Out of the Dark

by Gregg Hurwitz

  The wind picked up even more, the torn bits of flyers fluttering with wounded fury, transforming the alley into something living, the hide of a roused beast.

  “After you’ve served your time, if you try to hurt your wife or daughter again or ever contact the woman who prosecuted you, I will come back for you. Blink twice if you understand me.”

  Oscar could hear his own breath screeching in and out of his lungs, but it didn’t sound like it was coming from him; it sounded like a growl issued from the chest of the alley.

  He blinked twice.

  All at once Oscar was flipped over onto his stomach, the rope coiled around his wrists and ankles, creaking with tension. The paracord zippered into a knot, cranking his shoulders and hips back in their sockets. His spinal cord bent in a painful reverse arc, strung like a bow.

  The voice was lower now, calm and sharp, a dagger in his ear. “If I have to come back for you, I will make you hurt. Understand?”

  Oscar blinked again.

  This time everything stayed dark.

  48

  Dirty Work

  Beltway insiders referred to the Washington Hilton as the “Hinckley Hilton,” a macabre nod to the failed songwriter who, in a Taxi Driver–inspired act of obsessive love for Jodie Foster, put a bullet into the lung of Ronald Reagan at the hotel’s T Street exit.

  The room Candy had rented, perhaps by design, was high on the northwest corner, looking down at that fateful stretch of sidewalk, which shimmered now in the moonlight, wet with night dew. Evan paused by the cold pane, gazing below, taking it in.

  Tomorrow was going to be a very big day.

  As neither the Secret Service nor Orphan A’s band of misfits were on alert for a single woman, Candy had procured the room.

  This morning Evan had collected the shipments Tommy had arranged for him. As promised, Tommy had left them in the trunk of a beater car in a salvage yard on the city outskirts. Evan had simply climbed in and driven off.

  Between Evan and Candy now on the floor were all three of Tommy’s weatherproof Hardigg Storm Cases, lids raised to show off the gear nestled into the foam lining.

  In the bluish flicker of the TV, Evan knelt to remove the two-foot weapon, taking a moment to admire Tommy’s superb craftsmanship before tucking it inside the skateboard backpack he’d purchased this afternoon. Earlier today he’d dragged the backpack behind the car for a few blocks; the more well-loved something was, the less it stood out.

  Adhered to the rear of the pack by buckle carry straps was a road-worn Santa Cruz Slasher board that Evan had bought used at a skate shop. It nicely hid the bulk beneath.

  CNN flickered in the background, clean-cut pundits running pregame commentary on the president’s congressional appearance. Their discussion of the security measures had taken on a fetishistic air, the familiar phrases trotted out with breathless delight. Taking every precaution. No stone unturned. Intense scrutiny of the event zone.

  As they delved into often-incorrect specifics, Evan wondered how much of it was ignorance and how much disinformation. After all, Bennett was a master of counterintelligence.

  Through the lens of a new laser range finder, Candy watched with amusement as Evan tested the heft of the backpack. He finally glanced up at her. She looked ridiculous, the tag from the golf-pro shop dangling down over her nose.

  She tossed the range finder onto the bed. Then she peeled off her shirt.

  For a moment she stood brazenly, hands on her hips, physical assets on full display. From the front none of her mottled flesh was visible.

  “This routine?” he said. “You don’t have to do it. I know it’s your training talking.”

  “Like you didn’t have the same training. Fun, wasn’t it?”

  He was silent.

  “Oh,” she said. “Right. You want it to be special.”

  He had a hard time holding his focus on her face.

  The pope would have, too.

  “One condition,” Candy said. “I have to be on top.”

  He cleared his throat. “Because of your scars?”

  She smirked, bit her lip. “No.”

  She kicked off one shoe and then the other.

  “This doesn’t interest me,” he said. “We have a job to do.”

  She shifted her weight, crossing her arms self-consciously. “Don’t be so literal.” Slowly she turned, bringing the ruined flesh of her back into view. “I just need some help … dressing this before the mission. I can’t always reach, and…” She gave him her profile over a shoulder, her face downturned. “I’m ashamed.”

  He walked over to her. “I have gauze in my pack.” He rested a hand gently on her shoulder, just beneath her chin. “We’re all scarred one way or another.”

  She took his hand in hers and turned to look up at him, her eyes huge and fragile, her fingers clutching his. She put a hand on his cheek and started to pull his face to hers.

  Then she laughed and pushed him away. “You liked that?” Her eyes shone with predaceous pleasure. “Le Wounded Bird routine? God, men are so easy. If one lever doesn’t work, just move to the next and give a little tug.”

  She walked past him, bumping his hip with hers, making him stumble to keep his balance. “Remember, some of us have more work to do tonight. I have to change. That doesn’t mean I want to fuck you. But when I saw you pretending not to look at me, the picture of strained virtue … well, I couldn’t resist.”

  As she wriggled out of her pants, his RoamZone rang. He noted the caller ID, forwarded on from his rarely used home line. Grimacing, he moved back to the window before answering.

  Mia got right to it. “What the hell, Evan?”

  He said, “Sorry?”

  “You should be. Wanna tell me what went down with Oscar Esposito?”

  He paused a beat. “Who?”

  “You know exactly who. Oscar Esposito, case number PA338724. You said it to me when you were bragging about your forensic noticing skills.”

  He thought, Fuck.

  He shot a glance at Candy, lowering his voice even more. “I can’t get into this right now.”

  Over the silence he could hear Mia breathing.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “No need.”

  And she hung up.

  Evan pursed his lips, stared at the phone as if it could tell him something he wanted to hear.

  “Marital problems?” Candy said from across the room.

  He turned to find her dressed in dark jeans and a black sweatshirt, the better to disguise her upcoming night maneuvers. Even so she looked working-class competent, her rose-gold hair twisted up in a bun beneath a stylish army cap, her makeup wiped off, her boots replaced with sensible sneakers. A Hardigg case rested at either side of her. They could have held concert equipment, tools, computer hardware.

  “Nothing like that,” Evan said.

  “Good. That shit doesn’t work with us. You should know better.”

  He said, “I do.”

  He thought he sensed a flicker of longing move across her face, but he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, casting his own doubts across the shadowed room so she could wear them instead of him.

  They stood in perfect stillness, mirror images facing off over a stretch of patterned carpet.

  “You did good work,” he said. “The survey of site. With what’s coming tomorrow…” The words did not come easily. “I’m glad you got my six.”

  “That’s what I’m good for.” She bent at the knees and with some effort lifted the Storm Cases. “The dirty work.”

  49

  Kill Zone

  Evan lay flat on his back, staring up at the unbroken D.C. sky. To his right, a barred metal overhang shaded the extended open terrace cupping the southern edge of the Newseum’s top floor. Six stories below that, eight lanes of Pennsylvania Avenue swept by, stretching less than a mile to Capitol Hill. Flanking the traffic, leafy crowns of trees swayed in a faint wind, green wads of cotton. This precise thoroughfare was the site of cou
ntless processions, parades, and—especially under Bennett’s administration—protests.

  To Evan’s left, the backpack rested on the rooftop. Five hours earlier he’d skated up the sidewalk to the museum, slinging the Santa Cruz Slasher board through the backpack’s carry straps before entering so it would shield the bulky cargo. Disguised in a youthful hoodie and mirrored surfer shades, Evan sported a pair of high-top Vans to complete the look.

  He remained still, only tilting his head slightly now and then to check the sight lines. Next door the Canadian embassy rose, the red maple leaf fluttering at high mast. Under the Vienna Convention, its premises were immune from requisition by the host country, which meant the Secret Service couldn’t station countersnipers on its roof. This offered Evan a key swath of invisibility.

  Across the way in the opposite direction, the Federal Trade Commission Building forged into view like the prow of a steamship, its rounded face fanged with limestone colonnades. Peeking over its shoulder, the Washington Monument’s arrow tip caught the midday glare.

  The motorcade’s route was not the straight line between the White House and Capitol Hill that lay before Evan. The twisting course they’d mapped out, designed to thwart malignant planning, lay well beyond his range. The two contingency routes carried the motorcade even farther afield from his location.

  That was what Candy was for.

  To herd the prey.

  He rolled his head toward Pennsylvania Ave. A plastic grocery bag snared on a telephone line above the wide street wobbled in the faint breeze.

  From far in the distance, the sound of chopping rotors reached him.

  Candy’s voice came through his earpiece. “It’s go time.”

  Staying flat on the roof, Evan reached beside him, unzipped the backpack, and removed the weapon.

  * * *

  President Bennett ducked into the first of the three limousines, the helicopters low enough to blow his hair out of place. His body man, a Secret Service agent, and Eva Wong were waiting in the rear compartment. He settled into the leather, noting the sparkle of sweat at Wong’s temple.

  “Nervous?” he asked.

  She shook her head too rapidly, a cunicular tic.

  He laid a presidential hand on her knee. “It’ll be fine.”

  The agent’s body was tense; his jacket flapped open to grant him quicker access to his SIG P229.

  As the three matching limos eased out of the protective shield of trees to join the convoy, Bennett took a moment to smooth down his hair. He found himself breathing a bit more deeply than usual.

  All at once the driver tapped the brakes, causing them to lurch in their seats.

  Wong cried out, and the agent drew his weapon.

  Bennett found himself gripping his seat belt. He gave a laugh that sounded a touch strained even to his own ears and let go. The dummy vehicles behind had halted as well.

  A rap came on the agent’s window, followed by a fall of blond hair as Agent Templeton leaned over.

  Since the windows didn’t open, the agent cracked the door to talk to her.

  “Come on,” she said to the agent, gesturing for him to climb out. “I’m taking the ride myself.”

  The agent hesitated.

  Naomi said, “Get out.”

  He obeyed.

  She took his place, sitting heavily, the plush leather seat giving out a sigh of air.

  Bennett said, “You sure you want to join me here on the bull’s-eye?”

  She kept her seat belt unbuckled, her eyes pegged to the window. “Like you said: If I can’t get you seventeen blocks safely, we both deserve to die.”

  She rapped the divider, and they pulled out and away from the White House.

  * * *

  Courier bag slung over one shoulder, Candy McClure sliced through the pedestrians behind the blockades, unnoticed by the motorcade cops guarding the intersections. She held an iPhone live-streaming from a camera she’d hidden in Lafayette Square on the right foot of the statue of the French general himself. The tiny lens was angled on the northeast gate of the White House, through which Evan’s intel had indicated that the presidential motorcade would exit.

  And indeed that’s where the three limousines appeared now, sandwiched in the middle of a host of G-rides, the footage crisp and seamless. The limos halted at the gate, waiting to insert themselves into the stream of the bigger convoy.

  Holding the phone tightly, she watched the tires as Evan had instructed.

  The back vehicles ground their wheels against the gravel before accelerating, but the lead limo turned them gradually as it eased forward.

  The target had been identified.

  Threading closer to the sawhorses, she smiled. Misreading her, one of the motorcade cops tipped his head to her, a tough-guy flirt. She let her smile widen.

  Drifting past the curved marquee of the Shakespeare Theatre Company, she took a position on the corner that gave her a clear view up E Street. Swiping the live feed off her iPhone, she called up her telephone favorites.

  In place of names, the entries were simply numbered 1 through 10.

  A hush of excitement rippled through the crowd, and she looked up as the presidential motorcade swung into view, a cavalry charge of G-rides and SUVs. She waited as the river of dark steel snaked through the turn, the presidential limos finally appearing. Each flew miniature flags on either side of the hood, Old Glory and the Presidential Standard. Three helos tracked the limos overhead, spread like hawks.

  The front SUV of the motorcade had reached her corner now, whipping past the sawhorses, Cadillac One still a quarter mile back. Candy wet her lips, her focus narrowing to the vehicles blurring across the 9th Street intersection a full block away.

  Her finger hovered over the first telephone number.

  She waited.

  Pairs of vehicles shot through the target intersection, as fast as shuffled cards—SUVs, G-rides, another set of SUVs.

  She didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

  And then Cadillac One’s grand grille appeared, the limo hurtling forward. The rear tires had just cleared the crosswalk when she thumbed the first telephone number.

  The manhole cover in the intersection exploded, blasting twenty feet into the sky, severing Cadillac One from the vehicles behind it.

  There was an instantaneous eruption of activity.

  Four sets of G-rides screeched to the sides, forming a chevron, Cadillac One and its protective SUVs accelerating through them. The dummy limos split north and south, all three limos peeling apart, putting distance between themselves, their respective choppers shadowing them overhead. The motorcade cops scrambled, parting the crowd, shoving sawhorses aside to open up escape routes.

  Candy focused only on Cadillac One.

  As it raced toward her, readying to bank into a turn around her corner, she thumbed phone number 3, blowing the manhole cover right behind her, forcing what remained of the convoy to veer back on course and continue along E Street. The Park Police helicopter tilted abruptly to dodge the flying disk, which missed the left skid by no more than a foot.

  For good measure she tapped 4 and 5 next, blowing manhole covers to the north of the upcoming intersections so Cadillac One wouldn’t deviate from its course. She sprinted along the sidewalk, keeping it in sight.

  Rather than drop low into the building corridor again, the helo swooped to a greater height, providing better overwatch. Sirens blared. Some of the agents lunged out of their vehicles, weapons drawn, shouting into radios—AOP! We have an AOP! Attack on Protectee in progress! Repeat: in progress.

  Candy fixed her attention only on the presidential limo. As it neared 6th Street, a quick dial of phone number 8 blasted another cast-iron saucer skyward, steering the limo south. The EOD’s protective measure of spot-welding the manhole covers only added to the explosive force from the charges Candy had placed beneath them last night.

  Courier bag bouncing on her hip, she ran after the convoy as it swept out of sight ahead. Onlookers screamed,
stampeding up the sidewalks, providing her some cover. But she was running against the current, with purpose, which made her conspicuous. Sure enough the flirtatious motorcycle cop picked her up, his helmet swiveling in her direction.

  He revved the bike and accelerated at her hard, steering between G-rides and up onto the sidewalk. She got off calls to 9 and 10, initiating the Indiana Avenue charges on either side of 6th, funneling the convoy ahead so it would pass behind the Newseum. She couldn’t see the explosions—she hadn’t reached the corner yet—but she heard the eruptions even over the commotion of the crowd.

  As Orphan X’s forward observer, she had to get to the intersection to establish visual on Cadillac One and call the shot. If she couldn’t, all their meticulously laid groundwork would be wasted.

  The motorcycle cop closed in, a chirp of his brakes shifting his weight forward on the bike. As he drew alongside her, she flipped the phone into his front wheel.

  It hit the spokes with a buzz-saw whine, disintegrating into a thousand glittering pieces. The hitch was enough to rip the cop up over the handlebars, an airborne somersault that landed him in a five-foot skid up the sidewalk, his bulletproof vest giving off a fingernails-on-chalkboard screech.

  Her contribution to the accident went unnoticed, leaving her free to whip between fleeing onlookers and bolt around the turn in time to catch sight of Cadillac One speeding away. Edging out to the brink of the curb, she thrust her hand into the courier bag, gripped the speed gun, and aimed its nose out through the mesh opening at the trunk of the quickly receding limo.

  Red numbers glowed up at her: 53 MPH.

  That put the target vehicle smack in the middle of the highest range Orphan X had calculated on the speed chart.

  Which meant the visual for the green-light call would be when the limo passed the second old-fashioned streetlamp on the east side of the street.

  All she had to do was wait.

  She activated her earpiece. “They’re in the chute. Wait for my signal.”

  X answered, “Copy that.”

  Three SUVs careened around the corner, causing her to jerk back from the curb so they wouldn’t take off her kneecaps. They accelerated to catch up to Cadillac One and assume a rear guard.