Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

Shafer had boasted that he was killing people in the poorer sections of Washington, since nobody cared about them anyway. Bayer suspected he was telling the truth. He knew things about Shafer from when they were in Thailand and the Philippines. He knew Shafer’s deepest, darkest secrets.

Bayer drove the attractive and well-spoken black woman to her apartment and was amused when she gave him a sixty-cent tip for the four-dollar ride. Fifteen percent to the penny. He took the money and thanked her graciously.

“An English cabdriver,” she said. “That’s unusual. Have a nice evening.”

He continued to drive until past two in the morning. He drank in the sights, played the dizzying game. And then he had to stop again. Two young girls were hailing for a taxi on the corner. The area was called Shaw

, and Howard University was very close according to several signs.

The girls were slender, delectable in stacked heels and shiny clothes that glowed in the dark. One of them wore a microskirt, and he could see the tops of black or navy thigh-highs as he stopped to pick them up. They must be hookers—Shafer’s favorite prey, Bayer thought to himself.

The second prostitute was even prettier and sexier than the first. She wore white stacked bath sandals, side-striped white athletic pants, a teeny tank top in blue camouflage.

“Where are we going?” Bayer asked as they scampered over to the taxi.

The girl in the microskirt did the talking. “We’re going to Princeton Place. That’s Petworth, darlin’. Then you’re going away,” she said. She tossed her head back and issued a taunting laugh. Bayer snickered to himself. He was beginning to get into this now.

The girls climbed in, and Bayer couldn’t resist checking them out in the mirror. The foxy one in the microskirt caught him looking. He felt like a schoolboy, found it intoxicating, didn’t avert his eyes from hers.

She casually flipped him the finger. He didn’t stop looking. Couldn’t. So this was how it felt to Shafer. This was the game of games.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the girls. His heart was pounding. Microskirt wore a tightly fitted ribbed tank top. Her long fingernails were airbrushed in kiwi and mango colors. She had a pager on her belt. Probably a gun in her handbag.

The other girl smiled shyly in his direction. She seemed more innocent. Was she? A necklace that read BABY GIRL dangled between her young breasts.

If they were going to Petworth, they had to be hooking. They were certainly young and foxy; sixteen, seventeen years old. Bayer could see himself having sex with the girls, and the image was beginning to overpower his imagination. He knew he ought to be careful. This could get completely out of hand. He was playing Shafer’s game, wasn’t he? And he liked it very much.

“I have a proposition for you,” he said to Microskirt.

“All right, darlin’,” she said. “Be one hundred for the half. Plus our ride to Petworth. That’s my proposition for you.”

Chapter 26

SHAFER LIKED TO KNOW when any of the other players traveled, especially if they came to Washington. He had gone to a lot of trouble to hack his way into their computers to keep track of them. Famine had recently bought plane tickets, and now he was here in D.C. Why?

It wasn’t hard to follow George Bayer once he got to town. Shafer was still reasonably good at it; he’d had plenty of practice in tracking and surveillance during his years in the Service.

He was disappointed that Famine had decided to “intersect” with his fantasy. Intersection happened occasionally in the game, but it was rare. Both players were supposed to agree beforehand. Famine was clearly breaking the rules. What did he know, or think he knew?

Then Bayer genuinely surprised him. Not only did he visit Shafer’s hideaway, but he actually took the taxi for a ride. What the hell was he doing?

At a little past two in the morning, Shafer watched the gypsy cab pick up two young girls in Shaw. Was Bayer copycatting? Was he setting some kind of trap for Shafer? Or was it something else altogether?

Bayer took the girls to S Street, which wasn’t far from the pickup point. He followed the girls up the darkened stairs of an aging brownstone, and then they all disappeared inside.

He had a blue anorak thrown over his right arm and Shafer suspected that a pistol was under the coat. Christ! He’d taken two of them. He could have been seen by anyone on the street. The cab could have been spotted.

Shafer parked on the street. He waited and watched. He didn’t like being in this part of Shaw, especially without his disguise, and driving the Jaguar. There were some old crumbling brownstones and a couple of boarded-up, graffiti-covered shacks on the street. No one was outside.

He saw a light blink on the top floor and figured that was where Bayer had taken the two girls. Probably their flat.

He watched the brownstone from two until close to four. He couldn’t take his eyes away. While he waited, he imagined dozens of scenarios that might have brought Famine here. He wondered if the others were in Washington, too. Or was Famine acting alone? Was he playing the Four Horsemen right now?

Shafer waited and waited for Bayer to come out of the brownstone. But he didn’t come down, and Shafer grew more impatient and worried and angry. He fidgeted. His breathing became labored. He had lurid, paranoid fantasies about what Bayer might have done up there. Had he killed the two girls? Taken their identification? Was this a trap? He thought so. What else could it be?

Still no George Bayer.

Shafer couldn’t stand it any longer. He climbed out of the Jaguar. He stood on the street and stared up at the windows of the flat. He wondered if he, too, was being watched. He sensed a trap, wondered if he should flee.