The Hit (Will Robie 2)

“But you just said it had to be the two of them.”

“But that doesn’t mean they’ve teamed up, Howard.”

“What the hell else could it be? You just as good as said they killed all those men together.”

“Mutual survival does not mean you’re on the same side. I could be wrong, but it might simply be that conditions on the ground led to a temporary alliance.”

“But that’s still not good for us.”

“Of course it isn’t. But it might mean it’s manageable.”

“If Robie joins Reel?”

“Then he will be dealt with. I have people in mind for the task.”

“If it’s the same people you have going after Reel I’d say don’t bother.”

“And your alternative?”

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“It’s your job to have the answers in this particular area, Sam, not me. Our division of labor was explicitly laid out. I helped get you the assets you needed. And the target. That was my job. I did it.”

Kent took a mouthful of rice and broccoli and washed it down with some water from a cut-crystal glass. “You’re right, it was. I apologize.”

Mollified, Decker sat back and started to eat.

Kent said, “I actually anticipated Reel locating West. I thought they were prepared to take care of her. I was obviously wrong. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“I would hope not.”

“I also tried to recruit someone to deal with Reel and possibly Robie, but he didn’t work out.”

“Will he be a problem?”

“I doubt it.” Kent picked up his glass of wine.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I shot him in the head.” Kent took a sip of the wine.

Decker dropped his fork. It clanged off the china plate and fell to the floor.

“You don’t like the salmon?” asked Kent as he wiped his mouth.

His hands shaking, Decker bent down and picked up his fork. His face ashen, he said, “You shot him?”

“Well, there wasn’t a viable alternative, really. And he was an arrogant prick. Thought way too much of himself. Hell, I believe I would have shot him regardless.” Kent settled his gaze on Decker’s frightened features. “I don’t like arrogant pricks, Howard. I don’t like people who think too much of themselves. I tend to shoot them. I tend to shoot them in the head to make sure they’re dead.”

Decker licked his lips. “I know you’re under a lot of stress, Sam.”

Kent shook his head. “This isn’t stress, Howard. Living in a hole in the ground in the middle of a snake-and mosquito-infested jungle for months on end wondering what was going to get you first, the dysentery eating your insides away or the Viet Cong who kept picking your guys off one by one—now that, my friend, that was stressful.”

“I’m under a lot of pressure too.”

“Right. You get elected and you have your big office and your driver and your staff and the fancy dinners and you go back home and raise money by kissing rich asses and then you come here and occasionally actually do your damn job and vote on something. Lots of pressure. Politics is hell. Glad I never went there. I just wore a uniform and got my ass shot up. You, on the other hand, never wore the uniform.”

“I was too young for Vietnam.”

“So you would have volunteered, like I did?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“And nothing was stopping you from joining over the years.”

“Not everyone is cut out for the military. I had other goals in life.”

“I earned two Purples and a Bronze and would’ve gotten the Silver but my CO didn’t like the fact that his troops would rather follow me than him. After the war I got my college and law degrees. Uncle Sam helped pay for it. No complaints there. I did my time. I got my quid pro quo. You did shit and now you serve the people from a nice, safe office.”

Kent suddenly reached across and gripped the back of Decker’s fleshy neck and jerked him forward until their faces were barely an inch apart. “So the next time you seek to lecture me on anything will be the last time you lecture anyone about anything. Are we crystal clear on that? Because I don’t intend to repeat it.”

Kent let Decker go and sat back. He picked up his fork. “Try the rice. It’s a little spicy, but it goes well with the seasoned broccoli.”

Decker didn’t move. He just sat there staring across at Kent.

Kent finished his lunch and rose. “My clerk will show you out. I hope you have a productive day up there on the Hill serving your country.”

He walked out of the room, leaving Decker trembling in his chair.

CHAPTER

54

ROBIE DROVE SLOWLY DOWN THE narrow streets of Titanium, Pennsylvania. It was a small town with the usual assortment of homes and businesses. People ambled down the street, window-shopping at the mom-and-pop stores located there. Cars puttered along. Folks waved at each other. The pace was slow, comfortable.

He had done everything possible to avoid being trailed here. He felt it would have been impossible for even the best agents out there to keep him under surveillance. And if they had, they deserved to put one in the win column.

He eyed his GPS. He was looking for a certain street, and he hoped it was the right one. The computer told him it was a mile or so out of the downtown area.

Marshall Street. As in Ryan Marshall, the senior field agent who showed me and Reel how to stipple our pistol grips. Something only the two of us would know.

Robie had loaded in a specific number address on Marshall Street. It could have been one of two possibilities. He had inputted the one he’d chosen on the flip of a coin back at his apartment. However, in such a small place he figured Marshall Street couldn’t be that long if he had to run down the second choice.

He slowed the car after he’d left the town and reentered a rural area. He made the right on Marshall and drove straight back until the road cut sharply to the right. There didn’t seem to be any street numbers here, because there were no houses. He had just started to fear that his trip had been for nothing when he cleared another curve and saw it up ahead. It looked like a motor court of some sort, dating back to maybe the fifties.

Robie pulled his car to a stop in front of a small office that had a large plate glass window in front. The building formed a horseshoe with the office at the center. It was two stories high and dilapidated.

Robie didn’t focus on that. His gaze went first to the street number painted on the front of the building.

Thirty-three.

The same number as the rounds in Reel’s Glock’s oversize mag.

The other number that Robie had considered was seventeen, the model number of the Glock.

Thirty-three had obviously been the correct one. His coin flip was a winner. But it also made sense. The 17 model was standard. Reel had modified it with the extra-long mag.

His gaze next went to the sign in front of the motor court. Its background was painted white, with narrowly drawn black concentric circles emanating from the center, and the perimeter painted a bold red. The name of the motor court was the Bull’s-Eye Inn; the sign represented the bull’s-eye.

Cheesy, thought Robie, but maybe it had been original and catchy when the place was first built.

The red edge was what had drawn his attention, however.

He held up the photo he’d found in Reel’s locker. The picture of Reel and the unknown gent. The edge of red on the right side of the photo could be from the sign, if they had been standing next to it. More confirmation that he was in the right place.

Robie parked the car and got out and headed to the office. Through the plate glass he could see an elderly white-haired woman sitting behind a waist-high counter. When he opened the door a bell tinkled. The woman looked up from her computer, which was old enough not to be a flat-screen but still had the bubble butt the size of a small TV. She rose to greet him.

Robie looked around. The place didn’t appear to have been changed since opening day. It looked frozen in time from well before a man had walked on the moon or JFK had been elected president.

“Can I help you?” the woman said.