Broker nodded, and after another hour of discussions, he caught an evening flight back out of Reagan Airport.
It was when he was passing a bookstore at JFK, that a book cover caught his attention — a drawing of Gunnery Sergeant Carlos Hathcock, the most successful sniper in the Vietnam War.
Broker knew the story of Hathcock, the most famous Marine Corps sniper who broke just about every shooting record when he was in the Corps and won the Wimbledon Cup, the US Long Range High Power Championship.
Hathcock had 93 confirmed, witnessed kills in Vietnam, but he himself believed he had taken out upward of 300 enemy personnel.
Broker stopped and stared at the cover as it dug something deep in his mind and brought up images of marksmen, shooting distances, targets, and positions and close-range shooting. That thing in his mind that made connections between random events and discovered logic and reason and purpose, brought up numbers, and suddenly everything fell in place.
He remained oblivious of his surroundings for long seconds, the curses of passengers behind him lost in the air. He started jogging, then sprinting, and reached the exit and searched for a cab, all the while trying various numbers on his sat phone and finally got through one.
‘Tony,’ he shouted, ‘get—’
A black van wheeled in front of him, its doors swung open, and Broker bitterly realized he was outwitted when he saw muzzles pointed at him.
The gunmen, masked and silent, snatched his phone, thumbed it off, and drove him to his apartment block. They whipped off their masks when they reached it and prodded him to the entrance, past his security code at the main entrance, up the passkey-coded elevator, and up to his floor.
He didn’t recognize any of them, but recognized the build and their moves — they were the gang’s best hitters, experienced mercenaries who’d joined the gang. He stood in front of his apartment door, ferociously thinking of ways out, hoping beyond hope that the one factor he was counting on turned out right, when a blow to his head from behind brought him to his knees. He was grabbed by his shirt and pulled upwards, his vision darkening, and a gun jabbed in his ribs. The message was clear, he had to disarm the security on his door and enter it.
A split second of hesitation and he was hit again, harder, almost losing consciousness, and pulled up again, the gun ramming harder in him. With shaky fingers, he entered the code, swiped his finger, and looked in the eye scanner, and the door swung open.
He was flung inside, stumbling, and when he looked up, despair flooded him.
The four of them were there in front of him, all bunched close together, several heavies behind them. Bwana and Roger had gone out, and he’d been hoping against hope that they hadn’t returned yet and would be the rescue team. He saw Bwana shrug in resignation at his glance, and both Roger and Bwana fell as rifle butts hit them.
Another hood brought Broker to his knees with a rifle. Dimly, he heard a voice yelling at them, ‘Don’t fucking move a muscle.’
He coughed, a ribbon of blood spooling from his lips, sagged back as he was pulled up, and jerked once as cold water was poured over his face. He retched drily, wiped his face with his shirt, and breathed deeply, sight returning to him slowly. Bwana was still on his knees, though the hitters had stopped raining kicks and blows on him, his breathing loud and harsh in the silence of the room.
There were six hitters behind the four; Rocka and the kids were to the right of them. Lisa and Shawn were in shock, their eyes wide and blank, mercifully not comprehending the events before them. Beyond them, Broker saw the lighted skyline of the city through the darkened glass wall of his apartment.
There was one hitter with his gun aimed at the family, two behind Broker, nine heavies in all. Bwana, Roger, Chloe and Bear were not tied or restrained in any way, but were bunched so close together that any aggressive action was impossible.
Soft footsteps sounded, and a huge man glided into view, wearing a sports jacket over a tight T-shirt and jeans, his litheness of movement belying his size, a panther on the prowl, his hawk eyes inspecting the scene before him, a thin smile breaking on his lips when they lighted on Broker.
‘Broker, I presume,’ he said in a cultured voice. Scheafer, born and battle-hardened in Kosovo, had acquired a cultured accent and had slowed down the pace of his delivery. Murderer, rapist, thug, killer, and torturer, he might be, but who said refined speech didn’t go along with that job.
‘You’ve decimated half my gang. What I built in five years reduced to a fraction in less than a year,’ he said, a savage expression crossing his face. ‘It all ends today, though.’
‘Maybe not for all of you,’ he said, glancing at Chloe. ‘This little one, now, I just might keep. That other one’ — he nodded in Elaine Rocka’s direction — ‘is too old. No use for her.’
She looked at him steadily, her voice clear and firm. ‘On the farm we used to put down rabid dogs and foxes. Your mother should’ve put you down at birth.’ She fell heavily as he stepped to her and slapped her savagely.
‘Bitch. In Kosovo, women knew their place. Fucking and children. That’s all their purpose was. In your country, you’ve been given too much freedom.’ He glared at her for a moment and turned back to Broker.
‘Why’re you here? Any of your thugs could’ve killed us,’ Broker asked him, asking him anything to buy time. He didn’t have a plan, they didn’t have a plan, but every minute they bought gave them an opportunity to think of one.
‘I brought him,’ a new voice replied, and a figure stepped into view behind Scheafer, a hand on his shoulder.
A figure they knew very well.
Chapter 44
Deputy Director Isakson.
His professional façade was replaced by an air of contempt as he surveyed them all, his eyes flicking over all of them before swinging back to Broker.
Broker realized how it must’ve gone down. Isakson’s presence at the apartment would have lowered the alertness of Bear and Chloe, with the Fed probably presenting Scheafer as a Marshal to them. Scheafer’s men would’ve swiftly entered the apartment, overpowering them, and when Bwana and Roger entered, they would’ve been felled by the concealed heavies.
‘You don’t seem very surprised to see me,’ Isakson sneered at him. ‘Your guys, on the other hand… I think they’re still not believing it.’
Roger and Bear turned their burning eyes on him, underlining his comment.
Broker answered him slowly. ‘For a traitor, you did everything right, better than Hanssen. You probably wouldn’t have been made.’ He fought the urge to launch himself at Isakson and ram his smirk down his throat.
‘I was at the airport, and it was a book cover that made the connection for me. I realized Hamm’s gunman at the hotel couldn’t have missed you, shouldn’t have missed your heart or head. You were a couple of steps ahead of Rolando, closer to the gunman and just ten feet away from him. At that range, those shots weren’t a lucky accident, not when Rolando’s shots were more lethal.’
Isakson was silent, and after a pause Broker continued. ‘The bullets went where they were intended to — your shoulder, injuring you, but not fatally. Rolando, on the other hand, got lucky. When I met him at the hospital, he said he’d stumbled just at the moment your gunman shot him — that saved him. Of course, then, I didn’t attach any significance to his words.