What he saw surprised Robie. But it also solved the question of how the people had been able to follow them.
Robie looked at Reel and smiled grimly.
“What?” she said.
“They just made a big mistake.”
CHAPTER
60
SAM KENT WAS AT HOME when the call came in.
“Believed to be dead,” said the voice.
Robie and Reel had jumped off a train going nearly forty miles per hour. It was thought unlikely that they could have survived.
The fail-safe tracker had gone silent.
It was over.
Kent didn’t believe that for a second. But he had confirmation that his greatest fear had been realized.
Robie and Reel had teamed up. And despite the report, his gut was telling him that they were alive.
Kent was sitting in his study in his exquisite home set among many exquisite homes in a sect ion of Fairfax County that was home to the unassailable “one-tenthers,” the people in the top one-tenth of the one percent. Average income per year: ten million dollars. Most of them made far more than that. They did it in myriad ways:
Inheritance.
Gaining the ear, for a fee, of those in power.
And many, like Kent, actually worked hard for a living and provided things of value to the world. Though his wife’s money had certainly come in handy.
Now Kent sat in his castle and contemplated the phone call he was about to make. It was to someone of whom he was understandably afraid.
His secure phone was in his desk drawer. He pulled it out, hit the required numbers, and waited.
Four rings and a pickup. Kent winced when he realized it was the person and not a recording. He had been hoping for a bit of a reprieve.
He reported the latest news in terse, information-packed sentences, just as he had been trained to do.
And then he waited.
He could hear the other person breathing lightly on the other end of a communication line that not even the NSA could crack.
Kent did not break the silence. It wasn’t his place.
He just let the man breathe, take it in, think. The response would be forthcoming, he was certain of that.
“Has a search been made?” asked the person. “If they’re believed dead, there have to be bodies. That will be the only confirmation. Otherwise, they’re alive.”
“Agreed,” said Kent, who let out a nearly inaudible sigh of relief. “I personally don’t think they’re dead.”
“But injured?”
“After that sort of a jump, most likely yes.”
“Then we have to find them. Shouldn’t be too difficult if they are hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Cleanup on the train?”
“The train was stopped. Everything has been removed. All witnesses have been dealt with.”
“Explanation?”
“We can place the blame on whomever we want.”
“Well, I would place it on two rogue agents who have obviously lost their way. That will be the official line.”
“Understood.”
“It’s still an enormous mess. And one that should have been avoided.”
“I agree.”
“I didn’t ask for your agreement.”
“No, of course not.”
“But we’re near the end.”
“Yes,” said Kent.
“So don’t create any more obstacles.”
“Understood.”
“Robie and Reel together. A cause for concern.”
Kent didn’t know if the person was asking a question or stating a fact.
“I would not underestimate either of them,” said Kent.
“I never underestimate anyone, least of all my allies.”
Kent licked his lips, considered this statement. He was an ally. And this person would not underestimate him. “We’ll make a major push.”
“Yes, you will.”
The line went dead.
Kent put the phone away and looked up when the door to his study opened. For one panicked moment he thought his time had come and the open door would reveal a person like Robie or Reel dispatched to give him his final punishment.
But it was simply his wife. She was in her nightgown.
Kent’s gaze flicked to the wall above the door where the clock showed it was nearly eight in the morning.
“Did you even go to bed?” she asked. Her hair was tousled, her face bare of makeup, her eyes still weighted with sleep. But to Kent she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
He was lucky. He had never deserved a life of simple domesticity. But that was only half his life. His other half was decidedly different. Equal parts perfume and gunpowder. But right now, all gunpowder.
“Grabbed a few hours in the guest room. Didn’t want to disturb you, honey,” he said. “I finished up work late.”
She went to him, perched on the side of his desk, ran her fingers through his hair.
Their kids looked more like their mother. That was good, thought Kent. He wanted them to be like her. Not him.
Not me. Not my life.
He wanted his children to have exceptional lives. But also ordinary ones. Safe ones. Ones that did not involve carrying weapons or shooting others while being shot at. That was no life. Just a way to an early death.
“You look tired,” said his wife.
“A little. Burning the candles at both ends lately. Things will even out.”
“I’ll go make you some coffee.”
“Thanks, sweetie. That would be great.”
She kissed him on the forehead and left.
Kent watched her go every step of the way.
He had a lot.
Which meant he had a lot to lose.
He looked around his study. None of his awards, his military medals, his records of professional accomplishments were displayed here. Those things were private. They were not meant to impress or intimidate. He knew he had earned them. That was enough. They were kept upstairs in a small, locked storage closet. Sometimes he would look at them. But mostly they just sat up there gathering dust.
They were records of the past.
Kent had always been a forward thinker.
He unlocked a safe that sat on a shelf behind his desk and drew the paper out. It was Roy West’s white paper. A thing of intellectual beauty from a man who had become a paranoid militia nut. It was hard to believe that he could have concocted something that powerful. But perhaps from the forming depths of paranoia sometimes sprang genius, if for only a few frenetically productive moments.
Yet they had taken his original vision and turned it into something very different that suited their own purposes.
He walked over to the gas fireplace set against one wall. With a flick of a remote that he kept on the mantel, Kent turned on the fireplace. Then he dropped the white paper on top of the gas logs and watched it quickly disintegrate.
In less than thirty seconds it was gone.
But the ideas in there would remain with Kent for the rest of his life.
Whether that was to be a short or long time he couldn’t tell right now.
He was suddenly beset with doubts. His mind raced ahead to one catastrophic scenario after another. Such thoughts were never productive. But finally his military training took over and he calmed rapidly.
His secure phone, still on the desk, buzzed.
He hurried over to it.
The message was from the person with whom he had just talked.
It was a text. It was only three words.
But to Kent it proved his superior was indeed a mind reader.
The text read, No going back.