Exit Strategy (53 page)

“Jack’s right,” Quinn cut in on the other radio. “He’ll be waiting for as many people in that house as possible to fall asleep, and be deeply asleep. My guess is you won’t see him before two. And if you’re tired now, you’ll be beat by then. Can you catnap?”

“Sure, but—”

“Then we’ll give you a half hour. Leave your radio on, and we’ll wake you up at ten thirty.”

I hesitated.

“You’re okay, Dee. Everything’s covered. Jack has your front, and I have your back.” A pause, then he sang. “
For a fee, I’m happy to be your backdoor man
.”

I sputtered a laugh.

“That didn’t sound right, did it?”

“I think that’s a whole different kind of pro.”

Jack came on. “Suppose you want a story.”

“Oh, I’ve got one,” Quinn cut in. “You’ll like it. A little tale about Martin Dubois. This isn’t the first fix he’s gotten himself into, but the last time he was lucky, managed to wriggle out…”

Dubois

Dubois looked across the room at the girl. Unbelievable. It wasn’t even ten thirty and she was asleep, as if she was home in bed after a long day’s work. And this was the same girl who’d lured a killer into an alley? Planned to take him on all by herself? Spent two hours poised in the downstairs bathroom like a pointer holding position on a duck? But, hey, night comes and the killer hasn’t shown up yet? Yawn, I’m getting sleepy…and this bed looks so comfy. He was surprised she hadn’t ordered pizza and a video.

Professionals, his ass. They reminded him of his stepson, who had ADD or whatever they called it these days. Put the kid on a task and he’d go full blazes on it for an hour and then…oh, look, a pretty butterfly. Didn’t matter what so-called specialists said, what the kid needed was discipline. That’s what differentiated real cops from these “detective wannabes.”

He looked at the girl’s hands on the pillow, beside her gun and radio. She was still wearing her gloves. Damn. He’d hoped to get a print. Maybe if he could slip off the wig and snag a hair…but just his luck, it wouldn’t contain a DNA tag. And what the hell would he do with it? Ma Barker from the coffee shop had made it clear that “her boys” weren’t going to give him the chance to turn the tables on them. If he tried, she had their conversation on tape.

At the time, he hadn’t cared. Hadn’t cared about anything. Rushed in headfirst. But that wasn’t his fault—they hadn’t given him enough time to think, only to react. Now,it looked as if he’d be heading home with no Helter Skelter killer to explain why he’d lied on camera and fucked off midinvestigation…

He ground his teeth. Something had to be done. His gaze traveled to the radio—her connection to the guys running this show. As long as she was in charge of that connection, she was in charge of things within these walls. He should have taken it from her, by force if necessary, hours ago. Yet, as the situation had unraveled, even as he’d raged against the loss of control, some panicked part deep inside him had been happy to cede that control, to continue hoping they could pull this off.

If everything went tits up, he could claim he’d been duped and kidnapped. That wouldn’t work if he’d had the radio all along. But now, as failure seemed imminent, he was seeing a new way out. Yes, he’d been duped and taken hostage, but he would redeem himself by handing over, not the Helter Skelter killer, but a handful of hitmen.

Time to take back what rightfully belonged to him: control.

He took a few careful steps. No floorboards creaked, and she seemed to be sleeping soundly. Another step…

Her eyes flew open.

In that split-second, Dubois measured the distance between them, assessed his chances of lunging across it and disarming her before she fully awoke—

Her hand was already on the gun as she rose, her eyes clear and alert.

“Agent Dubois…?”

“Any news?” he said, gesturing at the radio.

“No.”

“Let me know if there is.”

“Of course.”

He backed out of the room, shutting the door, but not pulling it tight enough to engage the latch.

Wilkes

Wilkes watched Dubois leave the room. The girl listened until his footsteps receded down the stairs, then crept from the bed and grabbed a hardcover book from the almost-empty bookcase. She propped the book against the door and went back to bed. If Dubois returned and found the door shut tight, he’d know she was suspicious and back off to try something else. If she left the door cracked open, he’d assume she’d bought his story and try again…only to knock over the book and alert her.

Wilkes allowed it was clever enough, but the agent was an idiot—easy to fool.

He pulled back from the probe eyepiece and swiveled his neck, working out the kinks. Then he stood, as much as he could stand in the low-roofed attic, and stretched his legs. Getting too old for this…but it wouldn’t be much longer now.

As he moved, pain shot through his side. The wounds from Jack’s bullets. One had been little more than a graze, the other going straight through muscle. Neither critical. He’d get them checked out soon enough, but in the meantime, they were slowing him down, something he didn’t need. If not for those wounds, he wouldn’t even be here—he’d have taken the girl down in that alley yesterday. Jack’s fault. But he’d pay for it soon enough.

He looked across the room at the small attic dormer window and resisted the urge to slide over and look out. He knew he wouldn’t see Jack. But he was out there, watching the house, making sure their girl stayed safe.

For the hundredth time in the last few hours, he wished it was Jack down there instead of the girl. Not only could he have paid him back for that fiasco in Vegas, but killing Jack would stick it to Evelyn in the only place that cold bitch would ever feel it. But, if he couldn’t kill Jack, then perhaps, as revenge went, this wasn’t such a poor substitute.

He’d seen the way Jack had looked at the girl in the opera house. At the time he’d chalked it up to good acting, but now he preferred to believe otherwise. Jack didn’t take partners. Wouldn’t even work with
him
when Evelyn had suggested it. But now that had changed, and he wasn’t just working alongside someone, but taking her everywhere, keeping her close, trusting her to watch his back. And that someone was an attractive younger woman. That was significant. It had to be. And if it was, then killing this girl just might hurt Jack more than any bullet.

Kill the girl. Hurt Jack. Maybe even sting Evelyn a little, robbing her of a new prize pupil at an age when she wasn’t likely to see many more.

He wanted to be there when they realized they’d lost her. Not just lost her,
sacrificed
her. He’d tried to tell himself that he would never have fallen for their scheme, that even if he hadn’t recognized the girl, he wouldn’t have slid into the trap. But in all honesty, he wasn’t so sure. It was a clever ruse. Evelyn had always been so damned clever, so quick to rub it in. Now she’d see she wasn’t the only one.

When he’d arrived, after following Dubois from the press conference, he’d lamented his lack of supplies. He hadn’t been prepared for this, and had to make do with the few things he’d had hidden in his rental car, all designed to kill one person. He had no idea how many people were in there. Was it just the girl and the one FBI agent? Or had Evelyn cut a deal with the Feds, meaning there’d be a house full of them? Or were Evelyn and Jack themselves in there, waiting for him? He wasn’t stupid enough to sneak down and find out, not when he had the perfect perch.

A bomb would have been ideal. Blow the whole house up. Then it wouldn’t matter how many Feds were guarding the girl. But all he had was a tiny thing that wouldn’t do any good unless he put it right under her bed, and the explosion would have the Feds locking down the place in seconds. Then, while he’d been waiting, he’d slipped into the empty house next door, up to the attic and with a bit of work on some rotted boards, slipped through to the adjoining one. And there he’d found the answer to his prayers: the access door that led into the walk-in closet of the master suite…a master suite with a gas fireplace.

He checked his watch. Twelve minutes to go. Time to find himself a good, safe spot to watch the fireworks.

FIFTY-ONE

For five minutes after Dubois left, I lay in bed waiting for his return. Then I sat up. I knew I needed to give it longer than that—he’d be waiting for me to fall back to sleep before returning—but something was niggling at the back of my brain, pestering me to get up.

I checked the clock. Still seven minutes before Jack or Quinn would wake me. Maybe that was it—like waking just before the alarm goes off, wanting to grab a few more minutes but unable to squelch that inner clock saying it was time to get up.

I reached for my radio to call them and say I was up. As I swung my legs over the bedside, the smell hit me. Faint…but familiar. A memory flash. I’d been eight. Brad and my mother had gone out, and I’d wanted to cook dinner for my dad. That was the only time I’d ever heard my father yell at my mother, when he’d come home, and found me alone…passed out on the floor because I’d forgotten to turn off the gas after making his meal.

I leapt to my feet so fast I tripped and nearly dropped my gun. I recovered, and raced out the door. So this was Wilkes’s plan—knock everyone unconscious and make easy work of the killings.

As I hit the hall, I heard the hiss of gas, not from downstairs, but from a bedroom. The gas fireplace in the master suite. I started to run, then checked myself. It could be a trap.

I lifted my gun then looked down at it and froze. Fire into a room full of gas?

I stuffed the gun into my holster, so I’d have both hands free…and so I wouldn’t instinctively fire if I saw Wilkes. As I holstered the gun, I thought of the radio. I’d left it in the room, running on instinct and thinking only of my gun. I considered going back, but that steady hiss of gas changed my mind. Shut that off first, then worry about the radio.

I stopped before reaching the doorway, and let my eyes adjust to the near dark as I listened. The hiss of gas from within covered any sounds, but that would work both ways. I reached into my pocket and made sure I had my penlight handy. Then I peered around the doorway.

The room was empty. In a sweep, I took in every place a man Wilkes’s size could hide. Dresser—too low. Bed—see-through iron headboard. The closet. It would have to be the closet. As I slunk along the wall, I paused to take out my penlight. Then I moved alongside the door.

Empty hangers clinked as I swung the door open. A walk-in closet. Empty except for a forlorn handful of hangers and a couple of plastic storage containers. The storage containers were stacked in the middle of the large closet. I looked up to see an attic access hatch above that stack. Was that how he’d come in? Shit!

I backpedaled out of the closet. My gaze flew to the hissing fireplace. Get that turned off first, then—

I took one step and froze. There, at the base of the fireplace, was a little box. On the box, a timer, a simple windup timer. And it was about to go off.

Dubois! I had to get to him—