99

 

SEVENTEEN MILE DRIVE, 7:00 P.M.

Dan Jacobsen watched Gwen drive off. He wanted to shut down, to feel nothing. Then he saw the open car door and his face turned white.

Gwen’s declaration, her intention to go to the cops, every word she had spoken as she was removing her board from his car, would have been picked up by the bug. If someone were listening in real time, they’d be on Gwen’s trail right now. These guys had an infrastructure, they had numbers, and they had a clear intention: to protect their operation. They would have no hesitation in killing Gwen to do that. He had to find her first.

He slammed the car door, hurried back into his kitchen. He saw that she had forgotten her pocketbook. It lay under the table, abandoned. He grabbed it, grabbed his keys, ran down the stairs into his basement, spun the combination on his safe, opened it, took out a kit bag, chose his weapons. He took his favored SIG Sauer 226, grabbed three fifteen-round magazines, loaded one in the weapon and two in the covert magazine holster that he clipped on the sturdy belt that he still wore out of habit. He slid the SIG into its covert holster and pushed the holster and weapon down the inside of his jeans against his right kidney with the spare magazines pressing onto his left kidney … uncomfortable but reassuring. Next he took out the stubby Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine gun, slapped on the dual 30-round magazine clip and slipped the weapon into a leather shoulder holster. The H & K would be his main firepower. Secured in its holster, it fit snugly between his inner arm and the side of his chest. He hauled on a light rainproof jacket to hide the holster and weapon.

Tooled up, he felt the old surge of purpose flooding back. Every sense became hyperaware. Time seemed to slow as he moved, methodically, as if by rote. Training and experience kicked in. A lethal muscle memory. He grabbed the kitbag and Gwen’s pocketbook, locked up, alarmed his home, and sprinted for his car.

Gwen couldn’t have gone far. She had three minutes’ lead, maybe four. He should be able to catch up with her easily enough. She’d go home, he was sure of it. And probably walk straight into a trap.

He raced through the gears, driving as fast as he could without risking the cops stopping him. He’d have to lose the surveillance on him too, and that would cost him more time.

He rang her. In her bag, on the passenger seat, her cell phone trilled.

Daniel said nothing. He called on his training, on all his reserves. And then he prayed. Don’t go home, Gwen. Please don’t go home.