Red Right Hand (8 page)

“Cameron, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. What do you want with me?”

“I want to
help
you.”

“Help me what?”

“You know…do what you do.”

“Kill people?”

“Stop bad guys,” she corrected. “Look, in my research, I've learned everything there is to know about your operation. You were sloppy when you began. Reckless. Then, for a few years—starting around the time you saved my mom—you got careful, savvy. Lately, your MO's changed. You're playing offense, not defense, and you've become reckless again. My guess is you had backup for a while—someone who helped you identify clients and watched your back—and now you don't. And given your recent hate-on for this Council or whatever, I'm guessing that that someone's dead.”

Hendricks's mouth became a thin sharp line, his expression as dark as his thoughts. “His name was Lester. He was a good man. A good friend.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be glib. I just think that I could be of assistance to you, is all—and from what I can tell, you could use the hand.”

“I'm not exactly looking for an intern,” he said.

“And I'm not looking to be one. You're a field guy—I get that. But it seems to me you might need a little tech support. An eye in the sky. A voice in your ear. A ghost in the machine.”

“Does your mother know you're here?”

“Does yours?”

At that, Hendricks smiled wanly. He was an orphan who'd never known his mother. He took some comfort in the fact that Cameron didn't know that about him, at least.

“Look,” he said, “my last tech guy, Lester, was a soldier, a warrior, and I still managed to get him killed. It'd be ridiculous—immoral, even—to take you on.”

“Immoral?”

“Damn right. You're a kid.”

“I'm twenty.”

“Like I said.”

“Don't give me that ageist bullshit. If your buddy was a soldier, I'm guessing you were too. It fits my profile. How old were you when you first enlisted?”

“Eighteen,” he said, “and if I'd had any idea what I was signing on for, I would have run screaming the other way.”

“I know what I'm signing on for.”

“No, you don't. And I can't afford to babysit you until you realize this isn't the life for you.”

“No one's asking you to babysit me. I can take care of myself. Just ask Nick Pappas.”

“That was a lucky shot,” he said.

“The hell it was. Thanks to Lockley, Mom made sure I knew my way around a firearm.”

“You ever aim one at a person before today?” She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. “That's what I thought. Pappas is dead, you know. You
killed
him. How's that sit with you?”

“It was him or you. I didn't kill him so much as exchange one death for another, the net result of which will be fewer innocent people hurt. My conscience is clear.”

“Yeah? Then why are your hands shaking?”

Cameron looked down at her hands and seemed surprised to discover he was right. She balled them into fists to still them. “They're not. I'm fine.”

“No, you're not. Taking a life isn't like balancing a spreadsheet. Every time you kill someone, justifiably or not, it takes a toll—the first one more than most. You've probably been coasting on adrenaline ever since. But when the crash comes, once the adrenaline abandons you, it comes hard.”

“Don't tell me how I'm supposed to feel.”

“I'm not. I'm just saying I've been there. In my case, the shakes were just the beginning. Next thing I knew, I broke out in a cold sweat, and my throat constricted until I felt like I couldn't breathe. Then my mouth filled with saliva—”

But by then, Cameron was already on her feet and halfway to the bathroom. Hendricks followed her wordlessly. Knelt down beside her. Held her hair back when the sickness came. Her stomach clenched. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She retched until there was nothing left for her to bring up and then a little while longer.

He felt bad for pushing her toward this. There was a chance she wouldn't have wound up puking if he hadn't. But he needed her to understand that this wasn't a game.

When she finally ran out of steam, he fetched her a glass of water from the sink. It smelled like old pipes. “Here. Drink this.”

She took a big gulp. Rivulets of water spilled from the corners of her mouth and ran down her chin.

“Easy,” he said, “or it'll come back up.”

She slowed down. Sipped carefully. When the glass was empty, he fetched her another.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Getting there,” she said, her voice like sandpaper.

“You understand that I can't take you on, right?”

Tears brimmed in her eyes again. “But I saved your life.”

“Which is already more than I deserve.”

“So that's it, then?”

“Oh, you won't be getting rid of me that easily,” he said. Cameron laughed; it sounded forced and weak but was better than nothing. “Far as I'm concerned, you and me are in this together until I know for sure we got away clean. Which means you're going to need to patch me up. After that, we'll lie low for a little while and rest. Then we'll get out of here together. But once Long Island and this Pappas mess are in our rearview, we'll go our separate ways. Deal?”

“Deal,” she said, reluctantly. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“There's one data point I couldn't find, no matter how hard I tried. If anybody knows it, it's locked down so tight even I couldn't get my hands on it.”

“What's that?”

“Your name. You never gave one when you saved my mom.”

Hendricks mentally scrolled through his many aliases and then thought,
Fuck it—she's earned this much at least.

“My name is Michael,” he said.

C
HARLIE THOMPSON PACED
outside the conference room, nervy from anticipation. O'Brien was inside, on a call with the director. She'd been in there for nearly an hour.

Forty minutes ago, some Podunk online news site blew the embargo on the TIC's recorded statement taking credit for the bombing and threatening further attacks, no doubt garnering millions of clicks before the major outlets could follow suit. Since then, the airwaves had become a feeding frenzy, and the Bureau's phones rang off the hook—panicked citizens jumping at shadows, mostly.

The conference-room door opened. O'Brien stepped out, looking tired and drawn. Thompson froze midstride and stared at her, eyes avid.

“Well?” Thompson asked.

“I'm sorry. The answer's no.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Oh, come on, Charlie, you can't really be surprised. We're in the midst of a national security crisis. We know next to nothing about these TIC whack jobs, which means we're behind the eight ball already, and we have no idea what they might do next. The last thing we need's another 9/11 on our hands. Now that the video's out there, the world's eyes are on us. We need to do this by the book, no mission creep, no side projects. We simply don't have the resources to go after Segreti right now—if, in fact, that man was even him.”

“
If?
Are you kidding me? You know damn well that was Segreti.”

“Sure, it
looked
like him, but we have overwhelming evidence that suggests he died in federal custody.”

“We
had
overwhelming evidence,” Thompson corrected. “It went out the window the second Segreti showed up on tape. As far as I'm concerned, we owe it to this guy to protect him. We already failed him once. And remember, he walked in of his own accord.”

“Yeah, and put four federal agents in the hospital. Three of them were so badly injured, they were deemed unfit for duty. One will never walk right again.”

“You weren't there, Kate. I was. Segreti was a mess when he walked in. He felt cornered, threatened. If he'd wanted to kill us, he easily could have. But he didn't. He held back. Then he surrendered his weapon and offered Organized Crime Section its biggest collar in thirty years.”

“Oh, c'mon. That's speculative at best. We don't even know for sure what Segreti can give us. You have to admit, the story he was peddling sounded a little too good to be true.”

“Sure, except we hadn't even finished debriefing him before the safe house we'd stashed him in blew sky-high. You ask me, that does wonders for his credibility.”

“Maybe so, Charlie, but either way, it doesn't matter. The Bureau can't afford to be distracted by Segreti right now.”

“Just send me, then. I'll go alone. Work the trail. See if I can bring him in. Surely the director can't object to that.”

O'Brien frowned. Said nothing. Thompson's eyes widened in understanding.

“This isn't coming from the director, is it? This is
you
. You're the one making the call not to go get him.”

“Listen, Charlie—”

“Why should I? It's clear you haven't been listening to me.”

O'Brien's face showed hurt and anger. “You'd do well to take a breath and remember who you're talking to. Right now,
fiancée
has to take a backseat to
commanding officer
.”

“Fine. As my commanding officer, you need to let me do my goddamn job. Tell me, did you even ask the director? When you were on the conference call, did you even bring Segreti up?”

“What do you want me to say? No, I didn't fucking bring him up. The country is under attack. You really think I ought to tell my boss and every AD in the Bureau that we should divert time and effort from hunting down the TIC because the employee I'm sleeping with has a bee in her bonnet?”

“So now I'm just some office lay with a head full of silly notions?”

“Of course not. But as hurtful as he was, your father was right about one thing: we need to look at this objectively, to think about how others in the Bureau would see it.”

“And here I thought they'd see it as an opportunity to rectify one of the biggest blunders in Bureau history. But then, you never gave them the chance.”

“Believe me, Charlie. I did you a favor. If I pitched your pet project today of all days, neither of us would be taken seriously again.”

“Fine. Then let me go get him.”

“I can't. You
know
I can't.”

“Just give me seventy-two hours—that's all I ask.”

“I'm sorry. There's too much work to do. The director's ordered both of us to return to DC as soon as possible. I'm going to get us on the next flight. We can have one of the staffers here drive your car back down.”

“You know what? I think I'll save them the trouble and drive it back myself. I could use a few hours to cool off.”

S
AL LOMBINO TOOK
a breath to steady himself and plucked the handset from its cradle. He dialed the number of the chairman's latest burner from memory. Sal had a head for figures. It used to come in handy when he had to calculate the vig back in his loan-shark days.

The phone rang seven times before the chairman answered, the voice mail, as ever, disabled.

“You've got a lot of nerve calling me today. Don't you watch the news?”

“I do, Mr. Chairman,” Sal replied. “In fact, that's why I'm calling.”

“I'm afraid I don't follow.”

“That old guy on the cell-phone video they been showing every ten seconds? That's Frank Segreti. As in—”

“I know who he is,” the chairman snapped, irritated that Sal had broken his cardinal rule: never use a name when talking on an unsecured phone line.

“Then you know the damage he could do to all our efforts if he were to resurface. Which means we need to find him and ensure he never does.”

“Then convene a meeting. Take a vote. And leave me out of it.”

“There isn't time, and even if there were, there's no guarantee that the vote would go our way.”

“So, what, then? You want my approval to spend Council funds to go after him? You've got it.”

“Thank you, sir. But I'm afraid I need more than money.”

“Like what?”

“We've got an asset in our pocket who stands to lose at least as much as we do if the, uh, gentleman in question reappears. But right now, he's otherwise occupied, so I wouldn't dare call on him without your say-so.”

“Are you kidding me? Do you realize what you're asking? We need him to stay on task. If he's burned now, a key component of our endgame will be compromised.”

“I'm aware of that, sir. And I won't lie—it's a possibility. But our endgame's in jeopardy either way if we don't neutralize this threat. Besides, under the circumstances, I'd say he owes us big.”

“On that, we are agreed—but are you sure that he's the right man for the job? You know what a goddamn mess he made the last time, and apparently, he still managed to miss his fucking target.”

Sal knew all too well. He'd seen the coroner's reports. Limbs torn from bodies. Flesh and hair reduced to ash. Shattered fragments of tooth and bone picked out of ceiling joists. “I don't think we have much choice—but this time, I'll insist on video confirmation.”

There was a long pause on the chairman's end. “Fine. Do it. And leave me out of this from here on in. I don't want to hear another peep from you until Segre—until the matter is settled,” he said carefully. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman.”

“Good. Because your continued…employment…depends on it.”

The chairman disconnected. Sal sat there for a moment listening to the hiss of the dead line. Then he returned the phone's receiver to its cradle and let out a ragged sigh.

“Who was that, Daddy?”

Sal looked up to see his daughter, Izzie, in the doorway. He'd left her finger-painting in the kitchen, her reward for half an hour's piano practice. Her hands were smeared with paint in every color of the rainbow. There was a dot of glossy green on her nose.

“Nobody, sweetheart. A wrong number. C'mon, let's get you washed up.”