Double Jeopardy (13 page)

Travis heard another shot, then a cry of pain. He peeked over the top of the dumper. The man with the gun had shot his companion.
He shot one of his own men!

“Ten seconds, Byrne. Then we come after you.”

Travis heard him count to ten, then heard the snap-crackle-pop of gravel that told him the two remaining men were approaching. In the six inches between the gravel and the bottom of the dumper, Travis could see Hush-Puppied feet shuffling down the driveway. He tried to think—what had his police training taught him to do in a situation like this? All those drills must have been worth something. Only one answer came to him. If you’re totally helpless: bluff.

“Don’t come any closer,” Travis shouted. “I’m armed.”

The footsteps stopped. Travis could see the Hush Puppies shifting weight, deliberating. He knew the questions that would be going through their minds: was he lying, and if not, what was he packing?

“We don’t want to hurt you, Travis,” said the man with the gun.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” Travis muttered.

“Throw down your weapon and come with us peacefully.”

To the morgue? No thanks. One of the two pairs of feet skittered away. Of course—he was going to do an end run, try to come up on Travis from behind. If Travis was going to make a break for it, the time was now.

Travis turned and bolted toward the Sears service entrance. As soon as he emerged from cover, he heard the first man yell, “He’s moving!” A second after that, Travis heard him fire another shot.

Too quickly. He was reacting, not aiming. Travis’s practiced ears could tell the bullet was more than a yard away from him. He kept barreling forward, zigzagging back and forth—an erratic target was a lot harder to hit. He grabbed an iron railing and vaulted over just as he heard another bullet zing by. Closer this time, but not close enough. He reached the service entrance and yanked at the door.

It was locked.

Travis glanced back over his shoulder. Both men were running toward him, trying to get close enough to get a decent shot off. Travis pounded desperately on the door.

A dark, unshaven man in a gray service uniform opened the door just a crack. “I’m sorry, sir. You need to deposit your invoice at the front register, then—”

Travis yanked the door open and shoved the man out of the way. He raced through the warehouse, careening down corridors lined with refrigerators and washing machines and power tools. Seconds later he heard the two alleged FBI men hit the door and race through.

Travis had no idea where he was going, but he knew if he stopped he was a dead man. The endless rows of merchandise were like a maze. And he was a stupid rat trying to find the cheese.

He plowed through a group of uniformed workers huddled around a clipboard.

“Hey, what’s the—”

Travis didn’t stop. He kept on running, sending the clipboard flying into the air. No time to inquire about exit doors. Judging by the sound of his pursuers’ footsteps, they were closing in on him.

Finally Travis came to a wide set of double doors. He smashed through and found himself on the main retail floor. Before he could stop himself, he careened into a display of wedding crystal. A punch bowl and some stemware shattered on the tile floor. A man behind a cash register whirled around. “Just a minute—”

Unfortunately, Travis didn’t have a minute. The two men in the unseasonable overcoats burst through the double doors and spotted him almost immediately. Travis plunged further into the store, hoping against hope they wouldn’t fire in front of witnesses. It was just possible that he could lose them in the shopping mail.

After a crash-and-smash detour through the perfume and hosiery departments, Travis found himself in the main thoroughfare of the mall. He was panting and gasping for air. He probably hadn’t run like this in years. His overweight body was complaining mightily.

He blended into the main stream of traffic, then glanced back over his shoulder. His trackers were still there, but following at a discreet distance. Apparently, his hope was fulfilled—they didn’t want to be seen gunning him down before hundreds of witnesses. He passed the Hickory Farms outlet, the Suncoast Video store, and the food court. He was hungry and he wanted to pick up some food—some
real
food, with meat in it—but he didn’t think that advisable at the moment. His immediate objective was to get back to his car and get the hell out of here.

He circled the food court and retraced his steps. A quick glance confirmed that his pursuers had done the same. They were walking faster now, closing the gap. They knew what he was trying to do, and they were determined to prevent it.

Travis reentered Sears and spotted a small group of people talking, apparently on their way back to their cars. The group was composed of three couples, all well-dressed yuppies. Travis plunged into their midst.

“Excuse me,” he said to one of the men. “Do you have any jumper cables?”

“Sure,” the man replied, stroking his salt-and-pepper beard. “In the back of my Land Rover. Car trouble?”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t you know? I try to do some shopping for the little woman’s birthday, and my car won’t start.”

“That stinks,” said one of the other men. “We were just gonna pop into the wine shop. If you don’t mind waiting, we’ll be happy to help you out.”

Travis tried to maintain his facade of calm. “The trouble is—I’m supposed to meet the little woman at eleven-thirty. And it’s her birthday.”

“Ye gods,” the first man said, checking his watch. “We’d better move fast. We’ll come back for the wine later.”

“Thanks,” Travis said. “I really appreciate it.”

Travis fell into step with them, careful to keep his newfound friends between himself and the two men in the overcoats. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder; he knew they were still back there.

After providing a lame story about his gimp leg, Travis convinced the group to go to their car first, then drive him to his own car. All seven of them squeezed into the Land Rover; Travis kept himself in the middle. He instructed the driver to park his car in the aisle between two parking rows, blocking oncoming traffic. Travis then crawled into his car and put it into neutral, resisting suggestions that he give it another try first. Travis steered while the others pushed his car in front of the Rover. As he stepped out of his car he saw the long black sedan with leaded windows pull into the same lane, just behind the Rover. It was waiting.

The first man, whom Travis had now learned went by “Buzz,” attached the jumper cables to the two cars’ batteries. After a believable period of time Travis tried his engine and—what a surprise!—it started right up.

After letting the car charge briefly, Buzz removed the jumper cables and closed the hood of Travis’s car. “Well, that should take care of—”

Travis never heard the rest of the sentence. He floored the accelerator and peeled out of the parking lot. In his rearview mirror, he saw the sedan press forward, but they couldn’t get around the Land Rover. The sedan honked, then someone leaned out the window and began shouting. Buzz closed his hood, got into the Rover, and tried to get out of the way. He eased forward, the sedan riding his rear bumper.

Travis was already at the Park Lane intersection and the light was green. He turned right and shot down Park Lane, leaving the sedan and its occupants well behind.

He took the first exit, turned right into a residential section, and wandered aimlessly for fifteen minutes.

When he was certain he had lost them, Travis pulled over to the side of the street and rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

Somehow he’d managed to give them the slip. But where could he go now? He couldn’t go anywhere he would normally be expected. Driving was itself dangerous; they could easily identify his car. Whoever
they
were. He slapped the dash with the flat of his hand. Why would the FBI try to kill him?

He didn’t know what was and wasn’t safe, who could and couldn’t be trusted. All he had were guesses. And if he guessed wrong, it might prove fatal.

H
ENDERSON WAS ENRAGED. “YOU
did
what
?”

“I organized a recovery team to bring Byrne in,” Janicek said, folding his hands calmly in his lap.

“Without my authorization?”

“You weren’t around,” Janicek said, with barely a hint of derision.

“You knew I’d be back.”

“We couldn’t wait. The man was desperate. Claimed his life was in danger. We had to hurry.”

“Goddamn it, your haste got an agent killed!”

Janicek examined his fingernails. “We had no reason to believe Byrne was armed or dangerous.”

“Well, you should’ve, Janicek. You should’ve planned for every contingency.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I tried to act according to regulation. But the first thing I knew, Byrne was shooting at us and poor Mooney was dead.”

Henderson threw his coat bitterly on the floor. He was a big barrel-chested man with rugged features, now contorted by his anger and frustration. “Did he say whether he’d looked at the list?”

“He claimed he hadn’t.”

“Which doesn’t tell us a damn thing.” Henderson pounded his fists together. “I can’t believe that list got out in the first place. Have you tracked down the leak yet, Holt?”

Holt stepped forward. “I have compiled and committed to memory the names of all the people who had access, sir.”

“And what is your conclusion?”

“That would be premature. Any number of agents could have obtained clearance. Any of us could have.”

“Thank you very goddamn much, Mr. Holt. Tell me something I don’t know!”

“Sir,” Holt said, “I’m formally requesting authorization to interview every agent on our special team. Separately. See what they have to say for themselves. See if they have any knowledge they shouldn’t.”

“We can’t do that,” Henderson said. “Among other reasons, we don’t have time. We have to recover that list before it’s sold or made public.”

“With all due respect, sir, that won’t be easy,” Janicek said. “Byrne is a cold-blooded killer.”

“Are you sure? It just doesn’t make any goddamn sense.”

“I told you what happened,” Janicek said. “What other explanation can there be? Simpson, Mooney, and I arrived at the appointed place. When I demanded the list, Byrne opened fire and shot Mooney. He would’ve killed us all if he’d had the chance.”

“But
why
?”

“Apparently he plans to keep the list,” Janicek replied. “Maybe Moroconi was acting for Byrne when he acquired it. Maybe they’re in it together. We’ve checked Byrne out. He’s not a wealthy man.”

Henderson pressed his knuckles together. It still didn’t add up. He’d already checked with Simpson, though, and he had confirmed Janicek’s story in every detail.

“Well, what the hell are we going to do?” Henderson asked, his teeth clenched.

“I don’t see that we have a great deal of choice,” Janicek said. “Damage control is our first priority. If it’s possible to preserve the integrity of the list, we have to do it. And that means we have to get Byrne. Immediately. Before he’s found by someone else. We’re not the only group in town chasing him, you know.”

Henderson’s eyebrows shot up. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Moroconi’s old business acquaintances.”

“They’re after Byrne, too?”

“There’s no other explanation for what happened at the West End. The initial target was Moroconi. But Byrne’s got the hot potato now, so they’ll want him. And frankly, if they find him first, there won’t be enough left for us to scrape up with a pizza knife.”

“And they’ll have every name on the list,” Henderson said solemnly.

Janicek nodded in quiet agreement. “Names and addresses.”

There was a long silence during which all three of them thought the same thought. It was Holt who said it first. “We have to find Byrne before they do, sir. And if we have to kill him, then we have to kill him. In all likelihood, we will.”

A
NOTHER OFFICE, IN ANOTHER
high-rise, on the opposite side of town. Shadows masking the grim faces of the participants.

Mario pressed a hand wearily to his forehead. “Can someone please explain what is going on? How did this simple plan for the elimination of one penny-ante pissant turn into a major disaster?”

Kramer’s face became taut, distending his long, gruesome facial scar. He spoke in measured tones that in no way prevented Mario from realizing Kramer would like to set his face on fire. “That ain’t fair. Most of this operation has been flawless.”

“One of your own men was killed!” Mario shouted. From the safety of the sofa, Donny smirked. “What the hell is so flawless about that?”

“That was a mistake,” Kramer admitted. “Hardcastle fucked up and he paid the price. Still, most of our goals have been achieved. Such as watchin’ the phone lines and locations connected to Byrne. That’s how we got our first lead to Moroconi. That’s how we learned he had the list. That’s how we interrupted their little rendezvous at the West End.”

Yes, Mario thought, that was Kramer—quick to bulldoze over this gaping hole in his heretofore unblemished record of stylized sadism. Why had the family endured him for so long? Sure, he was proficient, but he was unpredictable. And expensive. At least fifty thousand dollars a hit. Hell, the Outfit was teeming with poor slobs desperate to finish a hit so they could become
made men.
And Mario never paid them more than ten thousand a shot. Sure, there were risks, but anytime a murder was actually
planned
—wasn’t executed in the heat of the moment by an enraged spouse or jealous boyfriend—the chances of the police ever figuring out who did it decreased dramatically. All in all, Kramer was convenient, but unnecessary. So why the hell were they still using him?

“Yes, you discovered the rendezvous at the West End, but once you arrived, what did you do?” Mario demanded. “You screwed up!”

“There was … some confusion. I dunno why Hardcastle identified himself as a cop.”

“The police line was a great idea,” Donny said. “In fact, I suggested it.”