Hidden Order: A Thriller (29 page)

W
ASHINGTON

D
ISTRICT OF
C
OLUMBIA

F
lorentino Marche had been born in Brooklyn, New York, and was the only child of an Italian father and a Puerto Rican mother. He had attended Columbia University, where he showed considerable aptitude for languages, particularly Arabic. From there he had gone on to Georgetown and a master’s degree from the Center for Contemporary Arab Studies. The Central Intelligence Agency made their approach shortly thereafter.

He was a tall, thin man with dark features and curly hair. With his black-framed eyeglasses and retro fashion sense, he came off as more geek than chic.

There were at least a hundred other hipster men in the crowded bar dressed just like him. Waitresses shuttled to and fro with pitchers of beer and trays laden with rings and wings. Televisions mounted on every wall broadcast a myriad of current as well as classic sporting events. It was difficult for Ryan to move through the crowd unimpeded. Table after table of young men invited her to join them, some less sober and more insistent than others. Finally, she spotted Florentino.

He was sitting with a group of friends in a booth. Instead of talking to each other, they were all looking down at their phones, texting. Occasionally, some team on one of the TVs would score, the crowd would cheer, and Florentino’s booth full of hipsters would look up and react. She needed to get his attention.

Tipping a waitress to slide him a cocktail napkin with a cryptic message had occurred to her but Florentino was too smart and too paranoid to bite on something like that. Guys like him didn’t get sent notes on cocktail napkins.

She was trying to come up with another option when she saw him tuck his phone in his pocket, say something to his friends, and get up from the table. As he walked toward the restrooms, she fell in step behind him and followed.

Her question now was whether she was going to present herself before or after he used the men’s room.
Probably better to wait till after
.

Slowing her pace, she picked a spot where she could wait and watch for him to come back out. He didn’t go into the men’s room, though. He kept walking toward the back of the building.

He hip-checked the crash bar on a fire exit and stepped outside.
Smoke break?

She needed him isolated anyway. Behind the building was just as good as anyplace else. Besides, it was too noisy inside. She could barely hear herself think.

Catching the door before it closed, she slipped outside behind him.

The rain had recently stopped and a mixture of young men and women stood in the puddled alley smoking and carrying on conversations. Florentino stood near a dumpster with his back to her. He never was very good at tradecraft. He was more academic than true field operative and no matter how many times she had tried to impress upon him the need for situational awareness, he had never seemed to get it. It was obvious by the ease with which she was able to approach him that he still didn’t.

“Hello, Florentino,” she said.

The young man looked over his shoulder and then turned to face her. “Lydia,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to meet a friend for drinks. I thought she might be back here having a smoke. What are you doing here?”

“Out with friends, too. Drinking. You know.”

“Yeah.”

“You got your haircut,” he said. “It looks good. Cool.”

“Thanks. So what have you been up to?”

The young man paused, reluctant to answer. “Not much. You know. A little bit of this, a little bit of that.”

“Florentino, you don’t have to lie to me,” Ryan replied. “I know what you’ve been doing.”

“What are you talking about? What have I been doing?”

“From what I’ve been told, lots and lots of travel. How was the food in Cyprus?”

“Cyprus?” he said, stalling. “That’s in Greece, right?”

“Or Turkey. It depends.”

“Yeah, right. You mind if I?” he said, fishing out a pack of smokes from his pocket and holding them up.

“No, go ahead. You know how bad those things are for you, right?”

He smiled, tapped one out, and pulled it from the pack with his mouth. “You sound like my mom.”

“Your mom’s right,” said Ryan, as she watched him remove his lighter and fire up his smoke. His hand appeared to have a slight tremble.

“How are you doing?” he asked after a deep drag. “I heard you’re still with the company, huh? How’s that been going?”

“I don’t have a lot of time. How about we talk about Cyprus instead?”

It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t. “Uh, okay,” he replied, his eyes flicking to the left.

Ryan glanced over her shoulder. “Are you expecting someone, Florentino?”

“Me? No. I mean, one of my friends was supposed to come out for a smoke, too.”

“In the meantime, tell me about Cyprus. Better yet,” she said, growing uncomfortable, “why don’t we step back inside?”

He pulled the cigarette from between his lips and held it up as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Can’t smoke in there.”

“Well, when we’re done talking, you can come back outside.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Ryan was going to ask
why
that wasn’t a good idea when she saw his eyes shift once again. This time, though, there was something different about the way he did it and the blood in her veins turned to ice.

Dropping to the ground, she spun and was just about to pull her Glock when a volley of shots rang through the alley.

R
yan had pulled Florentino to the ground and was trying to maneuver them to cover behind the dumpster. There was chaos as the smokers ran in multiple directions screaming.

“You knew!”
she wanted to yell at Florentino, but then she noticed he wasn’t moving. He had a gunshot wound to the chest and another at the base of his throat. Blood ran from his mouth as he lay on the wet pavement. As she reached out to feel for a pulse, two more shots skipped off the side of the dumpster and Ryan leapt back. She knew better than that. The only aid you gave in a gunfight was putting rounds on the enemy.

Two shots rang out, both in rapid succession. They were followed by two more. She had no idea how many attackers were in the alley, but she did know that someone was using a suppressor and someone wasn’t.

With her weapon up and ready, she was about to snatch a quick peek around the edge of the dumpster when she heard McGee’s voice.

“Tangos down. I’m coming to you. Don’t shoot. Be ready to move. Copy?”

“Affirmative,” Ryan replied. Her weapon was in tight, close to her chest, but ready to be fired.

McGee approached soundlessly and then scuffed the ground with his shoes the last couple of feet, so she would know where he was. He nudged Florentino with his foot to see if he would move. He didn’t. He was probably dead.

Stepping around the dumpster, he held his free hand out to Ryan and helped her up.

“Is he dead?” she asked, looking down at her former teammate.

McGee nodded. “I think so.”

Ryan bent over and felt for his pulse as she surveyed the scene. “What the hell happened?”

“At least three shooters,” McGee replied, pointing with his 1911 to the bodies on the ground. The baying of police Klaxons could be heard only a few blocks away. “We need to get going.”

“Go through their pockets,” she told him, jerking her head toward the shooters. “I’ll do Florentino.”

“Waste of time. We need to get moving.”

“Bob, please,” said Ryan.

Shaking his head, McGee disengaged and moved quickly over to the three dead men. By the time he was done patting them down, Ryan had joined him. She had Florentino’s iPhone.

“That’s not coming with us,” the former Delta Force operator said as he pointed at the phone. “They can track us with it.”

She knew he was right. “I just want to see what he has on it and then we’ll toss it.”

“Fine. Right now, let’s just get the hell out of here.”

Ryan nodded and followed McGee as he headed quickly down the alley. Just before they emerged at the sidewalk, he stopped and listened.

“Damn it,” he said.

“What is it?”

“The police are getting close. We’re going to have to go the long way around to get the car.”

They had debated whether to park far from the bar or to park closer. Ryan had wanted to be closer in case they needed to get out of there fast. McGee had wanted to be farther away for exactly that same reason. There
were good arguments to be made for both and in the end they had split the difference.

They moved perpendicular to the sound of the approaching police cars and made sure not to be seen. As keyed-up as police officers would be racing to a shooting, they were still taught to keep their eyes open and look for any potential suspects leaving the scene of a crime. While Ryan doubted the cops had anything more to go on than an address and “shots fired” in the alley, she didn’t want to risk getting rolled up. The only way they were going to get to the bottom of what was going on was to stay as many steps ahead of Phil Durkin as possible. They couldn’t do that if they were sitting in jail.

They also couldn’t do that if they were dead. Even though Ryan had a bunch of questions she wanted to ask, she kept quiet. It wasn’t only the police they had to watch out for. There could be more shooters looking for them right now. Both she and McGee needed to move quickly and quietly.

As they neared the car, Ryan removed Florentino’s iPhone and rapidly scrolled through his texts, emails, and browsing history.

“Anything?” McGee asked.

“Personal stuff, but nothing we can really use,” she replied as she stepped over to a storm drain and tossed it in.

“For what it’s worth, the stiffs in the alley were clean, too. No ID, no pocket litter, nothing.”

“More pros.”

McGee nodded. A block away, they could hear another police car and they both climbed quickly into the Mustang.

Once they had put enough distance between them and the scene, Ryan asked, “How the hell did they find us?”

“I think maybe we found them.”

“Meaning there was a team on Florentino?”

McGee nodded and made another turn in order to see if anyone was following them. “I’ll bet they have teams on all of them.”

“But why kill Florentino?”

“I don’t think they meant to kill him. I think they meant to kill you.”

Ryan was quiet for a moment as that sank in.

“They nailed him in the upper chest and base of his throat,” McGee continued. “Right where—”

“My head would have been had I not dropped,” she said, finishing his sentence for him.

“With that kind of luck, we ought to stop off and have you buy a lottery ticket.”

“It wasn’t luck,” she replied pensively. “It was instinct. Florentino knew they were there. His eyes gave them away. For some reason, something inside me just told me to react.”

“Call it whatever you want, but you were smart to listen to it. Between you and that Florentino guy, I’m glad it was him and not you that bought it.”

Ryan didn’t respond.

McGee accelerated to make it through the light that was changing up ahead. Once he had cleared the intersection, he asked, “Do you think he knew what they were intending to do to you?”

Ryan shook her head. “No. We were friends once. If he knew, I think he would have found a way to warn me.”

“Maybe he did.”

She fell silent again and McGee didn’t push the conversation. After several minutes, Ryan said, “I’m glad you followed me outside. Thank you.”

“You would have been fine,” he replied. “You’ve got great
instincts
.”

“No, you were right. I got lucky. Very lucky.”

“Don’t start second-guessing everything now and overanalyzing it. It’s done.” Changing the subject, he asked, “Did you recognize who was shooting at us?”

“No. I’ve never seen them before.”

“I don’t know what kind of pies Durkin has his dirty little fingers into, but he has access to a lot of manpower. Two hitters at my place, two at yours, and now two more on Florentino.”

“If you’re right,” said Ryan, “and he’s got people watching the other team members, we’re not going to be able to get close to them, much less get them to talk to us.”

“There is still one way,” McGee reminded her.

“Bob, I told you no. No children.”

“That was when they’d only used a Taser on you. I thought being shot at might change your mind.”

“It hasn’t. We’ll have to come up with another way.”

“Well, the McGee idea factory is closed for renovations. You’re going to have to come up with something on your own.”

Ryan turned in her seat to face him. “Are you telling me you won’t help?”

“I’m telling you that you got my best idea. Hell, you got my
only
idea. I’m fresh out. That’s it.”

She didn’t believe him. “We just need to think harder.”

“If I try to think this thing through any harder, there’s going to be smoke coming out of my ears. Listen, you know me. I’m a simple guy. I made a career out of tracking down bad guys, kicking in their doors, and shooting them in the head. Sometimes I delayed that last part long enough to have a chat with them, but not often. I’m not a schemer. I don’t construct intricate plots and ruses. I’m a door kicker. It’s in my blood and I’m not ashamed of that.