Exit Strategy Part 35

I closed my window.

"Not quite the scenario we expected," I said. "Too open. Too...empty."

He nodded, gaze scanning the complex.

"Do you have a plan?"

"Working on it."

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Always."

I proposed we handle this as a two-man police raid, using a variation on standard procedures for infiltrating un-occupied buildings. Unlike an occupied area, here there was a good likelihood that our welcoming party wasn't at 510 H.G. Wells Boulevard at all, but in an adjoining town-house, or even across the road, watching for us through a sniper's sight.

The condos were row houses, with two basic styles-carport to the left and carport to the right. That meant we could investigate the one beside it, and expect to find the same floor plan reversed at 510.

Jack removed his gold; I put away the blond wig and jewelry-things that could catch the light. Then I scooped up dirt from the unfinished roadway, added bottled water, and we daubed it on our faces. I would have loved a Kevlar vest, but apparently the wire in my push-up bra was all the body armor I was getting. So I donned my gloves, took a deep breath and opened the door.

"Forgetting something?" he said.

I looked at him.

"Gun." He reached under his jacket. "Here. Take my backup."

"That's okay-"

"Take it." it."

As he thrust the gun at me, I opened my jacket and showed him the Glock. "See? I didn't leave it back at the hotel."

"Yeah. Just in the car."

He got out. I followed.

Desolate. Some words evoke images; others, emotions. Desolate is a shivers-up-the-spine word, full of loneliness and emptiness. And, as we approached unit 510, the word sprang to mind and lodged there.

Empty houses stood stark against the darkness, looking not half finished, but half ruined. Tarps over the windows and roofs billowed like spirits chained to the houses, flapping and slapping in the wind as they struggled to fly free. Behind us lay the desert, sand blowing in to reclaim the subdivision.

I shivered. Jack glanced over at me.

"Cold?" he whispered.

"A little," I lied.

"It's the wind. Better inside."

The modern condos loomed around me, scarier than any moldering Victorian mansion. I knew they weren't haunted-stuff like that doesn't bother me. You have to believe in the supernatural to be frightened by it. What spooked me was the desolation, as if it were a force that could reach up and swallow me.

We started at the last house in the row, secreting ourselves in its rear shadows, and creeping toward unit 510. We stopped at the unit to the left, and slipped behind the tarp to the largest window. Like most of the others, the gla.s.s hadn't been installed yet and the frame stood open.

Jack laced his fingers to help me through.

THIRTY-NINE.

Inside, I paused to let my vision adjust and give me time to focus, pushing past the frustration. My heart was thumping.

We had work to do, a solid lead to follow-a name name even-but we were stuck here chasing down another would-be attacker. Somewhere out there, Wilkes was stalking his next mark and I would fail, again, to stop him. Fail to save another victim, not through my inexperience or inept.i.tude, but because some two-bit thug was holding me back. Well, this thug wouldn't walk away. even-but we were stuck here chasing down another would-be attacker. Somewhere out there, Wilkes was stalking his next mark and I would fail, again, to stop him. Fail to save another victim, not through my inexperience or inept.i.tude, but because some two-bit thug was holding me back. Well, this thug wouldn't walk away.

When my eyes adjusted, I looked around to locate all the entrances-all the ways someone could sneak in here and see me-but the whole main level was a big entry point. The interior walls were naked stud-work. There was one front door, one back door, a bas.e.m.e.nt door, a half-dozen open windows and a stairwell leading to the second level.

I moved to the wall adjoining this unit to the next-the route I hoped to take into unit 510. It was drywalled. Figures. The compound hadn't been added yet, so I moved my gloved fingers over the boards, testing their resilience and peering through the cracks. The drywall was securely fastened. Jack could probably rip off a piece, but not without creating enough racket to alert anyone waiting for us next door.

Something whispered behind me-the soft sound of a carefully placed foot. I wheeled, gun going up. Jack lifted his free hand. He'd come in the window, obviously deciding I needed closer backup. I nodded and motioned for him to follow, so he could stand at my back while I examined the wall farther down. We slipped through the wall studs into what looked like the kitchen. There, alongside the counter, the drywallers had left a bare two-by-three-foot section, presumably waiting for something to be roughed in.

While Jack covered my rear, I crouched to examine the hole. The gap was partly drywalled on the other side, but there was a spot big enough to squeeze through-big enough for me me. I straightened and gestured at the hole. As Jack ducked for a better look, something thumped overhead.

I froze, eyes narrowing as I looked up. For a moment, all was quiet. Then it came again, the faint thump of a foot on uncovered floorboards...right over our heads.

Jack's gaze shot left. I gestured at the stairwell, the only obvious route to the second floor. I mentally raced through my image of the exterior, then leaned over to Jack, and whispered an idea.

"Where?" he mouthed.

I took a moment to figure it out, then pointed. His gaze flicked up, and I could see him processing the second-floor plan, working out the logistics. Then he nodded and waved me off.

Once I was through the hole between units, Jack hunkered down beside it, giving me cover while protecting his own back. For a minute, I didn't go anywhere, just stood there, looking and listening. Just because we knew someone was upstairs in unit 508, didn't mean there wasn't anyone in 510.

Like its neighbor, this unit was all open stud-work, meaning the only thing between me and a potential attacker was the darkness-but that worked both ways. Once I was reasonably confident that I was alone, I moved for-ward, gun ready, steps soundless as I moved toward the stairs.

Construction had progressed further on level two, making travel easier in some ways, tougher in others. Without Jack's cover, I had to take it slow and careful. With my back to the wall, I crept down the hall, peeked through the master bedroom door, then darted over to the balcony. Here the patio door had been installed, but didn't yet have a lock-or handle. I eased it open, crept onto the balcony and moved to the far right end.

A few feet away was the balcony for 508, where we'd heard the steps. Crossing the gap would have been easier-and safer-with proper tools, but I made it. Once across, a look through the gla.s.s door a.s.sured me the bedroom was empty. Within seconds, I was inside and across the room, pressed against the wall beside the hall doorway.

The footsteps had come from the northeast corner of the unit, right across from the master bedroom. I strained for a sound from that direction. None came. I tapped a fingernail against the drywall. A second tap answered. All units in position. I counted to three, then silently swung through the doorway.

The hall was empty. A split second later, Jack wheeled around the other end, gun drawn. He nodded. I lifted my hand and counted down: three-two-one. We each moved to cover the next doorway. Mine was the bathroom. No one was in it. I glanced at Jack. He shook his head.

With the next countdown, he swung into the entrance to the room where we'd heard footsteps, with me covering him from anyone coming down the hall. A soft grunt told me the bedroom was empty.

I squeezed past him, leaving him covering the door, and moved into the room. A quick check out the window. I shook my head. All clear.

While Jack kept me covered, I crouched and took out a penlight. Shielding it with my free hand to limit the reach of the light, I examined the floorboards. The thick layer of drywall dust showed the ghost of many feet, and two sets of recent prints, made after the last of the dust had settled. One set was mine. The other crisscrossed the room a few times, then ended at the window.

As I bent to examine the window, Jack tapped my shoulder and shook his head. I arched my brows. He gestured at one of the footprints. Misshapen, as a few of them were, with an extra b.u.mp-out near the heel, as if the walker had slipped in the dust.

"Retraced his steps," Jack whispered.

He motioned for me to get the window open.

"Make noise," he said. "Be obvious."

I nodded. Jack slid soundlessly back to the door, and I started working on the window. I was careful not to be too too obvious about it, but didn't take pains to open it quietly. Jack motioned for me to keep up the ruse and disappeared around the corner. obvious about it, but didn't take pains to open it quietly. Jack motioned for me to keep up the ruse and disappeared around the corner.

I got the window open, then stage-whispered, "Here, let me go first."

I grunted, playing Jack hoisting me into the window.

"s.h.i.t," I whispered. "It's a h.e.l.luva drop. Give me your hand and lower me down."

Another grunt. Then the crack of a gunshot. I wheeled away from the window, realizing as I moved that the shot came from the hall, not outside. A second shot-returned fire. As I sprinted across the room, two more shots came in quick succession from the second, farther gun.

As I neared the door, gun drawn, I could see Jack inside the bathroom doorway, diagonally across the hall. He had his gun up, listening. Seeing me, he jerked his chin, telling me our a.s.sailant was down the hall. I motioned, asking Jack if the gunman was far enough away for me to cross my open doorway safely. He nodded, and I flipped to that side. Then we waited.

I heard it first, the slap of a foot brought down too quickly. I gestured to Jack, telling him the gunman was on the move. Then I motioned a plan. He hesitated, then nodded.

I counted to five, leaned into the hall, making myself a target, then jerked back. The gunman fired. Jack fired. A hiss of pain. Return fire, receding, covering the sounds of retreat. Only when I heard the distant sound of feet racing down the stairs did I peek to check on Jack. He was already in pursuit. I hurried after him.

Wilkes

Wilkes huddled under the tarp, back against a lumber pile, gun drawn to blast the first shape that came near him. Gone to ground. Holed up like a rabbit.

G.o.d, wouldn't Evelyn love to see him now?

No. She wouldn't. Wouldn't care one way or the other. She'd just sniff, as if to say "What do you expect?"

His hands trembled, but he told himself it was rage, not fear. The fury of a wounded lion cornered by a sniveling jackal. He'd set the trap at the window, a.s.suming they'd draw the obvious conclusion and climb out. Jack would let the girl go first to help her down. Such a gentleman. Then Wilkes would have swung around the corner, opened fire and rid himself of an annoying little scavenger.

That's all Jack was-a scavenger. A jackal. Fed sc.r.a.ps by Evelyn, petted and pampered until he thought he was good enough to compete with the lions. One swing of Wilkes's paw and he could have brought Jack down twenty-five years ago. Should have.

Wilkes shifted, inhaling sharply as pain knifed through him. Two shots. How the h.e.l.l had Jack managed to hit him twice? He knew the answer in a heartbeat. Because he'd screwed up.

These past two weeks he'd prided himself on the care he took, on the control he exercised. Easy enough when it was a stranger at the other end of his gun barrel. But when given the chance to take down Jack, that cold layer of detachment had evaporated, and he'd been running on hate and adrenaline. He'd moved quickly, carelessly. Unforgivable.

He wouldn't make the same mistake again. At least he'd had the sense to back down after he was wounded. Neither shot was serious, and that was all that counted...even if it meant he was forced to crouch here, bleeding like a stuck pig, when he should be hunting Jack.

A fresh burst of rage, and he inhaled again, sharper, clearing his head, then peeked out. Where were they? Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe they weren't searching for him. He must have hit Jack at least once. Must have. Maybe he was lying in a pool of blood right now, the girl bent over him, desperately trying to staunch the flow.

The thought cheered Wilkes enough to push to his feet. He staggered forward and tugged back the tarp for a better look.

"Blood here." Jack's distant whisper carried through the silence. "Got a trail."

Didn't sound sound like he was bleeding to death. like he was bleeding to death.

Wilkes clenched his jaw hard enough to feel a jolt. As he took another step, the pain from his side and shoulder flared. He gritted his teeth and pushed past it. No time for weakness. He had to get out there and- The pain was so intense he stumbled, hands smacking the tarp as he broke his fall.

"-hear that?" the woman's voice whispered.

Wilkes pushed up straight, both hands on his gun to steady it, waiting for one of them to appear. But all went silent, even the sound of the flapping tarps from earlier gone as the wind had died. He surveyed the construction yard. It was dotted with piles of lumber, covered drywall, bricks...a dozen places to hide.

Did he expect them to waltz over here, letting him get a clean shot? Did he really think Jack was that stupid? He wanted to. G.o.d, how he wanted to. But he knew better.

He checked his watch: 11:48. No more time to waste. As much as he'd love to stick around and see this through, he had a train to catch.

He hadn't made it to his car. He'd got about a quarter of the way when he'd picked up the sounds of pursuit. Knowing he was in no condition to outrun them, he'd taken the first port of refuge: the security guard's van. He'd known it was open-he'd left it that way after he'd killed the guard.

The perfect hiding place. He'd positioned the guard so, from a distance, he appeared to be dozing. Jack wouldn't dare come close enough to see otherwise. He'd spot a sleeping guard and avoid the van, a.s.suming his quarry would do the same. So now, hunkered down in the back, tying makeshift bandages on his wounds, Wilkes only needed to wait Jack out.

He checked his watch. Could he still make the train? He had over an hour's drive just to reach the station. He fought the first p.r.i.c.k of panic. He'd still have time. Jack wouldn't search for long, not with the girl in tow.

They'd left. They'd finally left. Wilkes checked his watch for the hundredth time in the past hour, his rage so white-hot that sweat streamed down his face.

No, it wasn't too late. He could drive to the next station. He could- Impossible. He'd calculated it, recalculated it with every possible variable in his favor and knew he'd never make it on time.

Take another train. Kill another victim.

And, while he was at it, he'd send the Feds a congratulations card, for scaring him off his promise, making things too hot for him to pull the promised hit. That's what they'd a.s.sume.

He'd failed.

No, not failed. Changed his plan. He was toying with them. He never even got on the train. Couldn't have, because he'd been in Vegas, killing a security guard.

He smiled, took out his wallet and removed a dollar bill, rubbing it between his gloved fingers to make sure he only had one. Then he reached into the front seat, laid it on the guard's lap and- And looked down at the bloodied shirt he'd stripped off.

His gut went cold.

He fought the panic back. He'd been careful. Even the shirt was folded, unbloodied side down. But if he made this an HSK kill, the Feds would rip this van apart. A single blood drop. A single hair. Even an eyelash. They'd comb the building site, too, and he knew from Jack's words that he'd dripped blood somewhere.

He swallowed. Fresh rage enveloped him.