Gerrit’s body felt like he’d gone fifteen rounds with a heavyweight champion. Head pounding, he eased himself from the backseat of the Suburban and tried to stand. The other two quickly shed their wet suits. They emerged from both sides of the vehicle wearing blue denim trousers and dark shirts. His legs felt weak, and his head throbbed like a madman beating on a set of drums.
“Let me help you,” Alena said, rushing over. She put his arm over her shoulder and supported him as they walked toward the house. He heard the dog’s nails clicking on the concrete.
Tall, scraggly weeds and dry grass in the front yard advertised what this building represented-a dwelling abandoned by foreclosure. An under-the-table agreement between the police department and certain rental agencies allowed detectives to use selected residential housing to put up protected witnesses or give informants a place to crash during short-term sting operations. This was one of those places he and Taylor stashed Gregori before the ferry shooting.
“Reach under the second rock, near the front steps.” He pointed to the right of the concrete steps. “There should be a key.”
Alena’s heavyset partner stooped down, flicked over the rock. “Here it is.” The man sounded like he’d grown up in New York, a heavy Brooklyn accent, a strange contrast to Alena’s Eastern European inflections. The man stood, leaped up the front steps, and popped the door open. He turned back toward them. “Now where?”
Gerrit made his way up the steps with Alena’s help. Once inside, he extricated himself from her grasp and tottered toward a rear bedroom. He dropped to his knees and leaned under a queen-size bed. “Help me move this.”
Once they dragged the bed to one side, he found where loose boards had been pried up. Mark’s handiwork. Yanking up the boards, he saw it-the briefcase he had been given in Vienna. Opening up the case, he sighed with relief when he saw the laptop and thumb drive inside. He closed the case, then glanced up.
“Got it. Now let’s get out of here.”
Alena momentarily eyed the briefcase. “How do you say it here in America? Let’s scram?”
Gerrit smiled. “That’s what we say.” He rose to his feet and then his world turned black again.
Marilynn Summers climbed out of her coupe, closed and locked the door, before activating the alarm. She walked from her assigned parking space in the federal building toward the stairway leading to the lobby.
She began to relax, knowing that once inside she would have complete protection. She knew security cameras recorded her movement right now. Any hint of trouble and security would be running to her aid.
The only unease she felt at the moment had to do with a man a thousand miles away. Richard Kane. He had sent her to change Gerrit’s mind. That was her mission and she failed. Kane did not tolerate failure.
What was he going to do? Shoot her? Daughter of Senator Summers?
I think not, Mr. Kane.
The more she thought about it, the more secure she felt. Being John Summers’s only child brought some perks. Nobody but the senator could mess with her-and survive politically.
Footsteps echoed behind her.
She turned her head to see a man a few yards away. Funny, she had not seen another car enter the garage.
“Ms. Summers?”
She turned toward the voice as the man drew closer and her chest suddenly tightened. Just for an instant she saw a metallic reflection from something in the man’s right hand.
A gun.
Her brain registered an explosive flash. Then pain. Then nothing.