Inside Out (30 page)

72

Richmond, Virginia

Sean had left the hotel using a group of youthful German tourists for camouflage. She ate a late lunch at the coffee shop two blocks up the street. On the way back to the hotel, she stopped into the convenience store to pick up a six-pack of Evian. The clerk had the television set on—the words
CNN NEWS UPDATE
filled the screen.

The announcement said that two of the eight passengers aboard the Justice Department's jet that crashed Thursday night in Virginia were protected witnesses in transit along with five United States marshals and Assistant United States Attorney Avery Whitehead from New Orleans. The reporter stated that Whitehead had been spearheading the prosecution of Sam Manelli for conspiracy to commit murder. The names of the six marshals were being withheld until the next of kin were all notified. The newscaster said that the director of the FBI and the attorney general had scheduled a press conference for Thursday, to make further announcements on the status of the investigation into the crashed jet. There was no mention of the four UNSUBs or that a deputy marshal was killed on Rook Island, and the news report didn't connect the deaths of the sailors to the crash in rural Virginia.

The newscaster announced that there was breaking news in Atlanta, and the screen changed to show a reporter holding a microphone. The camera panned to a door where a stocky man strode toward a waiting limousine. Sean felt so dizzy she feared she would throw up.

The CNN reporter tied Manelli's release to the downed jet and reported that the dead witness had been a “confessed” contract killer who had implicated Manelli as having hired him to commit a dozen murders. The reporter said that all of the charges against Sam Manelli, which had been based on the deceased killer's accusations, had been dropped.

On the screen, Sam, standing beside Johnny Russo, waved at the reporters, a frown on his face. Sean felt as though someone had winded her. It was as if he was waving at her, that he could see her, knew she was there, watching him, fearing him.

Sean turned for the door, but the clerk's frantic calls brought her back to the counter where she had abandoned the six-pack of water and her twenty dollar bill. Sean smiled, waited for her change, and carried the sack out.

As she turned and made her way down the street she became aware of twin shadows—hers and another closing in from behind. Her heart started to pound as she slipped her hand into her coat pocket, gripping the Smith & Wesson. The shadow man reached out—Sean spun and found herself facing Wire Dog.

“Sally!” The cabdriver's smile evaporated at the ferocity of her glare.

“You son of a bitch!” she hissed, leaving the gun in her coat pocket. “You scared me.”

Sally,” Wire Dog started. “I—”

“Are you crazy?” she snapped.

“I saw you go inside. I thought—”

Sean could see Wire Dog's cab parked in front of the hotel as she stormed up the street. “Don't you know better than to sneak up on people?” she demanded.

“I'm sorry.”

Checking for traffic, Sean crossed the street, Wire Dog beside her. “I have to leave tonight,” she said. “There's been a change in my deadline.”

“I'll take you to the airport—what time?”

“Eight o'clock sharp.” She had decided she would just grab the first flight to anywhere.

It looked like most of the residents of the hotel were in the lobby, socializing. Max was sorting through the mail at the counter. He set it aside when Sean approached.

“Miss McSorley,” he said. “I hope you are finding our ‘Wolfe' room inspirational.”

“I've gotten a lot done. It turns out I have to leave tonight. I want to tell you how much I've enjoyed my stay.”

“It has been a grand pleasure having you.” Max bowed his head. “I do hope you will return.” He peered at her over his half-glasses and winked. “Good luck.”

As she walked toward the elevator she noticed a young woman seated on a couch beside an older woman, who was laughing at something the other had said. Seeing that the ancient elevator was gone, Sean decided to take the stairs. As she climbed the steps, she was thinking how nice it was to hear people laughing. The two women in the lobby reminded her of how much she missed her mother.

73

The hunter had spent the morning waiting in the van, watching the street. Hawk's partner had passed his position several times, haunting the streets in the district hoping to luck onto the target.

At ten
A.M.
Hawk had gone into the hotel. He told the manager that he intended to purchase and renovate a commercial building in the area and said he would be looking for a quiet place to live while the construction was going on. The elderly manager took the bait and assured him that the hotel was home to a large number of monthly residents. He had several suites with kitchenettes. The hunter praised the magnificent lobby, the detailed plasterwork, the marble floors.

The hunter had asked, since he would be bringing in craftsmen for the project, how many rooms were available for transient guests. The manager said that floors four and above were for temporary guests. A look at the keyboard on the wall behind the counter told the hunter that twenty-two keys were missing from the pegs that corresponded to the rooms on floors four through eight. He thanked the manager, promising to get in touch as things progressed on his project.

He returned to his van and rested for the next hour. He watched as a cab pulled up in front of the hotel and a well-tattooed young driver went inside for a minute, then came back out. Instead of getting back into the taxi, the driver stood by the cab and looked up and down the street. Suddenly he trotted off down the street. The hunter used the mirror to track the kid after he passed the van and crossed the street. It looked like the punk was lurking outside a convenience store a block up the street. The hunter saw a blond girl, one in a group of nine kids who had left the hotel earlier, stride out from the store and watched as the young driver ran to keep up with her.

The girl seemed upset, pissed off, had her arms locked across her chest, her head tilted down. The young driver hurried along after her, gesturing with his illustrated arms. She crossed the street and walked toward the hotel. As the pair drew closer to the van, their faces filled the side-view mirror and the hunter's heart skipped a beat. There was not a doubt in his mind—the girl was his target, Sean Devlin. Using his binoculars, he read her lips.

Hawk made a call to his partner.

“I have her,” he said simply. “Take up a stationary position across the street from the hotel and keep your eyes open.”

He leaned back and yawned. He couldn't risk grabbing her off the street in broad daylight. He didn't know which room she was staying in. But it didn't matter, because he knew that at eight o'clock she'd be walking back out that door and he'd be waiting with open arms.

74

Winter had no way to keep track of time but, for what seemed like several hours, he had been the captive of a drugged state unlike anything he had ever experienced. While he was shrouded completely in a blanket of catatonia—unable to move a single muscle or open his eyes—his heart was beating and he had no trouble breathing. He was completely aware of everything going on around him—could hear everything perfectly. He could smell, even feel changes in the air temperature. The men who had kidnapped him didn't speak to him or talk at all from the time the driver had given him the shot until the jet landed sometime later. Winter spent the entire flight thinking about his situation and decided that, if he faked the state after it had worn off, maybe he could somehow escape.

He knew that at some point his mother would call Hank looking for him. When Winter failed to show up at the time he had told her he would, she would begin to worry. The trouble was, he couldn't count the times he had told his mother that he would be back at a certain time, and later, when he became involved in something and forgot the time, was made a liar. Lydia knew that he didn't like to wake her unless it was necessary. He worried that she might decide this was one of those times and wait to call too late.
Hell, it was already too late the second he got into the Chrysler.

During the time he was under, he had squirreled away his impressions. After the plane landed, he had been carried from the Lear and laid on a gurney, which had been put into an ambulance. He knew it was an ambulance because the man with the syringe had lifted his right eyelid to check his pupil. As they went, Winter heard cars and trucks on either side of them and other sounds indicating they were in a large city.

When the ambulance finally stopped, his escorts rolled the gurney into a building and straight into an elevator. After a short ride up, the elevator door opened and Winter had smelled coffee and heard a television set. The men rolled him a short distance down a hallway, turned into a room, lifted him from the gurney, and dropped him onto a bed, causing the springs to squeak. All he could do was lie there and wait for what would happen next.

Winter kept time by listening to the television.

He heard people walking outside his door, caught hushed conversations that he knew were not voices on the television.

Somebody came into the room.

He felt someone give him another shot.

“Don't worry,” a voice said. “That was just to counteract the effects of the drug. It impedes the ability to move but allows the heart to keep beating.” The voice was peculiar and totally unfamiliar. Within seconds Winter could move his fingers and his feet.

“Let me stress that you are not to try anything stupid,” the voice instructed. “You are inside a fortress with no way out, unless I release you. There are armed men on the floors below us and above us. I know you are familiar with the nature of the men I refer to. The elevator is the only way out and it is controlled by my people. There is no reason for you to try to escape, because no harm will come to you unless you do something idiotic.”

What the man said had the ring of truth.

Winter felt the muscles in his face coming back under his control, and he lifted his eyelids. Slowly, he turned his head to see the man who sat on the bed next to his. What he saw startled him. Deep burn scars covered the left side of the man's face and neck like they'd been applied by someone with a blowtorch and a plan. The crimson wig on his head could have been modeled by a child out of straw. He was dressed in what appeared to Winter to be a velour sweat suit.

The disfigured man stared at Winter through eyes so pale they looked as though they had never been fully colored in.

Using a gloved hand, the man carefully put a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a Zippo. He exhaled languorously. “You will be able to stand up in a minute and will suffer no adverse effects,” he said companionably.

“I understand,” Winter said.

“My name is Fifteen. I know everything about you. I know about your long-suffering mother, Lydia, your dead wife, your blind son, Hank Trammel, and just about everybody left on this earth you care for.”

Winter had known truly lethal men. He knew their smell, the acid they stirred up in his stomach, and the foul taste of copper they put in his mouth. And he knew instinctively that this man was a creature of the pit. He was a man who told people to kill, liked doing it, might sometimes do it himself. Maybe this creature was an interrogator.

“This building belongs to a man named Herman Hoffman. I believe you would know him as the old general that the boy George Williams mentioned to you.”

“Is he your boss?”

“No.”

“Are you CIA?”

“No, not specifically. That shouldn't concern you. Let me say that we service specific needs they and other agencies have, and the relationship is mutually beneficial.

“I have examined your conversation with Fletcher Reed about Ward Field and the cutouts. I have acquired Reed's evidence. He mailed a copy to your director and had a duplicate cleverly hidden in his office. All record of his computer incursion has been obliterated. Reed's misguided efforts went for nothing.”

“What did you do to him?” Winter asked, resigned to the inevitable now.

“He thought some of my men wished him harm and he hit a tree in his panicked attempt to evade them, shortly after you last spoke to him.”

Fifteen ground his cigarette out in a metal box and snapped it shut. “All that remains is for the Bureau to release the preliminary findings from their investigation. You are familiar with some of it, I understand. The evidence in the hands of the FBI is fact—incontrovertible proof. Believe me, not even Greg Nations himself could prove his innocence now.”

“The evidence is all lies.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Why are you helping Manelli?”

“As far as Manelli's participation in this”—he shrugged—“that's between Hoffman and Mr. Manelli. Only what concerns me is of interest to me.”

“Why did he bring me here?”

“He didn't. I brought you here to reason with you to accept the inevitable. I want you to understand that by pursuing this you are only a threat to yourself. Hoffman's operation with Manelli was a rogue carried out by his group, which you managed to cut in half. I had no advance warning before Ward Field and Rook Island, and I've had teams rushing all over the country just to stay even with the mess the old man made. I can't tell you the resources that have gone into cleaning this up in order to protect other interests that matter far more than this does. Herman used his power shamelessly, his men irresponsibly, and lost four extremely valuable individuals to your gun. This was very disturbing to me, to all of us.”

“Think how disturbing it is to all the people they killed.”

“Whoever runs the country does so because we make that possible by removing obstacles, keeping the path free of threats to our country's security. For fifty years a few of us have been fighting a very necessary war. Every instinct I have tells me to let my men bury you, but I believe enough innocent people are dead. I would rather persuade you how futile any attempt to oppose us is and let you go on with your life.”

The man who had been at Winter's front door stood in the hallway, holding the silenced SIG Sauer casually at his side, its barrel down.

“I am going to tell you how Herman obtained the intelligence it took to pull off the assaults.”

“To illustrate to me how powerless I actually am.”

“Exactly,” Fifteen said.

Winter sat slowly up and put his feet on the floor. He felt light-headed from being incapacitated for so long but no other ill effects from the drugging.

“If you make any heroic moves, you will be killed. If you grab me, my people will shoot through me to kill you. Even if you managed to get out, my people would visit your mother and son before you could hail a cab.”

Winter felt a surge of rage. “Can you tell me where I am?”

“I'll show you.”