Double Jeopardy

34

9:00 P.M.

THE DARK-HAIRED MAN carefully slid the nightscope onto his gun. It was more complicated than it looked; a number of minute notches had to be correctly aligned. It was designed to be difficult. With equipment on this level of sophistication, amateurs were not welcome.

He checked his night goggles—perfect operating condition. He strapped them onto his belt. Ditto for the Fujinon binoculars—lightweight, waterproof, and almost infinitely powerful. He strapped on a tiny Tessina minichip camera, just in case he wanted to memorialize a license-plate number.

He searched through his closet. What else? Better safe than sorry. He added a small but powerful Xenon flashlight. An electronic stethoscope. Tiny microportable transceivers.

It had been years since he last used equipment like this. He had almost forgotten the pleasure of being able to see in the dark, being able to hear what others could not, being able to sneak up on someone unawares. He checked all the devices and made sure he remembered how each worked. He supposed it was like riding a bicycle—you never forgot.

He tugged a Kevlar vest tightly around his chest, aligned his shoulder holster, put his shirt back on, then strapped the loaded Sam Browne belt around his waist. He checked the equipment still snapped in their compartments from the last time he had worn the belt—spare handgun, Puukko knife, Bianchi handcuffs, tear gas, Mace, brass knuckles, ammunition. A travel kit for commandos. And the whole thing, fully equipped, weighed less than ten pounds. It wouldn’t slow him down a beat.

Finally he examined the new SSI tracer bug; once it was activated, he could follow someone from as much as twenty miles away. It had cost him a pretty penny; in fact, it had cost him almost everything he had. But if he tracked down his quarry, it would be worth it. He had to assume he would need everything; after all, this time he was on his own.

No one was going to help him. Who could? No one else had managed to locate his prey so far. His buddy at the police station said the man was being tracked by the FBI—or someone calling themselves the FBI—as well as the police and some heavy-duty criminal types. But so far, no one had found him. Not that that meant anything. He had a few tricks up his sleeve that the others did not.

He had spent years at this kind of work; it was what he did best. Finding someone others couldn’t—someone who didn’t want to be found. Some jobs took longer than others, but he never failed.

He didn’t really need all this high-tech paraphernalia, but he was accustomed to it, and there was a certain comfort in it. As he had been told by his superiors so many times in the past: your best weapons are your eyes, your ears, your hands. Two skilled hands can kill more quickly, more efficiently, and with less chance of detection than all the electronic gizmos in the world.

He slid noiselessly out the door. Time to begin, before the trail became even colder. He had no actual clues to his target’s location; but he had contacts. Not much, but it would have to be enough. He had to find the man before the others did. If he got there last, or even second, it would be too late.

He slid behind the steering wheel of his Jeep and turned the ignition. He felt exhilarated to be back in action, doing something important. Perhaps more important than anything he had ever done before. He would complete this mission. Successfully.

And when he did, Travis Byrne would get exactly what he deserved.