Chapter 11

WE’D PICKED THIS location, a scruffy portion of North East D.C., because it was a perfect takedown site.

Some industrial parts of the District of Columbia, like this one, are as breathtakingly grim as anything Detroit or Chicago’s South Side can offer. The warehouse we leased for a song was in a marshy, weed-cluttered landfill crisscrossed with rusting railroad tracks (I’d never seen a train), crumbling access roads and a couple of sour-smelling canals. Our property was three acres of overgrown lots, filled with trash, clusters of anemic trees, pools of water the color of a sickly tropical lizard. In the center was an ancient warehouse with just enough evidence of habitation to make it seem like a credible safe house. Nearby were two small crumbling outbuildings, where tactical teams could wait for the bad guys; they offered perfect crossfire positions. The warehouse itself had bulletproof brick walls and few windows. We’ve used it a number of times, though only twice successfully. The most recent was last January, when I’d sat in a snowstorm for four hours, sipping increasingly chilly coffee from a flabby cup clutched in my stinging red fingers, until the hitter finally made his bold and, for him, unfortunate move.

I now drove through back alleys and fields, largely invisible to any surveillance from the perimeter. I parked some distance from the warehouse, beside the other federal cars, out of sight of the nearby driveways and roads. Then, my shoulder bag bouncing on my back, I walked through a stand of brush and beneath a rusting railroad bridge that was graffiti-free; even the gangbangers had no interest in this prime example of urban decay. I surveyed the area again, saw no sign of hostile surveillance and slipped through tall weeds toward the staging area. A glance at the ground-the broken twigs, overturned leaves and stones-told me that Freddy had brought with him at least six agents (all of them seemingly unconcerned that they left such clear evidence of their presence; I spent some time obscuring the most obvious signs).

Surrounding me was a world of trash and abandoned vehicles and rusting machinery and outright garbage piles. On my right, I could see a glimpse of a narrow canal, filled with bile green water and dotted with refuse and a dead squirrel or two, which I suspected had ended up there after taking a sip. Improbably, a small recreational power boat floated in the current toward the Potomac. Then the strip of foul water vanished from sight; a moment later I got to the command post and greeted Freddy and his people: six male agents in their thirties, large and unsmiling, and one younger woman, equally somber. The mix of these law enforcers was like the city itself: black, Latino, the minority white-the woman and an older, weathered male agent. People tend to think that the FBI is all dark suits and white shirts or the scary tactical outfits that make them look like science fiction movie soldiers. In reality, most agents dress informally: windbreakers, baseball caps and blue jeans. In the case of the woman, make that designer jeans, which I couldn’t help but notice fit very closely. All were in body armor.

Which I myself now donned.

Everyone seemed tense, though I could tell from their eyes that they were looking forward to engaging.

As I slipped on my com device earpiece and stalk mike, Freddy gave me their names and I paid attention, since I might need to differentiate them if the situation heated up. I nodded to each in greeting. I asked if there’d been any contact. The woman said, “We had a light sedan, gray or tan, go by the west perimeter, that road over there, five minutes ago. Didn’t pause but it was going slow. I’d guess ten miles an hour.”

Gray or tan could have been beige. Loving’s car from West Virginia? I suggested this and they took note.

The slow transit in itself might not be suspicious. A lot of roads in the District were riddled with potholes, the asphalt was crumbling and traffic signs were missing. Kids stole them for souvenirs. Which could explain the car’s leisurely pace. But then the bad conditions would also provide a good excuse for Loving to drive slowly and be less suspicious.

“You have a sniper?” I asked Freddy.

He snorted a laugh. “Sniper? You’ve been watching too many movies, Corte. Best we have is Bushmasters.”

“Accurate is what we want, Freddy. It’s not about size.”

“Was that a joke, Corte? You never make jokes.”

“A map?” I asked.

“Here, sir.” The woman agent produced one.

I looked it over carefully, though I was keenly aware we didn’t have a lot of time. Either Loving would move fast or he wouldn’t try for the assault at all. I turned to the agents and explained my plan for the takedown, then pointed out the best placement for everyone and for the hardware. Freddy made a few suggestions, which I thought were good.

I looked at the building that was supposedly our safe house. A few lights were on inside. And there was a machine that Hermes had developed, a nice little toy, like a slow-motion fan whose blades cast shadows randomly on shades and curtains, giving the impression that somebody was inside and walking occasionally from room to room. It also produced a light that mimicked the glow of a TV screen. You could program voices to sound like people having conversations. There was even a mode selector: argumentative, humorous, conspiratorial-to make any eavesdropping lifters or hitters believe the warehouse was populated by principals under guard, and not workers.

“How’re the Kesslers?” Freddy asked.

“Calmer than a lot of my principals.” But, I told him, Joanne was a zombie and would be in therapy for a year; her husband was drinking and wanted to shoot anything that moved, and Maree-when she wasn’t hysterical-was more concerned about boyfriend trouble than professional killers.

“I warned you about that sister, Corte. You know, you get tired of this job, you should think about doing some kind of Dr. Phil show.”

Then I said, “I’m going into position.”

He gave me one of his looks. It was a container of a dozen messages that I read instinctively. Freddy, whom I’d met years ago under unusual circumstances, was the only person in the world I could be partnered with in operations like this. Of the two of us, I’m the strategist-I pick the moves-and he’s the tactician, figuring out how to implement my choices.

In terms of games, I decide rock… and Freddy makes the fist.

I trekked through a long weedy gully, bordered by a thick stand of trees to my right, the smelly canal beyond and, on the left, grass and piles of machinery. At the end, under cover of the sad foliage, I set up a Big Ear unit-a twelve-inch parabolic dish that was an ultrasensitive microphone-and slipped on a headset. I turned this toward the warehouse, aiming the device below the window, which had purposely been left open.

I focused beyond the warehouse and noted in the middle of our property two civilian vehicles up on blocks. A Chevy sedan and a Dodge van, rusty and covered with graffiti, some of which I myself had helped spray on a few years ago.

Alone now, feeling very alone, I looked around once more, as a trickle of excitement and anticipation danced down my spine.

Fear too, of course.

As Abe Fallow had told me and I told my protégés, you have to be afraid in this business. If you don’t get scared, you can’t be effective.

Ten minutes passed, a long, long ten minutes.

“Team One to Command Post,” a voice clattered through our earphones. “Got some movement north.”

“Command Post to One. Go ahead.”

“Be advised. Unknown person moving slow. Dark clothing, male probably. Gone from sight now. He’s in grid eighteen.”

“Weapon?”

“Not obvious.”

I strained, leaning forward to look where the subject had been spotted-the opposite side of the property from where I was. After a moment of staring at blond and green weeds, I too noted some motion. The subject was moving furtively from a dead end road toward the warehouse.

“I’ve got him,” the woman agent said. “No weapon. Doesn’t appear to be Loving.”

“Probably the partner,” I radioed, “but he’s not alone. Loving’ll be here too.”

The others called in, reporting what they saw-or, mostly, didn’t see-from their respective positions. The figure tentatively approaching the warehouse had stopped.

Then a whisper: “Team Two. He’s noticed the Dodge, he’s interested in it.”

I kept quiet. I’d be getting the details as soon they were verified. It was inefficient to waste time by asking professionals for more information. It was like urging, “Be careful” as you’re moving in for a takedown. I wiped my hands on my slacks.

“This is Team One. He’s on the move again. Slow.”

“Team Two. Copy that. He’s real interested in the Dodge.” One of the agents asked, “Any equipment in there?”

“No,” Freddy said. “It’s clean. Let him poke around… Team Four, you see anything more? Any sign of Loving?”

“Negative.”

“Three?”

“Negative.”

Then: “This is Team Two. The partner’s getting closer… hand in pocket… looking behind him… has something in his hand. A mobile.”

I pulled out my Alpen 10x32 Long Eye binoculars and scanned the area but couldn’t see him.

Working on calming my breathing-which was shallow and fast. I tried thinking one of my mantras. Rock, paper, scissors. Rock, paper, scissors.

It was then that I heard: Snap.

Directly behind me.

I froze and turned my head slowly.

Holding his silenced pistol steadily on me, Henry Loving glanced down briefly, his mouth curling with faint disappointment at not having avoided the dry branch he’d just stepped on.

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