Sympathy For the Devil (5 page)

That’s why Colin’s sudden request for a meeting made Hicks wonder if he’d been right. And he was glad he’d brought the Ruger to keep him company. Trust, but verify.

By the time Hicks finally reached Central Park, the sky glowed purple high above the barren trees. Central Park South was usually filled with tourists and horse-drawn carriages lined up to take said tourists on a ride inside the park. The blizzard had chased them all inside, except for the rare die-hard cabbie looking for a fare.

The weather inside the park was even more severe than out on the street. Snow had been blown into drifts almost shin-high, even on the paths that had once been clear. The wind blew the whole mess in a wild, circular motion.

The park was deserted and Hicks hoped it stayed that way. He hated surprises and a snowbound park wasn’t ideal for surprises. Footprints in the snow betrayed early arrivals. Tough going made it hard to sneak up unannounced. Harsh wind fucked with bullet trajectory. Maybe that’s why Colin had picked it? He certainly hoped so.

The wind picked up steadily the farther he got into the park; with the snow turning into a driving sleet just as he reached the footbridge. Hicks pulled back the sleeve of his parka and checked his watch. He was ten minutes early. He normally liked to arrive a half hour early, but trudging through shin-deep snowdrifts had fouled up his ETA.

But as he got closer to the footbridge, he saw Colin was already there. University protocol was clear: Operatives were never supposed to be on site until their Faculty Member cleared the site first. Colin knew University protocol better than anyone.

Red flag.

Hicks slowed as he scanned the area as best he could through the sleet and snow. There was no sign of fresh footprints in the snow leading to the site, meaning Colin must’ve entered through the west side of the park. It looked like he’d come alone, but he wouldn’t be able to tell much until he was under the shelter of the footbridge. By then, it would be too late to do anything but react

University protocol was clear on this point, too: if an Operative fails to meet exact protocol, turn around and walk away.

Protocol had its place, but Colin was Hicks’ man. He already knew something was off about the whole set up. He gripped the handle of the Ruger in his pocket. Just in case.

The closer Hicks got, the less he liked what he saw. Colin was normally laid back to the point of appearing to be careless. Nothing ever seemed to bother him or upset him or make him happy. Hicks had never known him to betray any emotion other than what his cover required. He was an emotional blank slate, which had made him ideal for the kind of undercover work Hicks assigned him.

But now, Colin was pacing back and forth like a caged animal. He was also constantly blowing into gloved hands. His head was uncovered and his eyes were wide. He appeared nervous and twitchy like a junkie jonesing for a fix. And Colin never drank or used drugs.

Hicks kept his hand on the Ruger in his pocket as he joined Colin under the footbridge. “What’s going on?”

“Things, man. Things.” Colin kept pacing and muttering to himself. “Things you don’t know, man. Things you can’t see. Things you don’t want to know and don’t want to see, see?”

Hicks had only seen Colin two days before, but he looked like he’d aged ten years since then. His eyes were red and his pupils were pinpoints. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days and Hicks wondered if he had.

He looked and acted high. Like coke or heroin high, which was a problem. Because Colin didn’t do stimulants. He hated needles and alcohol gave him a headache. Even beer.

Red flag number two.

Hicks went to grab his arm, but Colin jumped back; slipping on the icy snow that had drifted under the footbridge. He fell back against the wall of the underpass and stared up at him, eyes wild. “You’ve gotta pull me out, boss. You gotta pull me out, now. I don’t have time to explain, but it’s bad, man. Real, real bad. These boys ain’t playing and… and, oh, you’ve gotta pull me out, and you’ve gotta pull me out right now.”

Hicks kept checking both ends of the tunnel. None of this felt right. Colin had always been solid and he never panicked. And he didn’t pace back and forth and babble like this. Hicks had seen panic and burnout in Operatives before. Panic was as a part of Intel life as breathing. People did odd things when they panicked. They were late or they were early or they were hiding near by or they ran to him they saw him. But they never stayed in the open, pacing back and forth like Colin was doing now.

Like a goat tied to a stake in the ground.

Hicks didn’t try to help him. He pulled the Ruger and kept it flat against his side as he kept an eye on the western approach to the underpass; backing up the way he’d come, glancing over his shoulder as he moved. “Let’s get out of here, Colin. Let’s go somewhere warm where we can talk. Just you and me.”

Colin pawed at the stone wall as he crept away from Hicks. “Don’t touch me, man! I don’t need you touching me. I need you to get me out of here, that’s all. I need you to get me the hell out of here and away from these people.”

Hicks kept backing up; the Magnum flat against his leg. He felt the snow and sleet begin to hit the back of his hood. “Then come with me, and let’s get the hell out of here. This way. Right now.”

But Colin kept inching along the wall back toward the western entrance to the underpass. “Wait, man. Just… just wait a second, okay? We gotta talk, come up with a plan, you know? Get this straight before we go anywhere so we can…”

Hicks brought up his Ruger when he saw a shadow move at the western end of the underpass. Someone else would’ve dismissed it as a tree branch moving in front of a streetlight, but not Hicks. He’d spent his life in shadow. He knew the difference.

Colin began to shriek as two men spilled out onto the snowy footpath at the western entrance. The nearest man regained his footing first. Hicks saw a small video camera in his hand. The son of a bitch must’ve been filming the whole thing.

The other man was farther back, next to a snow-covered bush just off to the side of the path. Colin began to squeal as the man aimed at him. Hicks fired twice just as the gun came around. Both rounds hit him in the middle of the chest. The man’s gun fired once as he stumbled back into the blizzard.

The man with the video camera slipped again as he tried to run away; belly-flopping on the walkway but not dropping the camera. He scrambled to his knees, trying to get his feet under him despite the thick snow. Hicks didn’t wait for him to get to his balance and shot him in the temple. The cameraman’s head flinched at the impact of the bullet before he collapsed dead on the pathway. The video camera was still strapped to his hand.

A sharp wind picked up, blowing snow and sleet into the underpass. Hicks didn’t hear a sound, not even the echo of his gunfire.

Not even Colin’s screaming.

Hicks found Colin slumped against the wall; a bullet hole in his neck; a red streak tracking the path he had fallen against the wall. The gunman’s errant shot had caught him in the throat, and he was steadily bleeding out into the snow.

Hicks knew calling for help was pointless. With that kind of a wound, he’d soon be dead if he wasn’t already. Besides, despite everything they’d been through together, the son of a bitch had just set him up.

Hicks crept forward; listening as he swept the area outside the western approach with the Rugerin case anyone else was hiding in the shadows. All he found was a whole lot of snow and the two men he’d just killed. The only footprints he saw showed three men approaching the site and the prints they’d made running away. He lowered his Ruger and listened as the snow and sleet fell around him. Gunshots usually drove everyone away except for cops. And cops were the last thing he needed just then.

Hicks reverted back to his training. He ignored the wind and the sleet and the snow and simply listened for sirens, a police radio, a barking dog, a stifled sneeze. Anything that would tell him if someone was nearby. But all he heard was the wind in his ears and the sleet hitting his skin. A quiet park on a snowy night. The scene would’ve been postcard perfect if it hadn’t been for the three dead men at his feet.

Hicks took a knee and began patting down the dead men’s pockets; starting with the gunman. He took in everything at once: the thick, hooded parka, the black ski mask, and the sneakers. He took a closer look at the footwear: cheap Air Jordan knockoffs. The cameraman was in a similar getup, too.

Why the heavy coat and lousy footwear in a blizzard they’d been predicting for days, especially for a hit in a park? It didn’t make any sense.

Hicks pulled off the gunman’s ski mask so he could get a clear face shot of it with his handheld. The face was unfamiliar but common: thin and black, between twenty and forty and slack in death. He looked too thin to be American and, judging by where Colin had been working undercover, probably Somali. Hicks had never seen either of them in person or in in any of the surveillance images from the cab stand, either. Whoever these men were, they were new players to the game and they wouldn’t be playing any longer.

Hicks activated the secure features of his phone and took a picture of the gunman’s face. He pulled the ski mask and hood back the way they’d been, then used his phone to scan the dead man’s fingerprints. The man hadn’t been wearing a glove on his gun hand.

Hicks went through the same procedure on the cameraman—also a black man who Hicks had never seen before. He took a picture of his face and scanned his fingerprints, then uploaded the information to OMNI. If their faces or fingerprints were on record with any government in the world, he’d know about it in less than an hour. If not, the network would automatically begin running image checks on every kind of camera available from that spot to see if it could find a match locating where they’d come from. ATM machines, security cameras, traffic cameras, and even images posted on social media would all be scanned by OMNI; thousands of images per second until they had an idea of who these men were and where they’d come from.

He patted down both men. No wallets. No car keys. Nothing that could help identify either of them. That meant they’d planned this, but if they’d planned it so well, why the lousy footwear? They hadn’t just hopped out of a car and shot at him on a whim. They hadn’t tried a drive by either. Colin had picked this place, specifically a secluded part of the park. Why do that if he was setting him up for a hit? Was he trying to warn Hicks somehow? If not, why not use one of the distress codes they’d agreed upon?

Hicks took the video camera from the dead man’s hand and examined it. It had been on and recording the entire time. He checked to see if it was broadcasting over a wireless hub, but it wasn’t. It was recording straight to the camera’s SD card.

That was another thing that bothered him. Why a camera? Why not use the camera in a cellphone? The quality was just as good as a stand-alone device. It was just another thing to carry. He’d make a point of examining the camera later. For now, he simply shut it off and put it in one of the deep pockets of his parka.

Hicks searched Colin’s body last. No keys, no wallet. No Metrocard, either. No weapon of any kind. Not even a knife. Nothing that explained his betrayal, either. Hicks knew he had a hell of a lot of work to do before he could make sense of any of this.

Hicks stood up and checked the scene one last time to see if he’d missed any clues or relevant evidence. Of course, he hadn’t. He looked down at Colin last.
Why did you turn, my friend? How could you…

Hicks realized ‘how’ was the answer. Or rather, ‘how’ was the question.

How did you get here without money or a Metrocard? The subways and buses aren’t running due to the blizzard. How the hell did they get all the way to Central Park from Long Island City in the middle of a blizzard?

Colin’s initial call to the Switchboard had come in around noon. They’d begun shutting down the subways at two o’clock to beat the storm. Had they sat around the park for eight hours in the middle of blizzard just to set him up?

No. Someone had brought them there. And Hicks bet that same someone was probably still waiting to pick them up. Somewhere close by.

Hicks reloaded the Ruger and began following the footprints of the dead men in the snow. He retraced their steps west, walking into the wind. At this rate, their footsteps would be obliterated in less than an hour, but Hicks wouldn’t need that long. He’d tracked men in worse conditions than this.

The sleet and the wind picked up, causing the trees above to sway and creak. He scanned the snowy landscape for any signs of movement, but all he saw was the park’s street lamps struggling to provide light. He bet that whoever was waiting for Colin and the others was probably in a car with the engine running. Nice and warm. And easy to spot.

Hicks slowed when he reached the park entrance on Seventy-second Street; ducking his head into the wind more than he had to. It was just enough to hide his face, but not enough to block his view of the street.

He spotted a late model Toyota Corolla on the west corner of Seventy-second and Central Park West. Lights on, motor running. Hicks couldn’t see the driver clearly through the sleet, but realized the driver must’ve seen him. He heard the gear creak as the driver took the car out of park and threw it into drive.

Hicks brought up his handheld and thumbed the camera feature of his handheld alive. He aimed the camera at the car as it pulled away and waited for the handheld to locate the car’s black box. Every car made since the mid-nineties had one. It was like waiting for a device to find a wireless network, only this search was much faster. The phone found the black box transmitter and pinged it back to him. He tapped the University’s tracking feature on his phone and sent the protocol to the University’s OMNI system. Now the system would track the car wherever it went.

Ping, motherfucker. Gottcha.

Hicks put his handheld in one pocket and the Ruger in the other. He saw no reason to go back to the footbridge and decided to turn left; walking south along Central Park West. He typed in a five-digit code on his handheld and waited for someone at the Varsity desk to answer.