“We met our mission objective,” Mitchell said.
“The outcome isn’t the only thing that matters,” Ananberg said.
“No? Isn’t that our argument? The ends justify the means?”
Robert was gazing at the table, fingers drumming the granite; Mitchell had become the mouthpiece.
“The means are the ends,” Tim said. “Justice, order, law, strategy, control. If we lose sight of that when we operate, the whole thing comes unwound. Results do not override rules.”
“Look, what happened, happened-there’s no need to go pulling pins on a sweat grenade now. Robbie got a little fired up and jumped the gun on our basement entry-”
“He was unpredictable, dangerous, and off his game.” Despite the heat the argument was generating, Tim had yet to raise his voice, a restraint Dray abhorred in him.
“People fuck up sometimes.” Robert seemed unsettled and highly agitated. “No matter what happens, an operation can spin out of control. We’ve all had that happen.”
“Calm down, Robert,” Mitchell said sharply-the first severe note Tim had heard either twin use with the other.
“The guy was poking holes in her.” Robert’s voice, unusually high, shook from the memory.
“We can’t act emotionally during a live operation,” Tim said. “An untimed entry like that gets us killed five times out of ten. We lose our angle, our element of surprise, tactics, strategy-everything.”
Mitchell leaned forward, his jacket bunching tight at the biceps. “I understand.”
Tim turned his stare to Robert. “He doesn’t.”
Robert rose to a half crouch above his chair. “What’s your fucking problem, Rackley? We killed the prick. Instead of riding my ass for going in two seconds early, why don’t you think about what we did accomplish? Think of the puke off the streets, put down, never again eyeing a sister, a mother, a girl at a bus stop.”
Even across the table, Tim picked up a hint of alcohol on his breath. “The point of this, of us, is not merely to kill. Do you understand that?” Tim waited impatiently, glaring back at Robert. “If not, get out.”
Tim found himself thinking about what angle he’d take on a jab if Robert came across the table at him. Mitchell rested a hand on Robert’s shoulder and pulled him gently back down into his chair. The Stork’s head was bent; he rubbed his thumbnail with the pad of his forefinger, an annoying, repetitive gesture that called to mind autism.
Robert’s voice was so low it was barely audible. “Of course I get it.”
Tim fixed him with a stare. “Why the face?”
“What?”
“You shot him in the face. That’s a highly personal kill shot.”
“Your blowing up Lane’s head I would hardly label dispassionate,” Rayner said.
“Lane’s head shot was strategic to ensure the safety of those around him. This was specifically not. You’re supposed to aim at critical mass. If the gun kicks high, you still get the neck. A chest shot has more stopping power, too, especially with a big guy.”
Rayner’s eyebrows were raised, frozen in an expression of distaste or respect.
“So I shot Motherfucker in the face. What are you saying?” Robert was flushed, the muscles of his neck pulled taut.
“You’re not starting to enjoy this, are you?”
Robert stood up again, but Mitchell yanked him back down. He stayed in his chair, eyeing Tim, but Tim turned to face Mitchell. “And what’s this about a rare explosive wire linking the explosives?”
“It’s media horseshit. I use standard wires. There’s no way they could link them.”
“Well, someone in forensics knows the two executions are linked and leaked that fact, with a slight skew, to the media. How do they know? And so quickly? It had to be the explosive.”
Mitchell grew finicky under Tim’s glare.
“That wasn’t a commercial blasting cap, was it, Mitchell?”
“I don’t use anything commercial, not for a key component. Don’t trust it. I make all my own stuff.”
“Great. So could forensic analysis determine that the initiation portion of your homemade blasting cap was similar to the earpiece device? This is LAPD bomb squad we’re talking about, not some Detroit Scooby-Doo with a magnifying glass.”
“Maybe.” Mitchell looked away. “Probably.”
“Who gives a shit anyway?” Robert said. “It doesn’t affect anything.”
“I give a shit, because if it happens and we didn’t plan it, that’s bad news. There’s a reason we voted against a communique”-an angry eye toward Rayner-“not that we’d want to claim this mess anyway. The bomb squad matching the two explosives is going to bring the heat, and we don’t have room for missteps.”
Tim leaned back in his chair, weathering the Mastersons’ aggressive stares. “Let me make something else clear, since you two seem so eager to run and gun: You don’t have what it takes to lead this kind of operation.”
Robert and Mitchell coughed out identical snickers. “Mitch blasted the door,” Robert said. “I was the number-one man through.”
“And I was the one who jumped in and saved your ass when you missed three shots, tripped down the stairs, and got tossed like a Nerf ball by Debuffier.”
The muscles of Robert’s face had tightened, compressing his cheeks into sinewy ovals.
“I run the show operationally,” Tim said. “My rules. Those were the conditions. And since it’s clear none of you have given any thought to defining our operational rules, how’s this: You have none. I’m the sole operator on a kill mission. You will not be on-site when a hit goes down. That’s just how it is.”
“Let’s talk about this,” Rayner said. “You’re not solely in charge here.”
“I’m not negotiating these terms. They stand, or I walk.”
Rayner’s lips tightened, his nostrils flaring with indignation-the spoiled prince used to getting his way. “If you walk, you’ll never get to review Kindell’s case. You’ll never know what happened to Virginia.”
Ananberg looked over at him, shocked. “For Christ’s sake, William.”
Tim felt his face grow hot. “If you think for a minute that I’d stay here and participate in a venture of this severity to get my hands on a file-even a file that could help solve my daughter’s death-then you’ve underestimated me. I will not be blackmailed.”
But Rayner was already backpedaling into his polished-gentleman persona. He hadn’t dropped his guard before, but the picture beneath it was as nasty as Tim had imagined. “I didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort, Mr. Rackley, and I apologize for my phrasing. What I mean is, we all have aims we’re seeking to forward here, and let’s keep our eyes on the ball.” He cast a wary glance at the Mastersons. “Now, how would you like to handle matters operationally so you’re comfortable?”
Tim took a moment, letting the pins and needles leave his face. He met Mitchell’s eyes. “I still may need you. And you.” He nodded at the Stork, as if the Stork gave a damn. “For surveillance, logistics, backup. But I handle target neutralization alone.”
Mitchell’s hands flared wide and settled in his lap. “Fine.”
Ananberg’s eyes tracked over one chair. “Robert?”
Robert ran a knuckle across his nose, studying the table. Finally he nodded, glaring at Tim. “Affirmative, sir.”
“Excellent.” Rayner clapped his hands and held them together, like a delighted Dickensian orphan at Christmas. “Now, let’s get back to the media recap.”
“Fuck the media recap,” Robert growled.
The Stork clasped his hands and raised them. “Here, here.”
Rayner looked like the teacher’s yes boy who’d just had his test tubes stomped by the class bully. “But the sociological impact is certainly relevant to-”
“Bill,” Ananberg said. “Get the next case binder.”
Rayner huffily pulled his son’s crestfallen image off the wall and punched buttons on the safe, issuing a steady stream of words under his breath.
“Wait,” Mitchell said. “Are we voting without Franklin?”
“Of course,” Rayner said. “The binders don’t leave this room.”