Death Angel (40 page)

Between now and then, however, he had a gargantuan number of tasks to accomplish.

A LITTLE AFTER noon, Rafael Salinas emerged from his apartment building, surrounded by his usual coterie of seven men. His driver was parked at the curb, motor running. One guy, his long hair tied back with a thin strip of leather, came out first, his head swiveling in all directions. He surveyed the street and the pedestrian traffic, though most of his attention was reserved for cars. Seeing nothing suspicious, without turning around he gave a brief nod of his head, and seven more men exited the building: Rafael Salinas walking in the middle of six men who used their bodies to block sidewalk traffic so Salinas could go in a direct path from the door of the building to the open door of his car. People stalled, tried to side-step, growled “Get out of the way!” or worse, all of which was ignored. One bent old guy with a cane lurched a little off-balance.

A bus rumbled by and there was a barely audible pop over the roar of the diesel engine. Rafael Salinas stumbled, his hand going out as if to catch himself. A second pop, right on the heels of the first, made several people look curiously around, wondering what that noise was. Salinas went down, a red spray arcing from his throat.

The first man out of the building realized something was wrong and wheeled in a half-circle, his hand already emerging from his jacket, clutching a semiautomatic.

Pop.

The first man, a red blossom growing on his chest, reeled back into the driver. The weapon fell from his suddenly limp hand and went spinning across the sidewalk. People realized something was wrong and a few random screams pierced the air, followed by a flurry of pedestrians suddenly running or diving to the sidewalk. The old guy with the cane was pushed down and he landed behind the back bumper of Salinas’s car, half on the sidewalk and half in the street, his cane several feet from his outstretched hand. His lined face wore a startled expression as he tried to crawl for his cane, only to sprawl on the ground when his strength gave out.

“There! Go!” One of the remaining men pointed down the street, where a young guy was flying through the crowd, trying to get as far away as possible. Two of Salinas’s men took off in pursuit. All of them had weapons drawn by now, pointing them at first one person and then another in a serious lack of muzzle discipline. They circled around Rafael Salinas as if they could protect him now, despite the evidence of their eyes. The red spray from Salinas’s throat had stopped; his heart had beat only a few more times after the first bullet ripped into him. The second shot, thrown off by Salinas’s sudden lurch forward, had caught him in the throat.

The old guy tried once more to get his feet under him. “My cane,” he kept bleating. “My cane.”

“Here’s your fucking cane,” one of the goons said, kicking it toward him. “Get outta here, gramps.”

The old guy picked up the cane, his gloved hands trembling, and with difficulty levered himself to his feet. He hobbled behind the next parked car and stood there staring around as if he didn’t understand what was going on. “What happened?” he asked several times. “What happened?”

No one paid any attention to him. Sirens began blasting as New York’s Finest tried to bull their way through traffic. The old guy worked his way through the crowd and continued on down the street—back in the direction he’d come from. Fifteen minutes later, a uniformed cop found the murder weapon, a pistol with a sound suppressor threaded onto the barrel, lying on the pavement under Rafael Salinas’s car.

SIMON CALLED ANDIE’S cell phone. “Get packed,” he said quietly. “We’re leaving.”

“Leaving? But—”

“Salinas is dead. You don’t have any reason to stay. Now get packed, because we have to move fast.”

Numbly she closed the phone. Rafael was dead.

She wasn’t stupid; she didn’t need things spelled out for her. Horrified, she realized exactly what Simon had done. In a daze she gathered her toiletries and dumped them in a suitcase; as she hadn’t unpacked, getting ready to go took only minutes.

Simon appeared at her door within half an hour. The closed, set expression on his face kept her from asking questions. He took the suitcases and she followed him in silence, her eyes as bleak as his.

Two hours later, they took off from a small private airfield in New Jersey, with Simon in the pilot’s seat. Andie had never been in a small plane before, and she didn’t like it. She sat frozen, her hands gripping the edge of the seat as if she could keep the plane up by keeping a tight hold on it. The late afternoon sun was at about two o’clock in her window, telling her they were heading southwest.

As time wore on and they didn’t crash, she lost the sharp edge of terror that had paralyzed her. She managed to say, “Where are we going?”

“Mexico. As fast as possible.”

She absorbed that, looking at his stony profile. He wasn’t angry with her, but he had shut himself off, and she felt helpless to reach him. “I don’t have a passport,” she finally said.

“Yes, you do,” he replied. “It’s in my bag.”

Silence fell once more, a silence she couldn’t seem to overcome even when he had to land to take on more fuel. Life as she had known it was over, and she thought there probably wouldn’t ever be any going back. Simon would be wanted for murder, and she wouldn’t let him take his chances in a courtroom. He had done that for her; she wouldn’t let him sacrifice anything more, not one minute of freedom, no matter what.

No matter what.

“YOU AIN’T GONNA believe this,” the tech said, swiveling around in his chair. “That camera’s out.”

“What?” Jackson turned on him in disbelief. He could almost feel his hair lift as anger surged through him. “Are you telling me the one feed we need the most, out of all the cameras in the city, is out, and no one fucking noticed? How can you people not notice a fucking blank screen?”

“Because the fucking screen isn’t blank,” the tech shot back at him, his tone hot with annoyance. “Don’t get in my shit, buddy.” He swiveled back to his keyboard and began furiously typing commands. “Here, come here and see for yourself. Look.” He pointed at the screen, at the silent black-and-white images marching with unknown purpose.

Jackson forced himself to rein in his impatience. Getting this guy’s back up wouldn’t accomplish anything, and the hell of it was, he thought whoever had killed Salinas deserved a parade. He wouldn’t turn this into a personal crusade, but he had to do the investigation. “Is that the camera?”

“That’s it.”

“Looks to me like it’s working,” Jackson said, but he dialed back the sarcasm until it was barely noticeable.

“That’s because you aren’t paying attention, Special Agent.” The tech was as good at sarcasm as Jackson was. “Okay, there. See that guy drop his briefcase?” He stopped the action, backed up, played it again. Jackson watched a portly businessman trying to balance a drink, eat a hot dog, and carry his briefcase without breaking his stride. When everything began slipping, he held on to the drink and hot dog, and let the briefcase drop to his feet and go skidding across the sidewalk.

“I see him. What about it?”

“Keep watching. I’ll speed it up for you.”

The tech tapped a key, and the people onscreen began scurrying around like ants. About ten seconds later he tapped another key and they slowed down to normal speed. A few seconds more, and Jackson watched the portly businessman sacrifice his briefcase again.

“Shit,” he said. “Shit! It’s a damn loop!”

“That’s right, it’s a damn loop. Somebody got into the system and got the feed, looped it, fed it back to us. Whoever it was is damn good, is all I can say.”

“Thank you for your help,” Cotton said quietly, giving Jackson an inscrutable look. “Mister—?”

“Jensen. Scott Jensen.”

“Mr. Jensen. We’ll get back to you if any other questions come up, but I imagine you have your own housekeeping to do for the time being.”

Scottie Jensen said, “You got it,” in a grim tone, and turned back to his keyboard.

Jackson looked startled at Cotton’s lack of pursuit down an avenue that should definitely have been investigated, but he quickly masked his reaction. As they silently returned to their car, a more thoughtful look replaced his agitation.

What he was thinking was out there—way out there. The Rick Cotton he knew was a by-the-book guy, as straight-up as anyone he’d ever met. He didn’t have any evidence, and if he voiced his suspicions to anyone he’d be laughed out of the Bureau. All he had was his instinct, and it was shouting at him.

He didn’t say anything, not then. He kept silent after they returned to Federal Plaza, went through all the expected motions. Details turned over and over in his head, nuances of expressions that he’d caught, the timeline involved. Everything fit. Nothing was provable—hell, he didn’t know that he wanted anything to be provable, or that he’d act even if there was—but he knew what had happened, knew it down in his bones.

And so did Cotton.

He waited until the day was finished. Cotton headed home to his wife, and Jackson ate dinner in the city, then walked some, absorbing the lights and constant movement around him. There was always something new around the corner, wasn’t there—with people as well as with things. More so with people, come to think of it.

Reaching a decision, he fished his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. When he heard Cotton answer, Jackson said, “He did it, didn’t he? You knew he would.”

Cotton was silent a moment, then very calmly asked, “What are you talking about?”

Jackson disconnected the call, not wanting to say anything more. He walked some more, his hands in his pockets. The night air was getting colder by the minute, but he needed to walk a while longer.

First and foremost was the decision he had to make. Would he say anything? The immediate answer that resounded in his head was a firm “Hell, no.” There wasn’t a damn thing he could prove, even if he’d been so inclined, and he wasn’t.

The guy who’d killed Salinas deserved a parade, not an investigation. He’d done it to protect the woman he loved, and, hell, there was something noble in that, wasn’t there? Cotton had sensed something right away, when their meeting with Drea had been interrupted, and going on pure instinct had set the wheels in motion by intimating that the FBI might want to use her as bait. That had been pure bullshit; Jackson knew damn good and well that had never been an option. The only way they could ever have built any case, using her, was if Salinas went bat-shit crazy and killed her—and the guy from the balcony knew that. He loved her, and he wouldn’t risk her, so he’d taken matters into his own hands.

How had Cotton known the guy was capable of doing something like that? The plan had been slick, but the execution of it had required not just a big set of balls but some titanium ones. They didn’t even know the guy’s name, or anything about him. They didn’t have a fingerprint to run, or a facial analysis to try to pin him to any of the locations where shit had gone down. But Cotton had summed him up in one brief, very brief, meeting, and within seconds had a human weapon aimed directly at Rafael Salinas.

In that one moment, Rick Cotton had performed above his own capability, and all Jackson could do was mentally salute. “Way to go,” he murmured to the night.

RICK COTTON SLEPT well that night. Soon he’d be retiring from a long and undistinguished career, but this one time he’d gone beyond his own limits and he felt good about it. He would go even further, doing what he could to stonewall any investigation. Those two deserved their chance at happiness, and he’d try his best to make certain they got it.

Sometimes there was a difference between the law and justice, and sometimes justice had to step outside the law. The proof of that, he thought just before he fell asleep, was that he didn’t work for the Department of Law; he worked for the Department of Justice…and Justice had been served.