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BLOOD COVERED CIA AGENT Mike Jacobs’ clothes, but apparently, none of it was his because there were no visible wounds on the man. In addition, he snored like a man in a serious coma, and Widow had never heard of a man who was bleeding to death sleeping so soundly.
Amita set down her shotgun and went over to Jacobs like a woman still in love. She had recognized his face. Widow imagined that the only difference was that this guy was probably a lot thinner than he once was. Widow figured he had been heavier at one time because his body was bony and frail. It looked like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. There were two open and empty boxes of cereal on the bed as well as two empty bottles of mineral water.
Widow guessed that he had fought the mercenaries at the family house and killed one, getting the guy’s blood all over him, and then ran here. For some reason, he hadn’t eaten or slept for days. Maybe he had been holed up somewhere in his old house. Maybe in the attic. Maybe the old guy who lived there, Mr. Gareth, hadn’t even known he was there, and Jacobs’ stowing away in his attic got the guy killed. Widow figured that was why he had sent Collins out on his own so quickly—to keep another innocent man from being killed because of his actions.
Amita shook Jacobs and said, “Mike? Mike? Wake up!”
Widow stayed quiet. He looked down at a Beretta 9mm that lay on the bed. He picked it up. It was light. He ejected the magazine. The gun was empty. He pulled back the slider. No bullet chambered.
Widow said, “He fired all of his bullets back at the Garret house. He took Collins hostage with no intention of hurting him. And I think it’s obvious that this has something to do with the Mexican boy.”
Amita stopped shaking him, turned and said, “Of course.”
Widow stared next to the bed at something out of her view.
She asked, “What?”
Widow said, “I bet this case will tell us something.” He reached down and picked up a bulletproof briefcase, showed it to her.
She stared at it, confused, and she asked, “Is that the Ebola?”
Widow said, “No way! It wouldn’t be in a briefcase.”
“It looks tough,” Amita said.
“It’s bulletproof, no doubt about that, but it’s not made to transport a biological weapon. It’d have to be a lot bigger, and it would be a different metal.”
“So what’s inside?”
Widow plopped it down on the bed near Jacobs and looked at the combination lock on the outer lip. He said, “Find a toolbox. We need a hammer.”
Amita nodded and got up and headed downstairs. She went straight to the kitchen and checked under the sink, which she figured was the most obvious place to keep a toolbox besides a garage or a toolshed.
She found a large toolbox. She didn’t bother opening it. She figured it was better to bring the whole thing upstairs. It was heavy. The tools inside shuffled around and rattled as she lifted it and climbed the steps, made it back to the bedroom. Widow got up and grabbed the toolbox one-handed. He set it down on the floor and moved the briefcase to the floor next to it—better to hammer the lock on a harder surface.
He popped open the toolbox and saw a hammer, grabbed it, slid the toolbox aside, and then hammered hard at the combination lock. It took three blows, and the lock was destroyed. Widow flipped the hammer and pried open the case with the hammer’s claws. After two powerful attempts, the case popped open. Widow jerked up on both feet like a jack-in-the-box. Amita covered her mouth, which had dropped open in shock.
They both stared without blinking for almost a minute. Soundless and silent. Nothing could be heard in the entire house except for the light snow hitting the roof and the contented snoring from Jacobs.
If the bad guys had shown up, attack helicopter and all, and started firing at the house, they might still be stuck there staring at the contents of the briefcase.
The briefcase’s contents sparkled and glimmered at them. The case was full of diamonds. More diamonds than Widow imagined he’d ever see in real life.