He liked to think of himself as a maestro of killing, always unexpected, always successful.
Hands down, this was the biggest job he’d ever accepted. The splashiest. The one that would make his name go down in history. There were so many variables, so many unknowns, and more than any of his other jobs, this one held a high risk of failure.
No, he wouldn’t fail. He never failed. He smiled up at the sky, careful not to draw attention to himself in case anyone was nearby. He had a better chance of living through this operation than he had of leaving any battlefield in his father’s homeland alive.
He stopped by a small mountain brook to fill his canteen, looked up through the thick canopy of branches, and estimated the time at two in the afternoon.
At this rate, he’d be in place by moonrise.
Twenty-four hours—so much he’d had to accomplish, and he’d done it all, no problem. Once he’d placed the small portion of one of Matthew’s coin bombs at Bayway in the sweet spot pointed out by Reeves, he’d run unseen to the car he’d left half a mile away, driven straight to Bayonne, dealt with the four men there—three of them FBI agents—in three minutes flat, eight shots—four chest, four forehead, no time for flourishes—then headed south.
And now he was here, tramping along the forest trails. Maybe he’d meet up with a wolf or a bear. He spent some time considering various ways to kill, then reminded himself to stay focused, to review once again each step of what was to happen.
Tuesday
2 p.m.–6 p.m.
49
QUEEN TAKES B6
New York Heliport
Nicholas and Mike buckled into the MD 530 Little Bird’s hard seats, put on headsets and sunglasses. Craig Swanson was slumped across from them, eyes closed, looking the worse for wear after his couple rounds with Nicholas. Mike found it curious that Swanson seemed to harbor no ill will, maybe a token of respect, professional to professional. He’d gotten in a couple good shots—Nicholas’s jaw was a delicate shade of eggplant beneath the stubble of his beard. Mike could only imagine what they were going to look like trooping into Langley—the three of them banged up. She could hide her shiner with sunglasses, but no, she was proud of her battle wounds.
At least they’d dropped by Katz’s Deli, grabbed thick pastramion-rye sandwiches, chips, and sodas, and eaten as they drove to the helipad. She’d even had time to call her folks, tell them as far as she knew, Timmy, her younger brother, was gainfully employed in an off-Broadway show, and not in jail. Always good news. Her father, of course, knew all about Bayway, knew she was up to her eyebrows in the case. His last words, always, were: “You take care of my girl or I’ll bust your chops.” As for her mother, the Gorgeous Rebecca, she’d said only that she had a new lipstick shade for Mike to try, and then she’d laughed, hiccupped, and said she’d do more than bust her chops if she let anything happen to her, she’d cut off her beautiful hair. And she’d heard her father laughing in the background.
Charlie, their pilot, hyper with too much coffee, this his sixth run of the day, had them lifted off in the gray New York skies in no time, no muss, no bother.
Nicholas tapped her shoulder, put up four fingers. She moved the dial on her headset to channel four and nodded. Staying off the main frequency so they could have a private conversation was a good idea.
He punched his mike. “Tell me about Vanessa Grace.”