They were worthy adversaries, Grange thought. It wasn’t an admission, and it wasn’t admiration. Just an observation, one that affirmed his strategy. He didn’t begrudge them their successes. He had just anticipated them and negated them in advance. An old principle, really, known best to fishermen and subsistence hunters. Some quarry was too crafty to blunder into anything. Some quarry had to be worn down before you could administer the coup de grace.
Which is coming, Grange thought. It wouldn’t be long now. Taking care of Nichols wasn’t difficult. What worried Grange was who else might have seen the story Nichols was working on. Not that Grange was naïve enough to believe it wouldn’t get out eventually. Juicy truths always escaped their bureaucratic burials. It was just a matter of time. Time was the ultimate commodity, especially once you wandered off the reservation, as the administrative types liked to phrase it.
He had known the day would come, of course. He had prepared for it with the same kind of dispassionate, methodical approach that had kept him alive over the years, perpetually perched as he was on the tightrope.
His face would be added back to the database soon, if it hadn’t been already. Clandestine operatives were kept out of the facial-recognition database, but enough time had elapsed that the bodies would certainly have been found. Grange had to assume someone would make the connection. He was now on the run.
He drove in silence. His eye wandered to the manila envelope resting on the passenger seat. It would do much of the heavy lifting. He looked behind him, through the delivery van’s small rear window and into the cargo compartment. The cargo appeared secure. The sight of it reassured him and gave him a feeling of satisfaction. The end was in sight.
Grange eyed the street signs as he passed through an intersection. He was on time. Things were on track. One final charade.
It would all be over soon.