Mikhail gave her a look that told her they were both thinking the same thing.
From outside they heard the shattering of glass as the porch light went out. But Petra ignored it. They had come for information. She couldn’t chance blowing it this time, worrying about something she could do nothing about. Reaching down, she grabbed the old man by the front of his sweatshirt and pulled him to his feet. She pulled the picture from her pocket and held it in front of his face.
“Have you seen this before?”
Moody stared at her like he couldn’t understand what she was saying. He looked scared and old and frail.
“Look at the picture, dammit!”
Moody held Petra’s gaze, fear in his eyes, then looked at the picture and gasped. “Where did you get that?”
“So that’s a yes?”
Moody gave her a single, shocked nod. “Where … how …?”
The shot had been taken in what looked like a small restaurant. There were two tables on either side of the image, and a bar that ran almost the entire length of the background, with plates of sandwiches sitting on top that looked untouched. Scattered around the room were fourteen people, nine men and five women, some sitting at the tables, some standing near the bar. All but one looked like they were between seventeen and twenty-two. The one who didn’t was a man who had to be at least forty. They were dressed comfortably for the time, button-down shirts and slacks for the men, blouses and skirts for the women. Several of the men and one of the women had glasses of beer in front of them, though none were drinking at the time the image was snapped. And though they had all been looking at the camera, not one of them had been smiling. “You’re in this photo, aren’t you?” she asked.
Hesitation, then another nod.
She pointed at one of the men near the bar. Young and smiling and completely average, his hand curved around a glass. “You, correct?”
“So long ago.”
“And this one,” she said pointing at a man at the left table, leaning back casually. “David Thomas, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And this is—”
“Ryan Winters.”
Petra could feel the hair at the back of her neck tingle. Finally, they had their key. Moody. He would be able to point them toward the Ghost, toward closure.
“We know most of the names of the people in the photo,” she said. “What I need is for you to tell us who —”
The shatter of glass cut her off.
Petra pushed Moody back to the floor as a second windowpane blew inward.
She glanced at Mikhail. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“The garage,” he said.
“Is there a car there?” Petra asked Moody.
“Please, leave me alone,” Moody pleaded.
She grabbed him by the arms and rolled him onto his back. “I am
He nervously licked his lips.
“Is there a car in your garage?”
“Yes,” Moody said. “A pickup.”
“Where are the keys?”
“In the kitchen. On a hook by the door.” Moody motioned toward the back of the house.
“Come on,” Petra said.
“Take my truck. I don’t care,” he said. “But I’m staying here.”
“I already told you, they will kill you if you stay.”
“You’ll kill me if I go.”
“You misunderstand the situation, Mr. Moody. You’re more valuable to me alive than dead.”
The glass on one of the Maxima’s windows imploded.
“What was that?” Donovan shouted over the radio link.
In the moment of silence that followed, something smacked into the side of the house. A voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, one of Donovan’s men. “Someone’s shooting. They hit the car and just hit the house. I think that first shot might have got the driver.”
“Who the hell fired?”
“It looked like it came from the southeast.”
“Mercer,” Donovan said, “did you see anything?”
