She continued to struggle, if anything even more strenuously than before.
“Fine, you stubborn—” Pressing her arms down with his knees, he grabbed the duct tape and began wrapping it around her hands.
34
9:00 P.M.
THE DARK-HAIRED MAN carefully slid the nightscope onto his gun. It was more complicated than it looked; a number of minute notches had to be correctly aligned. It was designed to be difficult. With equipment on this level of sophistication, amateurs were not welcome.
He checked his night goggles—perfect operating condition. He strapped them onto his belt. Ditto for the Fujinon binoculars—lightweight, waterproof, and almost infinitely powerful. He strapped on a tiny Tessina minichip camera, just in case he wanted to memorialize a license-plate number.
He searched through his closet. What else? Better safe than sorry. He added a small but powerful Xenon flashlight. An electronic stethoscope. Tiny microportable transceivers.
It had been years since he last used equipment like this. He had almost forgotten the pleasure of being able to see in the dark, being able to hear what others could not, being able to sneak up on someone unawares. He checked all the devices and made sure he remembered how each worked. He supposed it was like riding a bicycle—you never forgot.
He tugged a Kevlar vest tightly around his chest, aligned his shoulder holster, put his shirt back on, then strapped the loaded Sam Browne belt around his waist. He checked the equipment still snapped in their compartments from the last time he had worn the belt—spare handgun, Puukko knife, Bianchi handcuffs, tear gas, Mace, brass knuckles, ammunition. A travel kit for commandos. And the whole thing, fully equipped, weighed less than ten pounds. It wouldn’t slow him down a beat.
Finally he examined the new SSI tracer bug; once it was activated, he could follow someone from as much as twenty miles away. It had cost him a pretty penny; in fact, it had cost him almost everything he had. But if he tracked down his quarry, it would be worth it. He had to assume he would need everything; after all, this time he was on his own.
No one was going to help him. Who could? No one else had managed to locate his prey so far. His buddy at the police station said the man was being tracked by the FBI—or someone calling themselves the FBI—as well as the police and some heavy-duty criminal types. But so far, no one had found him. Not that that meant anything. He had a few tricks up his sleeve that the others did not.
He had spent years at this kind of work; it was what he did best. Finding someone others couldn’t—someone who didn’t want to be found. Some jobs took longer than others, but he never failed.
He didn’t really need all this high-tech paraphernalia, but he was accustomed to it, and there was a certain comfort in it. As he had been told by his superiors so many times in the past: your best weapons are your eyes, your ears, your hands. Two skilled hands can kill more quickly, more efficiently, and with less chance of detection than all the electronic gizmos in the world.
He slid noiselessly out the door. Time to begin, before the trail became even colder. He had no actual clues to his target’s location; but he had contacts. Not much, but it would have to be enough. He had to find the man before the others did. If he got there last, or even second, it would be too late.
He slid behind the steering wheel of his Jeep and turned the ignition. He felt exhilarated to be back in action, doing something important. Perhaps more important than anything he had ever done before. He would complete this mission. Successfully.
And when he did, Travis Byrne would get exactly what he deserved.
35
9:45 P.M.
TRAVIS SMILED AT CAVANAUGH, who was securely taped to a kitchen chair. He dipped her wooden spoon into the pot he had taken from the stove and tasted the contents.
“Mmm,” he murmured appreciatively. “What do you call this?”
Cavanaugh’s reply was something like blmflkmbtk. It was the most the dishrag duct-taped in her mouth would allow.
“Bell-pepper soup? Whatever it is, it’s good.”
Cavanaugh bowed her head in acknowledgment.
“Who would’ve guessed that the tough lady prosecutor would be a great cook?” His eyebrows bounced up and down. “I wonder what other talents you’ve been hiding?”
Her reply was muffled but nonetheless forceful. Upon reflection, Travis was grateful that he couldn’t understand what she was saying.
“Oh, I found your dog in the back room, hiding in the closet. Don’t worry, I fed him. He’s cute. Not exactly a Doberman, but cute.”
Cavanaugh’s eyes narrowed.
“I don’t hate toy poodles the way some guys do. You know, some people would rather have a pet rat than one of those yippy yappers. Not me. I like them just fine.”
He grinned, hoping she might return some indication of amiability. He was sorely disappointed.
“Maybe you’re bored. Is that it? Look.” He withdrew two large blue marbles from his coat pocket, placed them in his right palm, and held out his hands, knuckles up. He swirled his hands back and forth, over and under, up and down. “Okay, which hand are the marbles in?”
Cavanaugh’s expression did not change.
“Look, I’m sorry about taping you up. You left me no choice.”
Cavanaugh did not appear sympathetic.
“I’m not kidding. I didn’t want to bother you. Really. I just wanted your help. If anyone can figure a way out of this mess, I thought, Cavanaugh can. Got any suggestions?”
Her only response was communicated through angry, glaring eyes.
Travis sighed. He dipped the spoon back in the pot and slurped more soup. “I feel guilty eating in front of you. Can I get you some milk or something? I promise not to poison it.”
Cavanaugh kicked with both feet, then twisted from side to side, straining against her bonds. It was no use. She was securely fixed in place.
“If you agree not to scream, or call the police, or try to get away, I’ll untie you. You wouldn’t have to be civil to me. What d’ya say?”
No reaction.
“Oh well.” He finished the soup, then sat on the floor, his arms folded across his lap. “I’m going to tell you everything that’s happened to me since Moroconi busted out of jail. Maybe you can come up with some ideas. Okay?”
Cavanaugh glared at him with stony eyes. “Okay. Good. Well, it began when I got this phone call in the middle of the night. …”
36
10:10 P.M.
THIS TIME KRAMER MET Donny in the corridor outside Mario’s office. He snuck up behind him, grabbed a suspender, then let it pop.
“Owww!” Donny cried.
Kramer grabbed Donny by the throat. “Whatcha been up to, Donny-boy?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” His eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of his head. “You’re hurting me.”
“I know,” Kramer replied. “That’s why I got this shit-eatin’ grin.” He reached into his pocket with his free hand and removed a fistful of handwritten notes. “Look what I found.”
“Hey! Those are mine! What were you doing in my desk?”
“Looking for backstabbing crap like this!” He threw the notes on the floor. “You’ve pushed your ass into my affairs once too often, Donny-boy.”
Donny struggled futilely against Kramer’s grip. “You can’t hurt me. I’m family.”
“So?”
“So you’re nothing. You’re just a sick bastard Uncle Mario uses to clean up shit too dirty for any normal—”