“That’s all you’ll need to say,” Roarke answered. “It’ll hit him all at once.” She nodded. Katie was ready to meet up with Witherspoon again.
The people ahead of them took their drinks. Roarke and Katie stepped forward. The barista was very quick. Perfect for the morning rush.
Roarke whispered in her ear as they stood at the counter, “Then I’ll tell him that he’ll have just one opportunity to cooperate.”
“And I just smile?”
“That’s all you need to do.”
“Katie,” the barista called out. Roarke automatically tilted his head toward the voice. The man smiled as he moved the coffee cups up the line on the stand adjacent to his machine. “The black for Scott is up, too.”
The barista wore a big broad smile, but quickly stepped behind the coffee machine to wipe his steamer. His blonde ponytail whipped around and landed on the collar of his tan shirt. He stood about the same height as Roarke. He was fit. Extremely fit. Roarke detected strong neck muscles and bulk on his arms. The man obviously exercised, but in a more rigorous regimen than the average health club member.
Roarke peered around. The barista caught Roarke’s glance, and his expression changed marginally.
The woman at the register called out a new order. “Venti triple-shot caramel latte.” The barista took the cup and kept his eyes down. He didn’t repeat the order.
Katie grabbed Roarke’s arm. “Come on. Gotta go, Mr. Roarke.”
Roarke uttered a guttural “Yah,” and took the two cups. She continued to talk to him, but the words just floated over him. His mind was elsewhere.
They were at the front door when a simple thing hit him. Skim latte. He’d heard it a lot recently. But most of the country referred to skim milk as non-fat. The guy doing the drinks called back non-fat. From out of state? he wondered.
That alone would not be a problem, but there was something about the man himself. His face. His jaw line. The angle of his nose. The closeness of his eyes.
Outside, more thoughts rushed forward. He felt a coldness that cancelled out the man’s smile. A tight body under his shirt that trumped the relaxed dude manner. Lose the smile. Ignore the ponytail.
Now well outside Starbucks, Roarke stopped.
“Come on,” Katie insisted.
The Secret Service agent ignored the request and sidestepped Katie. He wanted another glimpse of the man. She stopped to see what he was doing.
“Scott!”
Roarke stared into the shop, still ignoring her. Katie walked to his side and saw a dangerous look on his face. She followed his line of sight. Inside, the barista, working much slower now, was also looking at Roarke. He had the same expression. She glanced back at Roarke.
Roarke and the man’s eyes locked in a suspended moment, absent of anyone else.
Roarke’s memory ran through a catalogue of other faces. An insurance broker, an antique’s dealer, a man on a train, a Capitol Police officer. He added an overlay of the man in his sight. When he finished, it settled on one image in Touch Parson’s computer: Depp.
“What?” Katie asked.
Roarke hadn’t realized he actually said the name aloud.
The man mouthed a word back. Roarke!
Roarke shoved his latte at Katie. “Here! Take this!” He bolted for the Starbucks door. His hand was already inside his jacket pocket, his fingertips on his holstered Sig Sauer.
As Roarke swung the door open, Depp launched the venti cup full of hot coffee into the air. It smashed to the ground. The drink splashed up, scalding the customer. She immediately jumped, only to slip on the slick floor. Another woman went to her side and knelt down. Two other patrons crowded closer to help. The commotion served to create immediate mayhem and block Roarke’s quick passage to the counter. Depp tore into a storeroom and out of sight.
Roarke was now fully inside, his gun in his hand. The woman working the counter screamed at the sight.
“Where does that room go?” Roarke shouted.
She froze.
“Where?” he demanded. “Is there a back way out?”
“Yes,” she managed.
“Out to the alley,” the clerk said as he stepped over the downed woman’s legs.
No more questions. Instead of navigating around the people, Roarke vaulted over the center counter. He made a left behind the coffee machine and a quick right to the back room where Depp had gone.
The assassin had a good ten seconds on Roarke and, if training proved right, the benefit of knowing where he was going.
Depp was as surprised as Roarke, and as off-guard. If it hadn’t been for the name on the cups — Katie and Scott, and the mention of Roarke — he might not have even noticed. But, he had learned those names, first Roarke’s, then Katie’s. He also had another advantage. He’d seen Roarke at the Capitol and knew what he was capable of doing.
Fighting Roarke was not on his agenda. It was not something he’d been paid to do and it wasn’t something he relished. Today was the day he was going to treat Donald Witherspoon to a Grande Soy Cap with extra foam, and an unhealthy double shot of ricin. The taste of the processed castor beans would have been masked by the aroma and flavor of the cappuccino.
Although ricin has potential medical uses in bone marrow transplants and cancer treatments, the barista had chosen it because of its other attributes. He had a vial in his pocket with 900 micrograms. In comparative terms, it could have fit on the head of a pin.
Somewhere along the way Witherspoon would have finished his coffee, tossed it, or left it on a desk to be thrown out by an assistant.
The assassin knew how effectively ricin worked. Ingestion leads to stomach cramps, quite normal for a harried attorney under pressure. Cramps give way to diarrhea, which are accompanied by uncontrollable waves of nausea and vomiting. As the poison works its way through the body, protein production in the cells is prevented. Without any known antidote, liver, kidneys, and spleen shut down.
It should have been a simple kill, worth grand. But the plan fell apart, the mark was still alive, and the man known as Paul Erskine was running for his life.
By the time he cleared the outside door, his wig was off and curled up in his hand. He grabbed the top of his shirt and pulled hard and fast. Buttons flew in every direction. He didn’t stop to recover them. But as he ran, he yanked the shirt over his head and rolled it up. Next, he tipped over a trashcan, which would be rolling to the right when the Secret Service agent emerged from Starbucks. Finally, he doubled back, darting diagonally across the alley to an open service entrance leading to the mailroom of a 12-story office building. He reached into his back pocket for a perfectly crafted laminated building ID. He clipped it to his belt buckle, slowed down, found the clipboard he’d left hanging the day before, picked it up, and casually walked in.
He’d plotted an emergency escape route before taking the job. It was always his first priority. And while he had counted on a calm departure later that day through the front door, he was prepared.
A moment later, Roarke flew out of the Starbucks. He scanned the alley. Two ways to go. To the left, the alley extended some 200 feet; the right, only twenty-five feet before it intersected Federal Street. Depp had a twenty-second lead, enough time to make the street. A trashcan was still rolling in that direction. Roarke took off.
At Federal, he had another decision to make. He looked both ways. Now which direction?
Once inside, the assassin ran down three halls and into a stairwell. He bounded up two steps at a time, purposely skipping the first landings. He counted the floors as he climbed, not even breaking a sweat. When he arrived where he planned, he opened the hall door, stepped inside, and calmly walked to the men’s room. The night before, he visited the bathroom and hid a number of items in a box under the sink. Good. Still there. He removed the articles and went into the farthest stall.