Banner took all this in with a glance, then turned away. She noted the table was entirely clear except for a neatly squared pile of photographs, facedown in front of Edwards.
“Now that we’re all here,” Donaldson said, the merest trace of a South Boston accent in his delivery, “I’ll get straight to the point. We have a situation.”
Banner looked on, nodding. Of course they had a situation. She just wondered what variety of situation. Perhaps the president had changed his mind again about visiting the city before the midterm elections.
Donaldson turned his head to Edwards like a news anchor handing over to a junior colleague for the spade work.
Edwards glanced at Banner and then at Castle, as though ensuring they were both paying attention. “This morning, around three a.m., a transport van carrying two prisoners from USP Marion to the federal correction complex at Terre Haute was ambushed on a county highway, about ten miles out.” Edwards stopped to take a breath, as though the sentence had been an exertion. “We have a coordinated mixed scene out there, our people assisting local law enforcement. Looks like there were only two marshals on board, both killed. There was no escort. We’re still trying to find out why, given the status of the passengers.”
“Who were they moving?” Castle asked.
Edwards looked a little peeved at being interrupted. Which was disingenuous, Banner thought, given the pregnant pause he’d left there. Edwards leaned back in his chair, which creaked. “We believe the target of the attack was this man.” He held up one of the pictures: a glossy eight-by-ten color mug shot of a weedy, balding man of about forty, the hint of a wry smile at the corners of his mouth. The nameplate he held at chest level spelled out mitchell, c. j. in blocky letters.
“Clarence James Mitchell. Photograph taken about four months ago. He’d been awaiting trial on charges including racketeering, aggravated assault, and rape.”
Banner studied the picture. The Bureau’s involvement made sense already, given the racketeering charge, and so did Edwards’s interest: She knew his background was in the Organized Crime section. But why were she and Castle there? Neither currently worked OC. She shot a glance at Castle, who looked like he was also in the dark.
“Mitchell was due to turn state’s evidence on one Vitali Korakovski,” Edwards continued, “one of our high-value targets in the Russian Mob. We’ve confirmed that the three men who carried out the ambush were Korakovski soldiers.”
Banner tilted her head in surprise. How could the number and identities of the attackers have been established so quickly without any surviving witnesses? Unless…
“What do you mean ‘were’?” she asked before she could stop herself. He’d stressed that word a little too much.
Edwards smiled. Evidently, she seemed to have hit on the right moment to ask a question. “I mean they’re not anymore, Agent Banner.” He held up three more photographs, one by one. Vivid color close-ups of dead men’s faces, snapped where they lay in a barren field. All except the last one, who didn’t have a face, or much of a head. “Zakhar Radev, Nikolai Kosygin… and we’re reasonably sure this one was Vladimir Labazanov,” he said, introducing the photographs. “Three tier-one badasses, all taken out by one man who started out unarmed and handcuffed.”
Banner was suddenly aware that Edwards was talking exclusively to her and Castle, ignoring the fourth man, who was listening with interest, but not reacting as if to new information. He’s been briefed already, whoever he is, Banner realized.
Castle sat back in his chair, incredulous. He waved his left hand at the mug shot of Mitchell, now lying discarded on the table. “You mean to say this guy did that?”
Edwards looked pleased with himself, obviously enjoying drip-feeding the information this way. He shook his head slowly, producing another photo. Banner saw Donaldson wince and thought it was less a signifier of squeamishness than of mild embarrassment, like somebody had made an off-color joke that had lowered the tone of a dinner party.
“Clarence James Mitchell, photograph taken around four hours ago,” Edwards said matter-of-factly. “Somebody hit him with a heavy blunt object — probably the butt of a shotgun — and kept hitting him until his face caved in. Then they pounded the mess into the ground a little more.”
“Who was the other prisoner?” Banner asked distractedly. She was absorbed in studying the photograph, morbidly fascinated by the juxtaposition of the mess of pulped flesh, splintered bone, and brain matter with the smirking mug shot she’d seen a minute earlier.
Edwards didn’t say anything. He looked a little disappointed at Banner’s reaction, like he’d expected her to close her eyes or shudder or run from the room screaming. She was glad to disappoint him, but it hadn’t been deliberate. Bloody crime scenes didn’t faze her; they never had. Everyone told her that that was unusual, that it should take time to become desensitized, but for whatever reason, it was an adjustment she’d never had to make.
Donaldson put both palms on the table, wordlessly indicating to Edwards that he would field the question. He glanced at Banner and Castle before speaking. “This is where we come to our problem. It transpires that the second prisoner was fairly… ‘high value’ himself.” He nodded at Edwards without looking at him as he reused the phrase. “This second man killed all three Russians, most likely in self-defense, and then killed Mitchell, most likely for the sheer hell of it. He’s armed, he has military training, and we don’t have clue one where he’s headed.
“I guess it would be redundant at this point to say he’s a highly dangerous individual, but he’s also highly motivated to stay free. He was scheduled for lethal injection in two weeks.”
That explained why he was being moved to Terre Haute, Banner realized — Haute being the location of federal death row. And that meant the prisoner had to be…
“Caleb Wardell?” Castle said. Banner thought it sounded like a question, but then she realized it was just that he wanted to be wrong.
Donaldson sighed as Edwards held up the last photograph from the pile.
“Caleb Wardell,” he confirmed flatly.
The photograph showed the head, shoulders, and upper chest of a lean, yet powerfully built man in an orange jumpsuit. Neck muscles taut. Charles Manson beard. Cold, expressionless eyes.
“Jesus,” Castle said.
“The sniper?” Banner asked.
“The same,” Edwards confirmed.
Castle and Banner exchanged a look, both knowing why they were here now.
“He killed twenty people last time,” Castle said.
“Nineteen,” Edwards said defensively, as though Castle were exaggerating the problem.
“And we want to make sure that doesn’t happen again,” Donaldson said. “Wardell was doing federal time. That means the Bureau’s got it with immediate effect, not once it’s had time to spiral out of control. The two of you will be heading up the task force.”
“Great.” Castle’s tone was completely neutral.
Banner kept quiet. She’d sensed this coming and, despite herself, was exhilarated. Sure, it was a tall order, but it was the kind of tall order that made careers. The kind of tall order that could help her on the way to where she wanted to finish up in twenty years or so.
Donaldson let Castle’s comment pass. “Agent Castle, you worked on the original case here in Chicago. I understand you were there when they got Wardell. Agent Banner, you recently distinguished yourself on the Markow manhunt. I have every confidence that we can run this fugitive down before the media gets ahold of the story.”