DALLAS
The Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex included five million residents sprawled across three thousand square miles. But the real money lay in a snug triangle in the center of Dallas, bounded by Love Field—the area’s original airport—to the west, downtown’s office towers to the south, and the mansions of University Park and Preston Hollow to the north.
The famous hotel now called the Rosewood Mansion on Turtle Creek sat near the heart of the triangle. Naturally, Paul Birman was staying there the night before his speech. Naturally, he’d put himself in the Presidential Suite. For a mere three thousand dollars a night, the suite offered gold taps in the bathroom and a terrace the size of a house. Eric knew Lucky Cousin Paul believed he deserved no less.
Eric was stuck three floors down with the commoners. He watched CNN on mute as he took one final pass at Paul’s speech. He wished he could leave everything after page 5 blank, but even Paul might wonder why. He closed his laptop, climbed into bed. For a while, he stared at the ceiling, excited as a kid waiting for Santa. ’Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the house / Not a creature was stirring, not even a sniper.
By tomorrow night, he would be the Birman everyone knew.
Yet his decades as a soldier had taught him that rest was too precious to squander, especially with action ahead. He was not surprised when he faded into unconsciousness.
His alarm snapped him awake at 6 a.m. He ran for an hour on a treadmill downstairs, came back to his room for a shower and coffee. He was finishing his second cup when the room phone trilled.
“Eric? I need you up here. Now.”
Eric walked into the Presidential Suite to find a hotel housekeeper ironing a handmade English suit. Paul’s professed love of buying American didn’t extend to his clothes.
“In here.” In the bedroom, Paul was knotting a tie—muted red, of course.
“Morning News and local TV are setting up downstairs,” Eric said. Paul had interviews scheduled to promote his speech.
“FBI director just called. He wanted me to hear it from him. They have a break on the sniper.”
Eric’s first thought: The fact that Paul had personally received a call showed how important he was becoming. The head of the FBI didn’t waste his time giving updates to average senators.
His second thought was less polite, half-formed curses melting into a scream: Nonooonooooo . . .
“He say what they have?” Eric kept his voice steady.
“Just for you, okay?”
Eric looked at him: I’m your cousin, of course you can trust me.
“They know who it is. He wouldn’t tell me how, but they’re sure. They’ve put him in Chicago the day of the shooting. An American citizen. He wouldn’t say if he was Muslim.”
But Eric’s friends must have put together a backstory for him, whoever he was. “They going public?”
“Not yet. They think they have enough to find him quietly in the next forty-eight hours. Maybe sooner. I don’t know what, exactly. He wouldn’t say, and I didn’t push. But they don’t want to spook him, they’re worried he might start shooting randomly or blow himself up if he knows they’re close. They’re going to brief the committee tonight. I think I should be there.”
Eric’s pulse thumped in his throat. The Russians wouldn’t have another chance after today. When the FBI realized that Paul had been the third target, he wouldn’t need to hire Deltas, he’d have presidential-level protection. “The speech—”
“Duto will crush me if I’m not at the briefing. Senator Birman can’t even be bothered to meet the FBI director—”
Eric saw the answer, the only answer. If he could sell it. “You can still give the speech. We’ll move it up—say, two p.m. Takes twenty minutes, a half hour. We go straight to Love, you’re back in D.C. by five-thirty, on the Hill at six at the latest.”
“No one will pay attention to what I say—”
“Give it before they catch the guy, you have today’s news cycle at least. Maybe longer. There’s no guarantee they’re going to find him as fast as they think. Plus I’ll rework the speech to hint what might be coming, so you stay in front even if they do: I know the FBI and CIA are doing everything possible to protect us. The problem is, the direction they’re receiving from the White House—”
“Can we even change the time this late?”
“Of course. We only skedded it this week. Look, you took the trouble to fly down here.”
Eric saw the last sentence had scored. Like most lazy people, Paul hated to waste the minimal work he did put in. “All right, if you can change it and make sure we can still get an audience—”
“No worries, just tell all those local interviews you’ll be speaking at two. They love you here, Paul. Nineteen hundred people already signed up on the web to say they’re coming. Say you had to change it because you have a big national security briefing back in D.C. tonight, that’ll get people interested.”
“Think CNN and Fox will still cover it?”
“I’ll start making calls right now.” Though I’ll keep the first one to myself.
Back in his room, Eric pulled his emergency phone, punched in Adam Petersen’s number. He hesitated before connecting the call. He’d never used this phone before now. Petersen had told him the number on the other end was clean, too. But then the Russians hadn’t expected the FBI to find their sniper so fast, had they? If the Feds discovered Petersen somehow, the NSA would trace this call to Dallas, and Eric would be toast.
But Eric had no choice. He had to talk to Petersen. He made the call.
Petersen didn’t answer. No. Not the time for the Russians to fumble their emergency procedures.
Eric waited three minutes, redialed. Two rings . . . three . . . four . . . Come on—
“Hello.”
They had confirmation codes. Eric didn’t feel like using them. Petersen knew who he was. “The man doing your work today, he’s sick. Very sick.”
“Where do you hear this? As far as I know, he’s healthy—”
For the first time, Eric heard the hint of an accent in Petersen’s voice. Stress.
“I’m sure. These doctors are good. I want to reschedule his appointment. Two p.m.”
A pause. “Two, yes, that will work. I’ll make sure he knows. And you, are you still all right?”
“I’m feeling fine. For now.”
“If that changes and you need emergency treatment—”
“I’ll let you know.” So the Kremlin would stick to its promise to bring him to Russia, if he asked.
“Good, then.” And Petersen was gone.
Two p.m. Six hours. Eric pulled open his curtains and stared into the morning sun until his eyes burned. Either way, he wouldn’t have long to wait.
Wells touched down at DFW at noon. Fourteen voice mails and twenty-three texts awaited him. Ten from Tarnes. The first couple were chipper enough. The FBI had found footage of Miller’s pickup in Chicago on the morning of the Cardinal’s shooting. Confirmation, not that Wells needed any.
Two calls later, she had news about Coyle. Good news.
The operation had lasted seven hours and cost Coyle the middle lobe of his right lung. But he was alive. The surgeon had inserted a tube into his chest to relieve the pressure and put him on a ventilator to help him breathe. He was in critical but stable condition. For now, he would stay at Pullman Regional. The doctors in both Pullman and Seattle believed the risks of transporting him outweighed the extra care a bigger hospital could offer. I’ll call his parents to update them, she said, ’case you don’t get this for a while. Wells tried to ignore the implicit rebuke. He had called Coyle’s family twice just before takeoff. But they hadn’t answered, and he hadn’t wanted to leave a message.
As the hours passed, Tarnes’s messages grew more urgent. FBI’s been in the trailer all morning. They’re sure Miller’s their man. I know you were there last night, John, I know you saw what they saw. The troopers said you left in a hurry. Don’t play with me. You found something, and you’re not in a sharing mood. Don’t make me tell them to put out an APB for you, too.
Then a message from Shafer. Google says your flight is on time. Hope it stays that way, sahib. I have something, but we’re cutting it close. While you were flapping your wings over Idaho, Birman moved up the speech. Two p.m. He’s saying the FBI wants him back in D.C. tonight. I’m guessing they want to brief the Intelligence Committee on the sniper. Oh, the irony. Shafer was excited, the words coming even faster than usual. He’d found Miller. Or thought he had.
Finally, Duto. You’re being a very bad boy, John, not answering Julie. No idea what you’re playing at, but whatever it is, it stops now. Pissing me off. And if something happens that you could have stopped, I will make you pay. You hear me? The clipped fury of a man who wasn’t used to being ignored.
Wells wondered if FBI agents might be waiting for him at the gate with a material witness warrant. He’d booked the flight under his own name, and the Transportation Security Administration would happily check passenger manifests for him if the FBI asked. No court order necessary, the Bureau could simply tell the TSA it had added him to the Selectee list, a triumph of Orwellian naming. Another step in the long, slow death of privacy. Anyway, nothing for Wells to do but wait as the jet inched toward its gate. DFW was massive, with an awkward five-terminal design. Planes seemed to spend as much time taxiing as they did in the air.
At last, the cabin door swung open, and Wells strode out. No one was at the gate. He would have sprinted through the terminal, but these days airports were bad places to sprint. Or do anything that police might notice.
He reached the curb at 12:35, waited five more minutes for Shafer. “Cops made me move. They were going to arrest me. I showed them my CIA badge, and they literally laughed.”
“Confidence-inspiring.” Wells squeezed himself into the front seat of the RAV4.
“What you asked for, it’s under the seat.” Shafer eased into the airport traffic.
Wells reached down, found a 9-millimeter Sig Sauer. Not his favorite pistol, but sturdy enough.
“Loaded and everything.”
“Where is he?”
“Before we get to that, aren’t you interested in the bombing investigation?”
“I’m not joking, Ellis.”
“Neither am I. I’m trying to remind you this isn’t just about you and Coyle.”
The answer stopped Wells.
“Those FBI guys got some good stuff yesterday, even if they don’t know why it’s good. Short on imagination, but point them in the right direction and they swarm. God help anyone in their way. They’re like locusts. Robot locusts. Do we have those yet? I’ll bet we do.”
“Please continue.”
“They found this warehouse in South Dallas that I’m thinking was where our friends brought Ahmed Shakir to flip him. Metal desks, eyeball cameras in the corners. Looks like a hide for undercovers, which is what they would have wanted him to think. Two black SUVs that could have come out of an FBI garage. No cop lights in the grille, but our friends could have been smart enough to take ’em out before they bailed. Guess what? Someone cleaned their nav systems, too, so there’s no record where they went.”
“But the Feds haven’t put it together?”
“Not a clue. They’re just chasing what Duto told them to. They’re not happy, but it’s not like they can order the President to tell them the whole story. Maybe one day one of them will take another look at the interviews and realize what Jeanelle Pitts said. Hasn’t happened yet.”
“Once they hit Banamex—”
“Yeah, that’ll change things. Duto might not mind if your friend Mendoz just took a runner. Or the Russians gave her a forever siesta. He’s in a tough spot if she talks. I almost feel sorry for him on this one. All bad choices.”
“Don’t you worry about Vinny. Whatever happens, he’ll protect himself.” Wells flashed to Coyle, trying not to choke on his own blood. Trying not to die. The worst choice of all.
“Irony is, we’re about to save his biggest political threat. He might not mind if we let Tom Miller take care of Birman.”
“That would be cold, even for him.” Though Wells wouldn’t put much past Duto.
Ahead, signs pointed to Texas 114 and downtown Dallas. Shafer made a late turn, cutting off a pickup that responded with an angry honk. Shafer raised his right hand to offer a single-finger response. Wells pulled it down.
“Didn’t you learn your lesson about Texas, Ellis? Don’t need to piss off some guy with an open-carry permit.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Okay, I listened to you. Now, where is he?”
“In good time.”
Wells wanted to reach over and throttle Shafer’s skinny neck.
Shafer smirked. “At least now you know how Duto feels about you.”
Tom Miller stared at the digital clock on the cable box, willing it to roll from 1:00 to 1:01 . . . There. The witching hour had begun. He lay on the floor beside his Remington, checked the plaza where Paul Birman would speak. Hundreds of people were already there, with more coming every minute. But the flags and ropes were still limp, the wind quiet.
This would be the easiest shot yet.
On Wednesday night, Allie had booked them a room at the W through a reservation site that took PayPal. Don’t think anyone’s looking for us, but this keeps our names out of the system just in case, Allie said. Miller didn’t ask what system or how she knew.
They drove through the night on I-30, arrived in Dallas in darkness Thursday morning, found a motel where they could shower and sleep for a few hours so they wouldn’t look homeless. By noon, they’d arrived at the American Airlines Center. Miller cruised the highways and surface roads around it. Not an ideal site. The blocks near the arena were more built up than he’d expected, lots of bulky mid-rises. He’d need to be above them to be sure he’d have a clean angle. The W itself was more than thirty stories high, a handsome building that loomed over the south side of the arena, but its glass-clad upper half was all condos. The hotel was stuck on the bottom fifteen floors. He hoped Allie had a plan to put them at the top of those.
Miller pulled up to the hotel, and a valet jogged up. “Checking in, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Need help with your luggage?”
“I got it.” Miller had hidden his rifle case in a green duffel bag, stuffed T-shirts and jeans around it. He didn’t want anyone touching it. He hauled it and Allie’s suitcase from the back seat of the Ram. The duffel looked a little unusual, but the W had lots of celebrity guests. The hotel staff would be used to unusual bags. Plus Allie was wearing a T-shirt so small it barely reached her belly button. No one was going to notice him.
The place looked pretty cool, to be honest. The lobby had huge chandeliers and bright silver-colored chairs and tables. Miller had never stayed anywhere this fancy before. Not even close. Truth was, he would have been too intimidated to hang out here by himself. These places weren’t for guys like him. Even the bellboys were four inches taller than he was. But Allie walked right in like she owned the place. Miller followed. He hadn’t seen this side of her before, the woman who could turn heads in a ritzy hotel. It didn’t surprise him, though. The more time he spent with her, the more he realized he had no idea who she really was. But maybe all women were that way, and he just hadn’t been close enough to any of them to know.
The check-in clerk, a skinny black guy with a diamond stud in his nose, looked over the reservation. “Just need a driver’s license and a credit card for incidentals.”
Miller would have been thrown, but Allie had told him what to expect. Give them your license, that’s fine, that’s just to verify your identity. Your name stays in their system, even if someone’s looking for us. No one will find it until later. But no credit card.
“Can I give you cash instead of a card?”
“We require a four-hundred-dollar additional deposit per night . . . But, sure.”
Miller handed over eight crisp hundred-dollar bills. Three weeks of disability. The clerk counted it, tucked it in a drawer.
“Great. I have a room for you, fourth floor.”
Way too low. Miller felt Allie’s hand on the small of his back: Let me handle this. He stepped aside. Allie gave the clerk her best smile, the one that had made Miller fall in love with her. He’d never seen her use it on anyone else. He was both jealous and pleased to see the way the clerk lit up.
“We’d really like a higher floor.”
The guy pecked at his keyboard. “I can put you on eight.”
“Nothing higher? I like to get as high as I can.”
“I hear that.” He grinned. “Okay, we have something on fourteen. I have to warn you, it’s a suite, there’s an upcharge.”
“As long as it’s on the west side of the hotel so we can watch the sunset.”
“That’s actually easier. Most people like the other side, they want to see downtown. Usually, it’s an extra three hundred a night, but I think I can do it for a hundred with the override . . . Yes, there. Two hundred for two nights.”
She kissed Miller lightly on the lips. “Can we, Tom?”
Miller handed over two more hundred-dollar bills, loving the feeling of being rich, handing out money like he’d always have more. Of having a beautiful woman beside him, a woman other men openly desired. For the next few hours, anyway, he would live like an athlete or a billionaire. A baller. Whatever happened tomorrow, he planned to enjoy himself tonight.
He did, too. Room 1412 was positioned perfectly for the shot. It occupied the floor’s southwest corner, with a clear view over the office building that sat between the W and Valor Place, where Birman would speak. The glass was thin, single-layer. He could break it easily just before he fired. The range was barely two hundred yards, and Birman wouldn’t be moving as he spoke.
Even better, Birman’s team would have to set up a stage, podium, speakers, and ropes to block off space for the crowd. Miller would know hours in advance exactly where Birman would be standing. Miller didn’t know how much security Birman would have, but he doubted anyone would put a protective tent or cover over the podium and stage. Even if they did, they’d be too late. Miller would have locked in the shot. The car bomb had blown up slightly north of the arena’s west entrance, so Miller figured that Birman would face that direction. Miller was shooting from the south, into the back of Birman’s skull. The man would never know what had hit him.
“What do you think?” Allie said.
“No problem.”
She stood beside him, wrapped an arm around him.
That night, she was sexier than she had ever been. She screamed so loudly, he worried someone might think he was hurting her. After the first go-round, they ordered room service: fries and burgers. He tried to ignore the gnawing fear that he’d traded the lives of two men for this pleasure.
Finally, they’d exhausted each other. They lay quietly on the bed, talking through the plan one more time. It was simple enough. After the shot, Miller would tear ass down the fire stairs, which were just outside the room. Allie would wait a block east, in an alley that didn’t have any surveillance cameras. She’d have a car rented in her name, no way to connect it to him. He’d lie down in the back seat, and south they’d go. Three major interstates—I-30, I-35E, and I-45—were located within a mile of the hotel. The police couldn’t possibly shut them in time to matter.
Once they were out of Dallas, Allie could stay on the interstate, or switch to the surface roads that crisscrossed the flat Texas prairie. She would drive to Eagle Pass, on the Mexican border, return the car. By then, the FBI would surely have connected Miller to the room. He’d be the most wanted man in the world. The hotel surveillance cameras would have caught Allie, too, but no one knew her name or anything about her. She’d dye her hair black, put on a shapeless dress. Give him a buzz cut, a cowboy hat, tight Mexican-style jeans and boots.
“You’ll be surprised how different we look,” she said now. “No one will recognize us. Especially once we get over the border. I’m trusting you on that part.”
“I’ve been to Mexico once in my life.”
“But you were a soldier, you can read a map. Walk south, find a hole in the fence, and cross the river, right? Everybody else is going the other way. Once we’re over, we catch a bus to Mexico City, twenty million people who look like you.” She stroked his chin. “I trust you, Tom. Trust me back, we’ll be fine.”
Miller wondered if they really had a chance to reach Mexico. If she’d even be waiting for him tomorrow in the alley. He knew he ought to care, but he didn’t.
Way he figured, his soul had never been worth much. His dad had shown him that a long time back. He’d gotten full value for it already.
When he woke the next morning, Allie was gone. Renting the car, buying clothes and maps and a hammer to break the glass and everything else. Miller pulled the rifle case from the duffel, raised the privacy shade a few inches, set up. One advantage of the suite: It was big enough that he could stretch out on the floor with plenty of room to shoot.
The buildings west of the W were all low-rises, and the reflective glass made seeing into the room from below nearly impossible. Still, Miller planned to leave the shade down against the slim chance that a police or news helicopter buzzed close. He looked through the scope, saw a guy in a long-sleeved black shirt holding a rope line. Already? He stood, peeked at the plaza. Two guys stringing rope through stanchions. Two more grabbing speaker stands from the back of a truck. Seemed early to be setting up for a speech tonight, but maybe they expected a big crowd. Anyway, the rope would come in handy for giving him a sense of the wind, though the Weather Channel was forecasting a calm day, just a light southerly breeze off the plains. If the wind picked up, he would have to go for a body shot instead of the head. He hoped it wouldn’t. He liked the idea of a head shot.
He peeked through the rifle once more, then called room service. Normally, the idea of spending forty bucks for eggs and orange juice and coffee would have drained his appetite. But he didn’t have the chance to shoot a United States senator every day. Make his mom proud.
What would happen if he and Allie escaped today and she kept giving him targets? Would he get used to killing people this way? He didn’t think of himself as a mass murderer, but he was. Five in Afghanistan, two more back home, and here he was about to add another to the list. With a head shot.
His right hand quivered. Excitement, fear, self-disgust—he couldn’t tell anymore. He clenched his fingers in a fist, turned on the television to distract himself—
There. Paul Birman. Snazzy in a suit and tie. Telling the interviewer, a woman almost as pretty as Allie, he’d changed the time of his speech. “Two p.m. Hoping for a great crowd.”
“And this is because—”
“I’ve just learned of an Intelligence Committee briefing tonight in Washington, urgent, I can’t say anything else. But I look forward to seeing Dallas this afternoon. I’m going to offer specific new ways we can fight the War on Terror. We know President Duto doesn’t have the answer—”
Miller snapped off the television. At least now he knew why they were setting up early. Changing the time of the speech? An urgent briefing? Could the FBI be onto him?
His mouth went dry as he realized how badly he wanted to kill Paul Birman. With his perfect teeth and his perfect chin and his perfect suit—
He heard footsteps in the hall, moving toward the suite. He slid to the door, pulled it open—
A brown-skinned man stood outside, holding a tray. “Room service, sir.”
The rifle. Had he seen the rifle? Miller stepped into the hall.
“I can set it up inside for you—”
“Leave it.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“Leave it.” If the guy stayed much longer, Miller might lose his mind.
The man put down the tray and offered the bill without another word.
The rest of the morning ticked by agonizingly slowly. He had no way to reach Allie. Both their phones were off. He watched as the crew on the plaza put together a stage, set up a podium and chairs, hooked the speakers to a portable generator, finished setting the rope lines, tested the sound system, added a row of American flags. Around noon, the first television vans showed, the local stations. The audience started coming, too. Mostly men, mostly white. The Fox and CNN trucks arrived a few minutes later.
Then the cops, a dozen marked Dallas police sedans and at least three unmarked. The police spread themselves out, five on stage, several in the crowd, the rest at the edges. A police helicopter thrummed close, slowly circling the arena. The number of cops surprised Miller. He wondered again if they or the FBI knew about him. But, no, the cops just figured the speech might draw the same crazy hajjis who had hit the arena in the first place. If they’d really feared a sniper, they would have had tactical teams and undercover officers and their own snipers—big-time protection.
Still, Miller didn’t mind the cops. They made the fight more fair. He’d only have one shot, for sure, and if he didn’t get out of the hotel right away, they would be on him.
Then it was 1:01. He heard footsteps in the hall. A key card fit in the lock, the door swung open—
Allie’s hair was jet-black under a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap, and she wore a baggy dress and a sweatshirt. Miller almost didn’t recognize her. “Wow.”
“Yeah, what a difference hair makes, right? I’d shave your head, but I don’t want to leave any hair in the room.” She grinned. “I took the stairs, no cameras. It’s a circus down there. And they don’t know it yet, but you’re the star. You ready for this, babe?”
1:10 on the Toyota’s dashboard clock. The streets around the arena were clogged with traffic, people driving in for the speech, walking over from downtown.
“He’s popular, this guy,” Shafer said. “Might give Duto a run. If we let him live.”
“Funny,” Wells said.
“Do I look like I’m joking.” Shafer swung off Victory Park Lane into the garage behind the W, sped down a ramp past a sign that warned VALET PARKING ONLY—past the Mercedes sedans and BMW coupes, a bright yellow Porsche convertible—
And jammed on his brakes behind a black Dodge Ram. The pickup had a half-dozen bumper stickers on its tailgate and a white license plate, WASHINGTON in red.
Sometimes Shafer really did seem like a magician.
“First hotel I checked. Got the best sight lines on the arena. Took me about five minutes. I slapped on a GPS in case they checked out early.”
Wells stepped out, looked close at the Ram’s tailgate, ran a finger over the LIVE FREE OR GET HIGH bumper sticker in the middle, touched the hole Miller had cut for his rifle. Wells understood the need for snipers, but he’d never liked them. They were both less and more than soldiers. In Afghanistan years before, he’d run across a particularly ugly practitioner. At least that one hadn’t shot preachers for kicks.
Back in the SUV, he stuffed the Sig in the back of his jeans, pulled his sweatshirt over it. Not the best way to carry a pistol, but he’d be holding it soon enough. “Any ideas on finding the room?”
“As a matter of fact . . .”
They walked up to the valet station. “Afternoon,” Shafer said.
“H-e-y—” The valet drawled out the word as if each letter were its own syllable. He had blue eyes, a perfect Roman nose, a granite chin. He should have been a model. The fact that he was parking cars for a living suggested he might not be the sharpest tool in the box. Wells hoped the deficit would work for them.
“Kind of a weird question, but you’ve got a Ram pickup in the valet area,” Shafer said. “Black. 1500 Quad Cab. I’ve been looking for that exact model for like six months. Can’t find it anywhere.”
“Huh.”
“I’m thinking maybe I want to buy that one.”
“That’s cool.”
Shafer looked at Wells. I’d better break this into the smallest possible bites. “So I need to talk to the guy who owns it.”
“Sure, right.”
Wells wondered if the valet was playing with them. But his eyes were as blue and empty as glacial melt.
“Give me his room number, I’ll give you twenty bucks.”
Greed and fear visibly struggled on the valet’s face. Twenty bucks! Not supposed to do that!
“I’m just gonna knock on his door. If he’s there, I’ll ask him if it’s for sale. If not, I’ll leave a note.”
“Twenty-five.” As if he couldn’t think of a larger sum.
Shafer handed him the money.
“What kinda car is it again?”
Sixty seconds later, Wells and Shafer were in the elevator, headed for the fourteenth floor.
“I don’t think I knew what too stupid to breathe meant until now.”
Wells pulled his pistol. “Focus.”
The elevator door opened, and they stepped out, Wells leading. Room 1412 lay at the end of the hall on the right side. A room service tray sat by the door. Good. Wells could announce himself as room service, ask if Miller wanted the tray removed.
After he yelled and knocked for a few seconds, Miller would probably open up just to shoo him away. If not, Wells would go to Plan B. Plan B was shooting open the door.
Inside the room, Allie looked out over the plaza.
“I wish I could be here with you when you do it, Tom.”
“I know.” Though he didn’t.
“Wait until he’s a few minutes in, let him talk. I want him to be talking, thinking how wonderful he is.” She leaned over, kissed him one more time, ran her hands down his back. Despite himself, he felt his skin tingle. “I can count on you, right?”
He nodded.
“I’ll see you downstairs.”
She kissed his cheek once lightly. Then she was gone.
The door to 1412 opened. Wells and Shafer were thirty feet down the hall. Wells lifted his pistol, expecting Miller. But a woman stepped out. Tall, black hair, in a long dress that tried, and failed, to hide her curves—
She turned to them as the room door locked behind her. Wells saw her blue eyes and knew who she was, who she had to be.
“Hello, sunshine!” Shafer yelled, the words meant to do nothing but confuse her. Slow her.
Wells sprinted, thirty feet, ten yards, not even a second and a half—
She reached into her purse, but too late, Wells was on her, two hundred ten pounds of muscle and bone. He slammed her against the wall so hard her head whipped like a shaken baby’s. She groaned and dropped the purse. Wells kicked it to Shafer.
“Tom—” she yelled.
Her eyes opened wide, and she stopped herself as she realized the mistake she’d made. Wells knew, too. With his left hand, he covered her mouth. He put his body against hers and shoved her against the wall face-first, anyone watching might have seen brute sexuality. In truth, Wells wanted to be sure she didn’t have a pistol hidden around her hips or strapped to her back, and pressing her was the fastest way to search her. He could smell the dye in her hair, feel her hips under her dress. She didn’t shiver or try to fight him. She stayed still. Unafraid. Calculating.
She didn’t have a weapon. It had been in the purse, he figured. He pulled her off the wall, turned her to face the door. Put his Sig to her head. “Be good.”
Together, they waited for Miller to come for her.
Miller heard a scream.
“Allie?”
No answer. He ran for the door, pulled it open. A man he’d never seen, a big guy, a soldier, held Allie. A pistol to her head. Another man a few feet off.
Before Miller could say anything, the guy shoved Allie into the room. He followed her, kicked the door shut behind him so the second guy was stuck outside in the hall.
“Come on, Tom, sit, let’s talk.”
Outside, the police helicopter buzzed so close that the windows shook.
Miller had brought his pistol with him on this trip, of course. It was in the duffel. The duffel was at the base of the bed. The rifle was in the corner. He just had to keep thinking. He’d find a way to reach one or the other.
He sat on the edge of the bed. Allie stayed standing.
“Who are you?”
“Name’s John Wells.” The guy had a flat western accent. He was older than Miller had thought at first, but he had baseball bat forearms and the thick shoulders of a man who’d been winning fights his whole life.
“How do you know my name?”
“They sent him to kill us,” Allie said.
“Hush,” the man said. “You’ll have a chance. Though if I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut.” He looked at Miller. “You’ve done terrible things, Tom.” Every word slow and low. “I don’t know how she made you. I look at her, look at you, maybe I can guess.”
A wave of shame, heavy and foul, washed over Miller.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Allie said.
“Allie. Annalise. Whatever your name really is. We’re past that. I don’t know what’s going to happen to you, maybe the FSB has something to trade for you. But we know how this ends for him.”
“He’s crazy, Tom, don’t listen to him—”
In one motion, fast, not even looking at her, the man brought up his left arm, backhanded Allie, a short, vicious swing—
The clap of knuckles on skin. Allie sprawled backward, banged into the silver couch in the center of the suite. She tripped over the arm but reached down, caught herself.
“Enough,” the man said.
“I’ll kill you,” Allie said.
“I hope you try.” He hadn’t looked away from Miller. “Hurley, the Cardinal, Birman—you think it’s a coincidence they all have anti-Islamic views? She used you to make folks angry at Muslims—”
“No,” Miller said. He knew he ought to be furious with this man Wells for hitting Allie. Yet, somehow, Wells had acted with absolute authority, like he had no doubt Allie was guilty. And Allie hadn’t questioned him, hadn’t said, Why did you do that? She hadn’t claimed innocence or begged for mercy. No, she’d threatened to kill him.
“You leave a spring gun in your trailer when you drove off to shoot Luke Hurley, Tom?”
Miller shook his head in confusion.
“Because there was one set when I got there last night. Shotgun wired to the front door. It killed the sheriff, Darby, the one who gave you the pickup. Tore up a Marine I know named Winston Coyle, a good guy, three tours in Helmand. That’s your girlfriend’s friends.”
With his left hand, Wells reached into his pocket for the ribbon. He held it like he was trying to hypnotize Miller, then let it flutter down. “Know what else I found, Tom? In the table by your bed. A picture. Of a dead Afghan kid. They leave that or was that yours?”
Miller had nothing to say.
Miller’s silence was all the answer Wells needed. The Russians had seeded the apartment, but that pic had been Miller’s. For a few seconds, none of them spoke. The thrum of the helicopter provided the only evidence that the world outside this room still existed. Poor Miller. With his scarred skin and his widow’s peak. Fred Urquhart had been generous. Miller wasn’t a five on a good day, he was a three. What had he thought when Allie came to him?
“I didn’t kill him,” Miller finally said. “The kid. But, yeah, it happened. It all happened.”
The duffel bag was at Miller’s feet, open. He reached for it.
Wells knew Miller must have a pistol in there. This was the moment to stop him, to tell him to lie facedown on the bed and to call the FBI.
“Don’t touch it. Scoot back. I’ll get the gun for you.”
“Huh?”
“If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have already. Just do it.”
Miller hesitated, moved back on the bed. “It’s at the bottom, the end nearer you.”
Wells reached into the duffel with his left hand, kept the Sig on Miller with his right. The pistol was where Miller had said. He pulled it. A 9-millimeter Glock, simple and professional.
“You ride with one in the chamber?”
Miller nodded. Wells released the magazine. It hit the floor, and he kicked it toward the door. Then he put the Glock on the end of the bed. It looked unloaded, but it had a round chambered, ready to fire.
Miller inched close, reached it, held it loose in his lap. He looked at Wells, his eyes defiant and lost at once, a trapped fox. Wells felt Allie behind him, edging toward the rifle in the corner. He let her. It was pointing the wrong way. And it was a single-shot bolt-action long gun. If she could reach it and bring it around and fire it before Wells dropped her, he deserved to get shot.
“One bullet. What’m I gonna do with that?”
“Whatever you like, Tom.”
“So I can go for you and get smoked or just do it myself.”
“Toss it down, I’ll call the FBI, and we’re done. Swear to you.” Wells meant his promise. Though he didn’t think he’d have to keep it. He didn’t think Miller was going that way. Why he’d made sure Shafer was stuck outside.
Wells was taking a chance here, a hundred chances. What he was doing was illegal, maybe even immoral. He didn’t care, he wanted to break Miller, and he didn’t see another way.
“What do you do with her?” Miller looked at Allie.
“She’ll be fine. My word. Soldier to soldier.”
“Ever been in love, John? Real love? It’s everything. I love her now, I’ll always love her.”
You poor lost soul.
Miller looked at the 9-millimeter in his lap. Suddenly he flashed to the trailer, Allie holding this pistol in her hands, a perfect shooter’s grip. Even then he’d known, hadn’t he? The room shattered, and he was back in Afghanistan. He was six and waiting for his dad. He was in the Hyde Out, watching her watch him—
Allie sidled closer to the rifle, closer, only two steps away—
“Tom! Shoot him!” She broke for the rifle, picked it up, tried to turn—
Miller twisted the pistol in his lap and squeezed the trigger.
The blast echoed off the walls—
And the round caught Allie high in the back and spun her into the wall beside the window. Another perfect shot. She slid down the wall, leaving a bloody trail as she went, gasping, her eyes already vacant, and Miller knew he’d killed her.
Wells kept his Sig on Miller the whole time. Allie thumped down, gurgling, dying.
“John!” Shafer yelled from outside.
Wells ignored him.
Miller released the slide and pointed the pistol at Wells. He squeezed the trigger. The slide racked back and the pin popped into the naked chamber, the pistol as empty and useless as a paper cutout. Click!
“It’s over, Tom.” He felt the first stirrings of pity for this man, made himself push them down.
“Time for me to go.” Miller released the slide, dry-fired again. Click!
“Not how it works.”
“Nothing I can tell them. Spend the rest of my life trying to explain, it doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me.”
“I was crazy for her. She said they’d raped her, all those men. I didn’t want to know anything else. That’s all there is—”
Click! Click!
“You know they’re gonna lock me up until they put a needle in me, not asking you to cut me loose—” Miller closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were clear and certain, the fear gone. “I’m sorry, John, truly I am.”
Wells didn’t know if this was mercy or justice, didn’t know if it was his to grant. Only that he would. Over the thrum of the helicopter, he heard the ding of the elevator door, footsteps pounding down the hall.
“John!” Shafer yelled again.
Wells raised the Sig. Left it there. Giving Miller one last chance—
But Miller only nodded.
Wells pulled the trigger.