Wildfire (12 page)

Then, just as the light turned red, he powered the small vehicle into a controlled right-hand turn.

"Hey, when somebody smacks you across the head, hangs you on a pipe, and then starts cutting people up right in front of you, it's real easy to develop a whole new perspective on blood and bodies," the tech agent replied. "Far as I'm concerned right now, as long as neither one of them are mine, they don't bother me at all. But I didn't have that perspective back then, so I went into computers instead. Figured I . . . hey, wait a minute, this isn't. . ." Takahara started to say.

But then he caught himself, shook his head in embarrassment, and began watching his own side mirror as Lightstone continued to accelerate the sedan up the slush-covered road.

A dark gray van was signaling for a right-hand turn at the intersection they had just left. But then the driver seemed to hesitate before coming to a complete stop. When the light changed, the van went straight on through the intersection.

"What do you think?" Lightstone asked, slowing down as the two agents watched the van disappear from their side mirrors.

"Looked like a good possible to me. Where was it?"

"Parked across the street from the police station. Driver made a quick U-turn after we turned right out of the parking lot, then stayed back in the left-hand lane. Local plates. You get anything on it?"

"Late model Dodge minivan. Dark color. Tinted side windows. Nobody in the passenger seat."

"What about the driver?"

"Nothing useful," the tech agent said. "He might have been looking our way when he went through the intersection. Couldn't tell."

"Are you sure it was a he?"

"No, not really. Fact is, I don't think I could say either way. Why, is it important?"

"No, probably not. Just getting jumpy in my old age," Lightstone said as he continued on up the road in a direction away from their safe house residence.

"Or maybe just a little paranoid?" The tech agent grinned.

"Same thing. You feel like taking the long way home?"

"Yeah, sure. Nice night for a drive," Takahara said, staring out at the slush-filled roadway as the windshield wipers swept slowly back and forth, trying to keep up with the rapidly falling snow.

They drove in silence, both men watching their side mirrors and the intersections ahead, before Takahara finally said, "So what was the deal on the kid?"

"I saw him out in the park earlier this evening, hanging around that Soldiers and Sailors statue, when I was trying to isolate that tag team," Lightstone said. "Acted like he was waiting for somebody. Standing out there in the wind and snow, freezing to death, and looking like he was half scared out of his mind."

"With good reason, as it turned out."

"Yeah, apparently." Lightstone nodded. "Funny thing is, though, when I first saw him, I was kind of bent over, trying to stay out of the wind. At first, he acted like he thought I was the person he was looking for. Or at least until I straightened up a little bit. Then he knew I wasn't."

"Was he close enough to see your face?"

Lightstone thought for a moment, replaying the scene in his mind. "When he first reacted? No, not really. Besides, it was getting dark and I had a watch cap on and the hood up on my jacket."

"Maybe he figured it out when he realized you weren't tall enough," the tech agent suggested, referring to the height of the closet cut-out.

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking too."

Both agents were silent for a few moments.

"So what about those two guys who were tagging you?" Mike Takahara asked.

"What about them?"

"The way you described the whole deal, they had to be focused on you from the start. No reason in the world a couple of muggers would pick on a healthy male when they had all those women and kids and old folks hurrying around, trying to get home, to choose from."

"Sounds reasonable." Lightstone nodded agreeably. "What else?"

"Well, from the sound of it, these guys were a couple of experienced trackers who, somehow, managed to screw up three times in a row. First of all, by letting you spot their tail, which was probably bad luck on their part as much as anything else."

"Agreed," Lightstone said.

"Secondly, by letting you lead them into that blind alley, and then turning it around, which I gather was their fault all the way, because two experienced guys with guns should have had you. And finally, by running back out of the alley and right into our reverse tag."

"Okay, so?"

"So maybe somebody monitoring the whole deal didn't like what he saw and got pissed. Somebody big enough or strong enough to break the necks of two muscle guys without making any noise in the process. Maybe a guy about seven feet tall who likes to scare the shit out of people, and go through walls to kill them, but doesn't know much about computers?"

"There's one little problem in your logic," Lightstone said as he continued to drive slowly and carefully through falling snow.

Mike Takahara remained quiet and thoughtful for almost two minutes.

"The only problem I can think of," he finally said, "is that it all adds up to a hell of a lot of coincidences for one evening, unless . . ."

"Yeah?" Lightstone glanced over at his tech agent partner.

"Unless the big guy, or somebody running him, is focused on us?"

"That's the problem." Henry Lightstone nodded.

"But what the hell kind of sense does that make?" Mike Takahara demanded. "I mean, what possible connection do we have with a pair of yuppie lawyers on vacation, a kid with a computer who hangs around statues pissing in his pants, and a couple of idiots who can't even get a mugging right?"

"I don't know. None of it makes much sense when you get right down to it," Lightstone admitted.

Mike Takahara suddenly realized that they were back in the general area of their covert warehouse operation.

"We going back to work?"

Lightstone shook his head. "No, just thought I'd cruise through the neighborhood once more before we head home. See if we pick up any more interest."

They drove down the street in front of the warehouse. Lightstone was concentrating on the mirrors and the poorly illuminated street and the intersecting alleys that were even darker. So it was Takahara who first noticed that the light over the entrance of the warehouse had been broken.

"Looks like those damn kids have been at it again with the rocks," he commented. "Remind me to go pick up a couple more bulbs tomorrow morning."

Then, as they came closer to the warehouse, the tech agent spotted a brief flicker of light reflected off the inside of the small window mounted in the entry door.

"Looks like Paxton and Stoner are still here. Halahan must not have made the flight after all."

Lightstone looked over at the darkened alley and the warehouse doorway, then back down the street. "You sure they're in there? Looks awful dark to me. Besides, I don't see the car anywhere around here."

"Yeah, pretty sure. I saw a little flash of light through the window. Figure they're probably in the back office finishing up the reports and wondering where we are."

Lightstone glanced down at his wristwatch. "You know, it's getting kinda late to be working. And if we go in there, Larry's going to want our reports. Why don't you give them a call on the radio, see if they want to go get something to eat. It's been a long time since lunch."

"Yeah, no kidding," the tech agent said. He reached under the seat for the concealed radio mike.

"Bravo Four to Bravo One or Three."

There was a delay of approximately five or six seconds before the raspy response came back over the speaker that Takahara had concealed in the dashboard of the rental car.

"Bravo One, go."

"Hey, Larry, Henry and I are getting hungry. You guys ready to take a break?"

"Sounds good to me. Where do you want to go?"

"Probably not much open this time of night," Mike Takahara said. "How about Denny's?"

"Sure. Where are you at?"

"Right outside the warehouse."

"Ten-four, we're en route from the airport. Be there in five."

In the second or two that it took Technical Agent Mike Takahara to process Paxton's comment through his mental computers and get back on the radio, Henry Lightstone had already taken his foot off the accelerator and was reaching forward to shut off the car headlights.

"Bravo One, Bravo Four, who'd you leave in the warehouse?"

The engine of the mid-sized sedan was running on idle now, but the car's forward momentum kept it rolling down the darkened street. In the relative silence Mike Takahara could hear the crunch of the freshly fallen snow being compressed by the wide tires.

"Nobody," Paxton replied. "Woeshack's still at the hospital. Stoner and I are enroute with Halahan."

"Did you guys remember to set the alarms before you left?"

"What? Yeah, I'm sure we did because I was the one who set them. What's going on out there?"

Ignoring Paxton's question, Takahara set the radio mike aside, quickly reached down under the seat, and pulled out a small receiver. The top row of lights were all showing a steady bright green. The tech agent muttered an obscenity.

"What's the matter?" Lightstone demanded.

"Somebody shut off the alarms to the warehouse, and it wasn't any of us," Takahara replied as he slipped the receiver back under the seat and picked up the radio mike again. "And I think whoever did it is still in there."

The expression on Henry Lightstone's face turned deadly cold.

Before Takahara could say anything, Lightstone swerved the sedan over to the curb, braked to a stop, and set the transmission into park. Then he was out of the car and running toward the front of the warehouse.

"Bravo Four, Bravo One, what's going on out there?" Larry Paxton repeated.

"We may have somebody in the warehouse," Mike Takahara said. "I saw a flash of light about thirty seconds ago when we were driving by. The receiver's showing all the alarms are off, and no indication that they were tripped first."

"How the hell did that happen?" Paxton demanded.

"I don't know. Whoever's in there either has the codes or—"

"Where's Henry?" Paxton interrupted.

Takahara looked out through the driver's side window. In the almost total darkness in front of the warehouse, he could just barely make out the familiar crouched figure. "He's at the door."

"Tell him to hold back until we get there," Paxton ordered.

"Ten-four. I'll . . . uh—oh, too late, he's already in," Takahara said, watching helplessly as the covert team's mercurial wild-card agent disappeared through the small entrance door.

Larry Paxton cursed over the air waves, causing the tech agent to be grateful that the team now had scrambled radios and would thus be spared another bureaucratic reprimand from the FCC.

"What's your ETA?" Mike Takahara asked, his eyes scanning the streets, watching for any sign that the intruder had some kind of support or backup waiting outside. He couldn't see anybody, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.

"At least five."

"Okay," the tech agent said. "Try to make it less if you can. I'm going in there to back him up."

For a long moment Mike Takahara thought that Paxton was going to order him to stay back. But then he finally heard the double-click acknowledgment over the radio. Sighing to himself, Takahara pulled the 10mm Smith & Wesson semiautomatic out of his shoulder holster, stepped out of the car, gently shut the door, and then started across the street.

Henry Lightstone had quietly slid his key into the oiled door lock and turned it slowly counterclockwise until it came to a solid stop. After hesitating a brief moment to listen for the sound of footsteps, he crouched down, shoved the door open, dove in to the concrete floor, and rolled to his left.

He waited there on the floor with the 10mm double-action pistol out-stretched in both hands until the door closed silently on its carefully oiled hinges, returning the interior of the warehouse to a state of almost total darkness. Then, at the instant the door clicked shut, he twisted back to the right and extended the lethal handgun out again, ready to trigger three rounds at the first sign of a muzzle flash.

No lights.

No muzzle flashes.

Nothing.

Smiling with feral satisfaction, Lightstone came up to his feet and began to move quietly around to the right in the all-too-familiar warehouse. He was listening carefully now, alert for any sound that might give him a clue as to the intruder's location, movements, and intentions.

Lightstone was prepared to shoot and kill instantly, if it came to that. But what he really wanted was to physically get his hands on the intruder. To move in, make the contact, absorb or deflect the first blows, and then take him down. Preferably with a control hold, or with a hand or foot strike if necessary. Whatever it took to bring him—or them—out into the open.

Aggressive and self-assured by nature, Henry Lightstone was perfectly willing to face down any man, woman, or creature under almost any conditions, confident in his own ability to fight, adapt, and survive. But he also knew that he was just as vulnerable as anyone else to the incapacitating fear of the unknown.

There is nothing more dangerous to you than your own imagination,
his Okinawan instructor had warned.
Allow your imagination to go out of control and you will assuredly defeat yourself before the battle is ever joined.
Lightstone knew that to be especially true of himself, which was why he sought out the confrontation. Before the image of some menacing entity, drifting out there in the darkness, became a distracting handicap ... or an incapacitating obsession.

He was barricaded against the back of one of the stand-alone walk-in freezers, less than twenty feet away from the master bank of light switches, and timing his movements to coincide with the muted sounds of the thickly insulated compressors kicking in and out, when he heard an almost inaudible click.

He froze immediately, barely breathing, as he concentrated on the sound, trying to determine the crucial elements: the source, the distance, and the direction.