Gallows Pole, page 15
“Just so.”
He nodded. “I agree with your analysis, Colonel. So what do you suggest?”
She stood up and walked to the window. “We failed before because we tried to take Heineman head-on. A man like that can’t be taken using those tactics.” She smiled coldly. “But bait a trap with the promise of vengeance…that’s something he’ll never be able to resist. And he’ll come to you.”
Campbell gazed at her with a look of almost fatherly pride. “Colonel Bache,” he said, “You are worth every penny I pay you.” He nodded. “Make it happen.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I will. Now, what about the FBI?”
“Dayton‘s people are keeping an eye on them,” Campbell said. “If they become a problem…” he smiled at her, “I will be asking your advice again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The firing range was nearly deserted when Melissa got there. She was glad of that. This was one of the times when she needed the simple logistics of draw, and aim, and shoot, to occupy part of her mind so that she could free the rest up to think. The less conversation she had to engage in to get to that state of mind, the better.
She got her ear protectors and targets from the range master, found a shooting station away from the sole other shooter on the range, and set up. She ran the first target out to the maximum distance and began firing.
She had always loved the thrill of the hunt, the process of putting together the jagged shards of evidence left behind when a killer shattered someone’s life. She loved watching the mosaic come together, until she knew, beyond doubt, who her quarry was. After that, the takedown was almost anticlimactic. Most killers thought of themselves as smarter, more clever than anyone. They stayed where they were, fat and ripe, low-hanging fruit almost begging to be picked. And when they were picked, boxed up, brought to a sad and sorry end, she felt that the world, at least at that one moment, had been made right again. Balance had been restored, and she’d had a hand in making it happen.
The slide of the automatic popped back, the weapon empty. She laid the it down on the table, ran the targets back in, and grimaced. She loaded up another target, changed magazines, and began again.
This was all different. This time, someone had popped up, seemingly out of the earth, to hand her the name of her UNSUB—her unknown subject— who, she supposed, couldn’t really be called that any more. This time, the feeling of slowly regaining control, of drawing everything together like the pulling of drawstrings to close a bag, eluded her. She didn’t know when balance would be restored, if ever. She was, she had to admit, in over her head, and there was no one in whom she could confide that.
Except maybe Bishop. There was something about him that unsettled her as well. He was a complete enigma to her in many ways. But when he’d talked to her about Dave, he hadn’t snickered, or sneered, or accused her of stirring him up. He’d been calm, one professional to another, and simply asked “what are you going to do?”
“Damned if I know,” she muttered to herself. The slide popped back and she laid the pistol down. She took the ear protectors off and ran the targets back to her. Better, but still below her standards. She sighed.
“I know,” a voice behind her said. “I hate getting back here after a long layoff.”
She turned. “Hey, Arthur,” she smiled at the man standing behind her. She’d gone to the Academy with Arthur McCutcheon, and they’d been friends. She looked rueful. “I need to practice more, I guess.”
He nodded. “Don’t we all.”
“How are things in CI?” she asked. They’d lost touch when they went into different fields, Melissa into Major Thefts/Violent Crime and McCutcheon into Counterintelligence.
“I’m not with CI any more,” he told her. “Went into Counter-terrorism a while back.”
“Really,” she said.
He moved into the shooting station next to hers and began setting up his target. “Yep.” He ran the target out to the end of the range on its long cables. “That’s where the action is these days. And the promotions. And the money, such as it is. ”
“Mind if I pick your brain for a minute?” she said.
He was inserting rounds into the magazine of his pistol with quick, practiced motions. “Sure.”
“What do you know about an outfit called Iron Horse?”
The name made him stop dead for a moment. He loaded the last two rounds into the magazine more slowly before setting it on the table and turning to her.
“Why do you want to know?” he said, his face carefully expressionless.
“A case I’m working,” she said. “The UNSUB leaves little iron horses at the scene. Someone said there might be a connection to something called Iron Horse.” His caution made her cautious. She wasn’t going to tell him everything at this point.
He looked around, as if to see if anyone was listening. No one was, but he still hesitated.
“Arthur,” she said. “What’s going on? What do you know?”
He shook his head. “You have to understand,” he said. “We hear a lot of chatter. A lot of intercepts of communication between the bad guys. Some of it’s just chaff, random stuff they put out there to confuse us. Some of it’s totally routine, ‘Hey Achmed. How’re the wives and kids,’ stuff like that.”
“But?”
He took a deep breath. “A few years ago we started picking up some communications where the senders were clearly pretty freaked out. They kept asking for information about someone, or some group of someones they called The Horsemen. ‘Who are the Horsemen?’ People kept asking. It was pretty clear it wasn’t just an academic question. These people were scared to death. And these are not people who scare easily.”
“What were they afraid of?”
“We didn’t know at first. Then people started disappearing.”
“People? What people?”
“People we were watching, developing cases against. Suddenly they’d drop off the face of the earth. A buddy of mine was about ready to snap up a five-man cell operating near the naval base in Charleston, South Carolina. We had pretty good information they were going to try and pull a USS Cole style attack. Run a speedboat full of explosives into a naval vessel. We were within a day of moving on them, when suddenly,” he made a motion like a stage magician, “Poof! They were gone.”
“They made you,” Melissa said. “They ran.”
He shook his head. “The house was under surveillance, Mel. Their cars were in the driveway. When we went in, there were still half eaten plates of food on the table. Clothes hanging in the closet. Wallets full of cash on the dressers. It was spooky, like one of those stories you hear about ships found drifting in the Bermuda Triangle with the whole crew gone. Oh, and guess what else we found.”
“An iron horse.”
He nodded. “In the middle of the breakfast table. With his front hooves in the butter.”
“Any idea what happened to them?”
He took a deep breath. “One of our agents, Parker, noticed something. She said the showers and tubs had all been scrubbed. Very recently. And very thoroughly. More thoroughly, she said, than any guy she’d ever met would do. And she was right. The sinks were a little bit grubby, but you could have eaten off the shower floor.”
Melissa frowned. “So?”
“So Parker played a hunch. We got a plumber in and dismantled the showers. When we checked the drains, there were traces of blood in them. Blood and bleach. But mostly blood.”
Her voice shook a little as she tried to turn it into a joke. “So someone cut themselves shaving.”
McCutcheon didn’t answer.
“Come on, Arthur,” she said. “How the hell can someone get inside a house and butcher five men with an FBI surveillance team outside? Then get clean away?”
“Good question,” McCutcheon said. “All we know is that in the weeks after, we started hearing the guys we were watching described as ‘martyrs’. So someone knew they were dead. And the chatter about the Horsemen got more panicky.”
She thought of what Bishop had told her. All warfare is psychological, he’d said. Something that gets into your head, something that haunts you. He’d apparently done that, all right. She was beginning to get a sense of what these people were capable of.
“Thanks, Arthur,” she said in a subdued voice.
He nodded and picked up the ear protectors. “Melissa, these people are scary,” he said. “I’d try not to get in their way. “
“We’re supposed to be on the same side,” she said.
“Supposed to be, yeah. But people like this, they have their own agenda.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.
“Just be careful,” he said.
It may be too late for that, she thought. “I will,” she said. As she walked away, the sounds of gunfire filled the range again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Taking Dayton at his home was out of the question. The huge mock-Tudor home in a Norfolk, Virginia suburb sat at the edge of the river and was surrounded by acres of flat green lawn like a golf fairway. Heineman had done a quick recon and spotted half a dozen security cameras without even trying. He’d be as visible as a fly on a plate, with a similar lifespan. Trying to take him at the Calibre facility would have been equally suicidal. Heineman would have to get his target on the move, preferably alone. Fortunately, Dayton, when in his comfort zone, was foolishly a creature of habit. He took his morning run along the same route, precisely at 0600. It was one of the few times he was alone.
Heineman was parked by the curb in a cul-de-sac that had a view of the road where Dayton normally ran. There was still a light fog from off the nearby river, but the rising sun would burn that off soon enough. He was starting to see signs of life in the houses around him: lights coming on in upstairs bedrooms and downstairs kitchens, dogs being let out, cats being let in. The SUV he’d ‘“borrowed” looked like a dozen others in this neighborhood, but he’d have to move soon before someone noticed him. He checked his watch. 0610. Dayton would be coming by any second now.
Normally, a snatch operation would take at least four men, more if you could get them, but Heineman still had a force multiplier: his few remaining doses of Zombie Juice. The dart gun he’d retrieved from one of his private caches of equipment rested under a copy of the Washington Post folded up in the passenger seat. In the early morning light, he could pull up beside the running man, hit him with a dart, and simply invite him into the vehicle. The stuff would keep Dayton quiet and docile until Heineman got him someplace private he’d picked out. And when he recovered the power of speech, Heineman would use his considerable powers of persuasion to find out just why Dayton had sent a goon squad after him. Had someone hired him? And to what end?
Then he’d have to dispose of his former employer. He regretted that slightly. He’d actually liked the man. But he’d become an enemy, and Heineman knew better than to leave a live enemy behind him, especially one with Dayton‘s resources.
A flash of movement on the main road caught his eye. There he was, right on schedule, jogging along without an apparent care in the world. Heineman started the engine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The drive from Melissa’s townhouse condominium in the DC suburb of Falls Church was long and the traffic, as always, was heavy. Usually, the combination had her swearing under her breath by the time she got to work. This time, however, she was too preoccupied to fret over something as mundane as traffic. She was considering what McCutcheon had told her the day before.
These people are scary, he’d said. They tend to have their own agenda. His words had only reinforced the general feeling of unease she felt around the former Iron Horse operatives. Even Bishop, for all his charisma and his calm assurance, was an enigma. She’d felt herself getting close to him, and that made her nervous.
Her cell phone chimed at her from inside her purse on the passenger seat. She fumbled it out of the outside pocket, glanced at the screen, and furrowed her brow. The caller ID screen was a mass of apparently random numbers and letters. She put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“You’re being followed.” It was Bishop’s voice.
“What?” she said. “By who?”
“Black Suburban,” he said. “Tinted windows. Inside lane, three car lengths back.”
She glanced in her rearview. It took her a moment to spot the big truck, but there it was.
“Where are you?” she said.
“A few car lengths behind them,” he answered. “You’ll see me when you need to. Right now, you need to do as I say.”
“What are you going to do?”
“We’re going to get these people off your back,” he said, “And maybe find out who they are and who they work for.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“Take the next exit,” he said. “There’s a McDonald’s about a half mile from the off-ramp. Pull in and park.”
“I’ll be late for work,” she said.
“You’re at work now. Take the exit.” He broke the connection.
The sign for the exit showed it coming up in the next quarter mile. She put her turn signal on.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Heineman drove up slowly behind the running man, who was dressed in standard Army PT shorts and a gray hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. His plan was to pull up next to Dayton and roll down the window as if he was asking directions, then hit him with the dart. He reached under the newspaper, took out the dart gun, and laid it in his lap. Just a few more feet. He glanced in his rearview mirror to make sure the coast was clear. What he saw made him swear under his breath.
A police car was right behind him, practically riding his bumper. He could see the lone officer in the front seat, radio mike raised to his lips. Then the bar lights on top of the car came alive, pulsing and strobing frantically. Heineman swore again and looked at his quarry. He was still cruising steadily along, seemingly oblivious to the traffic stop happening behind him. Heineman swore again as he shoved the dart gun back under the newspaper. He considered his options. Run, fight, or try to talk his way out of it. He didn’t think the vehicle he was driving had enough power to outrun a cop car, and the maze of suburban streets was a poor place to try to do it in, anyway. A fight would tip Dayton off.
He slowed down and pulled to the curb. As he did so, he slid the knife out of his boot and hid it under his leg. Fighting might still need to be an option.
CHAPTER FORTY
The drive-through at the McDonald’s was packed, the line of cars wrapping around the back of the building and almost out into the road. The off-ramp had dumped her off onto an anonymous, crowded, four-lane road lined with strip malls and chain restaurants. She had checked her rearview mirror half a dozen times, straining to catch sight of the black Suburban, but it was obscured by the dense traffic. She finally caught sight of it just as she pulled in. It slowed, as if the driver was undecided whether to follow her in, then pulled in to the parking lot. A minivan was pulling out of a space a few car lengths ahead of Melissa, and the Suburban slid past her and into the space. She tried to catch a glimpse inside at who might be following her, but the windows were too darkly tinted. No one got out of the vehicle, and she could still see the faint blue-gray puffs of exhaust from the idling engine. Her phone rang again, just as the car ahead of her moved forward. She put the phone to her ear.
“Sloppy,” Bishop said. “They’re overconfident. They assume you haven’t made them.”
“I wouldn’t have, normally,” she said. “And I’m still not convinced…”
“Would it convince you to know they were outside your house most of the night?”
“Why would they….wait a minute, how would you know that unless you were there?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You’ve been watching my house?”
“No,” he said, “I’ve been watching the people who’ve been watching your house.”
She felt her stomach twist in mingled fear and anger. “We really need to talk about this.”
“Later,” he said. “Right now, listen very closely and do what I say.” She didn’t answer. “Are you listening?”
“I’m listening,” she said through clenched teeth.
“When I bang on your window, pull out of the line and follow me. As fast as you can. Don’t worry about the traffic. Just go. Okay?”
“What are you going to…”
“Just do it, Melissa. I don’t know what these people want, but I don’t think it’s anything good. So I’m going to slow them down a bit.”
The vehicle ahead of her moved forward. She pulled up, which brought her next to the idling Suburban. It sat there, looming and ominous, the windows blank.
“Okay,” she said.
“One more thing,” he said. “Unlock your doors.”
“Wait, what?”
“Just in case.”
“In case…what?”
But he’d broken the connection. She shook her head and reached down to the switch that opened the electronic door locks.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“OUT OF THE CAR, SIR,” the police car’s loudspeaker blared. ‘HANDS ON TOP OF THE VEHICLE.”
“Shit,” Heineman breathed. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” Had they recognized the vehicle as stolen? He thought he’d left the driver’s body in a stretch of woods where it wouldn’t easily be found. Or, the sickening thought occurred to him, they knew who he was, what he’d done, and where he could be found. Well, if that was the case, he wasn’t going quietly. He slid the knife back into his boot, then reached under the newspaper and fumbled for the dart gun. He ejected the dart that he’d previously chambered and palmed it. If the officer got close enough, Heineman would jam the dart home by hand. He didn’t know if that would work, but he couldn’t think of anything else to try.
He slowly got out of the vehicle and assumed the position, hands on top of the vehicle, the dart concealed beneath his right palm. He turned and watched the officer approach, moving slowly, weapon drawn. The man was huge. He must have been seven feet tall. Heineman knew then that this wasn’t just a standard stop to hassle a suspicious stranger. Then he noticed the pistol the officer was holding on him. It didn’t look like a standard issue police weapon.
