Lewis, right on schedule.
“Time to go,” said Peter. “Grab your stuff. I’ll get the gear. You take the front seat.” He opened the rear hatches of both cars, and began transferring their stuff. His waterlogged suit, camping equipment, the HK assault rifle still reeking of spent powder.
June packed her laptop bag, got out of the van with the Thai leftovers, then opened the passenger door of the Escalade. “Hi, I’m June.”
Peter heard Lewis’s low, heating-oil voice, slippery and dark. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Peter closed the hatches, walked to June’s side of the Escalade, and tapped on the glass. She rolled it down, her eyes bright with amusement. “You were wrong, Peter. He’s both handsome and charming.”
Lewis flashed the widest version of his tilted grin. “I got out early for good behavior.”
His skin was coffee-brown, his head shaved. His features could have come from any mixture of races, as if he were from everywhere, or nowhere at all. He wore a crisp black synthetic raincoat over a starched white shirt, black jeans, and polished black combat boots.
“I can already tell this is a bad idea,” said Peter. “Don’t talk amongst yourselves, okay?”
June gave her rich, bubbling laugh. “I’m a reporter, Peter. I’m waaaay ahead of you.”
Peter shook his head and got behind the wheel in the minivan. The Escalade eased out of its spot and around the corner, leading the way.
At the vacant lot, Peter opened the windows, poured gas through the interior of the van, tossed in the lit book of matches, and stepped away as quickly as he could with his hurt leg. The fumes caught with an audible foomp.
This was becoming a bad habit. Two cars in two days.
He watched the flames lick through the windows, sorry to see the green Honda go. It was a good ride. Then he stumped over the rough ground to the Cadillac.
“Jarhead.” Lewis handed him a bottle of Anchor Steam, already open. “Your friend June’s working on a plan.”
“Thank God.” Peter drained a third of the bottle. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I got us a suite at the Four Seasons,” said Lewis. “Plenty of room for everyone.”
“Not for me,” said Peter. “I’ll never fall asleep inside.” June looked at him over the seat back. “Why don’t we camp out somewhere?”
“You still fighting that thing?” said Lewis.
“I’m working on it,” said Peter. “But not tonight.”
“Discovery Park would be fun,” June said, and turned to Lewis. “I’ll give you directions.”
“It’s a suite,” said Lewis. “At the Four fucking Seasons.”
“You use it,” said Peter. “You’re not invited.”
40
CHIP
Chip Dawes’s driver navigated the downtown traffic while Chip sat in the back of his Mercedes G63 and thought about the meeting he’d just had with Nicolet.
Chip had never seen anything affect the tech attorney’s professional cool, so it was fun to see that the girl’s mystery man had managed to put a dent in Nicolet’s Teflon coating. The attorney thought he was tough, and he wasn’t wrong. But he was a civilian. He lived in the world of legal maneuvers, where the worst thing that could happen was a bad court decision.
Chip lived in the real world, where far worse things were possible. Chip was definitely not a civilian.
He’d told the tech shark to tighten up his sphincter, things were under control. The mystery man was being handled. The algorithm would be in hand soon.
Chip didn’t say whose hands, exactly.
Now Chip was headed back to his office to check on the operation’s progress. He was late. He hoped they had something by now.
He stared out the window at the headlights shining through the rain and remembered how he’d gotten started.
Cashing out the Iraqi colonel’s bearer bonds had gone just as Chip had planned. Shepard had stepped back and let Chip take the lead, his natural position. He’d chartered a series of ghost corporations headquartered in Belize, Luxembourg, and the Bahamas, used those corporations to hire his real company, Citadel Security, to do fake work. Then he’d paid himself with his own stolen money, now nice and clean.
He’d even written himself letters of recommendation on his ghost companies’ letterhead. Citadel Security was the best, their discretion unparalleled. You’d be a fool not to hire Chip Dawes.
It was appallingly easy to get his first legitimate contract. He paid a high-end prostitute to seduce a senior-level programmer at a company-sponsored outing. She got the guy home and put a roofie into his drink to knock him out. Chip showed up, copied the guy’s keys and passcard, and fucked the hooker, too, what the hell. He was paying her already, right? The next morning he’d waltzed onto the corporate campus, changed some passwords, and downloaded a bunch of client information and proprietary code. Then made an appointment with the CEO.