The Hunted

58

Perspiration rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. The stale, humid air inside the bell tower was something Payne had not anticipated when he chose the location, but it was too late now to make a change. Things were set.

He leaned against the small window and flapped his jacket lapels. He wanted to remove his suit coat, but his shirt was bright white and the navy blue jacket made it that much more difficult to see him in the dark enclosure.

He pressed his face against the slatted window and breathed in a few mouthfuls of forty-degree air. Remaining in a crouch, he looked out over the street, keeping watch not only for Lauren, but also for any sign of law enforcement personnel. The worst thing he could imagine was being minutes from reuniting with his wife, only to have it stripped away at the last moment by a local cop who may have been briefed on an FBI be-on-the-lookout bulletin.

The last charge he had made on Waller’s Visa was in the outskirts of Fredericksburg, just before leaving the motel. He knew Waller and Haviland would pay a visit there, questioning the clerk who had put the card through. But Payne had purposely asked about Union Station — how often Amtrak runs; if he left at five in the evening, what time would he arrive in New York City’s Penn Station; where you buy the tickets; how much they cost. Even though the clerk did not have a clue to most of the answers, it did not matter — the purpose was to plant the information with him so that when Waller and Haviland went fishing, they’d hook a big one.

Regardless of whether they thought it was a ruse, he knew they would have to check it out. The extra detail of reserving a seat on an Amtrak Metroliner for five-thirty this evening was a nice touch, he thought — but again, meaningless if they were wise to his motives.

As a safeguard, he had sold Waller’s Visa card to a shady-looking character twenty miles up the freeway at a rest stop. Hopefully, the perp would have a ball and charge up a houseful of items, essentially driving Waller and Haviland out of their minds as they tried to figure out what he was up to.

Payne wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead and focused on the dark Crown Victoria that was passing by on Princess Anne and turning left in front of him onto George Street.

The navy Crown Victoria cruised down William Street, a couple of blocks from George. As it passed Hector DeSantos’s Mustang, DeSantos checked his mirror and nodded. “Looks like everyone’s in position.”

“I never understood why the Bureau always buys the same cars for their undercover fleet,” Archer said. “Perps aren’t as stupid as we always want them to be.”

“Especially in this case, when the perps are a pro and an ex-agent.”

“We don’t make the decisions.”

“No, we just do what we’re told to do and collect our paychecks.”

“Since when do you ‘do what you’re told to do’?”

DeSantos shrugged. “Guess that means I just collect my paycheck.” He turned right at the next street, his eyes roaming the vicinity for signs of Payne or Scarponi. “Anything?”

“Nothing. But at least we’ve confirmed where everyone else is and made a pass of the area. It’s been a few years since I’ve been here.” Archer glanced at his watch, then subconsciously patted his shoulder harness, making sure his Browning nine-millimeter was there. “Circle around and drop me off near Princess Anne. It’s almost time.”

Lauren walked up the street, passing a Merrill Lynch investment office and an alley that opened into a parking lot. Another few seconds and she arrived at the columned, four-story Princess Anne Building, the location Michael had chosen for their meeting. She climbed the eight steps and stood on the semicircular veranda in front of the main entrance to the building, four white columns surrounding her like centurions standing guard.

Lauren looked down the street to her left, then removed her right glove for a moment before replacing it. It was a signal to Nick Bradley, who was sitting two blocks away in their rental, that all was okay.

Her left hand found its way down to her black, ballistic nylon fanny pack, which she had purchased at a gun shop on her way back to the motel two days ago. From the exterior, it looked like the typical run-of-the-mill pouch that strapped to one’s waist. In reality, it was a gun holster: it had a Velcro strip that ran the entire length of its front pocket, providing her with instant access to the firearm with a single flick of her wrist. Feeling the Colt inside, she leaned against one of the columns, secure in the thought that she could defend herself if something went wrong.

As the sun set, she looked out over the street, folded her arms across her chest, and waited.