Double Jeopardy

38

2:35 A.M.

KRAMER CRUISED INTO THE apartment-complex parking lot just off Forest Lane, lights dimmed. Sure enough, there it was—Travis Byrne’s car. The license plate and description were both perfect matches.

His broad smile made the scar on the side of his face crinkle. This would show Mario. He had been certain his men would find the car eventually, but in truth he had thought it would take longer than this. Sometimes you just get lucky, he supposed. Of course, some of the luck could be attributed to the time-tested technique of putting the fear of death into a group of men who were basically spineless bootlickers. Part of the luck was also attributable to Byrne’s own stupidity—why was he still in the Dallas metro area? If Kramer had been on the run, he’d be in Chicago by now. Maybe Paris.

Byrne’s car was empty. Kramer slid a thin, long sheet of metal between the window glass and the car frame, pushed it down about a foot and a half, then jerked it to the right. He heard a popping noise that told him the lock had been sprung.

He crawled into the car and began rooting around. Nothing particularly suspicious—a change of clothes, an overcoat, a briefcase. Kramer popped open the briefcase and examined the contents. A lot of boring documents written on long legal paper. Some pens, pencils, yellow Post-Its. And a business card.

Now, that was interesting—Kramer had heard of Special Agent Henderson and knew what the man really did. Who had contacted Byrne, he wondered, and why? He slipped the card into his pocket.

Nothing else in the car seemed particularly noteworthy. Nothing indicated in which of the apartments Byrne was hiding.

Kramer considered his options. He could set the car on fire. That would be fun. That would give him great pleasure. And that might bring Byrne out of hiding.

On the other hand, he considered, it might just tip Byrne off and send him scurrying out the back window. No, he should figure out which of these apartments Byrne was in. Once he knew that, he could use a more direct approach. And if that didn’t work, he thought, grinning, he could still blow the car to hell and back—with Byrne in it. That would be Plan B.

Yeah, that’s the ticket. He strolled across the parking lot, crisscrossing toward the main office building. He casually passed the front door, glancing at the lock. Piece of cake. And the office would undoubtedly have files identifying every, tenant. And from that list, he could likely deduce which apartment Byrne was in. He would just look for someone Byrne would be likely to know—a coworker, or a relative, or another lawyer. He’d start with the apartments nearest Byrne’s car.

Kramer returned to his car. He checked the trunk and found all his favorite tools—cans of gasoline, lighter fluid, an incendiary blowtorch, cord. He examined a small brown box, barely three by four inches. Everything was there—a tiny triggering mechanism, a smidgen of plastic explosive, and four hundred nails. Ready to go. He crawled under Byrne’s car and locked the box into place.

He’d get Byrne in the apartment, or later when he ran to his car. Either way Kramer would get him, and have a little fun in the process. And then he’d be in a position to make that fat fucker Mario regret talking to him like he did.

There were going to be a few surprises for Mr. Travis Byrne in the morning.