Styer figured the watchers there expected him to make a run at Massey, and that Massey had enlisted their help, and who could blame him? They never learned, always merely reacting to whatever he did. Creativity in cutouts was seriously lacking. They were bulls in a china shop. If he took out their team-and here they were, sitting around with their thumbs up their butts and asking for it-the hunters he couldn’t see would be even more infuriated than they were now. It was very tempting. Of course, that move would change it into a different game altogether, because there’d be cutouts everywhere, but then again, that might add some sport.

He took out his Ruger MK II pistol, a Luger-shaped semiautomatic in.22 LR with a built-in suppressor that was seamlessly connected. The small gun was reliable, easy to conceal, and accurate for close work. The suppressor made the shots as quiet as cat farts.

“Time to go to work,” Styer said to himself.

55

Winter was dreaming that he was with Hank Trammel and Faith Ann Porter in New Orleans when something awakened him. Lying there in the darkness gathering his wits, he wondered what it was that had interrupted his dream. The travel clock beside the bed clicked away each second. He knew he was in Brad’s guest bed, and he reached beside him for his Reeder.45, but his hand found only flat sheet where he’d left the cocked-and-locked weapon.

“Well, well,” the eerie voice said. “We meet again.”

In the darkened room, Winter could make out the shape of a man standing beside the bed.

“Your friends are dead, and it’s all your fault. If you had kept our bargain, they wouldn’t be.”

A sudden flash from the gun’s barrel illuminated the room and Winter yelled out. Sitting up, he grabbed his handgun.

The light came on and Alexa rushed in, sweeping her Glock around to cover the room. “What happened?” she asked, looking at him and the gun in his hand, which was aimed at the wall beside the bed. Styer’s presence had been one frightening dream wrapped in another.

“Nightmare,” he said, his voice cracking. The clock read five-thirty.

Alexa dropped the Glock to her side and frowned at him. “Want to talk about it?” she asked.

“No, Lex,” he replied. “Sorry I woke you.”

She looked at him with tired eyes and said, “Maybe you should keep that gun a little farther away when you sleep. Just a suggestion, since I’m on the other side of the wall.” She flipped off the light and closed the door.

Winter lay back, resting his head on the pillow, which was damp from perspiration. He lifted his head and flipped the pillow over to the dry side.

He was shaken by the dream, and doubted finding sleep again would be possible. There was no question in Winter’s mind that Styer was responsible for both killings, and since the casino had the only motive in both, someone there had to be involved. Winter figured he’d turn the casino upside down and see what hit the ground.

56

The two teams of Cutouts following Massey split up after the trio had settled into Barnett’s house for the evening. The second team would rest until daybreak, then relieve the overnight team, and eight additional team members would be arriving the following day. While one of the two men put Global Positioning System locators on the Jeep and the Tundra and took up a position behind the house, the other remained in the Yukon watching the front of the house for lights. Massey’s history with their organization had taught them that you couldn’t take him for granted. The ex-deputy U.S. marshal was a legend with the group, having taken out several of them a few years before-a feat unparalleled in the organization’s shadowy fifty-year history. Five members of the team remained in Tunica, and several cleaners were on call, if and when that became necessary.

Traffic in the sheriff’s neighborhood was extremely light. Of the six or seven cars and trucks that passed on the street after eleven o’clock, only one was a police cruiser, and the sole officer occupant didn’t even slow as he passed the SUV. The Yukon carried Mississippi plates, a move designed to make the vehicle fit in. If the plates were run, they would be traced to a corporation set up for regional dark operations. If, by some miracle, cutouts were taken into custody, they would be out before they were booked and within hours, there would be no record of the arrest.

As each vehicle passed the Yukon, the watcher there would open his laptop and type in the plate. None of them raised any flags in the computer, which had immediate access to governmental mainframes.

Around three in the morning, the watcher in the Yukon radioed his partner. When he received no response, he climbed from the SUV, tacking a silenced Heckler amp; Koch Mark 23 under his jacket and putting on night vision goggles. Slipping into the cover of bushes, he moved toward the place the second watcher was supposed to be.

As he approached the neighboring yard where his teammate had set up his surveillance, he spotted the man’s shape, sitting in the grass with his ankles crossed, his back against a tree. The older cutout appeared to be asleep, and the watcher approached stealthily from behind. Suppressing a chuckle, he reached around and clasped his hand over his partner’s mouth. As soon as he touched the still man, he jerked his hand back. Looking at his hand in the moonlight, he saw that his gloved fingers were covered with warm blood. Pulling his pistol and kneeling beside the man, he saw that his partner’s head was exploded on the left side. Something heavy dropped to the ground behind him, and as he turned, he felt a spray of cold liquid, smelled it for what it was, and covered his mouth too late to stop the chloroform from taking him down.

57

The Cutout awoke and couldn’t feel his hands or feet. Opening his eyes with difficulty, he saw that he was in a kitchen chair-not trussed, but still totally powerless. The light from the open door of a closet illuminated his surroundings-an empty house that was, based on the new Sheetrock and plastic-covered floor, being renovated. Daylight was gathering outside, and he could make out the shapes of trees through the filmy windows. Across the room, a man dressed entirely in black and wearing a watch cap leaned against bare wood studs, studying him. The man didn’t look like the descriptions they had of Paulus Styer, but a convincing disguise was part and parcel to Styer’s method.

“Welcome,” the abductor said. “Does your head hurt? Chloroform in the face delivered from a bulb is so much neater and faster than pouring it on a cloth.”

The cutout didn’t answer.

“I guess not. Anyway, I gave you a shot that has your body paralyzed. It’s a variation of Special K, the animal tranquilizer developed for brain surgery when they want to make sure the patient remains perfectly still but can communicate. The effects will last for a few hours. You can still feel, think, and talk, but you can’t move away from pain. The drug affects only the motor responses, but not the nerve endings in your skin. Don’t you love medical research?”

The cutout watched his enemy, more furious than frightened.

“Do you know who I am?” the shadowy figure asked.

“Cold Wind.”

“I haven’t been called that for several years,” Styer said, grimacing. “We can dispense with the small talk. Who is the woman with Massey?”

“Her name is Alexa Keen. She’s an FBI agent.”

“Why is she here?” Styer asked, letting the cutout see his hand and the knife it held. “Is she investigating an

Вы читаете Smoke and Mirrors
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату