Johnny felt better. Lewis was an amazing individual, and Johnny had no choice but to trust him as he had before. What Sam didn't know was that his bodyguards understood that their futures lay with Johnny-that Sam's rule was done. Sam was dying but, as strong as Sam was, that could take another couple of years, and Johnny wasn't nearly as patient a man as Sam was.
91
A chilled, steady rain kept pedestrians on both sides of Decatur Street moving rapidly and the vehicles rolling slowly. Jax had been a long-closed brewery complex when it was turned into a fanciful tourist mall-reminiscent of a medieval castle with flags flying from its sheltered parapets-with views of the Mississippi River and the French Quarter.
Three FBI vehicles were parked facing the levee at the rear of the vast lot beside the complex. Archer's assault-suited FBI SWAT team sat in the step van waiting patiently, while the surveillance techs sat at portable consoles, anxious to field test their equipment.
Archer, occupying the passenger seat of the black Crown Victoria, strummed his fingers nervously on the armrest. He had good reason to be nervous. Special Agent Finch sat stiffly behind the wheel. Every seven seconds the wipers would cycle, clearing their view of a concrete wall three feet from the grill. Like a sullen teenager, Sean Devlin sat slumped in the backseat with her arms locked across her chest. An unoccupied purple Dodge convertible waited next to the Ford. Finch jumped when Archer's radio squawked to life.
“Big Chief, this is Eyes One. The covered wagon has left the barn, headed toward the lower forty. ETA is fifteen minutes.”
“Roger that,” Archer said. “Okay, all teams, prepare to roll when the covered wagon starts back to the barn.”
In a low voice, Finch translated the radio lingo for Sean. “The team watching Manelli's estate just told us that Manelli's car is on the way from there.”
“Okay, Mrs. Devlin. Get ready. I have a team covering the garage. Manelli's driver is on his way, alone. Soon as you get in, make sure you keep noise coming so we always know. Remember that we are running tape.” Archer tilted the ball cap toward his mouth and whispered, “Ears, you getting this?”
“That's a roger,” a voice said. “The signal is ten-ten.”
Archer handed the cap to Sean. “Remember, you just get Manelli to admit being behind the hit on your husband. We need him to admit he ordered it-financed it. Conspired with others. That is all we need.”
“I hope he's thoughtful enough to incriminate himself before he kills me.”
“We will never be more than seconds away. Just get in your car and go. We'll be with you the whole time.”
Finch said, “This will be over before you know it.”
“I just hope it isn't over before you know it.” Sean straightened, and when she did she felt suddenly queasy.
“I can't do it,” she said. “Not now.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Archer growled.
“I'm getting a headache,” she said, alarmed.
“Don't you dare try and pull anything,” Archer threatened. “We're not changing the plan. I have people on you and if you try to make a run for it, they'll shoot you as a fleeing felon.”
“Seriously, I'm getting a migraine,” she said. “Would that surprise you?”
“Finch,” Archer snapped, “go into the van and get some aspirin over here, now!”
“Aspirin?” Sean said. “I need something a lot stronger than that.”
Archer snapped at her, “You'll take the aspirin and you will not get a headache! Do you understand me?”
Sean took four tablets, praying they could stave off a migraine. Keeping her head perfectly level, she slipped the ball cap on gently, and climbed gingerly out of the Crown Vic. Oblivious to the rain, she slid carefully behind the wheel of the convertible. She eased the door closed, not daring slam it for fear of promoting the headache.
Take two bullets in the head and call me in the morning.
92
Inside the USMS ordnance room, United States Chief Deputy Marshal Chet Long handed Hank and Winter a pair of vests to put on under their coats. He pointed to a box on the table. “There's two pairs of binoculars, a tactical radio with earphones. Your FBI pals have been using the encrypted tactical channel it's set on. We'll communicate with cell phones. What else?”
“Manpower?” Winter asked as he inventoried the box.
“Best I could do out of my office on this short notice is the pair I have watching the Windsor Court, and five others I've called back in. I have three more coming in off leave. Shapiro has a high-test, four-man team en route- be here in three hours. If we're lucky, this won't get under way until after they get in, and you'll have the specialists.”
“That would be nice,” Winter said absently. He wasn't going to put his faith in what might make it, but in what he had.
“There are a few locals, men with integrity I can trust in a pinch-damn few around not on Manelli's payroll one way or another. My brother-in-law's a highway patrol captain. He's agreed to put some of his men at our disposal, and he has started moving some additional units into the area. To make sure this doesn't leak out, the patrolmen won't know what exactly we're up to until the operation is well under way.”
“I think this will go down soon,” Winter said. “Archer doesn't strike me as a patient man.”
“We're looking at only another hour of daylight,” Chet said. “Guys, I'm not set up for major assaults at the moment. No heavy weapons-my MP-fives and most of my chest armor is in Lafayette with a Fugitive Recovery detail. I have a half a dozen ARs, and a few Mossy twelves.” He lifted two long guns from his cabinet and handed them to Hank. “Take an AR and a Mossberg. Two twenty-round mags for the carbine and thirty double-ought shells for the scattergun should be plenty. Oh, I put rounds for your Walther in there.”
“Appreciate it,” Winter said.
“I put the Manelli file material in the box. Afraid there's not much in there except for the layout of his house and office and a list of property he owns.”
Chet's cell phone rang and he answered it, listened, and hung up. “Damn if you weren't right. My deputies say they're moving out of the Windsor Court.”
“Let's go, Hank,” Winter said.
“Nice to have time for planning,” Hank quipped.
“The covered wagon has left the barn for the lower forty?” Hank Trammel said, snickering. “Sounds like that old boy got his code inspiration from watching John Wayne movies.”
“Whatever works.”
Winter watched the FBI vehicles parked across the Jax lot from them through binoculars. According to one of Chet's deputies there were two agents in a white Taurus sitting outside a parking garage one block off Canal Street-the city's main traffic artery and one of the four streets that enclosed the French Quarter.
Winter was no stranger to the city, but as he was sitting in the Jeep, rain peppering the roof, he wasn't waxing nostalgic, or thinking about the city in any terms other than it being where Sean Devlin was located. The restaurants and shops, and every other place he knew and loved, were like so many cardboard boxes, facing streets he might need to navigate to keep her alive.
“I wish we knew what the grand plan is,” Hank said. “Think Manelli's meeting her in the parking lot that team is watching? It seems too public a place for such a private man.”
Winter punched in the speed dial number for Chet, who was monitoring the deputy watching the agents who
