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“Who was it that came to my house?” David asked.

“What?”

“That first night,” David said. “The man who broke into my house. He wanted the flash drive, and he wasn't one of Payne's run-of-the-mill hoods.”

Pope rolled down the back window three inches and flicked his cigarette butt out of it. He immediately lit another one and puffed it.

“I'm sorry about that,” Pope said at last. “I thought I was doing something good when I slipped the flash drive in with the rest of the evidence. Helping maybe. It didn't occur to me it would make your wife a target. It should have. I should have thought more clearly about it.”

David cleared his throat. “Who?”

“NSA,” Pope said. “Or FBI.”

“Jesus.”

“Probably NSA,” Pope said. “They want to cover it up.”

“Slow down,” David said. “Walk me through it.”

“If this mess gets into the newspapers, it will embarrass the administration, and that's with midterm elections on the horizon,” Pope said. “So they set the NSA on me. Oh, I can't
prove
who it is, but the NSA have their fingerprints all over the place. Anyway, the executive branch always sends the NSA. They have a proud history of sweeping troublemakers under the rug. Fucking lapdogs.”

That would explain it,
David thought.
The man who broke into the house was good. He almost had me. An NSA spook would make sense
.

David watched Pope in the rearview mirror. The man had gone quiet, puffed his cigarette thoughtfully. He was looking out the window, and for the moment he wasn't in the backseat of the Dodge. He was a thousand miles away, or maybe a decade away, maybe replaying the choices in his life that had brought him to this point.

Or maybe he was just tired and smoking a cigarette.

“The FBI,” David prompted.

Pope's eyes met David's in the mirror. “What?”

“You said the FBI was after you, too.”

“Oh, yeah,” Pope said. “That's a little different. They want to bring me in alive and make me talk. Seems there's a prominent senator on the Intelligence Committee looking to make a run at the White House. She'd just love to put on a show to make the current administration look bad, and dragging me in front of the committee to testify would fit the bill nicely. Lots of pointed questions about foreign murderers moving in next door to your friends and neighbors.”

“I can see how that might grab a few headlines,” David admitted.

“They'd make a real circus out of it,” Pope said.

“Seems turning yourself into the FBI is the obvious choice,” David suggested.

“Is it?” There was nothing amused in Pope's weak smile. “Tell me, Major Sparrow, when they drop you behind enemy lines, who do you turn yourself into?”

“That's not the same.”

“Feels the same to me,” Pope said. “Every place I go I'm behind enemy lines, okay? Why don't you turn
yourself
in? Go to the police and tell your story and let them work it out for you.”

David didn't reply.

“That's right,” Pope said. “You turn yourself in and then you can't undo it, can you? You're caught, trapped. And that goes against every instinct men like us have. You especially, I bet.”

David found himself nodding without meaning to.

“And once they have you, they can do whatever they want. It's out of your control. And control is everything.”

Control is everything
.

And even as David found himself agreeing, it occurred to him that men like Dante Payne probably lived by the same creed.

“Why did you want my wife to have the flash drive?” David asked. “Was it just to incriminate Payne?”

“I thought I might work a deal,” Pope said. “I don't trust the Feds, but your wife … I thought the DA could protect me in trade for testimony or something. Stupid. That was back at the grasping-at-straws stage. I've moved on to acceptance.”

He paused to flick the second cigarette butt out the window. He stuck another one in the corner of his mouth but didn't light it. His head was down, shoulders slumped, some weight squashing him down a little at a time.

“Something else, another reason,” Pope continued. “I guess … maybe I wanted to make amends or something.”

They sat for a few seconds.

“What do I do about Payne?” David asked.

“You mean to kill him?”

“Yes.”

“Then you already know what to do,” Pope said.

“Anything you could tell me would help.”

“He has buttons. You can push them,” Pope said. “He's proud. Arrogant. He's smart, but if he thinks he's been insulted, he might act rashly. It's not much. I'm sorry.”

No. It wasn't much.

David sensed Pope was winding down but wanted to keep him talking. “The flash drive. You said you were trying to help.”

Pope lit the cigarette in his mouth. “Tell you what. I'm going to smoke one last cigarette, and then I'm going.”

“You said you wanted to help,” David pressed. “What did you mean?”

Pope sighed out a gray cloud. “Whatever Payne is … I helped make him. There was this time…”

Pope trailed off, and for a moment David thought he'd lost him.

“There was this time,” Pope began again, “when Payne was first starting out. In order to set himself up, he had to clear away the competition. He was going up against the Russians. It had gotten bloody and Payne and the leader of the Russians reached some kind of truce, but it was bullshit. It was just Payne's way of lulling the Russian into letting his guard down.”

David thought he heard Pope's voice catch.

Pope cleared his throat, rubbed his red eyes with a knuckle. “So one night Payne and his men burned that Russian's house right down to the fucking ground. With the Russian inside. And the Russian's three kids and his wife and his eighty-one-year-old mother-in-law. But he couldn't have done it without me. I provided his foot soldiers. I opened the gates and let the barbarians inside.”

Pope blew out a stream of gray smoke. “I don't know your wife, but she seemed honest. Didn't seem like she'd take a bribe or be intimidated. She'd keep going until she nailed Payne to the wall. But that turned out to be a mistake, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean putting Payne in prison wouldn't solve anything,” Pope said. “He'd hired a hundred lawyers to work around the clock to get him out. Or if he didn't get out, he'd still send messages to his people, and they'd come after your wife and you and your family. You've got to kill him. But you already know that. It doesn't end unless Dante Payne dies.”

David considered Pope's story about the Russian and his wife and kids.

“My wife was upstairs when the break-in happened,” David said. “My kids. Sleeping in bed. I don't care about senators or the administration or who slipped up at the State Department. I just care about my family.”

“Yeah.”

And with that single word, David now clearly heard the strain in the man's voice. How long had he been on the run, living on the edge?

“Well.” Pope flicked the half-finished cigarette out the window. “My last smoke. I said I'd have one more then go. So … I guess … I guess I'll go now.”

In the rearview mirror, David saw Pope stick his pistol in his mouth. David opened his mouth to shout—

The gunshot rocked the car. Brains exploded out the back of Pope's head and splattered across the rear window.

David flung the car door open and staggered from the vehicle, ears ringing. He braced himself against the hood and bent over, the urge to gag rising. For a second, he thought he'd vomit, but the feeling subsided. He spit, trying to get the bitter taste out of his mouth.

He went back to the rear car window and looked in at the body.

Calvin Pope lay all crumpled on top of himself, one arm bent at an odd angle beneath his body, the other hand still gripping the pistol. His eyes were wide and glassy. Blood leaked from the back of his head and spread across the seat.

David took what he needed out of the Dodge. He couldn't drive it around in this condition and didn't have time to clean it up. He had his guns and Gina's logbook and the cell phone he'd taken off Payne's man.

He took a last look at Calvin Pope. Charlie had told David that the information on Pope's flash drive had read like a confession.

He'd been right.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Larry Meadows was having one of those nights.

He'd had to straight-up lie to the police. David Sparrow? Who? What? Huh? If Larry hadn't known for a fact that David was rock solid, he'd be feeling pretty anxious right about now. The police had surrounded David's Escalade with yellow tape and had shut down the parking garage for over an hour.

This was not a night Larry needed extra hassles.

The Shriners were good guests, but this was the final night of the convention, and they were bringing the party strong. Larry had called in every bartender and waiter he could get to answer the phone. All hands on deck.

During almost every minute of the day something was going wrong—broken ice machines, clogged toilets, problems in the kitchens, missing luggage, and any of a hundred other things. Larry would be lost without a small army of assistant managers, bell captains, and desk clerks who stood the front lines between him and a never-ending flow of needy guests. A problem had to be fairly significant to demand Larry Meadows's personal attention.

Like when the police wanted to search your hotel for a missing fugitive.

Fortunately, a parking valet had identified David fleeing the scene, negating the need for a room-to-room search.

And, man, what a huge pain in the ass that would have been. The guests would have definitely bitched about it to no end
.

The police had gone, and for now, everything in the hotel seemed to be running smoothly. Only a temporary situation to be sure, but Larry took advantage of the lull to keep a promise. He'd told David he'd check in on his wife. Probably not strictly necessary, but it might ease her stress to see a friendly face for a few minutes. Larry didn't know the woman, but he imagined she might be feeling all alone up there.

Larry didn't want to arrive empty-handed, so he headed back to the kitchens and flagged down one of the chefs.

“Brenda, you have any of that good strawberry cheesecake left by any chance?”

“Just made another one.”

“Slice me a double-size piece, would you?” Larry asked.

Brenda raised an eyebrow.

“Don't look at me like that.”

“You know what your wife said,” Brenda reminded him. “Diet.”

“It's not for
me,
” Larry said. “It's for a special guest.”

She sliced it for him, put the dish on a tray, and covered it with a little silver dome. Larry thanked her, took the cake to the elevator, and headed up to the top floor.

Larry knocked, and a moment later, Amy opened the door. “Mr. Meadows.”

“I know the kitchen up here is fully stocked,” Larry said. “But this is the dessert chef's specialty. You won't get this anyplace else.”

Amy smiled politely and stepped aside to allow Larry to enter. “What is it?”

“Strawberry cheesecake.” Larry took the tray into the kitchen and set it on the counter. “It's good stuff. Just stick it in the refrigerator if you want to save it for later.”

“That's kind of you,” Amy said. “But please don't go to any trouble. You've done enough already, and I know you have a hotel to run.”

“The cheesecake was just an excuse, ma'am,” Larry admitted. “Fact is I told David I'd look in on you. He's worried.”

Amy sighed. “He's worried about
me
? I keep checking my phone for a text every ten seconds hoping to get word from him.”

“Ma'am, this probably won't help, but please believe me. David knows what he's doing. He's good at what he does. Maybe the best there is.”

Amy summoned a wan smile, nodded absently.

“You need anything, just pick up the phone,” Larry said. “Army people look after one another. That extends to families, too.”

“Thank you, Mr. Meadows,” Amy said. “But all I want is sleep. I don't think I've ever been this tired in my life.”

“I can imagine,” Larry said. “So I won't keep you. Just remember, I'm a phone call away.”

On his way back to the elevator, Larry Meadows envied the notion of a good night's sleep, but there would be no rest for the hotel manager until every last Shriner had been tucked safely into bed.

*   *   *

A short time later, Amy sat up in bed, feeling foolish. The notion she could sleep was idiotic. How many times had she texted David without a reply?

She knew the answer. Nine times.

She turned on the nightstand lamp and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She wore only white cotton panties and a Jets T-shirt. She grabbed the pair of jeans from the floor where she'd kicked them off earlier. That made her laugh. An article of clothing lasted about ten seconds on the floor with David around.

She missed him. She missed when she'd come home from a long day, tossing off her work cloths, David following her around the bedroom picking them up and carrying them to the clothes hamper.

Nine times she'd texted him.

She wriggled into the jeans, zipped them up. They were tight and she felt an irrational stab of anger at the fact. All the damn hours on the elliptical. But they were still too tight.

Nine times.

She left the bedroom and walked out into the living room, turning her head and taking in the place again. It was nice. A rich man's getaway.

A pair of French doors led out to a balcony. She hadn't been out there again and decided to take a look. There was a breeze. A good view, the lights of the city glittering. She looked down. The hotel's pool and spa were illuminated ten floors below on the roof of the annex.