Alice immediately relayed the order, speaking rapidly, sounding like an auctioneer.
Bravo, Charlie. Do not shoot Cadillac. I repeat, do not shoot Cadillac
.
When Hopper had been shot, DeMarco didn’t know who had shot him. He’d stood there for about a second, stunned by what had happened, and then sprinted toward the bleachers. He wasn’t going to stand in the middle of a baseball diamond, a perfect target for whoever was shooting, and the bleachers were the closest cover he could see.
The bleachers suddenly seemed a mile away.
Levy raised the rifle to his shoulder, sighted in on DeMarco’s running form—and fired. He watched without emotion as DeMarco fell headlong into the dirt, right near third base, like a ballplayer sliding into the bag.
DeMarco was hit in the back, just to the left of his spine, with something that felt like a sledgehammer. His hands, then his chin, scraped the dirt. His right hand was touching third base. Thank God for the vest Alice had given him. He got up and started running again. He had to get under cover. The next shot might hit someplace where he wasn’t protected—like his head.
DeMarco’s been hit
.
It was Alice speaking.
Bravo, Charlie! Put rounds near Cadillac. Drive off Cadillac but do not hit him. Fire, fire!
Without the satellite, Dillon couldn’t see what was happening at the ball field, but he understood what was going on. Cadillac had shot DeMarco. He wondered if DeMarco was dead.
Levy didn’t understand what had happened. DeMarco had gone down but now he was back up and running again. He must be wearing a vest. Levy aimed again. This time he aimed for DeMarco’s head.
John Levy was an excellent shot.
He started to pull the trigger, but before he could, bullets began to strike the ground near him. Tree bark and dirt blew back into his face. He scooted backward where there was a slight depression in the ground but the bullets continued to hit near his head, missing him by inches. He got up and started running. The hedge would provide some cover until he reached his vehicle.
Dying wouldn’t help the general.
As Levy drove away from the park, tires squealing, he was thinking that he had failed miserably. DeMarco was still alive, Levy still didn’t know who was helping him, and still didn’t know the extent of DeMarco’s knowledge regarding General Breed.
He had failed Charles Bradford completely. He had failed him for the first time in his career.
With a small smile on his face, Dillon watched as three green blinking lights moved on the electronic map—Alice’s spotters were following Cadillac.
DeMarco crouched beneath the bleachers, his heart hammering. His back hurt from where the bullet had struck the vest, he’d skinned a hand when he fell, and he was panting like he’d just run a marathon instead of maybe a hundred feet from the pitcher’s mound to the bleachers.
Who the hell was out there? Who killed Hopper
?
“Sir.”
DeMarco whipped his head to his right. Whoever had just spoken was close—it sounded like the guy was under the bleachers with him—but he couldn’t see anyone! He started to scoot backward on his hands and knees, to get out from under the bleachers as fast as he could, but the voice said. “Sir, it’s okay. Calm down. You’re safe.”
Safe my ass! And where the fuck
was
the guy
?
“Sir, it’s all over. I’m going to show myself now.”
And then DeMarco saw a man literally rise up out of the earth. One minute there was what looked like a mound of dirt near the bleachers and the next thing he saw was the mound turn into a man dressed in mottled black and green combat fatigues with dark green camouflage paint smeared on his face. He was holding a short barreled rifle in his hands, and there was a sound suppressor attached to the rifle along with a high-tech scope that probably allowed the man to see in the dark. The man had been less than ten feet from DeMarco. If this guy had wanted to kill him, DeMarco knew he’d be dead already.
“Sir,” the man said, “you’re directed to return to your vehicle and wait for further instructions.”
DeMarco didn’t move; he just put his head down on the dirt. “Holy shit,” he said—and he didn’t care how many spies heard him.
Dillon had allowed DeMarco to drive his own car to the ball field. DeMarco figured Dillon did that because it would have looked funny if Hopper had arrived at the rendezvous before him and saw someone dropping him off. DeMarco also knew Dillon wasn’t worried about losing him because his car undoubtedly had some little tracking gizmo attached to it and, for all he knew, he had tracking gizmos attached to
him,
sewn into his damn clothes or something.
DeMarco
.
It was Alice talking to him through the earbud.
I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes. Just stay where you are. Don’t move
.
DeMarco looked out at the ball field. Alice was standing there with a couple of men who had rifles slung over their shoulders and, just like the man under the bleachers, and they were wearing camouflaged military-style fatigues. Alice and her pals were looking down at Hopper’s body, probably trying to figure out what to do with it.
As he sat there, DeMarco decided there was no way he was going to let these NSA assholes keep jerking his strings like he was some kind of puppet. And now, on top of everything else, he was involved in the death of an FBI agent. Dillon had undoubtedly recorded him talking to Hopper, maybe even filmed him, and, for all he knew, Dillon might try to pin Hopper’s murder on him.
This whole thing just kept getting worse and worse: Paul getting killed by a government SWAT team; Breed’s recording implicating a four-star general in a string of international assassinations; the damn NSA virtually holding Angela hostage to make him cooperate; and then, the last straw, using him as bait to kill an FBI agent. He had to find a way out.
He needed a plan.
But he didn’t have a plan.
He looked back at the ball field and noticed nobody was paying any attention to him; they were all focused on Hopper’s body. Dillon’s people obviously thought DeMarco would just sit there like the good puppet he was until somebody came over and told him what to do.
Then he came up with a plan. Well, actually,
half
a plan. But half a plan was better than no plan at all.
He pulled the earbud out of his ear and chucked it out the car window. When he did, he felt like he’d just pulled a tick out from under his skin. Then he started his car, stomped on the gas pedal, and drove away—wondering how long it would be before they noticed he was gone.
All he needed was a five-minute head start.
Perry Wallace, Mahoney’s chief of staff, was an unattractive, disagreeable genius whose only reason for living was to keep Mahoney in office. He also lived in Falls Church, a little more than a mile from Tuckahoe Park. DeMarco had been to Wallace’s home twice before and he knew he could drive there in two minutes—but he also knew he was infested with listening devices and suspected his car had a tracking device installed on it as well. So he needed to dump the car and get rid of all the bugs before he went to Perry’s place.
He drove as fast as he could and less than a minute later pulled into an alley that was halfway between Tuckahoe Park and Wallace’s house. He jumped out of the car, leaving the door open, and started throwing things into the car. He tossed his cell phone and watch in first and started to throw in his wallet, then realized he would need money. He took all the cash from his wallet and when he saw he didn’t have much, he pulled out his ATM card. He spent a few seconds—he couldn’t afford to spend more than a few seconds—running his fingers over the card looking for some kind of bug or tracking device, then gave up. He had no idea how the NSA could bug a plastic card. He’d just have to hope for the best. He put the ATM card and his cash on the hood of his car and started stripping off his clothes. He figured the last time he’d taken off his clothes that fast was when he was seventeen and lost his virginity to a girl named Patty Donatelli.
Less than ninety seconds after he’d arrived in the alley, he was standing next to his car wearing nothing but boxer shorts and socks. Holding his cash and his ATM card in his hand, he started running.
He had no idea what he’d say to a cop if one saw him.
Alice and the two agents designated as Bravo and Charlie stood there looking down at Hopper’s body. Alice spoke into her mic. “Claire, what do you want me to do with—” She almost said Hopper’s name, then realized Bravo and Charlie didn’t know his name and didn’t need to know it. “With Black,” she concluded.
Claire was alone in the ops room at Fort Meade, waiting to hear back from the agents who were tailing Cadillac. Dillon had gone home and her techs were taking a break, having a cup of coffee. In answer to Alice’s question, Claire said, “Take the body back to Fort Meade. I’ll decide later what I want to do with it.”
Hopper was a problem. Killing him may have been justified but he was still an FBI agent, and the last thing she and Dillon needed was a major FBI investigation into the death of one of their own people. So Claire didn’t want the body found immediately, but she hadn’t made a decision yet on whether she wanted Hopper to disappear forever or if she wanted to create some scenario to explain his death. Whatever the case, she’d figure it out tomorrow, after she had a chance to talk to Dillon and after they had identified Cadillac. To Alice, she said, “Have your men transport the body. What I want you to do is drive back to the safe house with DeMarco. I want him someplace where we can keep an eye on him.” Claire hadn’t figured out what they were going to do with DeMarco, either.
“Roger that,” Alice said, looked over to her shoulder toward DeMarco’s car—and saw the car wasn’t there.
“Goddammit!” she said. Thumbing her radio to change the frequency, she screamed, “DeMarco! Where are you?” When DeMarco didn’t respond, she changed frequencies again. “Claire, DeMarco’s gone. He took off.”
“Oh, shit,” Claire said. She ran to the door of the operations room and yelled to her techs, “Get back in here!” It had never occurred to her that DeMarco would run. As soon as her technicians were back in the room, she said, “Find DeMarco.” The techs returned to their monitors and Claire said to one of them, “Is the satellite still down?”
“Yeah,” the tech said, “and it’s gonna be for quite a while.”
Claire muttered a curse and turned to another tech, “Well? Where the hell is he?”
The tech said, “He’s approximately half a mile from the park, in an alley near the corner of Washington Boulevard and Quantico Street. He’s not moving.”
Alice heard what the tech said and began sprinting toward her car. As she ran, she was thinking:
That goddamn Demarco. She knew he was going to be trouble the first time she met him
.
Three minutes later, Alice called Claire. “I’m standing right next to his car, and he’s not here. Where is he?”
Claire turned to one of the techs. “Well?”
“The GPS in his cell phone says he’s right there, right where his car is.”
Alice said, “Well, he’s not here.” Then Alice looked into DeMarco’s car and said, “Claire, he dumped everything. His clothes, his cell phone, his wallet, everything he had on him is in his car. He’s gotta be on foot, he’s not wearing any clothes, and he can’t be too far from here. I’ll start driving around and see if I can spot him.” Alice paused before she said, “It would sure be nice if we had a satellite that worked.”
It took DeMarco five minutes to run to Wallace’s house and when he got there he was breathing like he was two seconds away from a heart attack and his feet hurt from running without shoes on the hard sidewalk. He pressed down on Wallace’s doorbell and then started hammering on the door with his fist. Wallace had no social life and DeMarco was positive he was home sleeping.
Finally, Wallace answered the door. He was dressed in purple pajamas constructed from enough cotton to build a circus tent and he was naturally surprised to see DeMarco standing there on his porch, semi-naked. “What the hell?” he said.
DeMarco pushed his way into the house and closed the door. “Perry, I need clothes, shoes, and your car—and I can’t tell you why,” he said.
“What?” Wallace said.
“Perry, wake the fuck up! I’m being chased by some of the scariest guys you’ve ever seen in your life, and I need—”
“What guys? And where are your clothes?”
“It involves Mahoney, Perry, and I need you to do what I’m telling you. And I need you to move fast.”
DeMarco had invoked Mahoney’s name because he knew by doing so Wallace would be more inclined to help him. Wallace also knew that Mahoney often asked DeMarco to do things that Wallace knew were in his own best interest not to know about, and the fact that Mahoney was lying in a hospital bed did not mean DeMarco had stopped working for him.
While Wallace was getting the clothes, DeMarco peeked out the front window and saw a black SUV driving slowly down the street—the kind of SUV that Alice drove. It was dark outside and the windows in the SUV were tinted, so he couldn’t tell who was driving, but his gut told him it was Alice or one of her gun-toting friends.
Wallace came back with a pair of sweat pants and a sweat shirt. The sweat shirt had an XXXL label and the tennis shoes were a size smaller than DeMarco wore. DeMarco had no idea why Perry Wallace owned sweat clothes as he had never—judging by his waistline—exercised in his life. Wallace refused to give him the keys to his good car, but he also owned a beat-up Mazda pickup that had about two hundred thousand miles on it.
As he was leaving, DeMarco said, “If anybody asks you about me, you haven’t seen me.”
“You got that right,” Perry said.
Dillon was shoeless, standing on the carpet in his office, tapping golf balls at a drinking glass using a long-handled putter, a belly putter. When Claire entered his office, he glanced over at her and said, “Have you ever used one of these before? I know Vijay Singh used one for a while. I rather like it.”