It had been dark for an hour. The yellow-hued lights that ranged above the fenced enclosure across the street had come on automatically at sundown. Nothing had stirred about the compound other than a flurry of dust kicked up by the evening breeze. Everything was quiet but for the occasional bang or whistle of fireworks set off down the street.
Burke Hill had just finished his stint beside the window. "I know you guys are tired of hamburgers," he said, digging into the sport bag for the radios. "How about I get us some chicken? I'll take one of these and you can alert me if anything happens."
"Make mine extra crispy," said Rodman.
Burke walked down to the lower hallway and headed for the back door. The place was eerily silent, each footfall landing with an echo. He stepped into the darkness out back and noted that, with the clear sky, the glow of the city lights lacked any reflective surface to brighten the night in this area. However, there was enough moon to outline shapes and give light-colored surfaces such as the whitewashed rocks that lined the parking area an odd luminescence. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness as he walked over to the Buick and stuck the key in the lock. He was about to turn it when a glimmer of light reflected off something beneath the edge of the car, catching in his peripheral vision.
Stooping down, he picked up what appeared to be a business card. He held the card high so that it would catch enough light to be read, squinted his eyes and made out the words "Latrisha Grammer, Agent."
His forehead rumpled with a quizzical frown. He clearly remembered tossing that card back onto the seat. What the hell was going on? The obvious conclusion was that someone had been inside his car and brushed it off the seat, just as he had. Reaching for the door handle, he pressed it carefully. Locked. People who stole from cars didn't bother to lock the doors after them, he reasoned. Then who could it have been, and what were they after?
The loud, explosive popping of a string of firecrackers set off not far away startled him. It also triggered a sudden, disturbing thought. Explosives! Could his car have been tampered with by the assassin that Murray Bender had warned about, a man known for using explosives? He had blithely ignored the warning, assuming that simply avoiding his home would ward off any pursuers. What a fallacy. He had used Stern to help locate Nikolai Romashchuk. There were too many ways someone could have tracked him down here.
He pulled the key out of the lock and calmly returned to the building, but the adrenalin had set him on edge. Idiot, he berated himself. You should have known better than to use your own car. You could have borrowed one from the Brackins.
Inside the building, he stood for a moment considering all the dire possibilities. A bomb could have been set to go off when he opened the door. It could be wired to the ignition to trigger when he started the engine. Or, probably the most reliable, it could have a radio-controlled detonator, in which case the assassin would be hiding somewhere nearby, watching and waiting for him to get into the vehicle.
He looked around. The restrooms were on this end of the building. He took the stairs to the second floor, opened the door to the men's room and looked in. The light was off, but he could see a casement window with horizontal panes on the back wall. He went inside and carefully turned the crank until it was open enough to see out.
As his eyes swept the area behind the building, he noticed a dark object barely visible through the trees on the other side of the old garage. As he stared, he could make out the lines of something, a van, maybe a truck? Re-orienting himself, he realized it would be in the driveway of the small appliance repair shop.
Nothing had been parked there when they came in.
Burke hurried back to the office and told his companions what he had seen. Returning with the binoculars, he took another look. Now it became clear that someone was parked at the back of the driveway next door.
When Burke reported back, Rodman scrambled up from his post at the window. "What are you going to do?"
"Things still quiet across the street?"
"Like the night before Christmas."
Burke rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I'd be afraid to use either of those cars until we can check them out. We might as well forget the rest of it until we can handle this."
"You think the guy in the driveway is this Max that Murray Bender mentioned?" Roddy asked.
"Probably. I need some sort of diversion, something to distract him and give me a chance to surprise him."
Roddy reached over and lifted the sack with the now empty soft drink bottles. "Yuri and I could take these over to that driveway and act like a couple of drunks. We drop the bottles… that'll make a lot of racket… then get into a fight over it."
Burke turned to Yuri. "Think you can pull it off?"
He grinned. "I have certainly seen enough drunks in my time."
"Okay," Burke said. "Keep your guns handy." He had provided Yuri with ammunition for his Rossi and given Roddy the small Beretta. They nodded. "Okay. I'll circle around the building next door and come up behind him. Give me ten minutes from right now, then start your act."
He slipped out the front door and stood for a moment, looking around. Nothing moved. He heard laughter somewhere up the street. A dog barked in the distance, and off in the other direction rap music was playing on a radio. Moving quickly past the building on the opposite side from the small appliance shop, he turned toward the alley. The ground felt soft as a golf green here, and he caught the pungent odor of freshly cut grass.
Striding quietly through the short grass to the rear of the building, he went down on one knee and peered cautiously around the corner. This lot had more trees, a dumpster and some outbuildings that offered good concealment. He moved around them in a crouched position, careful to keep the sound of his footsteps to a minimum. He was happy he had worn blue jeans and a dark brown shirt, though he had only anticipated the need to be inconspicuous in a darkened office.
At the alley, he realized this was where he would be the most vulnerable. Street lights appeared at intervals, and though there was not one near the repair shop driveway, he would be silhouetted against the light behind him. He decided to avoid the alley as long as possible, though it meant moving slower to guard against bumping into something that might create a warning noise.
He made his way cautiously around the remains of a garbage bag ripped open by dogs, holding his breath against the stench of something worse than rotten. He dodged a large metal drum and a roll of wire fencing that nearly snagged his shirt. He picked his way over a pile of rotting lumber, including one piece that disintegrated into mush as he stepped on it, momentarily throwing him off balance, and finally edged past an empty, thank God, dog house. He hadn't done anything this stupid since his days in the Bureau, he thought with a feeling of irritation. But he couldn't stop now.
Burke checked his watch when he reached the ramshackle garage. Nine minutes and fifteen seconds had elapsed. He couldn't avoid the alley any longer. Drawing the SIG-Sauer from its holster, he crept carefully behind the garage. At the corner, he released the safety, dropped to the ground, pushed the pistol out in front and eased his head around behind it.
He froze at the sound of a voice. Then he realized it was someone talking in muted tones. He noted the vehicle was a panel truck, and there were no doubt two people inside.
There was no time to worry about odds now. He decided to take the passenger and made his move the moment he heard the crash of bottles on the driveway up ahead. He sprang behind the truck, moved around the right side and, keeping his head down, reached for the door handle. It would be an awkward maneuver, but unfortunately he didn't shoot a gun left-handed.