Hard Target (24 page)

Bishop’s car door opened and he emerged from the darkness wearing a wool hat with ear muffs pulled down over his head and a black trench coat with a turned-up collar.

As he crunched a path across the grass toward Uzi and DeSantos, DeSantos turned away. “Oh, man. This guy’s a piece of work.”

“Keep an open mind, will you? Just listen to what he has to say.”

“Fine. But only if I can keep myself from laughing—”

“Gentlemen,” Bishop said.

Uzi gestured at his partner. “This is Hector DeSantos, Department of Defense.”

“Department of—”

“Relax, Mr. Bishop. He’s on my task force. And I’ve known him a long time. What’s on your mind?”

Bishop glanced around and spoke to the air around him. “I’m being followed, I think my phone’s being tapped, and I’ve had a number of hang-ups today.”

“How do you know you’re being followed?” DeSantos asked.

“Mr. DeSantos, would you know if you’re being followed?”

“I’ve had extensive training—”

“I used to be a private investigator,” Bishop said. “I know what I know, sir. And I’m being followed.”

“Right now?”

“I know how to deal with it. I’m clean at the moment, but I don’t know how long it’ll last. They may have some sort of tracking device on my car somewhere.”

DeSantos threw Uzi a sideways glance. Uzi knew DeSantos was stifling a laugh.

“And the phone tap?” Uzi asked.

“I took apart the handset, but didn’t find anything. They must be tapping in at the switch box. There’s clicking on the line, and it...it just sounds different, is all. I can tell.”

DeSantos nodded slowly, his gaze taking in Bishop from head to toe. Sizing him up.

“Mr. Bishop,” Uzi said, “I can arrange for someone to look into it. Hoshi can do it. Do you want me to call her?”

Bishop nodded.

As Uzi pulled out his phone, Bishop turned his head to check over his shoulder. He swayed a bit, but DeSantos reached out to steady him.

“I’m okay,” Bishop said. He pulled his arm from DeSantos’s grip. “I haven’t been able to sleep. I’m a little light-headed is all.”

Uzi eyed Bishop with concern, then dialed Hoshi. “Is that all you had to tell me?” he asked as he pressed Send.

“No.” Bishop’s eyes danced around the park. “It’s about our AG.”

His smartphone beeped in rapid succession. Uzi ended the call, looked at the flashing red light, then brought an index finger up to his mouth. He pressed a button to silence the beeping, then held the device near Bishop’s body. “Number’s busy. I think we should do this tomorrow, anyway. Schedule a time when we can meet with Hoshi in person.” The flashing light became steady. Uzi nodded, then slipped the device into his pocket. “That okay with you, Mr. Bishop?” Uzi nodded animatedly, then again pressed an index finger to his lips.

Bishop’s eyes were wide. He clearly understood what was going on. “Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. Hopefully I can get some sleep tonight, then my head will be a little clearer.”

“Tomorrow night,” Uzi said as he helped remove Bishop’s jacket, “Nine o’clock. Same place. I’ll bring Hoshi with me.” He held the jacket by the collar and said, “Take care.” He carefully set the jacket on the ground and motioned for Bishop to follow him down the path.

When the three of them had walked thirty feet, Uzi removed his phone again and ran it over Bishop’s body. The red lights remained off.

Bishop whispered, “Listening devices?”

“Probably sewn into your jacket,” Uzi said.

“We don’t know that,” DeSantos said. He turned to Bishop. “Do you have any electronic devices in your pocket? An iPod, smartphone, GPS—”

“Santa, I’m sure. I programmed this myself. The only thing that would make it react like that is a device that puts out a very specific low-voltage wireless signature.”

DeSantos sighed deeply. “I still don’t buy it. There could be other explanations. But we’ll take the jacket with us, Mr. Bishop, have the lab analyze it, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I appreciate it.”

“I bet,” DeSantos muttered.

Uzi gestured at Bishop with his chin. “You were saying. Winston Coulter.”

“Shh,” Bishop spat. “No names.

DeSantos elbowed Uzi. “What’s the matter with you? Directional microphones.” He faced Bishop. “Right?”

Bishop nodded. “Can’t be too careful with these people.”

DeSantos shook his head. “Okay, enough. I’ve had just about all the bullshit I can han—”

Uzi grabbed DeSantos’s right forearm. “Santa. Take it easy.” His voice was calm, but firm. “Chill out, let’s hear what he has to say. I think he’s on the level, and I think his...paranoia is legit. Go with me on this.”

DeSantos rolled his eyes, then shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. “Go ahead. I’m listening. The AG....”

Bishop twisted his body and glanced back toward his car. “He’s in this thing as deep as the...the man we talked about last night.”

“The Director,” DeSantos said.

Bishop glared at him.

DeSantos shrugged both shoulders, keeping his hands buried in his pockets. “What. No names.”

Bishop pulled his eyes from DeSantos and settled again on Uzi. “The man’s also a member of the organization.”

“The organization.”

“Yeah,” DeSantos said. “The organization of paranoid sociopaths.” He grunted. “I tried, Uzi, but I can’t listen to any more of this.” He turned to walk away.

Uzi reached for his shoulder, but the subsonic whiz piercing the air stopped them both as they instinctively whirled to locate the direction of the signature noise.

Before Uzi found the source of the sound, Tad Bishop crumpled forward into his arms—a large bloody hole where his left eyeball used to be.

6:57 PM

115 hours 3 minutes remaining

“JESUS!”

Like a defensive lineman, DeSantos wrapped his arms around Uzi’s waist and toppled the big man, who was supporting the weight of Tad Bishop’s dead hulk.

After hitting the ground, Uzi and DeSantos crawled along the cold, dirt-littered asphalt path, attempting to make themselves more difficult targets.

“There!” Uzi said, indicating a large pine directly ahead of them. They pulled themselves up slightly against the wide tree’s trunk. Both of them had their weapons in hand.

“What the fuck is going on?” DeSantos asked.

“Other than the fact that a sniper took a shot at us? That our CI is lying there dead with a freaking bullet in his brain?”

“Yeah, other than all that shit.”

“Despite what you think about the guy, he obviously had good reason to be paranoid.”

“Fine. Want me to apologize to him?”

Uzi looked at Bishop’s prone body, a shimmer of moonlight reflecting off the man’s puddled blood. “Just a guess. I don’t think he’s in a position to accept it.”

“Where do you think the shooter is?”

Uzi did not dare peer around the tree. He closed his eyes, trying to picture the landscape behind him. “Up on the ridge maybe. Hard to say. He could be five hundred yards away.”

“Or more if he’s properly equipped.”

Uzi replayed the subsonic whiz in his mind. It seemed to be multidirectional, which only meant one thing. “Based on the sound, I’d say it’s safe to make that assumption. Fitted with a suppressor, is my guess, to disperse the sound.”

“So we can’t key in on his location and return fire.”

“We’re dealing with a pro here.”

DeSantos’s eyes roamed the immediate vicinity. “Think he’s gone?”

“Only if he was after Bishop. If he was after you or me, we’d better get the hell out of here. These toys against his cannon aren’t much of a match.”

DeSantos suggested they split up and run jagged routes back to the Tahoe. Uzi agreed.

They dropped to a knee, nodded at each other, and took off. Sprinting in opposite directions, they circled around toward Uzi’s car. As soon as they got in, Uzi started the engine and peeled away from the curb.

He shoved the Nokia against his ear, said, “Call Shep,” then waited as the device initiated his voice command.

Two rings later, Shepard answered. “Uzi—”

“Yeah, it’s me. Listen, we’ve got a problem.” Uzi turned the corner, doubling back to where he estimated the sniper had been located.

“Another one?”

“I’m serious, Shep. DeSantos and I were just shot at. Sniper fire. Whoever it is, he’s a pro.”

“What?”

“He took out our CI. We had to leave the body, but we’re staying close by.”

“Where the hell are you?”

Uzi gave him their location.

“There,” DeSantos said, pointing. “Park us over there, behind that building.”

“We need a team out here,” Uzi said, “see if we can find the shooter’s roost.”

“I’ll alert HRT and get forensics on it. Meantime, you guys stay safe.”

Uzi ended the call and pulled behind a building that gave them some cover, maneuvering the SUV in a way to afford them a view of the park. “He’s sending Hostage Rescue and an Evidence Response Team.”

“Fucker’ll be long gone by the time they get here,” DeSantos said. “We’ve gotta go after him now.” He peered out into the darkness. “Where do you think his nest is?”

Uzi reached beneath his seat and pulled out a small black case. He opened it and removed a monocular night vision lens.

“You keep that in your car?”

“Like my American Express card. I don’t leave home without it.” He brought the device up to his face, then scanned the park, his eyes first finding Bishop’s car as a reference. He then shifted his gaze fifty yards into the park and located the man’s body. He dropped the lens from his eye and played back the seconds before the shot. He looked to the right, then back to the path where they had been walking. The only direction the shot could have come from was across the park, over a small ridge where a couple of houses were located. “There.” He pointed, but DeSantos had already keyed in on the same place.

DeSantos reached up, disabled the dome light, then popped open his door. “Let’s go.”

7:07 PM

114 hours 53 minutes remaining

They scampered in the moonlit darkness, keeping beside the tall brush that shouldered the road. They turned a corner and came up on the other side of the houses.

Uzi took a moment to assess the angle of the shot that killed Bishop, then narrowed the possibilities to one of the homes. “Second story gives him a damn good view of the area where we were standing. Or the roof. But he’s a pro, not like he’s gonna be sticking around waiting for us to break down the door and haul his ass away.”

“Unless we’re the target, in which case he
is
waiting for us to come through the front door.”

“Good point,” Uzi said. “May as well wait for HRT.”

“Fuck it. He just tried to kill us. I’m goddamn pissed. Let’s go in. If he is still there—”

“Hang on a sec.” Uzi brought the night vision lens back to his face. They were now about thirty yards from the two-story gray Victorian. “It’s a business, not a residence. Providian Arts Council.” He shoved the monocle in his pocket. “I’ll go first, take a position along the right side.”

DeSantos agreed, and Uzi took off, running a zigzag pattern across the lawn of the nearest house until he could take cover behind a brick column that contained a built-in mailbox. He signaled DeSantos, who followed the same path.

“You want the back door?” DeSantos asked.

“Shit yeah.” Uzi strapped the night vision device to his right eye and rolled left, his Glock leading the way.

He arrived at the back door and tried the knob. Locked. He pulled a small pad from his pocket and peeled away three pieces of self-adhering film from its wax backing, then placed them beside one another on the door’s window. He then took the butt of his handgun and slammed it against the glass. It cracked with a crunch, rather than an ear-shattering smash. He carefully peeled away the tape containing the broken window fragments, then inserted his right hand and felt for the deadbolt. With a quick turn, he had the door open.

Inside the house, moving slowly. Darkness. The grainy viewfinder of the night vision eyepiece illuminated the kitchen’s interior in monochrome hues of green. Uzi stepped lightly, hoping a creaky floorboard would not give him away. He assumed DeSantos was likewise making his way toward the stairs. They would meet there, then proceed up.

He caught sight of his partner slinking through the living room and gave him a hand signal. Uzi ascended the staircase, DeSantos followed, and they fanned out, Uzi going left and clearing the rooms toward the front of the building. DeSantos went right.

A few moments later, Uzi came upon the room that provided the view of the park the shooter would have needed. He waited in the hall until DeSantos appeared, then flashed him a thumbs up sign. Uzi knelt low, turned the knob. With DeSantos at his side, he flung open the door.

Quiet. No movement, save for a ripple of air blowing through an open window. Uzi scanned the interior with his night vision eyepiece, then proceeded in.

Newspapers and magazines, a standard oak office desk, and metal file cabinets cluttered the area. Uzi cleared the room, then turned his attention to a walnut hutch against the wall adjacent to the window. He opened the drawers and sifted through the contents. A mailing label on one of the magazines contained the name of the subscriber, as well as what appeared to be the building’s address. The name meant nothing to him.

He looked back to DeSantos, who had taken a position where he could keep an eye on Uzi’s progress while he covered the door.

He knelt down in front of the window and scanned the ground. Nothing. He lowered his hand and felt around, sliding it beneath the hutch and the desk he had searched. His hand hit something that rolled away. He lay down on his right side, pulled out his smartphone, and activated the flashlight app.

Against the wall lay the object he had been hoping to find. He removed a pen from his inside jacket pocket and snared the metal item. He got to his feet and held it up to show DeSantos.

His partner backed into the room, maintaining his view of the doorway, then glanced down at the brass casing perched atop Uzi’s pen. “Smoking gun?” he whispered.

“More like the empty metal cartridge of the smoking bullet.”