The Last Spymaster (18 page)

Rink hit the brakes, and Angelides and Billy got out and walked around a dark Honda and crouched. Over the hood, they studied Cunningham’s place as the BMW cruised off. Angelides noted her front yard was little, about the size of an old-fashioned matchbox.

“Hey, there’s no light,” Billy said. “It’s awful early to go to bed. I’ll bet she’s not home.”

Billy was a nice-looking guy, neat in his sports jacket and pants. Billy had short brown hair trimmed just a little longer than a military cut, like Angelides’s gray hair. He also wore a black pearl earring in each ear, but then, he was young, like twenty-two.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Angelides advised. “See that red Jag down the street? It’s the right license plate, so it’s hers. Mighty fine-looking piece of machinery.”

“She might be visiting neighbors,” Billy suggested. He pulled out his 10mm Colt semiautomatic, a duplicate of Angelides’s.

“Uh-huh.” Angelides took out his Colt and a GPS tracker. “Don’t get too far ahead of yourself. That’s always a mistake. You gotta think ahead, but don’t jump ahead. Okay, you take the rear. If there’s still no light, break in, but be careful. Anything looks hinky, give me a warning call on the cell. If you can’t talk, it’s okay. I’ll see your number and know it’s you and come around. Otherwise, I’ll give you ten, then I’m going in the front. We’re gonna learn all we can about this little lady. First thing, we look for her. Second thing, we look for stuff about Tice.”

Elaine stared at Tice’s weapon, fighting back fear.
Think.
“Somehow you’ve discovered I’m your hunter. Since you’re here now, you probably heard me call into Langley at Whippet, too. You figured there wasn’t going to be enough time to question me there, so you decided to wait for me here. How did you find out about me?”

“I have my sources.” He checked outside and stiffened. His words snapped: “Close the cabinet. The light’s small, but it’s a hazard. We have to leave.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Shut the doors,” he ordered.
“Now.
You’ve got visitors. Come here and look.”

His worry seemed real. She set her glass inside the cabinet and closed it and ran across the room. She tipped up a slat and stared.

“There are two,” he said. “See them?”

The older of the pair marched down the sidewalk, while the other watched the street. Both held guns low to their sides, where they were less noticeable.

“There was no surveillance when I arrived,” he told her, “and I wasn’t followed.” He hurried across the room, grabbed a backpack, stuffed her Walther into it, and stuck the lit cigar into the whiskey that remained in his glass, stopping the odor. “That means it’s you they want.”

Keeping hope from her voice, she said neutrally, “They could be Langley.”

“If they were, I’d be out the back door by now.”

“They could be yours. This could be a movie you’re producing to fool me.”

“Why would I bother? My smartest move is to leave you to entertain them while I get away.” He snapped the SIG Sauer free from the armchair.

She peered outside again. The first man had stopped at her Jaguar. She tensed. “One of them looks as if he’s planting something on my Jag. Right rear fender.”

“That doesn’t sound like Langley, does it?” When she was silent, he asked, “Large or small?”

“Can’t tell. The other one’s moving. It looks as if he’s headed toward my side yard.” She moistened her lips. “Who are they?”

“They were with the gang that massacred Whippet.” He put the SIG Sauer into the backpack. “I’d say they’ve come to finish the job.”

As Cunningham bolted through the shadows to the dummy and ripped out newspapers, Tice attached a wireless audio receiver to his tape recorder. Then he helped her ram the papers into the fireplace, leaving the area with no trace that anyone had been here recently—except for the lingering stench of the cigar. Nothing to be done about that.

He shoved the whiskey glass into her hand. “Dump it into the kitchen trash.”

She slung her bag across her chest, and he led her at a trot through her dark living room and into the hall, carrying his Browning and the backpack. He slapped on his reading glasses, took a small box from the backpack, popped the box open, and removed what looked like a triangular kernel of corn, except that it was a dull black color.

“This is an audio transmitter,” he told her. “It’s got special adhesive on one side. Lick it, and it sticks like a bad debt to anything. Attaching it activates it. With luck, I’ll be able to plant it.”

“You have a plan?” Her voice was tight.

“I do. Grab a towel out of the bathroom. Take the dark one.” He dropped the box into the backpack and slid the kernel into his pants pocket and returned his reading glasses to his shirt pocket.

She snatched the navy terry-cloth towel from the guest bath. “If I had my Walther, I could help.”

He shook his head, barely acknowledging her words. In the tiny kitchen he grabbed a flare-legged barstool and laid it on its side some four feet from the outside door. It partially blocked the path to the rest of the town house.

“Always give them something to focus on besides you.”

“I know.” She dumped the glass of whiskey into a container under the sink.

He scanned the room. The door was so close to the wall that there was
no way either one of them could hide behind it. White moonlight streamed in through the oversize window above the sink, leaving a black shadow on the kitchen’s far side. Cast by the leafy tree in her rear yard, the shadow undulated with the wind.

He yanked her inside the shadow just as a face appeared at the glass, peering warily inside. It was the young man he had seen out front. With a quiet curse, she tugged her black jacket shut over her white T-shirt and adjusted her shoulder bag. The kitchen was so small that there was no way to escape deeper into darkness.

He put his mouth against her ear. “Move with the shadow. If we’re stationary, we’re more noticeable.”

Side by side, they shifted with the rolling darkness. Her tension was palpable. From the window, the man inspected the interior for what seemed an interminable time. He had a cheeky face, young but watchful. Tice studied him for a sign he had seen her gesture. But at last the head disappeared. Tice kept himself loose. He glanced at Cunningham. She nodded. He sensed fear, but she remained composed.

There was the scratch of picklocks, and the door opened cautiously, hinges squeaking. A hefty Colt in his hand, the intruder stepped up and across the threshold into a rectangle of moonlight that illuminated the overturned stool. He closed the door. As Tice had expected, the man leaned over to move it out of his way. Tice touched Cunningham’s arm and pointed and gestured.

She gave a single nod, and they sprinted. The intruder turned, his weapon in one hand, the stool in the other. She flung the towel over his head. As he grunted and jerked with surprise, blind and helpless, Tice crashed the side of his hand down hard onto the back of his neck. The barstool thudded to the floor, and the gunman collapsed to his knees.

Cunningham tore his Colt away as Tice kneed him in the chin. The intruder’s head snapped back, cutting oxygen to his brain. The towel slid off. His eyes were open but abruptly blank. With a low groan, he pitched forward, resting on his cheek like an exhausted baby. His eyelids closed.

Tice knelt and emptied the man’s pockets. “He’ll be out for a while. Throw me my backpack. Do you have a key to your pantry?”

“I used to. I’ll look.” She ran to the backpack, tossed it to him, and in three quick steps was opening a kitchen drawer.

He heard her pawing through it. “Nothing useful here except his cell.” He dropped it into his backpack.

He took out the kernel-shaped audio transmitter and licked it and stuck it to the underside of the man’s shirt collar. He checked Cunningham. She was still digging through the drawer. The Colt was on the counter. He would deal with that later. She pulled out a short leather strap. The loop at the end was torn open, the key gone. She muttered angrily and resumed her search.

Tice rose stiffly and opened the pantry door. He dragged the unconscious man inside and dumped him beside a box of laundry detergent.

“How about that key?” He closed the door.

“I’ve got it.” She ran toward him, the key in one hand, the Colt in the other, her expression determined. She would not give up the weapon easily.

He watched the Colt warily, but as long as there was another killer outside, he would make no move to take it.

“Lock the pantry,” he ordered. “Keep the key.”

She rushed around him as he returned the stool to its place beside the counter and slung his backpack over one shoulder. As the lock clicked into place, he studied the kitchen one last time. Nothing appeared disturbed. He opened the rear door just as he heard the front door open. His chest squeezed.

Her head was cocked, listening. “The other guy’s here,” she whispered. Her eyes flashed, and in them he saw rage, a deep sense of violation. This was her home, and three intruders had broken into it tonight.

“We’re gone.”

She nodded, and they slid outside. As she locked the door, he surveyed her postage-stamp lawn and the other rear yards. A black wind blew against his skin.

“The rest of the wet squad could be anywhere around here,” he warned. “Truce? Otherwise, I take the Colt.”

Her grip on the weapon tightened. “Like hell you will.” Her eyes widened then narrowed. “Temporary truce.”

“If you fire, you’ll draw the man in the house and everyone else.” He studied her for a moment, finally deciding she was smart enough to mean it. “This way.”

They took off at a run toward the side yard, hugging the shadows. At the front he pressed against the wall. She slipped in next to him, her small face tense and alert. A midnight-blue BMW was pulling into a driveway across the street. He frowned and looked at her.

“It doesn’t belong to any of the neighbors,” she whispered.

A man got out, scanned both ways, and dashed toward her place.

“He was at Whippet, too.” Tice kept his voice low. “That makes three of them so far. My car’s two blocks away. We’ll take yours.”

“I’ll drive.”

“Damn right you will.” That left him free to use his weapons. He peered farther around the corner. The street was empty.

They ran again, quietly crossing her front yard and escaping down the sidewalk, watching everywhere. She pressed the door release on her key chain. Ahead, the Jaguar’s lights flashed.

“Stand outside until I figure out what’s been left on your car.”

She started to object then nodded.

As she stood sentry, he searched under the right rear fender, running his hands over the grime. At last he found the lump, the size of a shirt button. He pried it off.

“It’s a tracker.” He held up the innocent-looking piece. “Get inside. Hurry.”

They jumped in then let the heavy doors close softly. He looked for the Colt—she had slid it into the pocket of her door. The handle stuck up.

As the engine purred to life, she scrutinized the area and touched the accelerator, maneuvering expertly into a left turn. “Don’t put on your seat belt yet.” She backed up and turned left once more, inching out of the tight slot.

“What in hell do you think you’re doing!”

“I have an idea.” Her blue eyes were constricted and angry. “It won’t take more than ten seconds.” She backed up once more.

“You want to leave the tracker on their car?” he asked.

“A surprise gift.”

“More like an insult. Good psychological warfare. And it will waste their time. You’ve given me an idea.” As she swung a hard left into the street and pressed the gas pedal, he leaned across her lap and wrapped his hand around the big Colt.

“Hey!” She pounded a fist against his head. The Jag swerved.

Blinking, he jerked back into his seat.

She swore, kept checking the Colt. “I barely missed crashing the car!”

“But you did miss it.” He took out his pocketknife and opened it then cocked the Colt’s hammer. “You’ll like this.” He stuck his knife blade into the open space beneath the gun’s hammer and broke off the tip. The small piece of metal was almost invisible inside the weapon. It would jam the first time anyone tried to fire it.

She breathed deeply, scowling. She glanced at her town house. “The lights are on. Both floors. Either they’ve found their friend and are searching for us, or they haven’t found him and are about to give up. In any case, they’ll be out the door any moment. What’s your idea?” She braked the car at the end of the driveway where the BMW was parked.

He handed her the tracker. “It’s got a magnetic attachment. Do your worst.” He had no intention of letting her drive off as soon as he got out.

She stared at it then up into his eyes. He saw cool calculation, that she knew exactly what he was doing and why, and acknowledged his superiority only because he had the only operating gun. She snatched the tracker.

She left the engine running, and they got out swiftly, scanning the street. He dropped the Colt’s finger loop over the BMW’s antenna and yanked the antenna high. She planted the tracker under a fender. They ran back to the Jag. Inside, he turned and watched through the rear window as she floored the accelerator. With a low growl, the car shot off effortlessly. The G-force slammed him deep into the leather seat.