do hope you will return.” He peered at her over his half-glasses and winked. “Good luck.”

  As she walked toward the elevator she noticed a young woman seated on a couch beside an older woman, who was laughing at something the other had said. Seeing that the ancient elevator was gone, Sean decided to take the stairs. As she climbed the steps, she was thinking how nice it was to hear people laughing. The two women in the lobby reminded her of how much she missed her mother.

  73

  The hunter had spent the morning waiting in the van, watching the street. Hawk's partner had passed his position several times, haunting the streets in the district hoping to luck onto the target.

  At ten A.M. Hawk had gone into the hotel. He told the manager that he intended to purchase and renovate a commercial building in the area and said he would be looking for a quiet place to live while the construction was going on. The elderly manager took the bait and assured him that the hotel was home to a large number of monthly residents. He had several suites with kitchenettes. The hunter praised the magnificent lobby, the detailed plasterwork, the marble floors.

  The hunter had asked, since he would be bringing in craftsmen for the project, how many rooms were available for transient guests. The manager said that floors four and above were for temporary guests. A look at the keyboard on the wall behind the counter told the hunter that twenty-two keys were missing from the pegs that corresponded to the rooms on floors four through eight. He thanked the manager, promising to get in touch as things progressed on his project.

  He returned to his van and rested for the next hour. He watched as a cab pulled up in front of the hotel and a well-tattooed young driver went inside for a minute, then came back out. Instead of getting back into the taxi, the driver stood by the cab and looked up and down the street. Suddenly he trotted off down the street. The hunter used the mirror to track the kid after he passed the van and crossed the street. It looked like the punk was lurking outside a convenience store a block up the street. The hunter saw a blond girl, one in a group of nine kids who had left the hotel earlier, stride out from the store and watched as the young driver ran to keep up with her.

  The girl seemed upset, pissed off, had her arms locked across her chest, her head tilted down. The young driver hurried along after her, gesturing with his illustrated arms. She crossed the street and walked toward the hotel. As the pair drew closer to the van, their faces filled the side-view mirror and the hunter's heart skipped a beat. There was not a doubt in his mind—the girl was his target, Sean Devlin. Using his binoculars, he read her lips.

  Hawk made a call to his partner.

  “I have her,” he said simply. “Take up a stationary position across the street from the hotel and keep your eyes open.”

  He leaned back and yawned. He couldn't risk grabbing her off the street in broad daylight. He didn't know which room she was staying in. But it didn't matter, because he knew that at eight o'clock she'd be walking back out that door and he'd be waiting with open arms.

  74

  Winter had no way to keep track of time but, for what seemed like several hours, he had been the captive of a drugged state unlike anything he had ever experienced. While he was shrouded completely in a blanket of catatonia—unable to move a single muscle or open his eyes—his heart was beating and he had no trouble breathing. He was completely aware of everything going on around him—could hear everything perfectly. He could smell, even feel changes in the air temperature. The men who had kidnapped him didn't speak to him or talk at all from the time the driver had given him the shot until the jet landed sometime later. Winter spent the entire flight thinking about his situation and decided that, if he faked the state after it had worn off, maybe he could somehow escape.

  He knew that at some point his mother would call Hank looking for him. When Winter failed to show up at the time he had told her he would, she would begin to worry. The trouble was, he couldn't count the times he had told his mother that he would be back at a certain time, and later, when he became involved in something and forgot the time, was made a liar. Lydia knew that he didn't like to wake her unless it was necessary. He worried that she might decide this was one of those times and wait to call too late. Hell, it was already too late the second he got into the Chrysler.

  During the time he was under, he had squirreled away his impressions. After the plane landed, he had been carried from the Lear and laid on a gurney, which had been put into an ambulance. He knew it was an ambulance because the man with the syringe had lifted his right eyelid to check his pupil. As they went, Winter heard cars and trucks on either side of them and other sounds indicating they were in a large city.

  When the ambulance finally stopped, his escorts rolled the gurney into a building and straight into an elevator. After a short ride up, the elevator door opened and Winter had smelled coffee and heard a television set. The men rolled him a short distance down a hallway, turned into a room, lifted him from the gurney, and dropped him onto a bed, causing the springs to squeak. All he could do was lie there and wait for what would happen next.

  Winter kept time by listening to the television.

  He heard people walking outside his door, caught hushed conversations that he knew were not voices on the television.

  Somebody came into the room.

  He felt someone give him another shot.

  “Don't worry,” a voice said. “That was just to counteract the effects of the drug. It impedes the ability to move but allows the heart to keep beating.” The voice was peculiar and totally unfamiliar. Within seconds Winter could move his fingers and his feet.

  “Let me stress that you are not to try anything stupid,” the voice instructed. “You are inside a fortress with no way out, unless I release you. There are armed men on the floors below us and above us. I know you are familiar with the nature of the men I refer to. The elevator is the only way out and it is controlled by my people. There is no reason for you to try to escape, because no harm will come to you unless you do something idiotic.”

  What the man said had the ring of truth.

  Winter felt the muscles in his face coming back under his control, and he lifted his eyelids. Slowly, he turned his head to see the man who sat on the bed next to his. What he saw startled him. Deep burn scars co
vered the left side of the man's face and neck like they'd been applied by someone with a blowtorch and a plan. The crimson wig on his head could have been modeled by a child out of straw. He was dressed in what appeared to Winter to be a velour sweat suit.

  The disfigured man stared at Winter through eyes so pale they looked as though they had never been fully colored in.

  Using a gloved hand, the man carefully put a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a Zippo. He exhaled languorously. “You will be able to stand up in a minute and will suffer no adverse effects,” he said companionably.

  “I understand,” Winter said.

  “My name is Fifteen. I know everything about you. I know about your long-suffering mother, Lydia, your dead wife, your blind son, Hank Trammel, and just about everybody left on this earth you care for.”

  Winter had known truly lethal men. He knew their smell, the acid they stirred up in his stomach, and the foul taste of copper they put in his mouth. And he knew instinctively that this man was a creature of the pit. He was a man who told people to kill, liked doing it, might sometimes do it himself. Maybe this creature was an interrogator.

  “This building belongs to a man named Herman Hoffman. I believe you would know him as the old general that the boy George Williams mentioned to you.”

  “Is he your boss?”

  “No.”

  “Are you CIA?”

  “No, not specifically. That shouldn't concern you. Let me say that we service specific needs they and other agencies have, and the relationship is mutually beneficial.

  “I have examined your conversation with Fletcher Reed about Ward Field and the cutouts. I have acquired Reed's evidence. He mailed a copy to your director and had a duplicate cleverly hidden in his office. All record of his computer incursion has been obliterated. Reed's misguided efforts went for nothing.”