old age, seventy years old if not more.'
A minute later, a voice broke in on the CTU comm net, coming through the dashboard speaker grid. 'Hathaway here.' Hathaway was the spotter up on the power trail, keeping watch on the east side of the embankment.
He said, 'We've got something. A guy just came around to the back of the building.'
Jack spoke into the hand mic. 'Affirmative, we saw him, too.'
Hathaway said, 'I've got cover on the ridgetop. I can see him, but he can't see me.'
'What's he doing?'
'Walking toward the south end of the building.' After a pause, Hathaway said, 'He went to the Dumpsters. Now he's lifting the lid of one of them.'
Pete said, 'This could be it.'
Hathaway went on, 'He's taking something out — looks like a bag — a knapsack. The ransom money is in a knapsack, we know that from watching the swap go down on the footbridge.' He sounded excited.
Jack used the comm net to alert the other team members posted in and around the lot. 'Get ready, but nobody move until I give the signal.'
Hathaway said, 'Now he's going back the way he came. With the knapsack. He's going to the north end of the building — he's turned the corner — now he's heading toward the lot.'
Jack and Pete were already suited up in bulletproof Kevlar vests, having donned them earlier in the night, as the Garros ransom swap neared. Now, as a standard precaution before going into action, they once more checked their handguns.
The old man reappeared from behind the corner of the Kwik-Up, emerging into view, carrying a hefty knapsack by the strap, so that it hung down by his side.
Pete said, 'What do you think?'
Jack said, 'Let's take him.'
Pete broke into the comm net: 'This is it. We're moving in.' He and Jack got out of the SUV.
Their person of interest was short, thin, birdlike, with a shock of white hair and a clean-shaven face. He was darkly tanned, with dark eyes. He wore a loose fitting white guayabera short-sleeved shirt, khaki pants, rubber- soled boat shoes. Straight-backed, spry, he moved with an energetic stride.
He crossed to his vehicle, a beat-up old food vendor's truck, with a front cab and a quilted metal box behind. Mounted atop the cab was a mini-sized loudspeaker.
Jack and Pete separated as they closed in, approaching the suspect from the side, maneuvering to take him in a pincer movement.
Someone else got there first.
The food truck was parked in a row of parked cars that was at right angles to the highway. About seven or eight vehicles away, toward the roadside, an SUV stood idling.
A man got out of the front passenger side, walked around the front of the SUV and down an aisle at the head of the row toward the store.
The newcomer was a few paces ahead of Jack and Pete. He came abreast of the old man as the latter stood on the driver's side of the food truck, opening the cab door.
At that moment, a car came rolling down the lane, cruising, trolling for a parking space. Temporarily blocking Jack and Pete and barring their progress, but not before they got a good look at the newcomer's face.
'Paz!'
Several moments earlier, Colonel Paz had watched Beltran go behind the back of the Kwik-Up building. Yes, the white-haired old man was indeed the Generalissimo. Unlike the CTU agents, Paz knew Beltran and recognized him immediately.
Paz sat in the SUV's front passenger seat, Vasco was behind the wheel, and Fierro was in the back. Paz said, 'I've got some business to take care of.'
He reflexively reached for his Saint Barbara medallion to give it a squeeze, only to receive a shock. It was missing.
His heart lurched in his chest. He experienced a sensation not unlike grabbing for one's wallet and finding it's not there. A sensation multiplied tenfold.
He cursed under his breath. He felt around his bull neck, stubby fingers encountering the thin but tough length of chain from which the medallion hung. He hauled it out from under the top of his bulletproof vest, only to come up with the chain and no medallion. The catch of the chain had broken, allowing the medallion to slip free of it.
Paz swore again, sticking his fingers inside the top of the bulletproof vest — a tight fit — groping around for the medallion, not finding it. When had he seen it last?
He knew he'd had it when leaving the slaughter site of the hat company building, because he'd made obeisance to it then. It might have fallen off then. Perhaps his handling of it then had been what caused the chain to snap.
The medallion could have dropped off before he got into the Explorer to make his getaway. Or since. It might be trapped in his clothes even now, pinned between the vest and his flesh. If it was there, he couldn't feel it, though.
Which might mean nothing, because the flak jacket was heavy and hot and he was tired from a long day of being on the boil, seething with kill-lust since surviving the predawn ambush.
Think! Back at Supremo, after ritualisticaUy squeezing the medallion, he hadn't gone far, not more than a dozen paces before getting into the van. Maybe it had fallen out of the bottom of the vest, into the top of his pants.
He felt around his waistband, running his fingers along the inside of it. No luck.
Spreading his meaty thighs, he felt around the seat cushion for it.
Nothing —
Vasco glanced curiously at him. Fierro leaned forward, said, 'A problem?'
Paz broke into a sweat. Fighting to keep his voice calm, neutral, he said, 'Turn on the light.'
Vasco switched on the overhead dome light, illuminating the front cab. Paz raised up out of his seat, squirming, looking at the seat cushion and the floor mat at his feet. No medallion.
Vasco said, 'What is
Paz spoke through clenched teeth. 'I lost something — my religious medal.' He opened the door, stepping out carefully, ears alert for any ringing noise of the medallion falling to the pavement. Hearing none.
Standing outside the Explorer, he reached around the seat, under the seat cushion where it met the vertical backrest. Coming up blank.
He ducked down, squatting as he peered at the floor. It was too dark to see under the seat. He ran his fingers over the mat and reached under the seat. Results nil.
Fierro had been keeping watch over the storefront and now he stirred. 'The old one is coming back.'
Paz swore again. He'd told the others nothing of his plans. He was not in the habit of explaining himself, figuring it made him look weak. Vasco and Fierro knew nothing of Beltran, who he was or what his role was in the chain of events that had led them to the Supremo killing ground.
They did know that Paz was highly interested in the oldster in the food truck, that he'd evinced great satisfaction upon sighting him, satisfaction of the kind that betokened nothing good to the object of that interest.
Fierro said, 'He's carrying something, looks like a bag. Wonder what's in it?'
His voice sounded innocent enough, but Paz still gave him a suspicious side glance. No mention of the million-dollar ransom money had crossed his lips; he feared to lead his henchmen into temptation. That size sum — in cash, no less — could engender greed sufficient to overcome their fear. Especially in Fierro, a bold and unprincipled rogue and conscienceless killer. Too much like Paz for Paz himself to ever fully trust the other. But he needed Fierro; he did good work.
No more time could be spared by Paz for searching for the lost medallion, he had to get about his work. It was an ill omen, though. He'd had the piece for many years; it was his good luck charm, his talisman.
He mentally damned himself for being a superstitious old woman. If he didn't get moving, and quick, he risked
