Cowboy forked a square of pancake into his mouth. ‘Shit, last night was fun.’
‘You know,’ Reaper said solemnly, ‘there’s money available if either of you want to get out.’
‘No way,’ Cowboy said, getting up to grab a beer from the refrigerator. ‘I’m already looking at life in Leavenworth soon as I walk back on base.’
‘Screw it,’ added Trooper. ‘I’ve fought their goddamn war for ’em, now I’m going to fight one that I believe in.’
‘OK then,’ Reaper said, taking a seat at the table as Chance took a manila folder from under a cutlery tray in one of the drawers next to the stove top and handed it to him. He opened it and pulled out a small bundle of paper. ‘The material is a little flung together but, believe me, this has been a long time in the planning. I know you guys have already helped my daughter with locating our second target. We have two reconnaissance missions. Both fairly straightforward but our window of opportunity is slim.’
Reaper selected a large glossy photograph, of a scholarly-looking elderly white man, and handed it to Trooper. ‘Junius Holmes, member of the United States Supreme Court. Take a good look. He’s famously a creature of habit. Right around now he trades his townhouse in Georgetown for a family home not too far from here. We need his daily routine, weekdays and weekends.’
‘He carry a security detail?’ Cowboy asked.
‘That’s one of the other things we need to figure. None of it’s public domain. The Marshals have a unit dedicated to judicial security but it’s stretched thin. Thinner since they’ve lost so many men here. But you and Trooper will have to assess that. Can I trust you to do that for me?’
Cowboy and Trooper nodded.
‘Good,’ said Reaper, picking out a second photograph, also of a man, but much younger, getting into a car outside a modest-looking suburban house. He was late thirties, early forties at most, white with sandy blond hair that ran to his collar. ‘Glenn Love. He’s a foreman at the San Francisco Department of Public Works, Bureau of Street and Sewer Repair.’
Cowboy and Trooper traded a look of bewilderment.
‘Bear with me,’ said Reaper, flicking to another picture, this time of the same house but with a woman packing two kids into a mini-van. ‘This is Glenn’s wife, Amy, and their two kids. This should be a slam dunk too. Families have a routine. We need to know what it is.’
‘And once we know?’ Cowboy asked.
‘Details to follow.’
Reaper caught Trooper studying the floor.
‘You got something to say, then say it, son.’
‘Both men are white, and the second guy’s got kids.’
‘Just to set everyone’s minds at rest, we’re not out to hurt any kids. It’s their father who’s our target, and I don’t plan on hurting him either, unless he leaves me no choice.’
‘So, when do we start?’ Cowboy asked.
Reaper smiled as he looked at his team, a team he was certain would do anything for him, whatever the circumstances. ‘Now.’
42
Lock stood in the tiny wood-paneled reception of the motel just off North Riverside Avenue in Medford and slammed his hand down on the old-fashioned bell. The desk jockey, an overweight man in his early thirties with red hair, emerged from the back room.
‘Good morning, sir, and how may I help you?’ he chirped, his sunny outlook verging on the Canadian.
Jesus on a stick, thought Lock, the guy was acting like the town had just been awarded the Olympics rather than having just stood witness to a jailbreak worthy of one of the shittier Afghan provinces.
The desk jockey, his grin threatening to annex his jaw from the rest of his face, leaned forward, and Lock caught a whiff of day-old fried onions overlaid by breath mints. ‘Sir?’
Lock propped his elbows on the desk and leaned in too, mirroring the man’s body language. ‘Are you OK?’
The man’s grin ebbed at the edges. The look in his eyes suggested that he thought this might be a trick question. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied nervously. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well,’ said Lock, ‘last night this town was lit up like downtown Basra, but you look happier than a pig in shit.’
The man shook his head slowly. ‘I know. Terrible. And in Medford of all places. But life moves on,’ he added, perking up again.
‘Sure,’ said Lock, thinking that for quite a few people it wouldn’t. He stood up straight again. ‘Were you on duty last night?’
‘Sure was.’
‘One of your guests, a Ms Jones…’
The man looked blank.
‘African-American woman. Late twenties. Tall. Good-looking.’
‘Oh, yes. Very elegant lady. Very nice manners.’
‘Quite,’ said Lock. ‘I need to know when you last saw her.’
The man stroked an imaginary beard. ‘Let me see now. She came back in around nine o’clock to pick up her key. But after that, I don’t know. I didn’t see her leave.’
‘She was murdered last night. The van that exploded outside the courthouse, she was in it when it went up.’
The desk jockey went pale. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Evidently this isn’t something covered in training, Lock thought.
‘So you didn’t see her leave?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do you have CCTV cameras?’
‘Just here in the office.’
Lock looked up. A single camera was mounted in the corner of the far wall behind the desk to capture anyone coming in or leaving. ‘In that case, may I see the room she was staying in?’
At this, the man looked serious. ‘Sir, are you with the FBI or something?’
‘I can’t tell you who I’m with,’ said Lock, taking a chance. ‘But I need to see that room.’
‘Do you have some identification?’
Lock leaned over the counter. ‘What’s your name?’
The man’s eyes flitted beyond Lock to the door. ‘Dale.’
‘Dale, do you love your country?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Lock made a show of pushing back his jacket so that the holster holding his SIG was in plain sight. Not that he looked down, or even acknowledged that he’d done it, but Dale’s eyes were growing wide. ‘I’m very glad to hear that, because there are people out there right now who definitely don’t. And I need to find them, fast. And you can help me, Dale. You can help me by showing me that room.’
Dale still looked unsure, so Lock pressed on, his right hand on the handle of his Sig. ‘Now, Dale, are you going to be a true American patriot and help me out here?’
‘Absolutely, sir,’ said Dale.
Visibly shaking, he reached beneath the counter for a key attached to a black fob with the room number etched on it in white, which he slid towards Lock.
Sensing that Dale was going to be on the phone to the local cops as soon as he was out of sight, Lock took the key and walked quickly towards the elevator.
Jalicia’s room was tucked away at the back of the main motel building along with half a dozen other rooms, all of which ran at a ninety-degree angle to the rest of the hotel, which faced out on to the main avenue. The
