Lopez rubbed his hand across his face as he steered the vehicle toward the right lanes, glancing upward to a sign for the Harlem River Drive.
Houston smiled. “Miss the beard?”
“Not sure. Just getting used to it. Nervous habits and all.” He took the offramp from the bridge and forced his way into the gaggle of vehicles queuing up for the East Side Highway. “I’m sure we got our photos taken back there.”
Houston stared outside the window at the merging traffic. “The image-recognition solutions still struggle with facial hair, so I’m the bigger danger. We are number one on the most-wanted list. Anyone would want to make their career bringing us in.” She looked behind them and studied the vehicles. “These giant sunglasses should mask my forehead and cheekbones some. I kept the visor down as well as we approached the toll booth. Which reminds me: fifteen bucks for a car?”
“Getting a bit ridiculous. Cheaper with EZ-Pass, but we have to stay off the grid.” Lopez grunted. “So how do we fight a digital terrorist group when we stay off the grid?”
“First, they stopped being digital. Rebecca’s encrypted data was informative: Bombings, shootings — nothing virtual there. Second, there are ways to get online without alerting the world to your presence. We’ve done it.”
“You’ve done it. But these guys put the Feds to shame. It’s different.”
“They aren’t omniscient. They don’t know what to look for. We don’t exist for them. Not yet, anyway. We’ll be targeted later.”
“They seem pretty good at that.”
Houston turned her body toward Lopez, swinging a leg onto the seat to stabilize herself. “I’ve been thinking about that, Francisco. How the hell did these guys remotely pilot these things so skillfully? They aren’t drone operators.”
“Maybe they recruited some. Besides, it’s not like people don’t know where the Capitol is. Just punch in the GPS coordinates and off you go.”
“And how do you explain hitting a moving vehicle like the CEO’s car?”
Lopez nodded. “Got me there. They’d have to steer it. In real time.”
“Pretty tough with an evasive target. I doubt the best drone pilots in the CIA could do that.”
“Then how?”
“Same thing you said. GPS coordinates.”
Lopez furrowed his brows. “I see. Mobile devices.”
“Right. Even CEOs have their damn smart phones these days. If they could hack into one or more of the Big Brother databases out there, they might be able to get the target’s phone GPS feed. It’s like shining a laser beam for a missile. Even a moving target. Individualized. It’s perfect. They were using this in Pakistan and other locations for al-Qaeda honchos. But it should work even better in Western nations.”
“You’re right. It’s perfect for assassinations: auto-piloted drones coupled to the real-time coordinates of the target.”
Houston spun back around as Lopez exited the Harlem River Drive and entered the streets of Harlem itself. “For now. If this is what is happening, you can bet every figure of importance will ditch their GPS-enabled tech.”
“By then, it might be too late.”
Rebecca Cohen was standing outside the rundown brownstone as they pulled up. Lopez and Houston exited the car quickly and scaled the steps to meet her at the doorway.
Houston glanced around them. "You're on a burner cell? No GPS?"
Cohen nodded. "As you asked. It's a cheap model, but it makes calls. You might be right about how the hits were made. It's so simple it's frightening." She motioned them to the entrance. "Let's get in and I'll let John know you're here." Cohen unlocked the door and the three entered rapidly.
"What a dump," said Houston. Cohen shut the door behind them.
The wreckage of the former living room was strewn with broken furniture, blankets, and litter. Grime coated the walls and floor. It stank.
"Former crack house that was shut down and left to die," said Cohen as she handed Lopez the keys. “Gentrification hasn’t made it this far north yet.”
He nodded. "It's perfect. I'll be right back."
The ex-priest returned quickly with a heavy suitcase in each hand and a backpack strapped over his shoulders. Cohen glanced briefly at the bags as she dialed. She didn't need any guesses as to what they held within. She punched a key on her phone.
"John? It's Rebecca. They're here. Yes, okay. Go ahead."
She was silent for a few moments as muffled sounds came from the speaker. Meanwhile, Lopez and Houston opened one of the suitcases, removing body armor and firearms. They stripped to their underwear, Houston with a tight sports bra, Lopez’s rippling musculature distracting the FBI woman. They donned tight black tanks and black pants, strapping on shoulder harnesses with holsters for handguns and knives. Cohen thought she saw stun grenades as well in the suitcase, but it was closed before she could be sure.
She hung up the phone and approached the pair. "Some interesting news."
Houston slipped a loose black shirt on, the rough fabric concealing all evidence of the weaponry within. "The crime scene?" Lopez seemed to be tying together a long robe or coat of some kind.
"Yes," said Cohen. "The executions. Looks like our hackers left considerable physical evidence behind in their getaway. The crime unit just went through things and it's preliminary, but there are prints and hair."
Houston's face was set. "Well, it's a start. How soon until we have something?"
“This is priority one. John and Frank are on their way back with them. They'll do this right. Best people, best labs. Everything is nearby. Bottlenecks should be travel time to the labs and lab work. We’ll get the fingerprints first. DNA tests in some hours plus time to search databases."
"If things go well," said Lopez. He stepped beside her.
His demeanor had changed completely. Outwardly, he was covered in black vestments, modified and tightened so as not to restrict his movements. Along with the monastic garb came a stern expression on his face, one Cohen had never seen before. For the first time, she noticed clearly the scar on his forehead, branded there by the hot barrel of a weapon held by a vengeful madman, a circle of white tissue with a cross from the site at the top. It almost seemed to glow.
Cohen cleared her throat "Yes, if things go well. Listen, I want to thank you both for coming. I know you didn't have to."
Lopez slammed a magazine into the butt of a gun and holstered the weapon within the folds of the vestments. Even his gloves and boots were black. As Houston unconsciously moved to his side, Cohen noted how similar they seemed, how coordinated their motions, like two black cats stalking prey.
"Let's get to work," Houston said. "When do we get to meet the gang?"
24
The location was ideal. The overpass was large, the tunnel and space underneath deep and shadowed. They were concealed from nearby residential windows by the thundering highway above and from other eyes by the East River at their backs. The dark evening created numerous pockets of gloom away from any direct lighting. There had been a contingent of homeless, but at the sight of the figures entering the dark underpass, they seemed to sense danger, and one by one they filed out and seemed to dissolve into the flow of the city.
Savas had used Intel 1's access to city camera systems and determined that the area was poorly covered, a patchwork of lenses crossing nearby but leaving considerable holes, including the space underneath. It was not difficult to arrange for separate approaches that would avoid nearly all surveillance.