Consent to Kill (33 page)

“Can you show me where you found the traces?” Coleman asked.

“Follow me.” The chief led them past the charred hulk of a burned-out car and pointed at the ground. “This is where the outer wall of the garage used to sit. You can see here where the slab starts.” The chief kicked at the ground with his boot.

“Where did you find the traces of accelerant?”

The chief stepped over some debris and said, “It was concentrated in this area right here. From the outer wall of the garage to roughly over here.”

Coleman remembered where the propane tank used to sit.

“My guess is,” the chief pointed at the ground, “he had a small utility shed right there where he kept the gas. We think this might have been a two-banger. The first explosion came from the gas that had leaked into the house, and then the second explosion was the tank itself touching off a short while later.”

“Any other hot spots?”

“We got a couple reads in the garage, but relatively small compared to this one.”

The former SEAL nodded and said, “Thanks, Chief.” He took McMahon by the elbow and led him back toward the road. When they were far enough away he said, “Mitch never had one of those gas caddies. At least not that I ever saw, and I can guarantee you, he didn’t keep gas stored in a shed outside the garage a few feet from his propane tank.”

“You know that for a fact.”

“I know how the man thinks. He was very careful. There was no way in hell he would have stored gas in an outdoor shed, let alone that close to a propane tank.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you Mitch didn’t leave any gas outside his garage. You can figure the rest out on your own.”

When they reached the street, Coleman looked back toward the house and beyond. He could see a few navigation lights out on the bay. “Irene tells me a fisherman pulled Mitch from the water.”

“Yeah.” McMahon pulled a small notebook from his suit coat pocket. “A local guy from Shady Side. Harold S. Cox.” McMahon pointed north. “He was only a couple hundred yards away when the explosion happened. He says he literally saw Mitch flying through the air. He saw him hit the dock and then roll into the water. If the guy hadn’t been there Mitch probably would have drowned.”

Coleman was putting himself in the shoes of whoever it was who had tried to kill his friend. As a former SEAL he was drawn to the water. “Any other boats?”

“Two. They both called nine-one-one and helped Mr. Cox give CPR.”

“Have they been thoroughly checked?”

“We’re working on it right now.”

“Did any of them see anything out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing came up during the initial interview that was handled by the sheriff’s department.”

Coleman’s companion emerged from the woods. He held up his forefinger and said, “One guy. He had a bike, and he wasn’t here long.”

McMahon was completely dumbfounded. “Where? Show me?”

The guy walked over to the edge of the road and pressed his thumb down on the end of his tactical flashlight. The tiny device was extremely powerful. “See how the tall grass is pushed toward the street in that single line? Those are bike tires. The markings on the right are footprints. The tire track curves this way.” The man pointed south. “The street dead-ends down there, but there’s a trail that cuts through the woods.” He looked at Coleman. “I’ve run it with Mitch before. After about a mile the trail forks—east to a beach and west, where it hooks up with a dirt road that runs along the edge of a small airstrip back out to one of the county roads.”

“Back up a minute,” said McMahon. “There were a fair amount of people running around here after the explosion. When I arrived on the scene I remember at least one person with a bike and who knows how many had already come and gone. How do we know it wasn’t some neighbor who made that track?”

“Can you give me one good reason why a neighbor would carry their bike twenty feet into the woods, lay it down on the ground, and then lie down next to it?”

“Not off the top of my head.”

The man looked back at Coleman. “I’m going to take a look at the path and see what I can find.” He held up a Nextel two-way mobile phone. “I’ll check in with you in fifteen.”

“You want me to come with?”

The guy shook his head. “This tango is long gone.” Without another word, the man took off jogging down the street.

“Who the hell is he?” asked McMahon.

“He’s the best sniper I’ve ever seen. He can track anything.”

“He works for you now?”

“Yep.”

“Lovely. God, I hope you don’t end up with the FBI on your doorstep someday.”

“You and I both.”

The sheriff returned, mumbling something under his breath. It was obvious things hadn’t gone so well at the roadblock. “This TV crew is getting really pushy. They know we’re stonewalling them. I spoke to their news director myself and he says we have five minutes until he gets a lawyer and judge involved. They’re demanding to know the status of the husband, and they said they don’t care if he worked for the CIA and neither will the judge.”

Before McMahon could answer, Coleman said, “Sheriff, will you give us just a minute?”

The sheriff appeared hesitant at first and then consented. Coleman pulled McMahon a few feet away. “Can you take your FBI hat off for a second?”

“Do you really have to ask me that?” McMahon had proven to Coleman in the past that he was willing to look the other way.

“Throw the TV crew a bone. Have the deputy tell them Mitch is dead.”

“Why in the hell would I want to do that?”

Coleman stared at him with a look that said, Do I really have to explain this to you? He would have preferred to not have this conversation with a law enforcement officer, but there wasn’t a lot of time. “This was not an accident. It was a contract kill. One guy, maybe two.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“So why do you want us to leak to the press that Mitch is dead?”

“Theoretically speaking, in this line of work you get paid anywhere from a third to half of the fee as a down payment, and then when you complete the job you get the rest of the fee. If you don’t complete the job, you don’t get the rest of the money.”

“And your point is?”

“If the media reports that Mitch is dead, this person will get the rest of the fee. Money will have to change hands. Probably a lot of it. That creates a trail.”

“What if they get paid cash?”

“No trail, but my guess is a professional contract on Mitch would run at least four million dollars, maybe double that.”

“And your point?”

“That’s a lot of cash. Not the type of thing you want to try and get through customs. When you start talking that kind of money you’re better off setting up dummy offshore corporations and transferring it electronically. The amount of money that’s moved around every day is astronomical. It’s like the old needle in the haystack.”

“Then how in the hell are we going to find it?”

Coleman grinned. “We wait a few days … maybe more, and then we let it be known that Mitch is still alive. Whoever ordered the hit is going to be pissed. They’re going to demand that this guy finish the job or give the money back.” Coleman shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe we get lucky and they simply reverse the wire transfer. Same banks … same amount. The original transfer will be made tomorrow or the day after, and the refund will be made within a day or two from when it’s announced that he’s still alive. We could trace it.”

“And if these guys decided they’d rather finish the job than give the money back?”

Coleman’s face took on a wolfish smile. “Well, now that’d be even better, wouldn’t it?”

McMahon got real uncomfortable. “Scott, you guys need to sit this one out and let us handle it.”

Coleman let loose an ominous laugh. “Yeah, right. I talked to Irene on the way over here. He’s awake.” The former SEAL stopped and looked at McMahon for a long moment. “He knows she’s dead. When he gets out of that hospital what do you think he’s going to do? Sit on the sidelines like a good little Boy Scout while you guys push your subpoenas through the courts and try to get foreign governments to cooperate? Best-case scenario your investigation will take two years.” Coleman shook his head. “It ain’t gonna fuckin’ happen. I’m telling you right now he’s going to kill every last motherfucker who had anything to do with this, and there is nothing any of you can do to stop him.”

McMahon ran a hand over his face and sighed. He knew Coleman was right. “Jesus, this is going to get ugly.”

“You’re damn right, and I’ve got a word of advice for you. Skip. Just get out of the way and tell anyone you care about to do the same.”

I
NDIANAPOLIS
, I
NDIANA

G
ould awoke to the sound of the TV and Claudia crying. It took him a moment to even remember where he was and he looked at the TV and saw a photo of Anna Rielly. They’d first heard the news on the radio the night before, driving through Columbus, Ohio. Claudia cried for the better part of an hour. Fortunately, he had told her the truth, which was that he didn’t know if the woman had survived. He had waited as long as he could before triggering the explosion and when he left the scene she was in the front yard.

When they reached the hotel in Indianapolis, Claudia cried herself to sleep and now here she was in the morning shedding yet more tears. This pregnancy thing was really screwing with her emotions, and Gould didn’t know how much more he could take. He’d tried to console her with words, he’d tried to comfort her by holding her, but nothing was working. This was not the first time he’d killed someone other than the primary target, and she had never so much as had a sniffle before.

Gould rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom. After relieving himself he stood in front of the mirror staring at his reflection. He looked the same. Same hazel eyes, same wavy brown hair, same broken nose. Nothing had changed, inside or out, for him, but something had fundamentally changed for Claudia. As they were falling asleep in the hotel room, Gould reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. It was a gesture he’d made countless times. It was silent in nature, but it communicated the simple message that he was there for her. He did not expect his touch to cause her to shudder and whimper with even greater intensity. Although her reaction hurt his feelings, he was too tired to pursue something that he knew words could not solve. This was going to take time.

Gould was still tired. After leaving Rapp’s house he’d thrown the bike in the back of the pickup truck and whipped a quick U-turn. Back on the paved roads he made his way over to U.S. Route 301 and took it south across the Potomac River and into Virginia. He’d located Caledon State Park on a map, and it looked to be the perfect place to dump the truck. It was only a few miles across the river into Virginia. Gould drove past the main entrance and continued down Virginia State Route 218 until he found a secondary road that led into the park. A half mile into the park, with no one else in sight, he put the truck into four-wheel drive and turned onto an overgrown trail. Once he’d made it far enough in that he could no longer see the road through his rearview mirror he shut the engine off and grabbed his backpack and helmet. Gould took the license plates off, shoved a hand towel from the hotel into the gas tank, and then doused the cab and the rest of the vehicle in gasoline. The forest looked pretty dry so he took a few steps back before lighting the match and then let it fly.

He took off on the mountain bike and was near the town of Osso when the fire trucks passed him heading in the other direction. Thirty-four minutes later he pulled up in front of the James Monroe Museum and left the bike unlocked in a bike stand. He then walked three blocks and found Claudia waiting behind the wheel of a white Town and Country minivan. Gould got in the front passenger seat, kissed her, and they were on their way. Once they were a few miles outside of town Gould had her pull over and he took over driving duties. He set the cruise control five miles an hour over the posted limit and told Claudia to e-mail the German and tell him it was done. That was when she’d asked about Rapp’s wife.

They’d driven through the late afternoon and well into the night. Gould wanted to get as far away from Washington as possible. They were now on their third rental car in as many days, all of them acquired under a new license and credit card. There was no trail for anyone to follow. They were going to disappear into America’s heartland for a month if need be and then make their move. At least that had been the plan, but now Claudia was acting so strange, Gould wondered if it wouldn’t be better to turn south and get her out of the country.

He looked at his watch. It was 8:06 in the morning, and he was horny. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and told himself to get any thought of sex out of his head. He told himself it was the pregnancy. Once she got her hormones under control she’d be fine. She’d be back to her old self. Maybe she’d even miss the thrill of the hunt. He knew he would.

Gould came out of the bathroom. Claudia was propped up in bed, a box of tissues on her lap, her normally beautiful almond-shaped brown eyes looking very tired and puffy. Gould turned off the TV and said, “Stop torturing yourself. What’s done is done.”

She shook her head and refused to look at him. “How did it ever come to this?”
“Comment en est-on arrivé à un tel point?”

Considering her current fragile state he didn’t even bother to reprimand her, but he did note that her operational discipline was shot. It might not be wise to take her anywhere. “Darling, we have been through a lot together. The important thing is that we are putting all of it behind us. Do I wish things could have ended differently? Of course, but I have told you before … she knew who she was married to. Mitch Rapp was responsible for hundreds, maybe thousands of deaths. How many innocent women and children do you think were sacrificed so he could kill someone the United States deemed a terrorist?”

“I don’t know.” She raised her chin in defiance. “And neither do you. I think the Americans practice great restraint in this awful war.”

“The Americans, with their arrogance, have brought this on themselves.”

“You better be careful.” Claudia raised her voice. “You’re beginning to sound like some of my old university friends who you despise so much.”

The mere mention of her socialist deadbeat friends sent Gould’s temper flaring. The last thing they needed was a shouting match that ended with the hotel calling the police, so he checked his temper and in as calm a voice as he could muster said, “Everybody is killing each other. Each side tries to take the righteous high ground, and all we’ve done is sit in the middle and profit.”

“It’s a hell of a way to make a profit.” She looked out the window and shook her head.

It was obvious she was disgusted, but Gould couldn’t tell if it was with him or herself. “Claudia, I’m sorry.” Part of him wanted to scream at her to go turn herself in if it bothered her so fucking much, but that wouldn’t solve a thing. He lowered his head, and even though he didn’t mean it, he said, “I’m sorry, I let you down.”

With that he put on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and picked up the car keys sitting on the desk.

“Where are you going?” Claudia asked.

“I’m not sure.” He grabbed a Chicago Cubs baseball cap he’d purchased at a truck stop yesterday evening and slid into his tennis shoes.

“I thought you wanted to get on the road.”

He detected a bit of nervousness in her voice, which was what he wanted to hear. “I get the feeling you’d rather not be around me right now.” Gould grabbed the door handle and said, “I’ll be back in time to check out. If you decide you’d like us to go our separate ways I’ll understand.” Before she could say anything Gould opened the door and was gone. Pregnancy or not, he felt he had to do something to snap her out of her current emotional state. Yelling at her would only make things worse. Passive-aggressive was the better path to take. A subtle threat to leave would force her to look at more than just the last twenty-four hours. She knew he loved her, but she also knew he had the lone wolf gene in him. A little solitude and the thought of raising their child all on her own would get her thinking rationally again.