Harvey was too busy dropping for cover to see a thing.
Boxers drove the Batmobile while Jonathan rode shotgun. Boxers had christened the heavily armored and electronically enhanced Hummer H2 with its nickname due to the impressive technology it carried, and it stuck. Jonathan had finally shed his Leon Harris makeup and changed out of the suit that might have linked him to the breakout. He’d left them and their rental van at the farm with every confidence that everything would be properly disposed of, sanitized, or returned. During their ride back from the George Washington Memorial, he and Boxers had been generous in praising each other for the brilliance of their plan to return Jimmy Henry to jail.
The U-Lockit franchise in Kinsale had been the next logical stop in their quest to pick up the trail. Given the early hour, he didn’t know what he might find, but experience taught that delaying the inevitable rarely paid dividends in the long run. Besides, it had already been twenty-eight hours since the assault on the school.
“You know,” Boxers said as they closed within a mile of the place, “you’re gonna get your ass in a crack keeping the FBI out of this.”
“Let them collect their own evidence,” Jonathan said. “They don’t appreciate our methods.”
“Don’t you think this one’s a little close to home for pissing contests?”
Jonathan shot the big guy a curious glance. Boxers didn’t often push back like this. “They couldn’t use what we gave them even if we gave it to them,” he explained. “Fruit from the poisonous tree and all that.” Jonathan considered it one of the great weaknesses of the United States’s system of jurisprudence that even in egregious cases like this one, the process used to obtain evidence was given equal weight to the evidence itself.
“Besides,” he continued, “I’ll tip our hand to Doug when we get back to the Cove.” Doug Kramer was the chief of police in Fisherman’s Cove, and a childhood friend of Jonathan’s. Whether by accident or intrepid investigation, Doug had connected enough dots over the years to know the basic outlines of the illicit side of Jonathan’s firm, Security Solutions, and he’d made it very clear that badge notwithstanding, he saw no reason to interfere.
A moment later, Boxers pointed ahead through the windshield. “What have we here?”
An unremarkable black Chrysler sedan sat parked in front of the U-Lockit office, which was dark and appeared empty. The storage units themselves ran in parallel blocks behind it.
Jonathan checked his watch. Five forty-five. “Go in quietly,” he said, instantly on alert. Never a believer in coincidences, he concluded that this car had to belong to a bad guy.
Boxers coasted to a halt just inside the driveway and turned off the ignition. “How do you want to handle it?”
Jonathan said, “Let’s keep it light. Weapons holstered but ready.” He opened the door and slid to the ground.
Boxers joined him at the front bumper. “Who are you expecting them to be?”
It was a good question. As Jonathan thought through Jimmy Henry’s story, it could be anyone from a bad guy returning to the scene of the crime to a cop investigating a lead. “I just want to be ready for the worst,” he said.
As they approached the Chrysler, Jonathan noticed that the engine was still ticking as it cooled under the hood.
“Sounds like they just got here,” Boxers said, speaking his boss’s thoughts.
Jonathan cocked his head, listening. Something wasn’t right about this. “Who just parks in a storage lot at this hour? If you’re retrieving something from storage, you park in front of your unit. Whoever drove this car isn’t here for what’s in the units. They want something else.”
“Like what?”
That was the million-dollar question. Jonathan beckoned with his chin for Boxers to follow as he walked toward the woods at the edge of the lot. As the approached the grassy patch at the edge of the woods, he pointed to the ground. “Look here,” he said.
Clearly, people had recently walked this way. They drew their weapons and started into the woods.
Jonathan heard voices. On a still, humid morning like this, sounds traveled easily. He could clearly make out the hum of men’s voices in the distance, but a career of firearms, helicopter insertions, and explosives had made it impossible for his abused ears to decipher individual words.
Three minutes later, they were on top of what looked to be a mugging in process. Two clean-cut guys in T- shirts had drawn down on a gangly Latino hippie who appeared to have established a campsite near the edge of the water. From the look of the place, Jonathan guessed that the guy had been living there for a long time. The body language of all three men telegraphed an urgency that told Jonathan he’d arrived in the proverbial nick of time.
Moving with a choreographed unison that came from years of cooperation, Jonathan and Boxers spread out slightly to create a more difficult target, and they both brought their weapons to bear. As they approached to within twenty yards, Jonathan made brief eye contact with the bearded victim, and noted with interest how cool the guy remained as he continued to pivot in a wide circle away from the campsite. To Jonathan, that meant that there was something worth hiding in the camp.
At this range, their words were clear. The hippie was talking a mile a minute-something about these guys being three hours late.
Jonathan felt Boxers’ gaze on him and returned it with a nod. The time had come to intervene.
“Drop your weapons!” he yelled.
The hippie, who seemed to have been expecting the confrontation, reacted instantly, dropping to the ground to leave an unobstructed sight picture.
The men in the T-shirts whirled, with guns at the ready and murder in their eyes. There was no time for negotiation.
Jonathan and Boxers fired simultaneously, and the men died on their feet-triple-tapped with two shots to the heart and one to the forehead in the time that it took for the first spent shell casing to hit the ground.
Even with the targets neutralized, neither man broke his aim. Jonathan yelled, “If I didn’t just shoot you, you’d better by God stand up and show me your hands.”
Nobody moved. Boxers shrugged.
“Last chance!” Jonathan yelled. “If I have to come and find you, you will not be happy.”
As he spoke, he kept his aim trained on the spot where the hippie had disappeared. It surprised him when the man slowly rose above the grass thirty feet to the right. He and Boxers pivoted their aim in unison.
The guy looked older than he had before. Scrawnier and dirtier, too. He rose straight up, as if on an elevator, his large hands extended more out than up, his fingers splayed wide. He looked scared to death.
“Very well done,” Jonathan coached. “Very smart.”
He sensed movement near the campsite at the exact instant when Boxers said, “Left.”
Since Jonathan held the left flank, the target belonged to him. He pivoted as Boxers held fast.
Jesus, it was a child. The look of terror in the boy’s face didn’t touch the feeling of horror in Jonathan’s stomach as he broke his aim and redirected the muzzle of the. 45 to the ground. The weapon was still at the ready if he needed it, but even an unheard-of accidental trigger pull couldn’t do any harm.
“Don’t let that one move an inch closer,” Jonathan said, pointing to the hippie. He moved in closer to the boy, and within two steps, he recognized him. “Jeremy?” It seemed too good to be true.
The boy’s mask of fear morphed into a mask of confusion. Then, finally, recognition. “Mr. Jonathan,” he said.
Jonathan holstered his weapon, still cocked as always, and rushed to the boy. He stopped, though, when Jeremy recoiled. “Are you all right?” Jonathan asked. He shot a contemptuous glare at the hippie, whose hands remained high. Jonathan dared another couple of steps, stopping just a foot or two outside the kid’s personal space. “We’ve been worried sick about you,” he said. He resisted the urge to ask about the other missing child, Evan Guinn. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Maybe he just wanted to savor this victory before finding out awful news.
Still, Jeremy didn’t move. He just cocked his head a little, as if trying to fit together the pieces of too complex a puzzle.
Jonathan had memorized the dossiers on the missing children, so he knew Jeremy Schuler to be thirteen years old-a seventh grader just three years away from having a driver’s license-but at this moment he could have been ten, or even eight. Six. Pick a number. As his features melted, he transformed from young man to little boy.
