Reaching Fresh Pond, Lester eased off the gas and took a tight left off Concorde onto a track of stabilized aggregate leading into Lusitania Field. A half-acre area of meadow with tall grasses and wild flowers, which was obscured from any prying eyes staring out of the buildings that bordered nearby Wheeler Street by thick hardwood woodland. Tom lurched to the side, hitting Lester on the shoulder. He knew the plan they’d agreed wasn’t great, but it was all they had, and he couldn’t take the risk of having a tail on him when he went after Mahmood.
Lester swung the VW halfway off the track after hitting the loop around the meadow. Slowing down, Tom opened the door and jumped out, rolling onto the damp earth and drawing the SIG. A DAK meant a cartridge could be carried safely in the chamber, but he’d checked it beforehand just to be sure. He’d left the suppressor in the van. He’d told Lester that the muzzle blast would scare the driver and give him an initial advantage. He watched his friend pull away, the rubber kicking up mud and grit.
At the bailout point, Tom low-crawled behind some thistle, hearing the SUV as it approached the bend. He felt the stagnant water seep into his jeans and shirt, thinking that he’d become a target for a number of unknown pursuers on two continents already, and worrying that he’d gotten Lester into something that was beyond his ken.
Three seconds later, the Lexus came into view, its xenon headlights piercing through the darkness. It did a wheelspin around the bend, the rear tyres cutting semi-circular grooves into the narrow track before powering on. Tom raised his SIG, deciding to go for a tyre rather than the front windshield, worrying that it could be an FBI agent or a CIA operative. He just didn’t know.
He shot out the driver-side front tyre, the SIG bucking in his hand and the spent case somersaulting to his right. He heard the tyre burst, glimpsed the flayed rubber dragging on the ground as the front end of the vehicle sagged down a couple of notches. The exposed wheel dug into the stony surface as a cloud of burnt rubber smoke spewed out from the damage.
The Lexus veered off to the left, out of control, and came to a jolting stop in the damp meadow. He waited. No movement. He figured the driver had injured himself; maybe even knocked himself out. He raised himself up and moved forward slowly, pointing the SIG before him.
As he reached the edge of the track he crouched down again, half hidden behind a swath of rye grass, uncertain of how to proceed. He couldn’t see into the car, because it was as black as hell here, the moon covered by scudding clouds. Seeing the driver’s door swing open suddenly, he dipped and rolled. He raised his head and saw the man lurch out, the back of his ball cap the only thing visible. Tom watched him squat down, using the door as cover.
Tom leapt up, and sprinted to the left as a shot rang out, the bright flash followed by the bullet that pinged past his right ear. He felt the cold air part between the round and his skin, the sensation causing him to smart. He flung himself to the dirt, letting off five rounds, conscious that he was in the open. The DAK’s double-action design allowed rapid and devastating firepower, the bullets penetrating the metal door with ease. But no one fell; no cry emitted from the driver.
He’s moved, Tom thought. And I’m exposed. He dug deep and pushed himself up, duck-walking forward as a half-muffled blast came from the far right. He heard a groan, the sound of a body falling. A second round was discharged, followed by a concerned shout. It was Lester’s voice. He saw his head emerge from behind a clump of yellow-headed tansy plants, his SIG in his hand. His friend broke into a sprint toward the Lexus.
“No! Lester, no! Let it go!” Tom barked, racing over to meet him at the car.
Breathing heavily, Tom met Lester by the car’s trunk.
“He was gonna cap ya.”
Lester’s face was fierce-looking, his eyes two slits, his jaw muscles flexed. Tom loomed over the man who was face down in the mud, a body length from the trunk. Blood was oozing from the exit wounds in his back. As Lester picked up the man’s handgun lying a few centimetres from his twitching fingers, Tom bent down and turned the body over.
“Guess what, it’s a SIG,” Lester said.
Tom looked into the contorted face, blood and spittle running from the man’s lips. “Jesus Christ.”
“You know him, Tom?”
“It’s Steve Coombs. A member of my detail.”
“Say what?”
Tom straightened up and stepped back, a jolt of disbelief hitting him like a lump hammer. He grasped his forehead. It was the last person he’d expected to see. He shook his head, feeling dizzy.
“Tom!” Lester shouted.
Tom looked at his friend. Unlike him, he was focused.
“Do what you have to do,” he said.
Tom forced himself to act. Despite the shock, he needed answers. He crouched back down, his mind beginning to join the dots. He grabbed the back of Coombs’s head, eased it up.
“The tracking device—did you tell them? Did ya?”
“Yeah,” Coombs said, faintly.
Coombs groped for the silver crucifix he always wore around his neck. Tom pulled it out from his shirt and laid it over Coombs’s fingers. He figured once a Catholic always a Catholic, and it was confession time.
“Thanks, Tom,” he wheezed.
“My photo; was it you? The cellphone? Did you know that CIA woman? The terrorist who disappeared on the roof in Islamabad; that you, too?”
“Me, yeah. Forgive me … Tom.”
“And the bugging of the room at the Ariana?”
“I …” He groaned and spat blood.
“Where is she? Where?”
“Father, forgive me,” Coombs said, fingering the crucifix.
“Where is she?”
“I can’t breathe,” Coombs said as a croaky sigh emitted from his purple lips.
“Where?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know, Tom. I’m… Forgive me, Lord.”
Coombs strained to lift the crucifix to his lips. Then his head flopped to the side, his bloodshot eyes staring blankly into the night.
Tom shook him. “Where, you sonofabitch? Where?”
He felt Lester’s hand on his shoulder. “He’s gone, Tom. He’s gone.”