Bear and Guerrera crowded around as Tim trial-and-errored his way through the elaborate phone menu. He arrived at the address book, his hands sweating with anticipation, and clicked the icon. It was empty-no saved numbers.
His disappointment was sharp, but he couldn't say unexpected. If Kaner knew enough about investigative technology to want to destroy and hide his cell phone before being killed or taken captive, he probably wasn't dumb enough to input Den Laurey's numbers. Bear made various sounds of irritation, and Guerrera took a step back and sank his hands into his pockets.
But Tim kept his focus on the cell phone, using the arrow buttons to reach the submenus. All outgoing calls had been deleted. He thumbed around some more, and the missed-calls menu popped up, also empty. He backed out, highlighted "incoming calls"-the final play-and punched
"OK."
Amid seven "blocked callers," the same phone number came up three times.
Chapter 54
From the street nothing was visible, just a dark room off an unlit third-floor balcony, parted polyester drapes billowing in the breeze like languid belly dancers. The three-hundred-dollar-a-week, four-story apartment-hotel, ambitiously named Elite Towers, overlooked a quiet throw of street. Crowded along the far side were a parking lot, a biker bar named Suicide Clutch, complete with neon martini and padded door, and most critically, a wall-mounted pay phone.
Standing ten feet back in the hotel room behind a tripod-mounted, high-powered rifle, Tim observed the pay phone through the Leopold variable-power scope at 5x. If he zoomed in to 10x, the faded phone number above the pay phone's black receiver-the same number listed three times in Kaner's incoming-call log-would fill his field of vision. A KN250 attachment provided him night vision, more essential every minute. The drapes flickered, never intruding on the two-foot gap that provided Tim a clear line of sight. The only interruptions in his field of vision were the uprights of the balcony railing through which he aimed and a crisscross of suspended electric cable too high to matter.
After tracing the number to the location, Tim had organized the takedown, then headed home to retrieve his sniper rifle. He'd oiled and run a patch through his bolt-action Remington M700, which held four in the well, one in the chamber, then gone back to the master to shower. After staring at the unmade bed and Dray's Gap sweats kicked off in the corner, he'd upgraded to his match-grade M14. It was semiauto, accommodating twenty magazine-fed rounds, and, if the necessity arose, it could turn Den Laurey into pink mist.
Based on his knowledge of the Sinners' chain of command, Guerrera surmised that Kaner took his marching orders from Den Laurey alone. The deputies assumed that Den Laurey was using the pay phone to place sensitive calls that he didn't want traced or logged. There was little question that Den still needed to be in contact with the higher-ups-Uncle Pete, the Prophet, the money launderer, or whoever was coordinating the drug-money exchange.
The breeze, unchecked even by a screen door, pressed against Tim's face. The tail end of dusk turned the street shades of gray. The air was grainy, dreary, heavy, like war footage. Tim remained frozen in a supported standing position, rifle butt to his shoulder, fiberglass stock pushing up his cheek, his face 3.25 inches back from the scope for proper eye relief. The end of the stock was slotted in the padded U atop the tripod. The rifle was balanced; if he let go, it would remain in position.
As dark overtook dusk, Tim turned up the illuminated mil-dot reticle so the crosshairs glowed red. He'd been standing motionless more than three hours, and he'd seen little more than a few off-the-assembly-line full-dressers come and go, and the occasional biker stumbling out of the cocktail dive. It was still too early for anyone but the dregs and the die-hard lushes. A parking attendant sat on the curb in front of the lot smoking a cigarette, ignoring the well-fed homeless guy crushing cans in the alley. A refrigerator van idled in front of the bar, a phallically tilted Miller Genuine Draft bottle rendered on its side.
Statue-still in the dark room, Tim watched and waited.
The soldiers in sniper training had square jaws and calves like softballs, and they all smelled of tobacco and Right Guard. They were funny in the darkest manner, a mordant kind of funny that kept moving so despair wouldn't overtake it.
Like Ma Bell told you. Reach out and touch someone.
Gonna give motherfucker a case ofinstant lead poisoning.
The Good Lord said it's better to give than receive.
Tim had never joked much. He'd stayed quiet and hit his targets, and somehow the others had found that all the more heartless. In joking they released their discomfort, but he'd taken his and swallowed it live, held it in the vise of his body as it banged against his insides, held it until it disintegrated. Dray had taught him, slowly, painstakingly, how to open himself up to the world instead of trying to contain the world inside himself. She'd taught him to be alive, and having Ginny had forced him to be alive, and then he'd paid the price, felt the searing pain at his tender core. Dray could manage pain and intimacy. Dray could balance private cause with public duty. Dray was the best part of him. If she died as Ginny had died, and if he continued as he would have to, he was not sure who he would be.
He heard the chopper before it came into view. His jaw tightened at the angry crackle of the engine, and then a helmeted biker eased to the curb near the pay phone and dismounted. The bike had none of Danny the Wand's telltale markings. It had been spray-painted black, and the license plate was illegible, caked with mud. The engine appeared to be a knucklehead, but Tim couldn't determine whether it was Den's. The street was quiet, almost desolate, the only noise the distant whine of traffic, the muffled thump of Whitesnake from the Suicide Clutch juke, and dead leaves scraping the empty sidewalk.
Tim's earpiece activated with a hiss of static, and then Bear said, "Got him?"
Tim spoke softly so as not to vibrate the rifle, the receiver on his Adam's apple picking up his voice. "Yeah. It's a chopper, but I don't recognize it. Can't make a positive ID."
Bear shifted in his homeless garb, sending a few crushed cans scattering. "Want us to hammer him?"
"Not until we make the positive ID." Tim shifted the scope to the parking attendant at the curb. The rifle stock felt like a part of his face. "Guerrera, you got an angle?"
Guerrera held the cigarette to his lips so they wouldn't be seen moving. "Nope. Eye visor's still down."
Tim tilted the rifle, following the biker to the pay phone. The biker paused, pulling off his helmet.
Den Laurey, magnified five times over, loomed before Tim's right eye.
Tim's voice came high with his excitement. "We got him."
"I'm within range for the takedown," Bear said.
The hum of the refrigerator van accompanied Thomas's voice. "Let's move."
Malane cut in on the primary channel. He was in one of five FBI sedans positioned up the street. "Not until he makes the call. That was the deal."
"You have one minute," Tim said. "And if he so much as breathes wrong, we're swarming him."
"Not until we get a line on the drug swap."
"The deal goes through with or without Den Laurey."
"Yeah, but without this call we don't know where."
"I'm not losing this guy."
"Just take it easy, Rackley. He's not going anywhere. We've got plenty of boots on the ground."
Casting a wary gaze over his shoulder, Den stepped in close to the pay phone. Tim kept the rifle steady, his trigger finger alongside it. With his left thumb and forefinger, he adjusted the dial, pulling back to 4x, which allowed him to fit Den's entire body in the scope picture and watch the surrounding area for civilians.