Chapter 31
Early Sunday morning
Surveillance had never been so civilized.
While Ben had chosen to station himself in his parked van across the street, Maggie and Declan enjoyed all the indoor conveniences of the Slocums’ home: a bathroom, a sofa to nap on, and a ready supply of coffee and sandwiches to fuel them through the night.
They consumed those in the dark, with the study’s blackout curtains closed to avoid being seen from the street, but all in all, this was a comfortable assignment.
And an unexciting one, at least for the moment.
When an operation went wrong, it usually went wrong in the blink of an eye, which was why she kept her Walther within reach as she sat in front of Lloyd’s home computer, monitoring the different video feeds.
The Slocums had installed an excellent security system, with cameras mounted on every corner of the house, as well as the front porch and on the back deck.
Now it was just a matter of waiting for an intruder to show up, lured into the trap by Ingrid’s and Lloyd’s cell phones, which were charging in the kitchen.
Both phones were switched on, their cell signals announcing to the world that the Slocums were now at home.
That the target was stationary and ripe for the picking.
She heard Ben’s query over her headset: “See any movement?”
“Nothing on camera. How about from where you’re sitting?”
“Quiet as the grave. This street rolls up the sidewalks at nine. It’s got too many old folks living here.”
“That would be us, Ben.”
“Yet here we are, wide awake and ready to rumble at three a.m. Not bad for geezers, hey?”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed it. I never minded pulling all-nighters. It beats falling asleep and drooling all over myself in front of the TV.”
“Ouch. That is not the Ben Diamond I know.”
“Not yet, anyway. Is Declan still asleep?”
“I’m about to wake him. It’s time for us to switch.”
“Nighty night then, Mags. See you in the morning, unless . . .” There was a pause.
“Ben?”
“A car just turned onto the street. Moving slowly.”
She looked at the video feed. The vehicle had not yet come into view, but the street-facing camera suddenly brightened, lit by approaching headlights. And there it was, rolling slowly into the frame. A dark compact sedan. It crept past Ben’s parked van and continued on, passing out of camera range.
“It’s pulling over,” Ben said, his voice suddenly tense. “Parking at the end of the block. Get Declan up. I think this could be our boy.”
She jumped to her feet and went to the family room at the rear of the house, where Declan was sleeping on the sofa. She gave him a shake. “It’s happening.”
In an instant, he was awake and alert. Retirement had not dulled his ability to snap to attention, and he rolled out of the couch. “What’ve we got?”
“A vehicle just parked across the street.”
Declan followed her to the study and sat down in front of the computer. He stared at the monitor, which cast a green glow on his face. She hadn’t even noticed him grab his weapon but there it was, right beside his hand, ready and waiting. “I don’t see him here.”
“He’s still down the block. Ben’s got eyes on him.”
Declan glanced at the time on the feed. “Three fifteen. This seems promising.” He pulled on a headset. “Ben, what’s he doing?”
“He’s sitting in his car. Maybe scoping out the street. Give him time.”
They waited. One minute. Two.
Maggie said: “Maybe it’s not our boy. He could be just a run-of-the-mill stalker, sitting outside his girlfriend’s house.”
“Patience, kids,” said Ben. “We’ve got all night.”
Maggie peered over Declan’s shoulder, bending so close she could feel his warmth, inhale his scent. She rested her hand on his shoulder, and he reached up to give her hand a squeeze as they both watched the screen. How natural these intimacies between them now felt, as if they’d always been lovers.
“And he’s moving,” said Ben. “He just stepped out of his car. Now walking in your direction.”
“There,” said Maggie as the figure came into the camera’s range. They could see only his silhouette, but it was clearly a man, tall and lanky, dressed in dark clothes.
“He’s taking his time,” Declan said.
Indeed, the man reached the Slocums’ driveway and halted. He stood eyeing the house as if evaluating where its weakest points were. Maggie craned closer, and through Declan’s shirt, she could feel his shoulder knotted in tension.
No doubt now. He’s here to kill Ingrid.
Yet the man still hadn’t moved. He seemed frozen in indecision for a long moment before finally walking up the driveway to the garage. There he paused once again, then bent down to grab the door handle. The door didn’t budge; the security-conscious Slocums would never leave their garage unlocked.
The man straightened. Moved to the mudroom door and shone a flashlight through the window.
There’d be little for him to see inside, only a few jackets hanging on hooks, boots lined up on the floor.
He made no attempt to open the door, but instead circled around the corner of the house, toward the rear yard.
There he slipped into deep shadow, but the infrared video feed in the side yard captured his progress, a ghostly figure moving from window to window, pausing at each to look inside.
Finally, he reached the rear of the house, a spectral figure seemingly afloat in the blackness of the back garden.
“Here we go,” said Declan, and he stood up.
Declan was in the lead as they moved down the hallway, toward the family room.
There, in the darkness, they took their positions.
Maggie crouched behind the sofa while Declan stood alongside the sliding door as they waited for the intruder to make his next move.
The expected move. They had left the sliding door unlocked, as an open invitation to step inside.
The intruder would assume it was merely a careless oversight.
In the small town of Purity, the Slocums would not be the only residents who sometimes forgot to lock their doors.
Who would expect a killer to creep onto their property in the early hours of the morning?
Who could imagine that he’d find his way to your back door, where you’d forgotten to flip the latch?
That he’d slip into your house and make his way to your bedroom?
Framed by the sliding glass door, the man was a black cutout, as motionless as a paper target.
Kneeling behind the sofa, Maggie kept her barrel fixed on that target. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel each beat transmitted through her arms, to the grip of her gun. In the darkness, time moved as slow as syrup.
He reached for the door.
She heard the hiss as the glass slid open.
Her grip tightened. She saw Declan slowly pivot to intercept the intruder the instant he stepped inside.
Then the intruder froze, halting in the open doorway, as if he’d suddenly realized something was amiss.
That this unlocked door was an invitation to a trap. Slowly, he backed away.
We’re going to lose him. She rose to her feet, ready to sprint in pursuit.
Then, in the back garden, a voice growled: “Make up your mind, asshole. We don’t have all night.” Ben.
Maggie flipped on the room lights as Ben shoved his captive into the house. The man tripped over the threshold and stumbled to his knees. He tried to rise back to his feet, but Ben, his gun pressed to the back of the captive’s head, forced him down to his knees again.
The man was in his early forties, dressed in jeans and a dark blue fleece jacket, and he looked wild-eyed at his captors.
Gave a whimper as Declan quickly and efficiently patted him down, to find a Glock 17.
If this man was Vory, he was a poor excuse for one, and his terrified gaze darted everywhere at once.
Ben might be past his prime, but he was still strong enough to grab the man by the collar and drag him across the room. He shoved the man down on the sofa. “Talk,” Ben commanded.
The man shrank back against the sofa cushions. “Who—who are you?”
“We ask the questions.”
The man looked from Ben to Declan and finally his gaze turned to Maggie.
Maybe he thought a woman would be easier to appeal to, but she was in no mood to be sympathetic.
Not when he’d come armed with a Glock. Still, there were details about him that seemed all wrong.
Declan yanked off the man’s fleece jacket, revealing arms unmarked by a single tattoo.
And he’d sounded American, without any trace of an accent, Russian or otherwise.
Declan pulled a wallet out of one of the fleece pockets and read the ID. “Tanner Minnihan, Maryland driver’s license. Forty-one years old, red hair, green eyes. Five foot eleven, a hundred fifty pounds.” Declan glanced at the man. “Fits the description.”
“A dead double,” growled Ben.
“What?” The man’s head jerked up. “No!”
“Who sent you?”
“No one! I’m just trying to find Ingrid Slocum.”
“That we already knew,” said Ben, and he pressed the gun barrel against the man’s temple. “We’re going to get the truth out of you eventually. The question is, how much will it hurt? You decide.”
The man focused desperately on Maggie. “I don’t know what you people want! Tell me what you want!”
“Answers, that’s all,” she said. “Who wants Ingrid dead?”
The man looked bewildered. “Someone wants her dead?”
“It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” said Ben. “Carrying a nice Glock on your hip.”
“Ben,” said Declan.
“We don’t take kindly to assholes coming after one of our friends.”
“Ben.”
Ben looked at Declan. “What?”
Declan held up a second billfold that he’d just pulled out of the man’s jacket. “It says he’s FBI.”
Ben snatched the ID from Declan and stared at the badge and ID card. “Jesus. They’re making really good fakes these days.”
“Guys?” The man cleared his throat. “And, uh, ma’am. You should know that killing a federal agent is gonna land you in a fucking heap of trouble. So you might want to rethink whatever you’re planning to do with me.”
Ben and Declan looked at each other. Looked at the man.
“Who are you, really?” said Declan.
“Special Agent Minnihan. It’s right there, on my ID. And who are you people?”
“We’re friends of Ingrid’s.”
Minnihan looked around at his three captors, all of them dressed in black, all of them armed. “What kind of friends does she have?”
“Again, we ask the questions,” said Ben. “And so far, I’m not satisfied with your answers.”
“Okay. Okay, you don’t believe me? Then talk to the chief of police.”
“Jo Thibodeau?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s her name. She’ll vouch for me. Call her!”
Maggie looked at Ben. “I think the wrong fish just swam into our net.”