She didn’t want to have to worry about some forensic scientist finding blood in a seam of her boots, or a speck in the fabric of her shorts or top. Part of the way she kept anyone from finding any evidence was to get rid of it in a way that it would never be found. That included the knife. Owen’s blood was all over that knife. For all she knew, there were seams in the knife’s construction that held blood evidence.
The only way she could be sure the authorities never found any evidence was if they never found any evidence. Simple as that. The only way she could do that and be safe was if everything always went down the hell hole. She never made exceptions. It wasn’t worth the risk.
From one of the cabinets, Angela retrieved a new knife in a new sheath. It was just like the one she’d used on Owen. There were a dozen and a half more of them, all the same, all razor sharp, lined up in a row in the cabinet.
Completely naked, with the new knife, she went back upstairs to shower and get some clothes. She wished the experience of killing Owen could have lasted longer. She would have loved to have given him more of what he deserved. At least he was dead, now, and couldn’t ever hurt anyone again.
But already, that glorious, intoxicating high was fading.
After she showered and put on some clean clothes, she checked her phone on the nightstand.
There was a missed call from Hospice.
She could have called them back—there was always someone available. Instead she sent a text.
Sorry I missed your call. I had to work.
She deliberately didn’t provide any other information or say when she would have time.
She tossed the phone back on the nightstand and retrieved her Walther P22 and the Gemtech suppressor. Most people called them silencers, but her grandfather had told her that they were suppressors because they suppressed sound, they didn’t completely silence it. She pulled out a couple of boxes of subsonic ammunition and loaded ten magazines.
She liked using the suppressor when she practiced, especially at night. Night, and fog, seemed to carry sound for miles. She didn’t like to unnecessarily attract attention, especially attention from gunshots.
Gunshots drew sheriff’s deputies and game wardens. She’d found that out a long time ago and decided that she didn’t want to repeat it. There was nothing illegal about shooting on her own property, but they still had come to investigate the reports of gunfire. Also, when using a suppressor she didn’t need to use hearing protection, which allowed her to be more alert for anything out of the ordinary, like someone sneaking up on her.
Suppressors required federal licenses to be legal, the same as fully automatic weapons. She didn’t want a machine gun, but she wanted suppressors, and she didn’t want to go through the long and arduous process of getting a federal license for them. That process would surely raise suspicions and put a red flag by her name.
One good thing about knowing drug dealers and their friends was that they could usually get you just about anything illegal you wanted if you had the cash. Angela had the cash, and bought a large number of suppressors, no questions asked, no ID, no background check, no paperwork, no waiting.
Even with a suppressor, gunshots emitted a loud crack when the bullet went supersonic. The subsonic rounds avoided the ballistic crack, so with those subsonic rounds and a suppressor the gun was virtually silent. Most of the sound was the slide cycling as it ejected the spent round and loaded a live one.
Even though those subsonic rounds were slower, they were still lethal. A bullet needed to be traveling at only two hundred feet per second to penetrate the human skull, providing it hit relatively squarely. If it hit that deadly triangle, it was guaranteed to kill.
Outside, Angela wound up her grandfather’s triangular target. She practiced nearly every day. She practiced so much that she could just about hit the target with her eyes closed.
Practice was also a form of focused violence, which helped extend the high of dispatching Owen.
Angela took shooting practice seriously. That very first man she had recognized as a killer opened her eyes to her strange ability. He would have added her to his kill tally when he snuck into her cabin had she not been such a good shot. Her grandfather had taught her well.
She missed her grandparents. Some killer had put a bullet in the back of their heads—some killer that she knew she could now recognize by looking into his eyes.
He had better pray to God that Angela never found out who he was.
NINETEEN
Jack Raines watched as Ehud worked his way through the people moving along the pedestrian mall near a corner café. Police in light blue shirts and dark blue flak jackets watched over everyone as they walked in pairs along the street. Soldiers in the distance kept watch from their posts.
Jack paused to wait as Ehud, the Mossad team leader in plain clothes, approached. Ehud stepped back out of the way momentarily for a gaggle of older women in a tour group, chatting and laughing among themselves as they moved up the street, all of them loaded down with bags from recent purchases. They were all in a cheerful mood, giving little thought to any danger that might be among them. That was human nature. It was the job of Jack and those watching with him to think of little else.
There were tourists of every variety and speaking a variety of different languages visiting the pedestrian malls in the Jerusalem Triangle. Shops along the stone streets were busy selling artwork, clothes, shoes, religious souvenirs, fresh fruit, housewares, and baked goods. Once the tight knot of tourists had passed, Jack signaled with a tilt of his head for the man to come closer.
“We have everyone in position,” Ehud said as he joined Jack. “We’re ready to begin again.”
Jack nodded. “I’ll get Uziel and start a sweep. Stay close. He’s already nervous. I don’t want anything spooking him. And I certainly don’t want him getting hurt. He’s too valuable.”
Jack scanned the people all up and down the street. The Triangle seemed unusually crowded. Maybe it was just his anxiety playing mind tricks. The plan was to go up Ben Yehuda Street, past the colorful shops, sidewalk cafés, and food stands where the heaviest concentration of tourists visited. Crowds drew threat.
Jack and his team were hunting threats.
“Don’t worry, we will keep in constant contact with both of you,” Ehud said.
“Be ready for my signal if Uziel spots anyone.”
Jack watched for anything out of the ordinary as the light rail cars swept by, carrying a whirling rush of sound with them. Once they were past, the sound of shuffling shoes and conversation seeped back into the sunny day. Jack could hear music in the distance, and closer in, some bubbly laughter.
In the street beyond, three green buses lined up at the curb to let people out for the Triangle area. Squadrons of white taxis prowled the surrounding streets, waiting for fares or to drop people off. Soldiers, police, and men and women in plain clothes watched over everyone, hoping that the visitors had a pleasant, uneventful day in the Triangle.
Not long ago Uziel’s rare vision had been spot-on and they had captured an assassin before he could do any harm. They didn’t know where he was from, or what his target had been, but they knew by the way he kept his mouth shut that he was well trained. Jack thought that it would be quite a while before they got much of anything out of him.
It took time with men like that. The Mossad would have to find an angle, a crack they could exploit to open him up. Jack knew that they would eventually succeed, at least to some extent, but it would take time. For now, what was important was that he was off the streets.
With the heavy crowds in the area the difficulty of identifying threats was increased. The more people there were, the easier it was for a terrorist to hide among them. But that was why they were using Uziel. He could see what none of them ever could.
“Keep your eyes open,” Jack said. “I’ll go get him.”