Cut Out (18 page)

After fifteen minutes of hard thought, Hammer picked up the phone and began to dial.

FAYETTEVILLE 31

OCTOBER, 1:10 a.m.

The dome light in the car went on for a second and then just as suddenly went out. The slight thud of both doors being shut echoed across the parking lot. Riley watched the two men move across the asphalt, right hands hanging straight down at their sides, the glow of streetlights reflecting off the metal in those hands. Riley stood in the kitchen, slinging the H & K 94 over his shoulder and drawing the silenced High Standard .22. He backed up farther into the darkness, angling so he could watch out the window and also have the front door in his sights. He figured to let them both come in, then take out the trail man with the pistol and try to subdue the lead man without serious injury for interrogation. It all depended on how good they were. The better they were, the more likely he would have to kill them both with the submachine gun.

The men were more than halfway across the parking lot. Riley slipped the safety off both weapons, pistol in his left hand, sub in the right. The two men had their own weapons up now; both held revolvers, which Riley estimated gave him the advantage of superior firepower, in addition to the element of surprise.

As the lead man stepped on the concrete sidewalk that fronted the apartment building, a pair of high-beam headlights reached through the darkness, pinning both men in their glow. The men spun, weapons pointing. A silent strobe of flames spit out from the left side of the car, above the headlights; both men arched back, their bodies twitching from the impact of the rounds that tore through their flesh, not even able to get off a shot in return. As the bodies were still settling onto the pavement the headlights went out and three men sprinted toward Riley’s townhouse, silenced submachine guns cradled in their arms, the man in front also carrying a sledgehammer.

Riley spun and raced for his living room as the front door splintered under the first blow. Extending the metal stock of the submachine gun before his face, Riley exploded through the plate glass sliding doors.

“Hold it!” someone yelled from behind, and a string of bullets churned into the living room ceiling. Riley tore through the makeshift trip wire he’d rigged across the small concrete patio, cans jangling with the pennies inside, and then he was gone into the night.

1:12 a.m.

Master frowned as he pressed the phone against his ear. “But I don’t understand.”

“It’s not up to you to understand.”

“What about Riley?” Master asked.

“Terminate all loose ends.”

The commo man twisted in his seat, gesturing urgently at the comm link lying on the desk.

“Hold on,” Master said into the phone.

“No,” the voice replied. “You just do your damn job.”

“Shithead,” Master muttered to himself as he put down the phone. He picked up the comm set. “Master here.”

“This is team two. Target has bolted.”

“Goddamnit, I told you just to surveil!” Master exploded.

“We were, but someone else had other ideas. There were two men moving up on the target, and it looked like they planned on terminating. We interrupted and the target split.”

Master closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Is the scene clean?”

“We’ve secured the bodies. We’re still cleaning the site. So far no official reaction.”

“All right. Finish cleaning up and then put the bodies on ice—you know where. Out.” Master took off the headset. He went completely still for a minute, then turned to the commo man. “Get me that jerk on the secure line.”

The commo man punched in the number and Master waited. The phone was picked up on the second ring.

“Yes?”

“This is Master. I think you’d better hold off on your little plan. We’ve lost track of your loose end down here.”

CUMBERLAND COUNTY

31 OCTOBER, 1:21 a.m.

With a start, Lisa Cobb woke from a dream-filled sleep, her eyes casting about in the dark, trying to orient herself physically and emotionally. Reality flooded back in, pushing out whatever unpleasant images had floated through her dreams. She knew where she was and why she was here, and she realized that the real nightmare was as bad as anything she had been dreaming.

The noises of the woods penetrated the thin windows, the night animals calling out to each other. But it was something else—snatches of a conversation—that had penetrated her unconsciousness. She rolled onto an elbow, the plywood floor creaking under her. Footsteps sounded in the hallway and the door cracked open. She recognized the figure that loomed there.

“Everything all right?” she asked.

“Sure,” Hammer said. “I heard you move around—just wanted to check.”

“I thought I heard something,” she said.

“What?”

“I don’t know. Something.” Lisa shook her head, trying to concentrate and remember.

“Go back to sleep,” Hammer said. “Everything’s all right.” The door swung shut behind him and she was left in the dark again with her thoughts and elusive dreams.

Chapter Eleven

CHICAGO

31 OCTOBER, 12:49 a.m. CENTRAL TIME

Giannini fumbled in the dark and picked up the phone. “Giannini here.”

The dull throb of the dial tone penetrated her ear, its sound adding to her stubborn headache.

The phone rang again, and she put down the desk phone, flipped on the lamp, and grabbed her portable. “Yes?”

“It’s Dave.”

“Are you all right?”

“I don’t know what’s going on, Donna, but we’re in deep shit. I’ve got people killing each other to see who can be the first to kill me.”

“What?” Giannini asked, trying to clear her head. She listened as Riley succinctly described the events of the past hour. “Where are you now?” she asked when he came to a halt.

“I’d rather not say over the phone,” Riley replied. “I don’t know where the hell these people are getting their info, but some of it has to be from the phone lines. It doesn’t matter anyway—I’ll be leaving here as soon as I hang up.”

“You don’t have any idea who these people are? Either the ones coming in or the ones who killed them?”

“All I know is that the second group was more professional than the first group.” Giannini could hear Riley pause and take a deep breath. “I link up with our friends tomorrow. Then I’m getting us undercover. I haven’t figured out where yet. I’ll get in touch with you when I do.”

“Then what?” Giannini asked.

“Then we solve this,” Riley replied. “We stop running, we get our shit together, and we finish it. Right now they’ve got us reacting constantly. Whoever they are—which I’m not too sure of right now.”

“Maybe I can help with that,” Giannini replied.

“How?”

“I’ve got several things I need to check on, like I told you earlier. I think I can get some answers.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Riley replied. “Just get out of there and get undercover.”

“I remember saying that to someone earlier this evening and that person promising to get to a safe place.”

“I won’t argue with you,” Riley said, accepting the admonishment. “I did that once and learned my lesson. I trust you to do what you think is best. I’m going to keep everyone here undercover, so I guess it’s up to you. There’s only one thing I want to add, though, that I never said before.”

A long silence ensued. Giannini waited. When Riley didn’t continue, she finally spoke. “What’s that, Dave?”

“Well—I like you a lot, Donna.” Riley’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “And I don’t want you getting hurt.” He continued in an uncharacteristic rush of words. “I thought I lost you earlier and I realized I should have told you how I felt a long time ago. And now I have, and now you’d better just take care. Listen, I’ve got to go— I’ve been on this line too long already.”

“I love you too, Dave.” The phone line went dead.

FAYETTEVILLE

31 OCTOBER, 1:51 a.m. EASTERN TIME

Riley put down the phone and moved away from the McDonald’s parking lot. He pulled the MP-5 out from underneath his fatigue shirt. Keeping to the edge of Yadkin Road, he began running at a steady pace to the east. Every time a car’s headlights appeared from either direction, he’d sprint off the road and hide, either behind parked cars or in the shadows of the businesses that lined the road.

He was crossing the parking lot of one of the innumerable laundromats when a set of high-beam headlights went on from a car parked across the street, pinpointing him with their light.

An amplified voice echoed through the chilly air. “Freeze where you are and drop the weapon!”

The blue stutter of police lights added to the authority of the voice. Blinded, Riley could hear a car door open and a voice repeat the order. He turned and ran, heading for the alley between the laundromat and the next store.

“Halt!” the police officer yelled, taking up chase.

A fence topped with barbed wire enclosed the end of the alley. Riley let the MP-5 hang by its sling as he jumped. The toes of his boots grabbed hold in the chain links. He paused for a second; then, grabbing the top of the fence just below the wire, he did a backflip over the wire and hit the ground with the balls of his feet. After a quick roll he was running again. He spared a glance over his shoulder. The cop was nowhere in sight; he must have headed back for the patrol car.

Riley ran through into the residential area behind the stores, randomly cutting through streets, cursing every time a dog started barking. Twice he spotted patrol cars cruising the street, handheld spotlights searching the night.

Finally, he made it to the overpass that crossed the All American Freeway coming out of Fort Bragg. He climbed over the guardrail, then eased underneath the bridge and hid the MP-5 atop one of the girders. He got back on top of the bridge and continued walking cautiously until he reached Skibo Road, where he took a left. At one of the many trailer courts that lined the road, he found another bank of pay phones. He went to the second phone and dialed information, getting the number he needed.

The phone was picked up on the second ring and the voice sounded alert, used to getting calls in the middle of the night.

“Sergeant Major Alexander.”

“Sergeant Major, this is Chief Riley. I need some help.”

“What sort of help?”

“I’m at the Evergreens Campground off Skibo Road and I need a ride.”

“Be right there.”

Riley moved off into the shadows and used the time to consider his options.

FORT BRAGG

31 OCTOBER, 2:20 a.m.

The two bodies were laid out on the steel autopsy tables, their pale skin marred by the black and red puckered holes where bullets had punched through. The air inside the morgue at Womack Army Hospital was an uncomfortable forty degrees and smelled of strong chemicals. The four men gathered around the bodies seemed unaware of the macabre surroundings. This morgue was the same place that bodies from classified Delta Force missions were returned, so strange goings-on were not considered abnormal by the staff. “Who are they?” Master asked.

The technician had fingerprinted the hands of the corpses and faxed out the ink pictures twenty minutes ago. He stared at his computer screen, his breath visible in small puffs. “It’s coming up now, sir.” He nodded at the body on the left, an overweight male with long, greasy black hair. “We’ve got one Victor Lupino. He’s got quite a record in the FBI organized crime files. Armed robbery. Extortion. Grand theft auto. Breaking and—”

“Who’s he work for now?” Master interrupted the litany.

“Last indication was that he was working for Peter Marrinelli in Atlanta. Marrinelli’s the local head honcho for the mob there.”

“The other one?”

The technician chuckled. “Bobby aka ‘the Snake’ Lister.”

“Same job description?”

“Yes, sir. Another mob gunman.”

“How the fuck did the Atlanta mob get onto Riley?” Master asked no one in particular. “Too many hands diddling with the stew.” He stared at the bodies with his pale eyes. “All right. Dispose of them.”

One of the men acknowledged that with a curt nod, and the two bodies were wheeled out. Master flipped open the cover on his portable phone and dialed.

FAYETTEVILLE

31 OCTOBER, 2:20 a.m.