Gone

CHAPTER 50

After it was determined that Scanlon wasn’t home, phase two of the operation was put into play.

Parker got on the horn again, and then, twenty minutes later, a beat-up Dodge Ram pickup with a camper bed pulled up behind us.

“More friends of yours, Parker?” I said. “What does this truck do? Test your cholesterol?”

As she shushed me, I noticed that the two men who got out of it were dressed head to toe in black. I also noticed that the cabin light in the pickup failed to go on when the men opened the doors.

Parker zipped down her window as they approached. One of the agents was stocky and older, with a dark mustache. The other one was blond and looked like he’d just started shaving. I thought they looked like a father-and-son team of American ninjas.

“Which is it?” Junior wanted to know.

“The one with the gate,” Parker told him. “There’s a dog, apparently.”

“No problem,” said Senior, patting the bag he was holding with an evil grin. “We love puppies.”

Junior kept his eyes on the house as he put a chaw of chewing tobacco between his cheek and gum. There was a light jingle of metal on metal when he tightened the knapsack on his back. He checked his watch.

“We’ll call you in … seven minutes?” he said, cocking his head at his partner.

“Six,” the older partner said with a nod before they walked off.

“The wheels of justice are moving so much faster than I remember. This must be some sort of land-speed record for a search warrant,” I said, watching the FBI agents scale the driveway gate like squirrels.

Parker ignored me. I’d only said it to tease her. This was an illegal, unauthorized black-bag job if there ever was one.

One I thoroughly approved of, actually. Following the letter of the law when Perrine was out there wiping out families and cops would be like obeying the traffic laws while driving a dying relative to the emergency room. In a word, stupid.

We needed information, the faster the better. We needed to be on Scanlon, on his phone, neck deep in his life, before he had the slightest inkling of what was what. My eyes were locked firmly on the prize, namely, a world without Manuel Perrine. I’d cut more corners than a miter saw to take out the son of a bitch who was still out there on the loose, trying to kill my family.

It was actually only five minutes from when the FBI Watergate plumber guys hopped the fence until it slowly started opening. The older agent opened the door formally, like a butler, as we came up the drive.

“Where’s Fido?” Parker asked.

“Out like a light. After we picked the lock and tossed him a treat, he got real sleepy all of a sudden. Funny, huh?”