The Hit (42 page)

T
HE TRI-ENGINE
D
ASSAULT
F
ALCON COULD
carry a dozen passengers comfortably.

It only held two tonight.

Reel sat in the rear seat of the cabin.

Robie was next to her.

No one was behind them. That was how each liked it.

“How did you score this ride?” he asked.

“Fractional share ownership. A lot less security. And a lot more privacy.” She looked at him. “What do you spend your money on?”

“Remember my little house in the woods? The rest is in the bank earning negative interest.”

“Saving for your retirement? Your golden years?”

“Doubtful. You know, they could trace your ownership of the plane.”

“It’s not under my name. It’s under the name of a Russian billionaire who doesn’t even know how many planes and yachts he owns. I just get my little piece and no one’s the wiser.”

“That was clever.”

“We’ll see how clever I am when we get to Dublin.”

“I’ve done some recon.”

“Your friend Vance again?”

“Never hurts to have the Bureau’s research muscle behind you.”

“Didn’t she ask questions?”

“She was thinking them, but she didn’t ask them.”

“So what did she find out?”

“The protection bubble is much like past years, with a couple of new wrinkles.”

“Such as?”

“Apparently, in a show of global cooperation, they have invited some non-G8 leaders for a day event. It actually opens the conference.”

“Which non-G8 leaders?” asked Reel.

“Several from desert climates.”

“Are they idiots?”

“Apparently they don’t think so, no.”

“You know what comes with leaders.”

“Their security details.”

“And those details are internally vetted. We have to trust that they are what they say they are.”

“That’s right.”

Reel looked out the window at forty-one thousand feet where the dark sky sat there, vast, empty, and apparently brooding.

“Do you want a drink?” asked Reel. She rose to head to the bar at the front of the cabin.

“No,” responded Robie.

“You might change your mind about that.”

A minute later she settled back in her seat cradling a vodka tonic.

They hit some modest turbulence and she held the glass up to avoid spilling the contents. As the air smoothed out she took a sip and looked at Robie’s laptop screen.

He said, “We’ve got a bag full of weapons back there. How about customs?”

“Russian billionaires don’t go through ordinary customs and neither do their ride-share partners. The process is very streamlined and private for the most part.”

“Tell me again how you managed that?”

“I didn’t think I told you in the first place.”

“You sure your Russian billionaire’s not a security issue?”

“He loves America. Loves free markets. Loves capitalism. He’s an ally. No issues there. And he gets us private wings and an arsenal through customs.”

“I’m impressed with some of the firepower you have.”

“Don’t think it’ll be enough. Too many of them. Not enough of us.”

“We just have to be more clever and more nimble.”

“Easy to say. A lot harder to do.”

He stared at her drink.

“You want one now?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’ll make it.”

“No, I got it. It’s my one chance to be domestic.”

He watched her walk down the aisle. The last thing he could ever envision was Jessica Reel domesticated.

When she returned, she clinked her glass against his. She said, “When this is all over, it still won’t be all over.”

Robie nodded. He knew right where she was going.

He sipped his drink, thought about his response. “I guess it won’t be.”

“Would you believe me if I told you at this point I didn’t care?”

“But that doesn’t necessarily change anything.”

“So kill or capture me?”

“I received conflicting orders, actually. Some were kill. Some were capture.”

“But with capture I could make public statements. I could say things they don’t want to hear. I have the right to freedom of speech. I’m entitled to a legal defense. So I don’t see an option other than kill, Robie.”

Robie sipped his drink and ate some nuts she had brought back in a bowl. “Let’s see if we survive Dublin. If we do, we can revisit the question.”

She swallowed the rest of her drink and set it down. “Yeah,” she said. “I suppose we can.”

He stared at her. He knew this was a lie and so did she. They flew for another hundred miles in silence. Down below, the Atlantic frothed and churned as an ornery low-pressure system drifted farther out to sea.

Reel finally said, “When I pulled the trigger on Jacobs, you know what it felt like?”

He shook his head.

“No different from any of the other trigger pulls I’ve made. No difference at all. I thought I would feel something new because he helped kill Joe. I thought there would be some sense of revenge, of justice even.”

“And Jim Gelder? How did you feel when you killed him?”

She looked at him. “How do you think I should have felt?”

Robie shrugged. “I’m not the person to ask.”

“You’re the perfect person to ask. But let me ask you something.”

Robie waited, his eyes narrowed, wondering where this conversation was going.

“You didn’t pull a trigger when you were supposed to. How did that feel to you?”

“The target died anyway.”

“That’s not what I asked. How did you feel?”

Robie didn’t answer right away. The truth was he had tried not to think about that very thing.

How did I feel?

Reel answered for him. “Liberated?”

Robie looked down. That had been the exact word forming in his mind.

Reel seemed to sense this but did not push the point. “Another drink?” she asked, noting his empty glass. When he hesitated, she said, “Remember the domesticity, Robie? I sense I’ll become bored with it before we land. So strike while the iron is hot.”

She took the drink out of his hand but set it down on the tray. She looked at her watch. “We have exactly three hours and forty-one minutes to landing.”

“Okay?” asked Robie, looking confused and dropping his gaze to the empty glass.

Then it occurred to him that she was not talking about a second drink. His eyes widened slightly.

“You think the timing sucks?” she asked in response to his look.

“Don’t you?” he said.

“This is not the first time I’ve thought about it with you. Those youthful hormones, in close proximity in life-and-death situations
with lots of guns. Recipe for something to happen. How about you?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be part of it. Never, in fact.”

“Supposed to be doesn’t equal what could be.”

“About the timing?”

“It’s perfect, actually.”

“Why?”

“Because both you and I know we’re not going to live past Ireland. They know you’ve sided with me. They’re not going to let you survive this. There are a lot more of them than there are of us. Doesn’t take a roomful of analysts to decipher that one. Now, I’ll die with many regrets. But I don’t want
that
to be one of them. What about you?”

She rose and held out a hand. “What about you?” she said again. “The bed in back is very comfortable.”

Robie stared at her hand for another moment and then looked away.

He didn’t get out of his seat.

Reel slowly drew her hand back. “See you in Dublin.” She started to walk down the aisle to the private quarters in the plane’s aft section.

“It has nothing to do with you, Jessica.”

She stiffened and stopped walking, but didn’t look back.

“There’s someone else?” she said. “Vance?”

“No.”

“I’m surprised you found the time for someone.”

“She’s no longer alive.”

Now Reel did turn.

“It was recent,” said Robie.

Reel came back and sat down next to him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Why? I’m a machine, right? That’s what you said.”

She put her palm against his chest. “Machines don’t have heartbeats. You’re not a machine. I shouldn’t have said that. I’d like to hear about it. If you want to talk.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve got nowhere else to go for the next three hours and”—she glanced at her watch—“thirty-eight minutes.”

The plane flew on.

And Robie talked about a young woman who had stolen his heart and then nearly his life, because she turned out to be the enemy.

And in response he had done the only thing he was really good at.

He had killed her.

It was something that only a person like Jessica Reel could understand.

S
AM
K
ENT WAS ON
the move.

He had taken two weeks off from his duties as a judge. The FISC didn’t have a backlog. They were swift in their judgments. They could spare him.

He packed a bag and kissed his wife and children goodbye.

This was not unusual. He often went away without a lot of explanation. His wife understood it to be part of his past life that he did not talk about.

Well, this wasn’t really about his past life. It was about his future. Precisely speaking, whether he was going to have one or not.

Jacobs, Gelder, and now Decker were dead.

Kent knew that he would have to dance nimbly not to end up like the other three men. He had foes on both flanks now.

Reel and Robie were formidable. He was less concerned about them, though, than with the opponent on his other flank. But the clear way out was to make sure that the plan succeeded. At least his part of it. After that, it was out of his hands. But he also couldn’t be blamed for that part failing.

It was also an opportunity for him to get back out in the field after years of sitting behind a desk. That inactivity had been a slow death for him, he could see that now. It had been a luxury killing that idiot Anthony Zim. He had missed that.

He drove to the airport and checked his car into long-term parking. The night was a fine one. Clear skies, many stars, light winds. It would be a good flight. He would have to hit the ground running. There was a fair amount of prep work that needed to be done.

Success or failure was always defined largely during the preparation. With good planning all one had to do was execute. Even last-second changes could be made with greater ease if the planning in the first place had been precise.

Kent carried no weapons in his bag. That was not his job this time around. He was a thinker, a processor, not a doer.

Part of that pained him, but at his age, he also knew it was the most realistic option for him. Once this was over, the future was both uncertain and crystal clear. Clear for those who knew what was about to happen. A little murkier for everyone else. Flowing up his spine was an electrified charge of excitement mixed with dread. It would certainly be a different world after this. But a better one, he truly believed.

He took a bus to the terminal, showed his passport, checked his bag, passed through security, and walked to the lounge to await his international flight.

The wild card or cards were obvious.

Robie and Reel.

The attack at the mall was conclusive proof in Kent’s mind. Four pros wiped out by two pros who were far more professional.

The battle lost, but not the war, of course.

Eliminating Reel’s source of information was the primary objective. The cleanup had been messy. Cover stories had been deployed and the FBI and DHS would be led round and round the merry-go-round until they were so dizzy the truth could bite them in the collective ass and they would fail to see it.

Kent sipped on a bottle of orange juice and had some crackers and cheese in the airport club to which he belonged. Ordinarily he would fly on private wings to his destination, but this time commercial was just as good. He looked out the window and watched jet after jet pull back from their gates, taxi off, and a few minutes later lift into the clear night sky.

Soon it would be his turn.

He wondered where Robie and Reel were right now.

Perhaps on the way to the same place he was?

Could they have figured it out considering what they had to work with?

The white paper was a key piece, but it listed no specific target. It just gave a scenario of players. The other pieces they might have put together, but to make sense out of it all—that was a stretch even for the likes of them.

And if Reel had gotten what she needed from Roy West she wouldn’t have had to turn to the late Michael Gioffre. It was lucky that Kent’s superior had remembered that connection and quickly posted a team on him.

The only misfortune was that his men had not picked up on Robie. But for him they might have gotten Reel. But they hadn’t and that was that.

His flight was called an hour later. He boarded after watching the other passengers crowd into the small gate area. The flight would be full. That was okay. It was a popular route.

He would try to sleep.

But he doubted that he would be successful. He had too much to think about.