The Killing Season (3 page)

Edwards and Donaldson murmured pleasantries; Castle looked at her in stony silence. The fourth man smiled briefly, but with warmth. He looked . . .
nondescript
was the word, she supposed. Average height, average build, dark hair, a clean shave. Good-looking, she guessed, but nothing special. The kind of guy you’d find it difficult to provide a distinguishing description of if you had to. He wore a nice suit but no tie, so she knew he wasn’t Bureau, if nothing else.

Banner took all this in with a glance, then turned away. She noted the table was entirely clear except for a neatly squared pile of photographs, facedown in front of Edwards.

“Now that we’re all here,” Donaldson said, the merest trace of a South Boston accent in his delivery, “I’ll get straight to the point. We have a situation.”

Banner looked on, nodding. Of course they had a situ­ation. She just wondered what variety of situation. Perhaps the president had changed his mind again about visiting the city before the midterm elections.

Donaldson turned his head to Edwards like a news anchor handing over to a junior colleague for the spade work.

Edwards glanced at Banner and then at Castle, as though ensuring they were both paying attention. “This morning, around three a.m., a transport van carrying two prisoners from
USP
Marion to the federal correction complex at Terre Haute was ambushed on a county highway, about ten miles out.” Edwards stopped to take a breath, as though the sentence had been an exertion. “We have a coordinated mixed scene out there, our people assisting local law enforcement. Looks like there were only two marshals on board, both killed. There was no escort. We’re still trying to find out why, given the status of the passengers.”

“Who were they moving?” Castle asked.

Edwards looked a little peeved at being interrupted. Which was disingenuous, Banner thought, given the pregnant pause he’d left there. Edwards leaned back in his chair, which creaked. “We believe the target of the attack was this man.” He held up one of the pictures: a glossy eight-by-ten color mug shot of a weedy, balding man of about forty, the hint of a wry smile at the corners of his mouth. The nameplate he held at chest level spelled out
mitchell, c. j
. in blocky letters.

“Clarence James Mitchell. Photograph taken about four months ago. He’d been awaiting trial on charges including racketeering, aggravated assault, and rape.”

Banner studied the picture. The Bureau’s involvement made sense already, given the racketeering charge, and so did Edwards’s interest: She knew his background was in the Organized Crime section. But why were she and Castle there? Neither currently worked OC. She shot a glance at Castle, who looked like he was also in the dark.

“Mitchell was due to turn state’s evidence on one Vitali Korakovski,” Edwards continued, “one of our high-value targets in the Russian Mob. We’ve confirmed that the three men who carried out the ambush were Korakovski soldiers.”

Banner tilted her head in surprise. How could the number and identities of the attackers have been established so quickly without any surviving witnesses? Unless . . .

“What do you mean ‘were’?” she asked before she could stop herself. He’d stressed that word a little too much.

Edwards smiled. Evidently, she seemed to have hit on the right moment to ask a question. “I mean they’re not anymore, Agent Banner.” He held up three more photographs, one by one. Vivid color close-ups of dead men’s faces, snapped where they lay in a barren field. All except the last one, who didn’t have a face, or much of a head. “Zakhar Radev, Nikolai Kosygin . . . and we’re reasonably sure this one was Vladimir Labazanov,” he said, introducing the photographs. “Three tier-one badasses, all taken out by one man who started out unarmed and handcuffed.”

Banner was suddenly aware that Edwards was talking exclusively to her and Castle, ignoring the fourth man, who was listening with interest, but not reacting as if to new information.
He’s been briefed already, whoever he is
, Banner realized.

Castle sat back in his chair, incredulous. He waved his left hand at the mug shot of Mitchell, now lying discarded on the table. “You mean to say
this
guy did
that
?”

Edwards looked pleased with himself, obviously enjoying drip-feeding the information this way. He shook his head slowly, producing another photo. Banner saw Donaldson wince and thought it was less a signifier of squeamishness than of mild embarrassment, like somebody had made an off-color joke that had lowered the tone of a dinner party.

“Clarence James Mitchell, photograph taken around four hours ago,” Edwards said matter-of-factly. “Somebody hit him with a heavy blunt object—probably the butt of a shotgun—and kept hitting him until his face caved in. Then they pounded the mess into the ground a little more.”

“Who was the other prisoner?” Banner asked distractedly. She was absorbed in studying the photograph, morbidly fascinated by the juxtaposition of the mess of pulped flesh, splintered bone, and brain matter with the smirking mug shot she’d seen a minute earlier.

Edwards didn’t say anything. He looked a little disappointed at Banner’s reaction, like he’d expected her to close her eyes or shudder or run from the room screaming. She was glad to disappoint him, but it hadn’t been deliberate. Bloody crime scenes didn’t faze her; they never had. Everyone told her that that was unusual, that it should take time to become desensitized, but for whatever reason, it was an adjustment she’d never had to make.

Donaldson put both palms on the table, wordlessly indicating to Edwards that he would field the question. He glanced at Banner and Castle before speaking. “This is where we come to our problem. It transpires that the second prisoner was fairly . . . ‘high value’ himself.” He nodded at Edwards without looking at him as he reused the phrase. “This second man killed all three Russians, most likely in self-defense, and then killed Mitchell, most likely for the sheer hell of it. He’s armed, he has military training, and we don’t have clue one where he’s headed.

“I guess it would be redundant at this point to say he’s a highly dangerous individual, but he’s also highly motivated to stay free. He was scheduled for lethal injection in two weeks.”

That explained why he was being moved to Terre Haute, Banner realized—Haute being the location of federal death row. And that meant the prisoner had to be . . .

“Caleb Wardell?” Castle said. Banner thought it sounded like a question, but then she realized it was just that he wanted to be wrong.

Donaldson sighed as Edwards held up the last photograph from the pile.

“Caleb Wardell,” he confirmed flatly.

The photograph showed the head, shoulders, and upper chest of a lean, yet powerfully built man in an orange jumpsuit. Neck muscles taut. Charles Manson beard. Cold, expressionless eyes.

“Jesus,” Castle said.

“The sniper?” Banner asked.

“The same,” Edwards confirmed.

Castle and Banner exchanged a look, both knowing why they were here now.

“He killed twenty people last time,” Castle said.

“Nineteen,” Edwards said defensively, as though Castle were exaggerating the problem.

“And we want to make sure that doesn’t happen again,” Donaldson said. “Wardell was doing federal time. That means the Bureau’s got it with immediate effect, not once it’s had time to spiral out of control. The two of you will be heading up the task force.”

“Great.” Castle’s tone was completely neutral.

Banner kept quiet. She’d sensed this coming and, despite herself, was exhilarated. Sure, it was a tall order, but it was the kind of tall order that made careers. The kind of tall order that could help her on the way to where she wanted to finish up in twenty years or so.

Donaldson let Castle’s comment pass. “Agent Castle, you worked on the original case here in Chicago. I understand you were there when they got Wardell. Agent Banner, you recently distinguished yourself on the Markow manhunt. I have every confidence that we can run this fugitive down before the media gets ahold of the story.”

Banner looked up at Donaldson as he casually dropped that last element in. It was like being told you had to climb Everest tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, you’ll be doing it blindfolded.

“The media doesn’t have this yet?”

Head shake from Edwards. “They know that a prisoner transport van was ambushed and that two marshals were killed. We’re holding back the rest as long as we can. That’s why we need Wardell back in custody before anybody knows he’s escaped.”

“Good luck with that,” Castle said. “They’re going to have some pretty good hints as soon as Wardell decides to brush up on his old hobby.”

“We think we have some latitude,” Edwards said. “Wardell’s psychotic, but he’s not an idiot. Effectively, he’s just been granted a stay of execution. He’ll want to keep a low profile, maybe try to head for Canada. He’s not going to start shooting random civilians again if he thinks he can get away clean.”

“Which will make it harder to catch him, not easier,” Banner pointed out.

Castle nodded agreement. “And he’s trained in evading capture, even if we knew where he was headed.”

“You caught him last time,” Edwards said.

Castle looked at him for an uncomfortable few seconds, then spoke slowly, as though explaining something to a slow four-year-old: “
I
didn’t. I was just there when we got lucky.”

Donaldson sat back from the table, signifying his desire to move the discussion on. “I’m placing Agent Castle in charge of the task force. Agent Banner, you’ll be secondary lead. Both of you will report directly to Assistant
SAC
Edwards or to me, no one else. I believe we have the best possible people to lead on this right here in this room.” As he finished speaking, Donaldson shot a glance at the fourth man, whom Banner had almost forgotten about. He’d somehow faded into the background as they’d been talking.

She looked at him now. Castle was looking, too. The man’s expression remained impassive. Their inquisitive stares seemed to be absorbed by him with as little impact as a scream into a soundproofed wall.

“And exactly who do we have in this room, sir?” Castle asked, not taking his eyes off the fourth man.

The man let the question linger in the air for a moment, then said, “My name’s Blake. I’m here to assist you.”

5

9:22 a.m.

Nobody said anything for a moment. Four pairs of eyes settled on me, waiting for me to elaborate.

After it became clear I was leaving it at that, Agent Castle repeated what I’d said, slowly. “You’re here to assist us.”

I looked back at him.
Every time
, I thought.
Every time it’s like this
.

Edwards, the fat one, didn’t need the nod from his boss this time.

“As I tried to emphasize earlier, this manhunt is high priority.
Top
priority, in fact. The director has briefed the president, and they’re both very keen to see this wrapped up as quickly as possible.”

Castle looked back at him. “I bet they are. Especially a week before the midterms.”

Donaldson shot Castle a glance that told him not to push it. Edwards cleared his throat. “Bearing that in mind, we’re bringing in all the expertise we have available. We’ve been allocated the services of Mr. Blake here, who’s somewhat of a specialist in this particular area.”

I watched Edwards with interest as he spoke, wondering how a guy like this had risen to such a senior position in an organization that, throughout its history, had placed so much importance on appearance. The stereotypical
FBI
agent is sleek, clean-cut, snappily dressed: Fox Mulder in
The X-Files
, or Anthony LaPaglia in that other show. Banner, Castle, and Donaldson all fit the bill. To me, Edwards looked more like a used-car salesman.

Castle had opened his mouth to speak, but Banner, who had been watching his complexion darken, butted in first, her tone carefully diplomatic: “With all due respect, sir,” she began, addressing
SAC
Donaldson, “do you think this is a good idea?”

“Many hands make light work, Agent Banner. Isn’t that what they say?” Edwards interjected before his boss had had a chance to respond, and neither Donaldson nor Banner looked like they welcomed the gesture.

I watched Banner’s face as she arranged her thoughts. I decided she was probably trying to resist the easy comeback, the one about too many cooks. Instead, she said, “Everybody here knows the challenges of coordinating an effective task force, liaising with other agencies. Isn’t bringing in a private operator just going to complicate things further?”

“So he’s what,” Castle said, “a bounty hunter?”

“Mr. Blake is on board in an advisory capacity,” Edwards replied. “He’ll be outside of the chain of command.” From the look he shot Donaldson and the way his brow had furrowed since the discussion turned in this direction, I guessed that Edwards wasn’t 100 percent happy with this arrangement.

“I’m not a bounty hunter,” I said, addressing Castle. “I’m just somebody who’s good at finding people who don’t want to be found.”

Agent Banner was leaning toward me now. Her long, shiny dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and the gray skirt suit should have looked stuffy, but somehow it flattered the curves of her body. Her dark, dark brown eyes were sizing me up.

You always want to make a good impression on a client; that’s just good business. I told myself that explained why I suddenly found myself wanting to get a passing grade.

“And in your . . . advisory capacity, Mr. Blake, what would you suggest is our best course of action?” Her tone was even, betraying none of Castle’s heavy skepticism. I didn’t doubt that the skepticism was there; she was just a little more ­polished in her approach.

I looked at my watch. It was approaching nine thirty, which meant that our quarry had been on the loose for just over six hours. A quarter of a day.
Every time
, I thought again. Every time I worked with government agencies, I encountered this problem. Territory. Professional pride. Perceived loss of authority. I wondered if the slight was particularly pronounced for an
FBI
agent, far more used to being on the other side of the equation: swooping in to take the big case out of the hands of some backwoods cop. Which, of course, had already happened here. But I doubted any of them would see the irony of that if I pointed it out.