by Leigh Barker
“I thought I saw a light on.”
She looked up sharply and saw the speaker’s head and shoulders partway around the door. Leonard Hofmann’s deeply tanned face looked older than usual in the uplight from the desk lamp, but his eyes were as bright and sharp as ever. She wasn’t fooled for a moment by his wide friendly smile. It was as genuine as Kaa’s when it hissed its welcome to Mowgli.
“What are you working on that has you here in the middle of the night?” Hofmann pushed open the door and strode into the office.
He was tall, six-six at least, and his thin, angular frame made him seem even taller. His hair was silver but long and swept back. He looked like an aging surfer. A surfer who could afford hand-tailored four-thousand-dollar suits.
She wanted to switch the monitor to something else, a spreadsheet maybe, and put the martini behind the picture of her long-dead husband. She couldn’t touch the system, any action would just draw attention to the thing she was trying to hide. She stood.
“And you’re late too, Leonard.” She walked around her desk to intercept him in the middle of the big office. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here this late since…” She wrinkled her brow. “That mess back in… ’09?” She knew damn well what she was doing and saw his false smile slip.
He body-swerved past her as neatly as Jordan on a good day. He turned the monitor and leaned his hands on the desk.
She turned slowly and switched on her smile. “Can I get you a drink?”
He waved a hand without turning and watched the blip on the map. Then he stood and looked back. “This is the one you call the Jackal?”
She knew her mouth was open, but it took a conscious effort to close it. How could he have known that?
“There is very little that goes on that I don’t know about,” he said, as if reading her mind.
“Then you’ll know why I sent him.”
“An attempt to cover your screw-up.”
She bristled but let it slide. “It was with the board’s agreement that I arranged the trade with our Far Eastern friends.”
“I think friends is pushing it a bit, don’t you?” He waved long manicured fingers. “The board acted on your recommendation. Your assurances.”
“This is not on my head.” Deborah returned to her chair and sat down. A trivial act of… what? Pique? She wished she’d remained standing because now she had to look up at him. “It was not my idea to do business with that cokehead in Bolivia.”
Hofmann looked down at the monitor still turned in his direction. “We do business with whoever can pay. And he paid very handsomely.”
“And led the feds right to our door.”
“Well, hardly.”
“What do you call the screw-up in North Korea? An inconvenience?”
He glanced up from the monitor for a moment, then returned to it. “Call him off.” He pointed at the blip. “I assume you have an abort code.”
“Of course, but I’m not inclined to call him off. The girl—”
“My dear woman, I don’t really give a fuck what you’re inclined to do or not do. Call him off now.”
He could’ve said more, threatened her, or showed her the door, but it wasn’t necessary. She’d do as he said or else. And there’d be no severance pay. Just a night drive with a couple of the faceless men in suits.
“If that girl finds out what she’s got, we—”
He raised a finger. “Let me worry about that, my dear. You just worry about what you’re going to tell the board when they ask where their one point five billion has gone. They’ve already spent their bonuses.”
“If we let him complete his mission, I can assure—”
He leaned on the desk and put his face close enough for her to feel his spittle as he spoke. “You seem to think this is some sort of discussion in which you have a say. You are, my dear, wholly mistaken.” He stood up and pressed his hands into his lower back as if it was all rather tedious. “You have issued a terminate order on—”
“For which I have full authority, need I remind you?”
“Oh, yes, please remind me.” He turned the monitor to face her. “This… mechanic, I believe is the term. This Jackal is about to kill five decorated marines and a girl. A bloodbath right here in our nation’s capital.” He tapped the monitor. “Have you considered your actions, his actions, at all? Given it any consideration whatsoever?” He sighed, long and tired. “The media will go into a feeding frenzy and the administration will be forced to get off their asses and do something.”
“Our people will ensure nothing comes of it.” She wished her tone was more convincing.
“Our people will run for cover as soon as the shit-storm starts. And you and I, my dear, will be left standing in the spotlight with our dicks in our hands.” The sigh again. “Or whatever it is you have for a dick. Whatever it is that’s between your fucking ears.” He took a long breath and even tried a smile. “We will arrange for this… inconvenience to be handled somewhere a little less public. Somewhere our heroes can do what heroes do. Die quietly.”
If she ever wondered why he was number one and she was number three, then she need wonder no more. It banged on her brain like a sledgehammer on a steel door. What had she been thinking? It was a stupid, stupid error in judgement. But it wasn’t too late.
She picked up her cell and tapped in the abort code.
Leonard Hofmann stopped at the door and looked back at her. “You look tired. You should go home and rest.” He closed the door quietly behind him.
If he’d been a Mafia boss, he would have kissed her on the cheek.
Jimmy walked across the eighteenth green, past the lake and towards the trees. It was quiet, with just the distant sound of traffic, but he hadn’t expected to find anyone putting at two in the morning. He felt his cell vibrate in his pocket and knew what it would be. Nobody but the contractor had this number. He took out his cell and pulled the battery and flicked the sim into the water hazard. He was committed and it was way too late to abort. Even if he’d wanted to. He stopped at the trees, put down his black Nike sports bag, unzipped it and lifted out his suppressed MAC-10 as if it were a priceless artifact. He’d considered trading it for a MAC-11, but the older weapon was a .45, and against the MAC-11’s .38 caliber, it was a hands-down winner. For his particular needs.
He wiped the weapon with a chamois from the bag, folded the cloth, put it back and took his HK45 compact semi-automatic from the side pocket and slipped it into the old-fashioned shoulder holster under his suit jacket. At twenty-five ounces it was heavy, but like the MAC-10, it chambered .45-caliber rounds, so the weight was worth it for the stopping power. He recalled his decision process, but it was just something to think about. Part of the process of bringing his consciousness down to tunnel vision. Mission only. He’d done this before many times, a hundred times maybe. He had no idea. He never counted. What was the point?
He put the sports bag next to a tree to collect on the way out. He liked that bag. It had been with him a long time and always carried his tools on a mission. Mission? Now he was starting to sound like the soldier boys in the house.
Across the street was the row of red-brick houses with their wide-open lawns and security lights. What did he expect? An arrow pointing the way? If it was easy, then everybody would be doing it. It was never easy, not even once, and that suited him just fine. Who wants to grow old and sit around in pants stained with dry piss? Like that was ever going to happen.
He held the MAC close to his chest, put his hand on the post and hopped over the wire fence. A fence for rabbits not for people. Rabbits were okay, easy to please. Rabbits didn’t ask for much. People want everything they’ve got and everything that’s yours. It was the way of things, he supposed.
Get this one over and maybe he would retire to Hawaii like he’d promised himself. Sure, retire to the sun. Sit around drinking whatever the hell that shit was they drank over there and get fat and slow. Sooner be dead.
He brought his mind back t
o the job now the lead-in phase was past and he could think about what he was about to do without the time to change his mind. He never had, but he didn’t take chances, ever.
He’d watched the two guys get into the SUV with the girl, both old. One had white hair so must be a hundred or something. The other was craggy, like he’d spent too much time in the sun. Old or not, they moved like they knew what they were doing. He’d seen it before. Special Forces. It didn’t bother him much. Special Forces were trained to operate in combat zones against terrorists and shit, not in somebody’s expensive house in Chevy Chase. They were out of their natural environment, their comfort zone. And that was a disadvantage that would cost them.
The girl would be upstairs, because there was the illusion of safety, and one of them would be with her while the other watched from the ground floor.
It was a big house in a row of big houses. One man couldn’t watch all sides all the time. All Detroit had to do was pick the open side. Two out of four chance. For a novice maybe, but he intended loading the dice.
They’d seen the cab passing the end of the street, he’d made sure of that. Not too obvious, just cruising by slowly enough for them to see the distinctive damage he’d done to the bodywork, so now they’d be looking the way he’d gone. And that was south. He’d circled the golf course and was now north of their position with Connecticut Avenue on his left. A few service vans and trucks drove by, not many but enough. If he was patient.
The men in the house would have NVGs and the thing about light-intensifiers was—what he needed came along. A white paneled van with one headlight out and the other flat out taking the strain.
He waited until it was approaching from behind him, filling the side street with its bouncing white beam, and ran across the narrow street, crouched and holding his MAC close to his body. He reached the trees lining the other side and stood up behind one to wait. Nothing. No sudden movement, no hissed commands. Step one complete. Breach the subject’s perimeter. He stepped off the sidewalk into the garden, saw a wrought-iron bench in the shrubs and sat down. He’d wait an hour. Give them time to doubt what they’d seen. Maybe even fall asleep. Though he wouldn’t count on either.
A little over an hour’s time he’d be done and heading for the airport for the early flight back to Chicago. Washington had too many politicians for his taste.
Winter dropped a pillow into the bath. “Get some sleep.”
Andie pulled the pillow off her face and grunted her annoyance. “How am I supposed to sleep? I’m in the bath, some hit man is coming to kill me, and I need to pee.”
Winter pointed at the toilet and shrugged.
“I don’t think so,” Andie said. “Not unless you’re leaving the room.”
“You stay. I stay.”
She sniffed. “You heard that in a movie.”
Winter smiled, which was a first. “Something like that.” He reached behind his back and pulled his backup gun from his belt and handed it to her. “You know how to use one of these, right?”
She frowned at it, turned it over in her hand, tested the barrel with her teeth and pointed it at him. “I pull this little curly thing, I think.”
“Jeez!” He pushed it aside with his finger. “Don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”
“Wilco, Sarge.” Now she was smiling.
For a moment they’d forgotten they were being hunted, but the moment passed and their smiles faded back to serious faces.
Winter put his finger to his lips, stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door. Hiding in the bath? He shook his head and tutted quietly. But it was as good a place as any. If the shooter got past them, it wouldn’t matter where she was hiding. And the gun? That was just to make her feel better.
He returned to the front bedroom window and looked along the dark street to the bright ribbon of Connecticut Avenue off to his right. There was no sign of the yellow cab or its driver. Which meant nothing, if it was the same cab and—he stopped. He hadn’t realized he had any doubt it was the same vehicle he’d seen at Andrews, but there it was coming out on its own. Maybe he’d seen what he wanted to see. Maybe it was just a cab; god knows there were enough of them around. Made no difference, he would proceed as if the shooter was coming. Any other play would be stupid. But the doubt was there now, chipping away at his concentration. He swore at it and focused. Time would tell. Right, time would tell. Or he’d be dead. Either way, he’d know.
He looked at his watch. Two thirty. Early yet. Times like this he wished he smoked. Something to do.
Detroit smoked. Marlboros. Even though they’d killed the guy who used to advertise them. Chances of him dying of cancer were slim to none. Lead poisoning was what the old cowboys used to call it. These days the only way that could happen was if the metal jacket fragmented on impact. Did sometimes. That happened, lead poisoning would be the least of his worries. Thing about dying, it had never worried him. He’d thought about being shot, sure, who wouldn’t? But at fifteen hundred feet per second, he wasn’t going to even hear the round coming. So worrying about it would be like worrying about being hit by a bus. It happens, you never know what hit you. So why waste brain energy thinking about it?
A hedgehog tiptoed through the paved clearing and he watched it make its way towards the bushes in search of a slug snack.
He shaded the end of his cigarette and drew the smoke down into his lungs. Hedgehogs had developed this almost perfect defense. Roll up in a ball and shove out their spikes. A perfect defense that killed them when they wandered onto the road and got spooked by a vehicle. Another triumph for mankind. He blew out the cigarette smoke and watched the hedgehog disappear into the bushes.
People screwed up everything sooner or later. Nothing worth anything had an ice cube’s chance in hell with the world full of stupid people.
Maybe Hawaii wasn’t such a great idea. He could go to the mountains, be a Jim Bridger or some shit like that. There must be mountains someplace that hadn’t been bollixed up by fat people in plaid shorts. Never see another asshole again, ever. Just him and the sky. Right. The sky.
He tossed his cigarette butt into the shrubs, stood slowly and stretched his back. Getting old. An old professional? Never going to happen.
Somewhere between the two, then. Hawaii beautiful but too crowded, and the mountains too… everything. And no bars. He’d give it more thought. Big decision, stupid to rush it.
He checked his HK45, even though it was better now than when it came out of the factory. Be embarrassing if there was an acorn or some such garden shit stuck in it when he needed it.
He looked at his watch again. Not an hour, but it would do. Most people lost their concentration after a few minutes, too much instant gratification. Fast-food and chicks on call. Even Special Forces weren’t that special. Men like everybody else. Sooner or later they got careless. Overconfident. Sloppy.
He put the HK back into its shoulder holster and held the MAC-10 in both hands, his right index finger across the trigger guard. Okay, the guys inside might be asleep or careless, but he wasn’t going to bet his life on it.
He stayed in the cover of the shrubs right up to the house so there was no chance of tripping any floodlights or that crap. He didn’t even bother looking at the back door set back on a board veranda. If it was open, it would be because they wanted some dumb ass to walk right in. If it wasn’t, he would make a hell of a noise forcing it. The house was big, way bigger than anybody really needed. It had windows all along the ground floor in blocks of four, which he guessed demarcated the downstairs rooms. He moved slowly to the edge of the bushes and checked every window, ground and first, for anything that shouldn’t be there, but saw nothing except dark glass and reflected sky.
They would be in the corner rooms that had a field of fire over two sides of the house. One would be on the ground in the far corner, away from the trees that blocked the view, and the other would be on the first, opposite side. That way they’d cover all approaches. Or at least think they did. Thing a
bout trees and shit blocking their view was they blocked their view. Had he been the watcher, that was where he would focus. Most people go for the easy route. But if he trusted assumptions like that, then he’d be dead long ago. Assume your man is as smart as you and be pleasantly surprised instead of unpleasantly shot to death.
He crouched in the darkness and studied the four windows facing the shrubs. His chosen way in. If there was somebody watching from there, sooner or later he’d give it away. He’d change his position for a different view and that would change the shadows on the window. Or he’d do something real stupid like move a curtain. He’d seen that once. He shook his head at the memory. Cop watching some fink holed up in a safe house. Cop had stood right up for a better look. Framed in the window like a hooker showing off her goods. He’d emptied half a clip into his chest from his silenced MAC-10, strolled in and popped the informer. Man had fallen on his knees and begged for his life. Some people have no dignity.
Twenty minutes without a hint of movement. Sooner or later you gotta just grab your nuts and jump.
He edged along the veranda and stopped with his back against the brickwork and his right shoulder next to the window. He hadn’t been seen yet or he’d know about it. If there was somebody behind the window, he needed to flush him and there was only one way.
He stepped out in front of the window and jammed his machine gun towards the glass. Nobody, and that’s absolutely nobody, was going to be keeping calm and still with that in his face. Special Forces or not.
Nothing. A good thing. A firefight in a quiet neighborhood can upset folks. And bring cops real fast.
The window was locked, but it took half a minute to cut the glass, reach in and open it. Was it his house, he’d have locks instead of stupid ornate catches. What they call that? Form over function or some shit like that.
Light crept in under the interior door enough to show the room was a den with a hundred-inch plasma TV and a pool table all set up. For show. Thing had never been used. Some folks have too much money.