closest off-ramp to the Fairfield Inn and slowed to the posted speed. The Fairfield Inn grew in size as they approached it, and Altwater glided the car into the parking lot with the slow, sure motions of a skillful driver. He pulled up just short of the front door. He and Ivan checked the pictures of Jennifer and Gordon, took the safeties off their pistols, and double-checked the room number.
“Don’t kill them here unless you absolutely have to,” the man in the backseat said. “Just get them back to the car and we’ll take them to where we’re going to dump them.”
Ivan nodded. “Radio check,” he said into his mouthpiece as he turned from the car toward the hotel.
“You’re live,” the man responded. He watched the two men disappear into the hotel. Putting his own network in place had taken a great deal of time and money, but now it was paying off. He had men he could trust in numerous cities, Richmond included. Most of them affiliated themselves with his little operation more for the thrill of being able to operate outside the usual laws than for the money. But when they did get paid, they got paid well. And that didn’t hurt.
Killing innocent people was a tough sell sometimes and he had to outright lie to his men, spinning yarns about how the person or people they were tracking were clandestine terrorists or something other than simply a threat to his other concerns. He didn’t mind the lies, but they were dangerous. The men he was lying to all carried guns. And they were all trained to use them. Well, no one got rich in this business without crossing the boundaries and taking some risks.
He watched a couple exit the front doors and walk to a parked SUV The man strongly resembled Gordon Buchanan, but the woman was blond. She was about the right height and body structure but the hair was all wrong. He concentrated on her face, the lines of her cheekbones, her forehead, and her lips and chin. He mentally stripped away the hair and the picture fell into place. He touched his two-way and spoke quietly.
“Johnny, Ivan, get down here. They’re outside the front doors.”
He watched as the Jeep backed up and pulled up to the curb at the street. A steady stream of vehicles was passing by and Buchanan had to wait until it was safe to make a left turn. Just as the traffic cleared, the two men came running out the front door of the hotel. They were in the car and into traffic in seconds, Pearce and Buchanan’s SUV within sight. They settled in a few cars back. When the time was right, Jennifer Pearce and Gordon Buchanan would disappear.
But this time it would be for good.
“Where do you want to eat?” Gordon asked as he cut through Court End, a collection of older estate homes on massive lots, and headed for the city center.
“I don’t care,” she said.“Why are we heading into an area with lots of people? Shouldn’t we go somewhere less crowded?”
“I remember reading once that if you want to blend in, the best place to do it is in a crowd. It’s when you’re someplace with hardly anyone around that other people will really look at you. They notice things that they wouldn’t if you were just another face in the crowd.”
“Okay, Monsieur Poirot. Whatever you say.”
“There were a bunch of decent restaurants on Cary Street. Want to check it out?”
“Sure,” she said, adjusting her wig slightly. She lowered the sun visor and opened the mirror. “I think I like being blond. I’m going to dye my hair when things get back to normal.”
“That’ll be nice,” Gordon said. “Platinum blondes always look so classy with an inch or two of dark roots.”
He angled off Canal Street at the Richmond Ballet and headed south under the Expressway until he reached Byrd Street. The traffic was lighter here and they made decent time, passing the old Tredegar Iron Works, the supplier of many Confederate cannons during the war. At Meadow Street, Gordon turned north again and popped out on Cary Street, just at the start of the strip of trendy shops and restaurants.
“I’m impressed,” Jennifer said. “You didn’t tell me you know how to get around Richmond.”
“I’m learning. That cabbie I had before I met you for dinner at Amici was great. Getting around Richmond isn’t too bad, but the traffic sure is.”
“That’s the same everywhere,” she said as he pulled the SUV up in front of Limani Mediterranean Grill. “This looks nice,” she said of the restaurant. A menu was posted on a wooden pulpit. She strained to see it. “They’ve got lots of different kinds of fish-arctic char, swordfish, red snapper. Some Greek food if you don’t want fish. Want to try it?”
“Sure,” Gordon said, slipping off his seat belt. He stopped halfway through the motion, his eyes glued to the side mirror. After a few seconds, he said, “Put your seat belt back on, Jennifer.” The tone of his voice was deadly serious, and she snapped the buckle back into place. He waited for about thirty seconds, then pulled out again into traffic again. He slid in behind a dark blue Crown Victoria and set his pace to match the preceding car. The back window was tinted, but with the sun ahead of them in the west, they could see the outline of three people inside the vehicle. For no apparent reason, the car slowed in the middle of a block and Gordon matched the speed and stayed planted behind it.
“What’s going on, Gordon?” Jennifer asked, fear creeping into her voice.
“I think these guys were following us. Two of them were watching us while the driver looked for a parking spot. They wanted to stay behind us, but there were no spots.” The car sped up a bit and he matched their pace again. “Check the map and find me the next north-south street that goes under the I-95.”
Jennifer unfolded the map, checked a street sign as they drove, and found their location. She looked ahead on Cary Street for the next north-south through street. “Robinson,” she said. “It’s right after Davis and two after Stafford.”
“Okay, we just passed Stafford, so this should be Davis,” he said as they cruised through the intersection. He checked the street sign and nodded. “Hold on,” he said.
“What are you going to do?”
“See if these guys ahead of us really were following us,” he said, waiting until he was halfway across Robinson before cranking the steering wheel hard left and stomping on the gas. The Jeep cut through a narrow gap in the traffic, and Gordon floored it once he was safely around the corner. The shrill sounds of honking horns told them what the other drivers thought of his abrupt and unexpected move. The lights at Parkwood Avenue were green, and he whipped through the intersection at almost double the posted speed. He slowed once they passed the next two side streets and entered the underpass. He glanced in his rearview mirror, then pushed the pedal to the floor again. The Jeep’s engine roared and the SUV leaped ahead. A block and a half ahead was a dead end-the beginning of Maymont Park.
“What are you doing?” she yelled above the motor noise.
“They’re behind us. And this time they’re not just following us, they’re gaining,” he said, fighting the steering wheel as he slammed on the brakes and sent the vehicle up on two wheels at the T intersection. He raced down Lake View Avenue, the historic park on their left, trees and cars flashing by as Gordon again increased his speed to dangerous levels. He risked a quick look in the mirror. The Crown Vic was gaining on them. He gave the Jeep more gas, the speedometer now climbing to over eighty miles an hour. People, houses, cars, trees were all just a blur now. They reached the far western end of Lake View and Gordon wove through the traffic, sideswiping one newer model Subaru and almost losing control, a line of mature trees dangerously close on the left side. He regained control of the Jeep and wove through the maze of cars and vans southbound on Blanton. Directly behind them was the Crown Vic.
Blanton forked at Park Drive and Rugby Road, and Gordon chose Rugby to the left and bordering the west side of William Byrd Park. The lesser-used road was almost deserted, and he put the pedal to the floor. The Jeep’s speedometer crested 105 miles an hour as he took it into the long sweeping left turn just south of the World War I memorial. As they came abreast with Dogwood Dell, he hammered on the brakes, locking up all four tires and sending a plume of smoke into the air. The Crown Vic, which had been ready to pull alongside, went flying by, fishtailing as the driver also slammed on his brakes. Both Gordon and Jennifer saw an arm come out of the backseat, and a split second later the windshield disintegrated as a bullet hit it at a critical angle and shattered the glass. The imploding glass showered both of them, and Jennifer screamed as Gordon cranked hard on the steering wheel and the vehicle slid sideways down the road on two wheels. For a few seconds, the Jeep teetered between rolling and coming back down on four wheels. Gordon eased off on the brakes and the Jeep crashed down onto all fours. A tenth of a second later, the SUV hit the curb and went airborne. Eighty feet later, it smashed down on the grass in Dogwood Dell, the rear bumper catching on a log and ripping off. The Jeep fishtailed across the grass, then
