The Temporary Agent (26 page)

Tom ignored her question and stepped to Carrington’s side just as Carrington was bringing up the Metro-North schedule.

Scanning the departures, Tom determined that the next train to the city would be leaving White Plains in thirteen minutes.

Carrington asked why Tom was going by train and not driving.

He spoke quietly, as if he knew Tom was up to something.

But Tom ignored that question as well, saying instead, “Savelle gave me three hours to meet her, so she still thinks I’m up in Canaan, which means she isn’t tracking me. But you should still get out of here, I think. Just in case.”

“I’ll come with you. You’re going to need all the hands you can get.”

Tom shook his head. “You’re not exactly combat-ready right now, sir.”

“I can sober up fast.”

“Not fast enough. And someone who knows the truth needs to stay behind. Keep your phone on, but keep moving. Understand?”

“I can do better than that,” Carrington said.

He rose and stepped to his safe, opened it, and reached inside to retrieve something.

Returning to Tom, Carrington offered him a smartphone.

“It’s equipped with a hot mic, so like before I’ll hear everything and the device will record it. If you can’t get Savelle to bring you to Cahill, then maybe you can get her to confess, say something, anything that we can use. And it’ll let me track you, tell me exactly where you are at any given time, which I think isn’t such a bad idea tonight.”

Tom looked at the device but made no move to accept it.

As if he understood what Tom was thinking right then—and what Tom was planning to do—Carrington stepped close and said quietly, “I’ll be discreet, Tom. I promise.”

Tom took that to mean Carrington would not share his location with anyone.

More specifically, he would not share it with Stella, should she try to get it out of him.

As he had done outside the Gentleman Farmer, Carrington placed the phone into Tom’s palm.

Stella and Tom were getting Hammerton to the door when Carrington stopped them.

“Kadyrov no doubt has men hunting Cahill. And Raveis’s men are still looking for me. Watch your backs,” he said. “All of you.”

Hammerton stumbled several times up the steep driveway. The man was in agony.

Stella looked at Tom in a way that told him she understood what he had meant when he said they were running out of time.

They were rapidly approaching the tipping point when Hammerton would go from being a significant asset to a burden that could not be managed.

All Tom could do was hope that Hammerton could hang on just a little longer.

The White Plains train station was a ten-minute drive from Carrington’s apartment.

Tom was parking his pickup in the vacant lot when the train came into sight.

Stella helped Hammerton out. Tom placed the ignition key under the driver’s side rear tire, pushing it as far as it would go so that it would not be easily seen.

There for whoever, for whatever reason, got back to his pickup first.

Together, he and Stella scrambled to get Hammerton up the platform stairs. They all but dragged him through the train’s doors just as they closed.

Tom was fairly certain that a Sunday-night, city-bound train would not be crowded, but he was pleased to find that the first car they entered was completely empty.

He made a point of choosing seats that were near the front of the car, close to an exit.

Hammerton sat by the window, then leaned his head against the tinted glass.

Stella was in the middle seat, Tom on the aisle.

They sat in silence as the train began to move, each person lost in thought.

Each person dealing with what lay ahead of them—the knowns and unknowns.

Every few minutes, Tom would look at Hammerton and see that the man had slumped just a little deeper into his seat.

His scarred face—scars that had healed long ago, and those that had only begun to—was pale and waxy.

This only deepened Tom’s resolve, removing any doubt from his mind that what he was about to do was the right thing to do.

The only thing to do.

Savelle’s promise of any and all kinds of help was null and void.

There was no magic phone number that Tom could call should they run afoul of the law.

Or worse, should they need medical help or a quick extraction from a hostile situation.

No, he had to go on alone from here—and in a way that Stella could not follow.

Fifty-Two

With each town the train passed through as it headed south, Tom’s dread increased.

He didn’t want this, had never wanted this.

He had said no to Carrington’s job offer five years ago, the two of them standing in Tom’s room in the Hotel Chandler, and had made that difficult decision to guarantee that he would never have to face this.

A world occupied by those who embraced violence.

Each place he had paused after leaving the city—each job he had taken before eventually moving on to the next place and the next job—had brought him closer, step by step, to the day—the hour, the minute—when he had happened to stop for an early lunch at a railroad-car diner in a quiet town and spot a woman he knew he would never forget.

A woman deeply anchored in her community, whose life, as broken as it was, still had gravity sufficient to pull Tom toward it.

You don’t happen to know of any apartments for rent around here, do you?

And he remembered her reply.

I could probably help you find something. Month-to-month or a lease?

He recalled, too, their first date.

And their first night together not long after that.

Stella tenderly touching his scarred torso with the tips of her fingers, afraid to ask how he had gotten those wounds but clearly curious.

Tom had quickly brushed away the entire issue with his clumsy joke.

You should see the other guy.

Tom had always believed that his journey, his wandering, had ended that night. He saw now that these six months of domestic life—his first and only attempt at it—had simply been a long pause between steps.

Month by month, day by day, events far beyond his control were directing him—hurtling him—closer and closer to this very moment.

When he would need to leave Stella.

And face the possibility of having to run once more.

And run, maybe, for her sake, without her.

As determined as Tom was to see her again, no matter what it took, he was keenly aware of the number of terrible things that could prevent that.

As much as he would have regretted not coming to a rest for Stella, it was nothing compared to the emotions he was feeling now.

The regret and dread, growing stronger with each town that flew past his window in a blur.

With every mile closer to New York City—and Cahill’s war—that they got.

The train crossed over the Bronx River and into Manhattan.

They were just moments away from the 125th Street station, so Tom leaned close to Stella and whispered, “I love you.”

Pulled from her thoughts, Stella looked at him. “I love you, too.”

Tom reached into his pocket and removed his cash.

“I want you to hold this for me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to be weighed down.”

“A thousand dollars weighs you down?” Stella teased.

He forced a smiled. “Just take it, please.”

Stella did, pocketing it.

“I can’t lose you, okay?” Tom said.

“You won’t.”

“I wouldn’t have made it this far without you. You know that, right?”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.” She paused, then kissed him. “We’ll see this all the way through, okay?”

The train began to decelerate as it approached the Harlem platform.

After this stop, there wouldn’t be another till Grand Central in Midtown, fifteen minutes from now and eighty-some-odd blocks south.

Tom looked again at Hammerton.

The man met Tom’s stare.

You’ll see it when I make my move,
Tom had told him in Carrington’s apartment an hour before.
Once I’m gone, take Stella to any Midtown hotel. I don’t want to know which one. If you don’t hear from me by dawn, get out of the city.

Hammerton smiled, or tried to, and nodded once.

A gesture that said, among other things,
Good luck.

Tom did the same, then waited as the train came to a stop at the elevated platform.

Its door opened and Tom said to Stella, “Promise you’ll forgive me.”

Though Stella smiled, she was obviously confused by what he had said.

“What are you talking about, Tom?”

“You two take care of each other. And I’ll see you soon, okay?”

Stella’s smile quickly faded and her eyes shifted to the still-open doors.

The look of confusion was replaced by concern.

And that was replaced by a flash of anger.

This was the last Tom saw of Stella, because he was up on his feet and moving down the aisle, racing to beat the doors before they closed.

He heard Stella calling his name, but he didn’t stop.

Reaching the doors just as the hydraulics engaged, he slipped through and out onto the platform.

The doors closed with a hiss, and Tom couldn’t bear to see the look of hurt and anger he was certain to see on Stella’s face as the train carried her away, so he bolted for the stairs leading down to the street without looking back.

He was halfway down by the time the train cleared the long platform above.

It was out of his sight completely by the time he reached the street.

Harlem was eerily silent. Tom made his way toward the entrance to the subway at the corner of 125th and Park Avenue.

To get there he had to pass an MTA police cruiser parked at the curb.

The two uniformed officers inside studied him as he walked past, his jacket hiding the 1911 tucked into his waistband at his right kidney.

His dread and regret were replaced now by a deep, icy fear.

All he could think of was everything he had to lose.

The woman he loved deeply, and the freedom of movement he cherished.

Not to mention his very existence.

Any and all of those precious things could be gone in the blink of an eye—or the pull of a trigger.

Tom had killed before, but the taking of those lives had been sanctioned by both war and John Locke’s first law of nature.

A world of black and white back then, no reason to doubt or hesitate, nothing more to do than act in accordance with one’s duty.

But there was less clarity here in the civilian world.

A world that was, at times, surprisingly uncivil.

An act of self-defense here could easily become something Tom would have to pay for with the loss of his freedom and separation from Stella.

John Locke’s philosophy—all philosophy—was of little comfort now.

Despite his fears, Tom pressed on toward the subway entrance.

He repeated the words taught to him by Carrington so many years before:

The only way out is through.

The only way out is through.

The only way out is through.

Reaching the subway entrance, Tom heard the echoing clamor of an incoming train from below.

He ran down the steps to meet it.

PART FIVE

Fifty-Three

Tom entered Madison Square Park through its southeast corner, then walked north along the eastern edge.

Alexa Savelle had instructed him to meet her by the benches in the northwest corner.

Following the perimeter, he saw that the small park was empty.

Madison Avenue and Twenty-Sixth Street, the eastern and northern boundaries of the park, were also quiet.

Fifth Avenue and Twenty-Third Street, the park’s western and southern boundaries, were busier, but only slightly.

The northwest corner was the closest thing to a secluded area the park offered. There were trees whose branches made a thick canopy that all but blocked the overhead streetlights, creating pockets of shadows.

Savelle, Tom was certain, would prefer whatever darkened place she could get.

Twenty-Sixth was a one-way street that ran from Fifth to Madison.

In the time it took Tom to make his way around the park, no vehicle had traversed Twenty-Sixth, while dozens had come down Fifth Avenue.

This would make Twenty-Sixth a perfect place for Savelle to park unseen, and from which to egress, quickly, if necessary, without contending with traffic.

Or witnesses.

She had chosen her location well.

Tom had been instructed to arrive by ten, but it was not yet nine.

If Savelle believed he was coming in from Canaan, there would be no reason for her to be here this early.

This extra time would allow him to do some recon of the area.

But first he removed one of the spare mags from his pocket—the eight-round McCormick—and dropped down to one knee, slipping the mag into his right sock and wedging it between his Achilles tendon and boot.

It was uncomfortable, but he would bear it.

Taking Carrington’s smartphone from his jacket pocket, Tom quickly loosened the laces of his boot, placed the phone display-up beneath them, then drew the laces tight again, securing the phone in its hiding place.

Standing, he shook his right foot to confirm that the items would not fall out as he moved.

There was a little play with the mag, which also dug into his ankle slightly, but the phone was there to stay.

Tom rose and was about to begin his recon of the area when a black sedan turned onto Twenty-Sixth from Fifth Avenue, traveled midway down the block, and parked at the curb.

It was the only vehicle on the street, and a short walk from the park’s northwest corner.

Tom made no move to approach it, was standing where he had been instructed to stand.

The presence of a black town car in the Flatiron District, he supposed, was not an uncommon thing, even on a Sunday night.

But who else could it be?

Arriving early, the way a trained soldier would.

It wasn’t long before the rear passenger door of the sedan opened and a figure emerged.

Tom recognized Savelle immediately.

She started walking west on the sidewalk, her eyes fixed on him.

Tom saw the same smile she’d used to greet him in Cahill’s bunker.

Nothing but warmth and fondness for the man who had struggled to free her from a burning vehicle.

The man who had saved her life.

Facing her, he watched as she entered the park and approached him.

“You got here early,” she said.

“You, too.”

“I was in the area already.” She studied his face. “You look tired, Tom.”

“I am.”

“How’s Stella?”

“She’s fine.”

Savelle nodded. “Good. I’m hoping she won’t face any legal troubles for what she did at that motel. Firing through a closed door. Clearly in self-defense, but you never know when a prosecutor’s going to try to make an example or gain political points.”

Tom said nothing.

He’d faced enemies before, but this was different.

This was a new kind of enemy.

An enemy disguised as a friend.

They looked at each other for a moment, Savelle still smiling.

She was relaxed but poised, both gracious and grateful.

What was it she had said when they’d first met?

People who have almost died together in combat share a bond that can never be broken.

It was difficult for him to look at the woman standing before him and reconcile her current demeanor with what he now knew about her.

With all that she had done and all that she would no doubt do.

Tom realized that he had crossed a boundary, had entered into that dark world, the one he had desired to avoid—one for which he was ill-suited.

He had no choice, though, but to adapt, and adapt fast.

“I need to talk to Cahill,” Tom said. “Face-to-face.”

“Why?”

There was only one thing he had to offer.

“I can give him Carrington,” he said.

“You know where Carrington is?”

“He’s waiting for me somewhere, yes. It wouldn’t be difficult at all for Cahill to show up there instead of me.”

Savelle studied him for a moment, then said, “I think your first instinct was right, Tom. You’re better off staying out of this.”

He shook his head decisively. “No, I need this to end. Carrington already tried to kill me once. And he sent men after Stella. Not even men—animals. I’m finding it hard to sleep knowing he’s still out there. Smart people tie up loose ends, and if Carrington is anything, it’s smart.”

“And that’s the only reason you’re doing this? For a little peace of mind?”

“What other reason is there?”

“I just don’t like to see you selling yourself short. I have no doubt Cahill would be happy to pay for this information. I know you turned down Raveis’s compensation. This might be a chance for you to change your life—and Stella’s. And change them in a big way.”

So is that it?
Tom wondered.
Money? Her reason for doing what she did?

“I just want this to end,” he told her. “So will you help me? Will you get me a meeting with Cahill? Or do I need to go to Raveis directly?”

Savelle stared at him for a moment, then glanced at her watch.

Looking at Tom again, she said, “I can try. I mean, I owe you, right? I owe you everything and anything you’d want.”

Tom didn’t respond.

“I’m curious about something, though, Tom. How do you know where Carrington is? Last reports indicate he killed three of Raveis’s men before going black. Do you and he have another one of those codes of yours worked out?”

“Something like that.”

She stared at him for a moment longer.

Tom simply stared back.

Finally, Savelle removed a smartphone from her jacket pocket and stepped away to key in a number.

“I’m with Tom right now,” she said. “He needs to talk. It’s important.” She paused to listen, then said, “We’ll meet you there. Give us an hour.”

Ending the call, she pocketed the phone.

“It’s all set,” she said. “I’ll take you to him.”

The ease of this caused Tom’s gut to tighten.

How could it not?

“Maybe I should go alone,” he said.

“He’s expecting me there, too.”

“Call him back; tell him it will be just me.”

“Strength in numbers. And anyway, Cahill is a little keyed up these days. You wanting to meet him alone might strike him as suspicious. In his current frame of mind, well, things could easily get out hand. We don’t want that, do we?”

This was Savelle’s world.

He had no choice but to follow her lead.

They exited the park and headed toward the sedan waiting at the curb.

As they approached, the driver’s door opened and a man climbed out from behind the wheel.

A hulking man in an ill-fitting suit.

He stepped around to the rear passenger door, opening it as he alternately looked at Tom and scanned the street.

“One of Raveis’s men?” Tom said.

“Yes. He insisted.”

Tom studied the driver.

A hard, scowling face; dark, coarse stubble; focused eyes.

As intense as the men who had occupied Raveis’s SUV Friday night, who had accompanied Tom as he was transported to that parking garage on the Upper East Side.

But something was different.

There was something
unpolished
about this man.

Something
unprofessional
.

Or maybe it was just that he was a different kind of professional.

Before Tom climbed into the sedan, he nodded his thanks to the hulking man holding the door.

The man nodded back but said nothing.

Tom had little doubt that if he had spoken, the man would have done so with some kind of Slavic accent.

Tom slid across the leather backseat, then Savelle got in and sat beside him.

The door closed and the bodyguard stepped around the rear of the vehicle.

In the moment it took him to do so, Tom glanced down at Savelle’s hands to look for her West Point ring.

He saw it.

And saw, too, that her hands were trembling.

Like Tom’s, they bore multiple recent scrapes and burns.

But Tom didn’t look there for long.

The driver was behind the wheel, his gaze fixed on Tom in the rearview mirror.

Tom recognized the look as an attempt at intimidation.

But he didn’t care.

All he saw as he stared back at the narrowed eyes framed in the mirror was an obstacle he would tear his way through when the time came.

Without hesitation or mercy.

“Take us to the garage,” Savelle said.

The driver shifted into gear, then broke off his stare as steered the sedan away from the curb.

Tom recalled the last time he and Savelle had been seated together in the back of a sedan.

The ride they had shared, nearly the last of their respective lives.

With Carrington listening in then, too.

The sedan made its way east.

Several blocks later, it drove on to the FDR and headed north.

At that point, Tom knew their destination was again the Upper East Side parking garage where he had first met Raveis and Savelle.