Bullseye (Michael Bennett 9)

After he had his bearings, he sat patiently, sipping his refreshing beverage as he looked out at the traffic on the exit ramp for another few minutes. He’d already made several maneuvers to deter surveillance, but you couldn’t be too careful.

Things were looking positive, for a change. He’d been able to establish contact with a new representative for the client last night, and everything was full speed ahead again. Regrettably, someone had tortured the information regarding his whereabouts out of his handler, Pavel. They didn’t know who this inquisitive person was, but they were thinking perhaps a member of the CIA, as the torturer seemed to know a lot about what was going on and was an American.

He thought about what had happened at Gramercy Park. Whoever was after him, he was confident he could handle it.

The client apologized profusely for such an unfortunate incident and, in addition to getting him a new handler, offered compensation for the screwup on their end in the form of a 50 percent increase in fee upon completion of the job.

Being a good sport, the British assassin had readily accepted the apology. And, of course, the money. It was the least he could do. One never wanted to disappoint so gracious a client.

Drink and thoughts finished, he pulled out of the gas station. Ten miles and minutes later, he pulled off 440 onto Pulaski Street near Port Jersey Boulevard. He passed along a couple of football field lengths of chain-link fence with shipping containers stacked behind it before turning into a parking lot.

The low, ugly brown brick building he parked in front of had the words FLEET LINE RENTALS above the door. There was a security camera bolted to the brick beside the sign, so he pulled a bloodred Washington Nationals ball cap low over his eyes before he got out of the car.

Spa music was playing softly in the small reception area inside. The office was quite dingy, but in one wall sat a plate glass window with an open view of the Manhattan skyline across New York Bay.

“Can I help you?” said a middle-aged woman from a windowed slot in the scuffed Sheetrock wall after a couple of moments.

“Yes. I spoke to Mr. Rodriguez this morning. My name is Peters,” the British assassin said with a perfect Midwestern American accent. “Is he around?”

“He’s on the phone. If you have a seat, he’ll be more than happy to help you when he’s done.”

As he waited, he took out his phone but decided not to fiddle with it. He was trying to quit that nasty modern habit. He turned it in his hand as another atrocious spa song began. He stared out at the distant lower Manhattan skyline, the ugly new Freedom Tower standing out like a broken tooth. As he watched, two tugs appeared close offshore, pulling a bulk freighter through the Claremont Terminal Channel.

“Mr. Peters?” said Rodriguez, suddenly standing beside him. He was a heavy, very pale, bald Hispanic man with striking hazel eyes.

“Mr. Rodriguez. Thanks for meeting with me,” the British assassin said, shaking Rodriguez’s soft, gold-ringed hand.

“Thank you for waiting,” Rodriguez said, swiping away sweat from his forehead as he nodded rapidly with a little smile. “I had one of my guys bring her up this morning so you could take a look right away. If you’ll follow me.”

They went out back. Parked in front of a five-vehicle bay of garage doors was a fifty-thousand-pound tri-axle Caterpillar dump truck, blue in color. It looked far bigger than it had in the online ad, the British assassin thought, concerned. A real monster. Maybe it was too big.

He took a slow walk around it.

“How old?”

“Two thousand eleven. But it runs perfectly,” Rodriguez said. “Listen.” He nimbly climbed up and turned it over. It coughed once, and again, and then snarled to throaty, rumbling life.

“Sounds great,” the assassin said.

“You need it for a month?”

“Yes,” the assassin said. “Tell me: off the top of your head, how wide is it?”

“Did you say wide?” Rodriguez said, squinting at him.

The British assassin smiled, nodded.

“Um, standard width,” Rodriguez said with a shrug. “Eight and a half feet, same as a tractor-trailer.”

Excellent, the British assassin thought. It would be snug, but it would fit.

“Shall we start the paperwork?” asked Rodriguez hopefully.

The British assassin smiled again.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s.”

Chapter 46