Part 11 (2/2)
”What does that mean, exactly?”
”It means that I'm gonna do what you want done,” Cross promised. ”But I got other business first. Now, what else have you got on this freak?”
”The priority-”
”Two things,” Cross said, his voice as deceptively transparent as an ice cube. ”One, your priority doesn't mean a thing to me. Two, as it turns out, I have to do this other business to get something I need to do the work you want done.”
”Perhaps we could-”
”Shut up and let the man do his job,” Percy cut the blond man off.
Tracker and Tiger were silent. That frightened the blond man a lot more than Percy's growling. And he was truly terrified of Percy.
”NO WAY I can interview him?”
”Not a chance,” the blond told the man at the other end of a phone conversation. ”We came to him, not the other way around. But we do have video of him interacting with us, if that would be any help.”
”All right, partner,” the consultant said. ”Send what you've got over that special little modem of yours-I've got the one you gave me all hooked in. Not just the video, now-everything you put together before you decided he was the man for the job.”
”How fast can you-?”
”I'll call you when I've got something to say,” the consultant answered, a split second before he pushed the ”end” b.u.t.ton on his cell phone.
CROSS STEPPED off a commuter flight, picked up the rental car waiting for him, and drove straight to a p.a.w.nshop that was on the permanent Watch List for local law enforcement.
His hair was a tangle of blond curls, and he sported a prominent beauty mark on his cheek. An earring dangled from his right ear on a long chain. Anyone who looked closely enough would see the ”ball and chain” symbol for a submissive in a ”collared” relations.h.i.+p.
Cross exchanged only a few words with the proprietor. They entered a back room. When Cross left the p.a.w.nshop, he was carrying a small suitcase.
A no-tell motel took his cash. Cross changed his clothes, then re-entered the rental car. First, he plugged a memory stick into the car's data-port, disabling its GPS. Then he drove for a little less than two hours, totally fixed on his objective, never noticing the urban grit give way to a scenic countryside.
He arrived at what looked like a college campus. A closer look would reveal it to be a minimum-security prison. Cross, now dressed in a conservative suit, with the fool-the-eye disguise removed, entered the prison, carrying an attache case. He was processed through, enduring only a scanner-no pat-down searches were required at this security level.
Next stop, the Visiting Room. It was an open plan, no barriers between visitors and convicts. Lots of people were visiting, children playing with their sort-of-incarcerated parents; unarmed guards in neat uniforms circled quietly, observant but lacking the hyper-alertness of security staff in real prisons.
Cross was directed to a corner table. He waited patiently until an inmate walked over to him. The man was tall, slender, handsome to the verge of ”pretty,” with a pencil mustache highlighted against his cafe-au-lait skin.
The two men's heads moved very close together; they spoke in barely audible whispers.
”Just get him out to the South Yard anytime after two-thirty tomorrow afternoon,” Cross said.
”Man, I don't know if I can do that. It ain't like we tight or nothing-I don't hardly know the dude.”
”Save it, Maurice. One, you owe me. Two, talking people into things is your game. And, three, I'll make it worth your while.”
”Look here, bro....”
”Wait. There's still a number four.”
”Which is ...?”
”You remember your old pal Ace? He told me to give you a message: You don't get this guy out into that South Yard tomorrow afternoon, you better lock up. For the whole rest of your bit, understand? You can't do that here, so you'll need a transfer. And you'd better tell the Parole Board you'd rather do more time, too. The longer you stay Inside, the safer you'll be.”
Maurice nodded, not happy about it, but resigned to the realities of his life ... one of which was men like Cross.
CROSS WAS in full camo gear, which covered not just his body but his head and hands as well. He worked his way through the hills surrounding the inst.i.tution he had visited the day before. A quick glance at his watch-13:56-confirmed he still had plenty of time.
Methodically, he set up a sniper's roost. Next, he removed a rifle from its case, found a comfortable p.r.o.ne position, and dropped the heavy barrel's bipod to steady the scope.
A thin smile cracked his masklike face when he saw Maurice on the yard. The pimp was talking earnestly to a white male, gesturing wildly with his hands to emphasize whatever he was saying.
Cross dialed in the man's face, then slowed his breathing. When certain he could get off a round between heartbeats, he slowly squeezed the trigger.
The target's head exploded, followed immediately by the cccccrack! of a high-power cartridge.
Cross carefully disa.s.sembled his sniper's rig and repacked everything, working quickly but unhurriedly.
Then he made a careful retreat through the wooded hills. He stopped near a big tree marked by a freshly dug trench in the ground, lined with some sort of metallic cloth.
His camo gear came off first. By the numbers. When everything was stowed away, including the sniper rifle, Cross dressed himself in conventional hiker's clothing.
A piece of polished steel confirmed his restored appearance. Cross then removed a pair of large gla.s.s-stoppered bottles from behind the tree. As he poured the contents of each bottle into the trench, they formed a new substance, which immediately went to work. Cross watched as everything inside began to liquefy, then carefully resealed the metallic cloth with his gloved hands.
It only took minutes for Cross to replace the divot, check the scene to make certain he'd left no trace of his presence, and move out.
”I CAN'T believe it,” the young cop said. ”I mean, how could a sniper pick him off at that distance? That's almost half a mile.”
”I guess when they say 'low security' that about covers it,” McNamara replied.
”That man you sent-”
”I don't know what you're talking about,” McNamara answered, using the cold voice he saved for special occasions. Professional occasions. ”And neither do you.”
”Okay,” the young cop replied, his eyes wet. ”But I'll never forget it, anyway. And if he ever-”
The young cop stopped himself from saying anything more. The man he had been talking to was already gone.
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