“Are we there?” Philip asked as they exited the back of the car.
In response, Donnelly pointed at the door directly in front of them. “Room one-oh-seven. Here’s the key.”
Philip didn’t move. “Aren’t you going to stay with us?”
Donnelly shook her head. “My job was to get you here. I’ve done that.”
“But who’s going to protect us?” Philip protested.
“No one knows you’re here except us and the people picking you up,” Donnelly explained wearily.
“Well, where are the people picking us up?” Philip demanded.
“They’ll be here in the morning. We need time to clear out, and we weren’t sure exactly what time we’d get here. We made better time than I expected.”
“But why can’t you stay until they arrive?” he asked.
Donnelly’s patience was wearing thin. “I don’t know the people who are meeting you. They don’t know me or my people, and I don’t want them to. That helps ensure your safety and the safety of all the other people in the system. I’ve already explained this to you several times.” She jerked her head toward the door of the room, where the driver had unceremoniously dumped their suitcases. “Now, it’s time for you to go in there, and it’s time for me to head for home.”
“What if we were followed?” Philip pressed.
Donnelly’s patience snapped. She leaned forward, putting her face less than a foot from his. “I’ve listened to you whine for ten hours. I don’t want to hear any more and I don’t have to. I’ve done my job. We weren’t followed, I can assure you of that. You’ll be picked up in the morning; meanwhile you’ll be safe.” She pulled two cards out of her pocket and handed one to Philip and one to Lisa. The card had a phone number printed in the center and a four-digit code on the bottom right. “This is the number to call if you ever have any problems. Use that personal code to identify yourself and pass the security check.” She glanced over her shoulder as she settled back into the car. “Good-bye.”
29 OCTOBER, 12:03 a.m.
Lisa threw herself onto the bed and stared up blankly at the ceiling. Her husband had gone directly into the shower, and she could hear the roar of the water through the thin wall. The weeks between the day her world had fallen apart and the end of the trial seemed like a blur. She didn’t even feel as though she was really here in North Carolina. A part of her kept expecting to wake up from the nightmare.
Philip came out of the bathroom and threw on his clothes.
“Where are you going?” she asked as he headed for the outside door.
“I’m going to get some sodas from the machine. You want one?”
Lisa shook her head and sank back on the bed. Five minutes later, Philip was back, two Pepsi’s in hand. He popped one, pouring it into the plastic glass from the bathroom, and set the other on top of the TV. He was nervous, flitting about the room, glancing out the curtains every so often, checking his watch constantly.
“She said it would be morning before the other people showed,” Lisa noted from the bed.
“Yeah, I know.” Philip lit a cigarette and sank down into one of the chairs.
“I can’t believe they’d just leave us like this,” Lisa said.
“They don’t care. They got what they wanted from me and now I’m just a pain to them.”
Philip sat in the chair, his eyes unfocused. Lisa lay on the bed in her misery, still not quite sure how to resolve all that had happened in the past months and shelve it away in her mind. She realized some time ago that her big mistake had been marrying Philip in the first place, but it was a realization too late in coming. She was twenty-nine now and she’d given seven years of her life to a man who’d effectively trashed hers in one day. Lisa knew a little about the mob from her youth, and she very much doubted that they would be sympathetic if she tried explaining how she no longer loved the man who had turned state’s evidence. They would most likely not even give her a chance to explain. Divorce had not been an option in the whirlwind of events following the attempt on Philip’s life.
Philip suddenly stood, startling her. “I’m going down to the lounge. You try and get some sleep.”
Lisa frowned. “Why don’t you stay in the room?”
“I’m going nuts in here,” he snapped and then he was gone.
Lisa felt the emptiness close in—the same emptiness she’d felt eight years ago in her drafty studio in suburban Chicago. She rolled off the bed and pulled on her jacket. Anything would be better than staying here alone. She left the room and walked along the covered sidewalk toward the lounge. She pushed open the door and stepped in, pausing for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. Philip was nowhere to be seen. There were about a dozen people lined up at the bar and a scattering of couples at the tables between the bar and the booths that lined the far wall.
Lisa felt slightly foolish. Perhaps Philip had gone to the men’s room. She moved toward the bar, keeping an eye on the restroom doors at the far end of the lounge. She took a stool at the end of the bar, with a comfortable separation of one empty chair between her and the next person. After ordering a ginger ale from the bartender, she turned in her seat and checked the room again.
Her heart froze as she spotted Philip seated in a booth, a woman at his side. Thoughts tumbled in her brain. Who was the woman? A part of her wanted to believe it was someone Philip had just picked up in the bar, but the way the two sat close together made it clear that they were familiar with each other. The answer strained to be heard, but Lisa didn’t want to accept it. She had never met the woman who had been so instrumental in the destruction of her life, but somehow she knew that the woman seated with Philip was Jill Fastone. How could the woman have known where they were?
Philip must have called her! Lisa was so shocked that her anger stayed at bay for a half minute. Tripping on the heels of the anger, though, came nausea. She staggered off the bar stool toward the ladies’ room, not caring if Philip saw her. She shoved the door open and knelt by the toilet, heaving up the scant contents of her stomach.
12:17 A.M.
In the bar, Philip turned to Jill, at a loss. Nothing was making much sense anymore. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Jill had a vaguely smug look on her face. “Where to?”
Philip was already on his feet. “The room. We’re going to have to straighten all this out. I have to tell her. I can give up my old life but I can’t give up you.”
Jill laughed, shaking her head, as she followed him out.
12:18 A.M.
“This is Surveillance. They’re back. I’ve got two entering one-oh-seven.”
The team leader—code name Master—acknowledged the transmission from the back of the panel van parked in the darkness on the far side of the motel, out of sight of the Cobbs’ room. “This is Master. Roger. Description? Over.”
“One male. One female. Description for both fits, but the lighting’s lousy and I can’t confirm it. Over.”
“What about the escort? Over.”
“Gone. No sign of anyone covering them. They’re all alone. Over.”
“Roger. Hold. Out.” Master leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. He was a large man, his arms corded with muscles, his hair prematurely gray. His face was permanently set in a scowl. What people noticed about him on first meeting were his eyes. They were such a pale shade of blue that they immediately drew people’s attention. On missions where he could be spotted, he normally wore colored contact lenses.
He pressed both hands together and cracked his knuckles. The waiting was the worst part. It was too early. Too many people about. Later would be better. But the window of opportunity was narrow. He made his decision and checked his watch. “All elements, this is Master. It’s now twelve eighteen mark twenty seconds. We go at twelve twenty-one. All elements report in with a confirmation on that. Over.”
“Door. Roger. Over.”
“Support. Roger. All clear. Over.”
“Surveillance. Roger. All clear from up here. Over.”
Master glanced at the man sitting in front of the communications console. “Anything?”
The man pulled one of the cups off his left ear and pointed at the glowing computer screen. “Nearest patrol car is four miles away.” The use of computers in police vehicles—while of great benefit to the officers—made the location of those cars available to anyone who had the right equipment to lock into the police band and decrypt the continuous transmission those computers send back to patrol headquarters.
12:19 a.m.
“You need to tell her when she comes in,” Jill insisted.
Philip wrung his hands. “Listen—I couldn’t just let it go and never talk to you again but this—this was wrong of me. I shouldn’t have done it.”
Jill drove home her attack. “But you did! And you know why you did? Because you love me. What has she done for you in the past year? Huh?”
Philip pressed his palms against his temples and closed his eyes. He wished everything and everybody would disappear.
Jill Fastone smiled, the game done. “Oh, don’t take it all so seriously, Philip. It doesn’t matter anyway.” Her right hand dropped into her purse. “You don’t think I came down here because I love you, do you? You’re such a fool.”
Philip looked up in confusion. “What?”
She pulled the silenced pistol out of her purse and aimed it squarely at his chest. “You first and then your wife when she gets back.”
“But why?” Philip protested in surprise.
Fastone ignored the question. “First, there’s something you need to tell me, isn’t there?”
Philip stared. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” she answered. “Where’s the money?”
12:21 A.M.
The unmarked panel van slid in front of room 107. Three men smoothly exited the sliding side door, leaving it open. They wore black ski masks, and small boom mikes hung in front of their lips. The middle man was the one in charge, and he was whispering their progress in his mike as they approached the door.
The lead man slid the passkey into the lock while the second man stood by with a sledgehammer in case the chain had been put on. There was no need, because the knob turned and the door swung open. The leader took aim and fired the weapon in his hand. A small metal dart shot out, reeling out a thin line behind it, and struck Philip Cobb in the chest, attaching to his shirt. The first man released the doorknob and fired his own electric stunner, hitting the woman, who was swinging around toward them, a pistol in her hand.
Both men pressed switches on the handles of the weapons. The couple’s look of surprise changed to one of rigid pain as the volts coursed through their bodies, locking up their muscles and freezing them. The third man swung the door shut behind them. The second man ran forward and pulled the pistol out of Jill Fastone’s hands. The entry had taken all of three seconds.
The leader strode up to Philip Cobb and peered at his face. “Master, I’ve got a confirmed ID on the primary target. Over.” He pulled out a white plastic drop cloth that had been tucked under his belt, threw it on the ground, and kicked Cobb’s legs out from under him. Philip landed on the drop cloth with a thud, the scream he was trying to let loose stuck in his throat by the electric current. His eyes, already opened wide, watched the man pull out a pistol with his free hand and point it at him, right between the eyes.
“Primary ready for termination. Over.” The bulky silencer on the end of the barrel was rock steady.
“This is Master. Terminate. Over.”
The man pulled the trigger, and a soft-nosed bullet tore through the center of Philip Cobb’s forehead. The mercury inside the metal jacket expanded, sending shards of metal through his brain. The bullet disintegrated and spent its force inside the skull, killing Cobb but making a minimal mess. His head thumped back on the plastic, with only a slight dribble of blood oozing from the black hole in the center of his forehead.
“Shit, it ain’t her!” the first man exclaimed.
The leader shifted his gaze from the body. The woman was lying on a similar plastic sheet; the first man had his gun centered on her, but he was looking at the leader. “It ain’t her,” he repeated. He held up her silenced pistol. “And she had this on her aimed at him”—he jerked a thumb at Philip’s body—‟when we came in.”
“Master, this is Door. We’ve got a negative confirmation on secondary target. Over.”
In the van, Master leaned forward in his seat and grabbed the boom mike, as if by holding it the message would come out clearer. “What do you mean it isn’t her? Maybe they did a make-over. Over.”
“Negative. I’m telling you it isn’t her. Over.”
“Who the hell is it then? Over.”
The cell leader gestured for the lead man to turn off the stunner. He pressed his pistol in the middle of the woman’s forehead. “Check the bag,” he ordered.