“You said you had a name,” Quinn said.
“Yes. A freelancer. He’s been around a few years. Our guess is he’s handling security for the group. We suspect he’s only doing this for money.”
“So not the name of one of the principals, then.”
“No,” Hardwick said. “That I don’t have. But this person might be a way in.”
“The name?”
“Tucker.”
Quinn could feel the hair on his forearms begin to rise. “Do you have a first name?”
“Leonard. Goes by Leo.”
Tucker was someone he knew. Someone who had no right to be walking around. By all rights, Quinn should have killed him in Berlin a year and a half earlier. He’d had a hand in the kidnapping of Orlando’s son. But they had made a deal, the boy’s location for his life.
“You know him?” Hardwick asked.
Quinn ignored the question. “Yellowhammer? Leo Tucker? And, what? That’s it? Just hearsay from a member of the LP about some nameless group and an operation you have no details on? That’s all you can give me? Is this what got your men killed in Ireland? And DDNI Jackson. He’s dead because of this, too.”
“Jackson’s death didn’t have anything to do with what we uncovered. I’m sure he had a lot of people who wanted him dead. Somebody got to him and stuffed him into the trunk of their car.”
“Jackson died in the tunnel below one of the apartment buildings on your list in New York.”
“What are you talking about?” If Hardwick was red before, he was all white now. Quinn’s revelation was apparently news to him, bad news.
“I found him myself in an old equipment room off a tunnel that ran below the building. The rats got to him first.”
Hardwick’s right hand began to shake. “Jesus.”
“What’s wrong? Hitting a little too close to home? I think you need to tell me everything. Might be your only chance to stop them from coming after you.”
“I’ve … I’ve told you everything. I swear. If there was more, I would give it to you.”
“Is Yellowhammer where this supposed attack is going to take place? Or just a staging location?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are they planning?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s the target?”
“I…” There was something in Hardwick’s eyes.
“You know what it is.” As Quinn spoke, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. This time he ignored it.
“No … I don’t. I don’t know.”
Quinn raised his gun a few inches. “Tell me.”
“I… I…” Hardwick shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “This is only a guess. No one has told me
“Then tell me your guess.”
“Can I show you?”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “How?”
Hardwick reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a folded piece of white paper. He hesitated for a second, then handed it to Quinn.
“The timing and proximity seem … advantageous.”
Quinn unfolded the paper. It was a news article printed from the Internet. And at the top, the headline:
G-8 SUMMIT BEGINS SATURDAY
CALIFORNIA’S HEARST CASTLE
READY TO PLAY HOST
CHAPTER
22
THE SON OF A BITCH KICKED HARDWICK OUT OF the car right there in the parking lot, then drove off. Hardwick almost dug out his cell phone and called the cops to tell them he’d spotted a car he suspected was stolen. But that would have been counterproductive. Hardwick needed everything to stay on course. Quinn, Mr. Rose, the Office, Chercover, they all had parts still to play, and he had to make sure they performed as he’d planned.
The reason why was simple. The LP’s main directive counted on it, the reason why they were in existence at all. His manipulation of events would bring the goal of the organization that much closer to reality. It wouldn’t be long now, Hardwick knew that much. And God willing, he would be one of the lucky ones who’d still be around when
