Lombino filled him in. Yancey lit a cigarette with trembling fingers while he listened.
“Look, Chet,” Lombino said, “I’m not an unreasonable man. I can tell this was an honest mistake. As far as I’m concerned, if you fix it, we’re square. Of course, this time we’re gonna have to ask for video evidence. I’m sure you understand.”
“What if I say no?”
“Seems to me our deal last time was, you take out Segreti and we forgive your debts, you don’t and we kill your daughter. But that was seven years ago, which means there’s interest to consider. Speaking of, I hear she just had twins.”
“You don’t understand. I’m in the middle of a work thing. I’m not sure I can-”
“Lemme stop you, Chet. That sounds more like a you-problem than a me-problem. See, I don’t care how it gets done, but I care very much that it does get done. Understood?”
“Yeah. I hear you,” Yancey had said, and Lombino’s words had echoed in his mind ever since.
Footfalls behind Yancey brought him back to the here and now. He turned to find the new guy, Reyes, strolling down the path in a pale summer suit, a venti Starbucks in his hand.
“Morning, boss.”
Yancey downed the rest of his own coffee and pitched the cup into the bushes. Then he tapped a cigarette from his pack and lit it. “Is it still?” he asked, exhaling smoke. “I’ve been waiting so goddamn long, I thought for sure it would be afternoon by now.”
Bellum had hired Oscar Reyes three months ago, and Yancey was still breaking him in. There was no denying Reyes had talent, but Yancey found his swagger grating. He seemed to Yancey like a horse that wouldn’t take a saddle. The ivy-educated son of Dominican immigrants, Reyes was recruited out of grad school by the CIA and had spent the past decade running solo ops throughout Central and South America. Consequently, he was accustomed to his independence, and-unlike the majority of men in Yancey’s employ, who hailed from the military-punctuality was not his strongest suit.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I got tied up with this kid from the Park Police who wouldn’t shut up. Then-”
Yancey cut him off. “Bellum doesn’t pay you to make excuses, son, and they don’t pay me to stand around. How about you skip ’em and just give me the fucking sitrep?”
“You got it, boss.” Reyes took an infuriatingly long sip of his coffee before continuing. “First off, the subject’s still alive, near as I can tell. I spent half the night looking at bodies. Saw some seriously gory shit-and probably won’t be eating lasagna for a while-but none of them matched the stills you sent me from the video.”
Fuck, Yancey thought. He’d been hoping to get lucky. “So if he isn’t dead, where is he?”
“Good question,” Reyes replied. “We found his hat in the bushes not far from here. He must’ve lost it when he fell. And that kid from Park Police I mentioned had a run-in with a guy matching our subject’s description not long after the blast. Sounds like he was banged up. Disoriented.”
“Where was this?”
“About a quarter mile uphill from here.”
“I thought the local boys were tasked with bringing the injured to the medical tents for triage. Why’d Ranger Rick let him go?”
“He claims our guy told him that a family downslope needed his help-the people from the video, maybe-and promised to stay put until the cop returned. The kid combed the scrub beside the trail for half an hour but couldn’t find any family, and when he came back, our guy was gone.”
“So he’s in the wind?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve spoken to my contacts at Homeland Security, since they’re the ones patrolling the park’s perimeter. Far as they know, nobody meeting his description has left the grounds, which means he’s likely still inside.”
“They sure?”
“Sure as they can be, given that they’ve got over three miles of perimeter to cover. And they’ve got the Coast Guard monitoring the beaches, so we know he didn’t leave by sea.”
“Okay, say you’re our guy. You get caught pants-down when shit meets fan, but you can’t get out before the Feds drop the net. Where do you go?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? Obviously, it’d help if I knew more about him. His background. His training. His identity. Without more intel, I feel like I’m conducting this investigation with one hand tied behind my back.”
“Sorry, no dice. All I’m authorized to tell you is, he’s a person of interest in the bridge attack,” Yancey lied.
“That and a blurry picture’s not a lot to go on.”
“True enough,” Yancey agreed, “but Lord knows, I’ve tracked down men with less. What’s your next move?”
“I’ve dispatched a four-man team to his last known location. They’re conducting a grid search as we speak. And I’ve got dogs en route. I figure if he’s hurt, he may’ve left a blood trail, and if he’s holed up nearby, they’ll take us right to him. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Good. Keep me posted. Text me if you find anything.”
“You’re not sticking around?”
“I can’t. I’ve got another matter to attend to.”
“Which is?”
“Way above your pay grade, son.”
21.
YOU SURE YOU wanna do this?” Cameron asked.
“Nope,” Hendricks replied, “but I don’t have any better ideas, so this one’ll have to do. Are you clear on your part of the plan?”
Cameron smiled. “Are you?”
They were in San Francisco, parked on the northbound side of Lyon Street in the Nissan Altima they’d lifted from the rental agency. The Presidio was to the west behind them. Hendricks twisted in his seat, the stitches in his side pulling, so he could keep an eye on the two Homeland Security officers within sight of their position. One was stationed at the Presidio’s Lombard Street gate. The other was nearer to where they sat, leaning against the low stone wall that encircled the old base. Though the day was warm and clear with an easterly wind holding the city’s trademark fog offshore, they wore full tactical gear, all of it black: helmets, fatigues, ballistic vests, utility belts, hard plastic elbow and kneepads. Both looked hot and tired, but watchful.
Homeland Security had the Presidio pretty well locked down. There was an agent stationed at the end of every dead-end road that jutted north from Lake Street, which ran east to west along the westernmost half of the park’s southern border. East of Lake Street, the park’s edge became more accessible, so agents were stationed line of sight from one another just outside. There were regular foot patrols along the Mountain Lake Trail and vehicular patrols along West Pacific Avenue, both of which ran just inside the southern edge of the park’s stone fence. But to the east, no road or trail ran along the inside border, and closing Lyon Street-which ran parallel to it just outside-was impractical, so Homeland Security’s presence was thinner there. Not much thinner, but still, it was a weakness Hendricks had every intention of exploiting.
“I’m serious,” he said. “I need to know you’re good to go.”
“I am.”
“All right, then,” Hendricks said. “Let’s do this.”
The plan was Cameron’s.
“So,” she’d asked as they sped north from Palo Alto, “this Segreti guy you’re looking for-how do you expect to find him?”
The highway had been eerily devoid of traffic. In the wake of the attack, it seemed Bay Area residents were staying home.
“I’m working on it.”
“You mean you have no idea.”
“I mean I’m working on it.”
“Are you open to suggestions? Because I spent most of our flight thinking about it, and I have a thought. A couple, actually.”