The female reporter was holding an umbrella in front of the FBI’s Washington Field Office and caressing the camera with her large brown eyes. “Services for the deceased agent will be private, at an undisclosed location, the Bureau announced this afternoon. Agent Payne’s former wife and daughter, both of whom he had not seen since going underground in the Witness Protection Program six years ago, are expected to attend. Attempts to locate his current wife have thus far been unsuccessful. As you can imagine, the mood was somber at the FBI field office where Agent Payne was stationed, but it was business as usual...”
Bradley turned off the television and stared at the phone. With his plan now completely laid out in his mind, he realized it was time. He placed the call and left a cryptic voicemail message, designed to motivate Scarponi to call him back without delay.
For ten minutes he sat by the phone. Although he was confident Scarponi would return the call, the waiting was difficult. Finally, the phone rang. Perhaps appearing too eager, he pounced on the handset.
“You didn’t wire the funds,” Bradley said, starting the conversation with an aggressive stance.
“You’ve never called me before.”
“You’ve never stiffed me before.”
“Fair enough,” Scarponi said. “Fair enough. Well, it’s this way, my friend. I don’t need your services anymore.”
Bradley could tell from the tone of the man’s voice that he had already heard the news of Payne’s death. “You’ll want to hear what I have to say,” Bradley said, hoping that Scarponi would not disconnect him.
But several seconds passed without a response.
Bradley realized it was now or never. Scarponi, guarding against any possibility this was a setup, would not remain on the phone long enough for it to be traced. “Harper Payne is not dead.”
Scarponi laughed. “This is a joke, right?”
“No joke. Payne is alive.”
“What are you talking about? The news—”
“Designed just for you. Disinformation released by the Bureau to keep you from gunning for Payne while the feds forge ahead with their plans for the trial. They’re confident they’ll eventually find you. Every allied country is on high alert. Borders are tight. Interpol is coordinating the effort. And the CIA has made it their goal to bring you back to trial. You’ve made them look like fools.”
“You’re just trying to prove your worth, prevent the cash cow from taking his milk elsewhere.”
“Have you ever had reason to doubt my sources? After everything I’ve given you over the years, has my intelligence ever failed you?”
“Maybe you’re due. Maybe you’re now working with the feds against me. Maybe they’re onto you and they’re using you to pass on bad information.”
“If you think Payne’s dead, you stop gunning for him. Don’t you get it?”
Scarponi was silent again. Bradley knew the Viper understood what the feds had done. It was a good move on their part, and Scarponi no doubt respected them for it.
“Do some digging and find out for yourself,” Bradley said. “Verify what I’m telling you. Then call me back. I’ve got some more information you might be interested in.” With that, Bradley pressed END and severed the connection.
He sat there in the dark tapping his foot. Scarponi was, by design, extremely unpredictable, and not knowing how he was going to react bothered Bradley a great deal. At the least, the assassin would attempt to confirm what Bradley had told him. But there would be no way to do that, not unless other well-placed moles were on his payroll.
Bradley closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly. Stressing out about it wasn’t going to help him any. The best thing he could do would be to keep his mind busy with other matters.
But there were no other matters. None that had any significance. This was it.
The SIG remained in his hand, warm and at the ready, just in case it was needed. If someone burst through his door, they wouldn’t get one step before having a meal made of lead.
His eyes kept following the second hand around the dial. It had circled more times than he cared to count—but fifteen minutes later, the jarring chirp of the cell phone made his heart skip. He stood up and forced himself to walk slowly across the room, where he had left his phone. He didn’t want to appear too anxious to answer the call. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax while he waited for the fourth ring.
He pressed SEND and, in a low voice, said, “Yeah.”
“You said you had more information. I’m listening.”
Bradley brushed a sleeve across his wet forehead, then began laying out his terms.
Nick Bradley slipped the cell phone into his pocket and realized that what he had just set in motion was irreversible. He had told Scarponi about the plans the Bureau had to move Payne to a military hospital on the outskirts of D.C., outlining the specific route the ambulance would be taking. As far as Scarponi was concerned, the information was worth far more than the $10, 000 he had promised to pay.
Bradley walked into the bathroom and splashed his face with cool water, then, while toweling off, heard a car door slam outside his room. Could Scarponi have found him? Now that he had the information he needed, was Bradley merely an expendable part, worth no more to him than a disposable razor?
Bradley stood in the bathroom, his torso wet from an instant mat of perspiration. He crouched down and scampered across the room to the curtained window. If they were going to fire on him, they would aim for his chest, five feet off the ground. Keeping below their line of fire was an old trick he had learned two decades ago in the marines.
Bradley heard a room door close, then carefully parted the drapes and saw a taxi pulling away from the curb. No one was in the vicinity, though it was difficult to see in the stark lighting of the parking lot.
Could it be Lauren?
The SIG still in his hand, crouched down low, he cracked open the door. All was clear. He moved outside, dressed only in pants and a cotton shirt. The cold night air stung his skin and induced a shiver as he stayed low, his eyes combing the parking lot.
He tried to slow his breathing, as he was blowing very visible wisps of vapor into the air. This not only drew attention to his presence, but to a sharp assassin, it was an instant tip-off that he was crouching.
With his left fist, he rapped on Lauren’s door. His placed his ear against the cold metal and listened intently for any signs of movement. There was nothing. He rapped again and thought he heard something—a hard object dropping onto a carpeted floor.
He moved to his right and stood up, his right shoulder leaning against the stucco wall. He stepped back, then coiled his leg and thrust it quickly into Lauren’s door. It burst open, the wood jamb splintering apart. He quickly ducked back, to the left, out of sight.
The dim light from the parking lot spilled into the room, which was otherwise dark. He waited a second, crouched down, and swung around square with the interior, his gun out in front of him.
Before he could react, he saw Lauren standing in muted light, at the far corner, her Colt aimed at him. Her eyes were narrow slits and her mouth was tight.
“It’s okay! It’s me, it’s Nick,” he shouted. He dropped his arms and waited for a look of recognition. But her body remained rigid.
He stood up in a gradual, measured fashion, keeping his arms—and his weapon—at his side. “Lauren, honey, it’s okay. Are you all right?” He moved toward her slowly, slowly, slowly, until her gun was pressed up against his body. Suddenly, she burst out crying and buried her face into his chest.
“You’re safe,” he said as he stroked her back. “There’s nothing to worry about now.”
Lauren was sitting in a chair in Bradley’s room, huddled over a cup of hot tea. Her face was drawn and her eyes were still and glazed. “That man told me to go a few blocks down, that Michael would meet me there. But when he got shot, I just ran away, I kept going.” She took a sip of tea. “I found this bar and I was, I guess, I was kind of in a state of shock. I was there, but I wasn’t. I think I had a drink, then called a cab.” Lauren looked at Nick’s watch. “It’s nine-thirty? Must’ve had a few, I was there a while.”
Bradley was sitting on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his thighs, listening to Lauren. He eyed her for a second, and then looked away. “Did they have the news on while you were in the bar?”
“Some basketball game, I think. I wasn’t really paying attention. Why?”
“There was an accident,” Bradley said, his eyes downcast. “In all the confusion, Michael was shot. He’s—”
“Shot—is he okay?”
“He was taken to a hospital and treated, and everything’s going to be fine. But the news is reporting he was killed.”
“Why?”
“They received a statement from the FBI saying Michael was killed. The Bureau is hoping Scarponi will hear that he’s dead, so he won’t continue to go after him.”
“How do you know—”
“Trust me,” Bradley said. “I have my sources.”
“I need to see him. I want to see my husband, Nick.”
“They’re transferring him to a military hospital, for safety reasons. Scarponi won’t stop until Michael’s dead.”
“But I thought you said the FBI told the media he’d been killed so Scarponi would leave him alone.”
“Scarponi’s smart. He may not fall for that.”
“Get me in there, Nick. I want to see him.” Lauren reached onto the adjacent desk and picked up her Colt. She stared at it for a second, then began to run her fingers along the barrel. “First I want to talk to Michael, see that he’s okay. Then I’m going after Scarponi. I want him dead.”
“Maybe we should just let the FBI handle Scarponi. The guy’s a trained assassin, Lauren. You can’t—”
“Don’t tell me I can’t, Nick. I’ve been telling myself 'I can’t’ for four years now. I need to do this.”
Bradley got up from the bed and walked away from her. “Lauren, what you’re talking about is... well, it’s a suicide mission, not to mention first-degree murder if you do take him out.”
“How do we find him?”
“You’re not listening to me.”
“And you’re not answering me. How can we find him?”
Bradley sighed and leaned back against the wall. “I don’t know. He’s a fugitive, even the FBI hasn’t been able to find him.”
Lauren stood and shoved the gun into her waistband. “I’ve gone nose to nose with this man. I think I know what makes him tick. If I can find a way of contacting him, he’ll come to me.”
Bradley reached out, took her hand, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “First things first. Let’s go see Michael, then we can revisit this.”
“You’re placating me, Nick. You don’t need to do that anymore.”
“I’m only trying to help you focus. Since the day I met you, your one and only goal was to find Michael. We now know where he’s going to be. Let’s go see him.”
“I guess my goals have changed a bit.” She put her jacket on and faced Bradley. “I feel like I’ve awakened from a fog, Nick. Something happened to me in that cabin. I don’t mean physically, that much is obvious. I’m talking emotionally. The Lauren Chambers of two weeks ago wouldn’t have handled that situation very well. But I’ve got my head back together.”
“You killed someone, Lauren. If that’s not enough to change someone, I don’t know what is.”
“It’s more than that. It’s not so much a change as it is a return to
me,
to a time five years ago, before things started to go wrong. Before the depression, the panic attacks.” She shook her head. “All the therapy, the medication. All it did was help me get by. But it didn’t really solve anything. It took Michael’s disappearance and the fear that I’d never get him back to give me the kick in the ass I needed.”
“I’m glad you found what you were searching for.”
She took in a deep breath through her nose and closed her eyes, as if savoring it. “This must be what it’s like when an alcoholic gets off the booze and realizes she can smell things again, taste things she hasn’t tasted in years.” She opened her eyes. “That’s what it’s like for me, Nick. Yes, I started out just wanting Michael back. But now I want more. I want to put an end to all this.”
Bradley nodded as if he understood, then grabbed the car keys off the dresser. “It’ll all be over soon, Lauren. That much I can promise you.”
Lauren pulled her arms across her chest and warded off a shiver. Bradley had said those same words to her once before, when they were preparing to head into Fredericksburg.
And that ended up being a total disaster.
On the off chance Scarponi’s henchmen would come looking for him, Bradley fabricated an excuse and moved Lauren to a different motel, the Days Inn in downtown D.C. They checked in under the assumed names of Adrienne and Chad Kendall and paid cash in advance. Bradley told the night clerk they had a child, and they were given a room with two double beds.
From the next morning until four-thirty in the afternoon, Lauren sat in the room flipping the television channels, passing time while Bradley was out attempting to arrange a rendezvous with Michael. She was to wait in the room in the event he needed her to meet with a Bureau official. He explained it would be best if he went alone because he might need to stretch the truth, and it was easier for one person to lie than for two to coordinate their stories on the fly.
Meanwhile, Lauren remained on edge, listening to the news repeat the top story of the day—of the month, and perhaps the past few months. Even though she knew it was untrue, it bothered her to hear, over and over, what a tragic death her husband had endured. Not until one of the stations mentioned Harper Payne’s former wife and child did the full impact of Michael’s private, past life hit her. How she would deal with this she did not know. But for the moment, it was something she chose not to think about. First and foremost, she wanted Michael back.
A half hour ago she had ventured over to the window for the umpteenth time and gazed out at the charcoal blotches of clouds hanging against the gray sky. Although it only had been a little before four, the black clouds hovering above were bringing darkness a bit earlier.
With the Colt resting on her lap and the television volume turned low, a loud knock on the door broke the tedium and made her heart drop down to her stomach. She grabbed the handle of her weapon and slid off the bed.