The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme 10)

He disconnected and the glance in Sachs's direction, but not directly at her, explained that she was the subject of the call.

"What, Lon?"

"You want to step outside." He nodded toward the hallway.

Sachs glanced at Rhyme and said, "No. Here. What is it? Who called?"

He hesitated.

"Lon," she said firmly. "Tell me."

"Okay, Amelia, I'm sorry. Look, you're off the case."

"What?"

"Actually, gotta say, you're on mandatory leave altogether. You've gotta report down to--"

"What happened?" Rhyme snapped.

"I don't know for sure. That was my PA. She told me the word came from the chief of detectives' office. The formal report's on its way. I don't know who's behind this."

"Oh, I do," Sachs snapped. She ripped open her purse and looked inside to make sure she had the copy of the document she'd found on Nance Laurel's desk the other night. At that time, she'd been reluctant to brandish it as a weapon.

Now she no longer was.

CHAPTER 65

SHREVE METZGER RAN A HAND through his trim hair, remembered his first day out of the service.

Somebody, a civilian, on the streets of Buffalo had called him a skinhead. Baby-killer too. The guy was drunk. Anti-military. An asshole. All of the above.

The Smoke had filled Metzger fast, though he didn't call it Smoke then, didn't call it anything. He proceeded to break at least four bones in the man's body before the relief shot through him. More than relief--almost sexual.

Sometimes this memory came back, like now, when he happened to touch his hair. Nothing more than that. He remembered the man, his unfocused, slightly crossed eyes. The blood, the remarkably swollen jaw.

And the coffee vendor. No, just ram the stand, scald him, kill him, forget the consequences. The satisfaction would be sublime.

Help me, Dr. Fischer.

But there was no Smoke now. He was in an ecstatic high. Intelligence and surveillance experts were feeding him information about the Rashid operation.

The terrorist--the next task in the queue--was presently meeting with the Matamoros Cartel bomb supplier. Metzger would have given anything to modify the STO to include him as well but the man was a Mexican citizen and getting permission to vaporize him would have meant elaborate discussions with higher-ups in Mexico City and Washington. And heaven knew he had to be careful with them.

Budgetary meetings proceeding apace. Much back-and-forth. Resolution tomorrow. Can't tell which way the wind is blowing...

He received another call about the progress of the UAV, under the command of Barry Shales in the GCS, the trailer outside Metzger's window. The craft had launched not from Homestead, as in the Moreno operation, but from the NIOS facility near Fort Hood, Texas. It had crossed into Mexican airspace, with the Federales' blessing, unlike with Moreno in the Bahamas, and was heading through clear weather toward the target.

His phone rang again. Seeing the caller ID he stiffened and glanced at his open door. He could see Ruth's hands through the sliver of view into the ante office. She was typing. She had a small window too and sunlight glinted off her modest engagement and impressive wedding rings.

He rose and slid the door closed, then answered. "Yes."

"Found her," the man's voice reported.

No names or code names...

Her.

Nance Laurel.