“You know what tonight is?”
Rainey was facing Paul, but his eyes were looking out the window over Paul’s shoulder. “Six years ago yesterday Thorne, Joe and I were standing in a hospital waiting room in Miami, covered with your blood.”
Paul looked at Rainey. “Really?”
“Well, I remember because I missed Doris’s birthday-we were in the middle of planning and executing the raid on the dock. Remember?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Funny what you remember and why.”
“That’s one anniversary I haven’t been celebrating on a yearly basis,” Paul said, frowning.
40
Two figures moved up the sidewalk, holding to the shadows. One moved ahead of the other and out into the sidewalk beside the curb. The other slipped over the wall and moved silently into the overgrown yard.
Alton Vance, dressed in slacks and a T-shirt with a London Fog jacket to cover the nine-millimeter machine pistol, was standing on the north side of Laura’s porch, watching the bushes for a cat he had seen a few seconds earlier. He looked at his watch. It was early, but darker than normal due to the overcast sky. He heard footsteps on the street outside the wall and turned to watch for the approaching pedestrian. He wondered whether he should radio the house, but those people had been through hell.
They had arrived in the Volvo, Erin looking deflated, Sean shaking his head in some sort of signal to let Alton know something amazing had occurred, and Woody, Mr. Stoneface, staring straight ahead. He couldn’t wait to find out what had happened. He wondered if he should call the guy in to Woody, but the fellow was just a drunk. Thorne was a little ways down the street, walking the dog, and there were cops out on the perimeter at every intersection for two blocks. Sometimes drunks cut down Laura’s street after the cops had checked them out. They couldn’t very well close off the street.
Alton was thirty-one and African-American. He had been assigned to New Orleans straight out of training after law school. His wife had wanted him to practice entertainment law, but he’d been drawn to a life where there was a touch of steel and a badge and satisfaction that this would be a better world as long as he did his job well. He was tired, but this assignment was coming to a head hundreds of miles away. He was sure that Monday morning would find him back at home for a week’s vacation. He needed it.
He saw the top of a head for a split second and heard someone fall and mumble. Fuckin’ drunk. He checked the Uzi, which was shoulder strapped and hung under his right side, as he moved to the gate. As soon as he got to the bars, he saw the feet flailing as the man tried to get up. “Goddamned bitch,” the man growled. “Tryin’ to tell me somethin’. Fuckin’ whore… I got money! Who she think she is?”
Alton relaxed his grip on the machine pistol, stepped through the gate, and stood above the man, whose face was to the ground. Alton reached over to lift the man, and as he did, a second man slid in behind him and pressed something against his back. “Don’t move or you’re dead.”
The drunk flowed upright, looked up and down the street, then smiled at the agent. He tucked his head and said, “Inside, move it.”
Agent Alton Vance moved through the gate with the ex-drunk before him and the unseen man behind. The ex-drunk stripped Alton of the Uzi and the SIG Sauer nine-millimeter. Alton felt something cold slide around his neck… “What was that?” he said as he put a hand to his throat. In answer the man behind him said, “That, Mr. DEA, was Martin Fletcher cutting your worthless throat. Welcome to the end of the world.”
Alton Vance had never imagined himself capable of such blind fear.
Laura was furious with her daughter. Erin had hit the door raging against Woody and Sean and all the babysitters who were ruining her life. Laura had almost slapped her but managed to hold back. Then Erin had collapsed in tears. Laura had been paralyzed with fear the entire time she had waited for them to return, thinking that Erin had been grabbed by Martin Fletcher. Erin had made a passing reference to the fact that Woody had broken a man’s arm in a bar while disarming him.
Now Erin had showered, dressed in clean clothes, and was lying on the couch in the sun room off the kitchen, resting her head on Laura’s lap the way she had when she’d been younger. She had even apologized for her selfish behavior. Laura hoped that she had learned the kind of lesson that no one could have taught her. Kids all thought they were born bulletproof, tragedy resistant. Sean was seated across the room with an ice pack held to his neck. Reb and Woody sat at the counter, and Reid was leaning against the stove with a glass of wine in hand. Laura was a little miffed at him because he hadn’t reacted with appropriate horror to the news that Erin had run away. “kids, go figure,” he had said to Laura’s complete amazement. “She’ll come home when she gets hungry.”
Laura hadn’t spoken to him until Erin had returned.
Reb and Woody were arm wrestling on the counter after the dishes had been cleared. To everyone’s feigned amusement, and Reb’s genuine amazement, he was beating the agent. “See, using the breath-expansion technique works-when you take a breath and hold it and put the air power into your muscles,” the agent said. Woody groaned as the boy pressed the backside of his hand against the cool marble countertop. He whispered to Reb so the women wouldn’t hear. “A quick uppercut to the nuts is the only thing that works better.”
“Is that what you did to the man that scared Erin?”
“If the breathing technique works so good, Woody,” Reid said, “how come you don’t use it yourself and beat him? Take a few minutes off, for Christ’s sake.”
Woody didn’t look up. “What’s eating you, Mr. Dietrich?”
“You. All of you guys. How many times a day do you have to be a hero?”
“We do what we’re paid to do.”
“The DEA? Does the DEA hire people with your demonstrated talents as agents?”
“There,” Reb said. “It does work! I can feel the power.” He growled.
“It’s about the transfer of the power from mental to physical,” Woody said. “Three out of four. So you know you didn’t just get lucky.”
“That’s enough,” Laura said. “Erin, run the dishwater.”
Erin moved to the sink.
“So, Reid?” Woody said. “Want to try your luck?” He slapped his arm on the counter.
“I don’t see what that proves,” Reid said. “How about a game of chess?”
“That’s just a game,” Reb said. “This is real.”
“I’m not much for arm wrestling,” Reid said, dismissing the idea. “Wouldn’t want you to snap my arm showing off for the girls.”
“Whatever,” Woody said. He smiled at Reid.
“What would it prove?”
Woody shrugged. “Probably nothing.”
“You ever killed any people, Woody?” Reb asked.
The room went silent.
Woody turned to him and grew thoughtful. Then he looked at his hands and silently counted each finger twice. “Not so’s I noticed.”
“Really?” Reb asked.
“Nope,” Woody said. “If I’m lying, I’m a professional janitor.”
“But you beat the cold shit outta-”
“Reb Masterson!” Laura snapped.
“-the guys that almost hurt Erin.”
“I imagine maiming is easier if you don’t have too much intellectual interference,” Reid said, smiling. “Anybody can maim, kill. Violence is the defeat of reason. Your brain is the ultimate weapon, Reb. I’m sure Woody will agree with that. Brains over brawn. Progress.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen that creep who…” she said, stopping when she saw Reb’s face turned toward her.
“I wouldn’t have been in a dive,” Reid said smugly.
