Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(107)

He turned to the security director. “What happened?”

“They penetrated outer security at the old railroad grade, made it as far as the second ring. They tripped the laser grid at the inner field.”

“You found out what they’re after? What they heard?”

“They heard nothing, sir. They got nothing.”

“You sure they never made it past the second ring?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Any comm devices on them?”

“No, sir. And none dropped. They came in deaf and dumb.”

Bullard nodded, his shock slowly giving way to rage. These two had insulted him. They’d damaged him.

He cast his eye toward the fat one, who—as it happened—didn’t look quite so fat anymore. “Hey, D’Agosta, you shed a few pounds? How’s the hard-on problem?”

No answer. The f*ck was looking at him with hatred. Good. Let him hate.

“And the not-so-special agent. If that’s what you really are. Want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

No response.

“Didn’t get jack shit, did you?”

This was a waste of time. They hadn’t penetrated the second, let alone the third, ring of security, which meant they couldn’t have learned anything of value. Best thing now was to get rid of them. Sure, the feds would be all over the place tomorrow, but this was Italy, and he had friends in the Questura. He had five hundred acres in which to hide the bodies. They wouldn’t find shit.

One hand was in his trouser pocket, rolling around some euros. The hand fell on his pocketknife. He removed it, opened the nail file, began idly cleaning his nails. Without looking up, he asked: “Wife still doing the RV salesman, D’Agosta?”

“You’re a Johnny-one-note, you know that, Bullard? Makes me think you’ve had some problems along those lines yourself.”

Bullard felt a surge of rage, which he quickly mastered. He was going to kill them, but first D’Agosta was going to pay a little. He continued with his nails.

“Your hit man f*cked up,” D’Agosta went on. “Too bad, him going the cyanide highway before he could implicate you. We’ll still see you get stuck with a conspiracy rap, though. You’ll do hard time. Hear me, Bullard? And once you’re safely in the Big House, I’ll personally make sure somebody makes you his number one bitch. Oh, you’ll make some skinhead a nice punk, Bullard.”

It was only through long practice that Bullard managed to keep his composure. So Vasquez hadn’t run off with the money. He’d taken the job and failed. Somehow, he’d failed.

He reminded himself it hardly mattered now.

He examined his work, closed the nail file, opened the long blade. He kept it razor-sharp for occasions just like this one. Who knew: he might even get some information.

He turned to one of his assistants. “Put his right hand on the table.”

While one guard grabbed D’Agosta’s face in a meaty paw and slammed it back against the wall, the other unmanacled one hand, jerked it forward, and pinned it to the table. The cop struggled briefly.

Bullard eyed the class ring on the hand. Some shitty P.S. in Queens, probably. “Play the piano, D’Agosta?”

No answer.

He swiped the knife down across D’Agosta’s right middle fingernail, splitting the tip of the finger.

D’Agosta jerked, gasped, pulling his finger free. Blood welled out from the wound: slowly at first, then faster. The man struggled wildly, but the guards regained a lock on him. Slowly, they forced the hand back into position against the table.

Bullard felt a flush of excitement.

“Son of a bitch!” D’Agosta groaned.

“You know what?” Bullard said. “I like this. I could do this all night.”

D’Agosta struggled against the guards.

“You’re CIA, aren’t you?”

D’Agosta groaned again.

“Answer me.”

“No, for chrissakes.”

“You.” He turned to Pendergast. “CIA? Answer me. Yes or no?”

“No. And you’re making an even larger mistake than you made earlier.”

“Sure I am.” Why was he bothering? And what difference did it make? These were the bastards who had humiliated him in front of the whole city. He felt rage seize him again, and—more carefully now—he took the knife and sliced it hard across the table, taking the tip off D’Agosta’s already damaged finger.

“Fuck!” D’Agosta screamed. “You bastard!”

Bullard stepped back, breathing hard. His palms were sweating; he wiped them on the sleeve of his jacket, took a fresh grip on the knife. Then he caught sight of the wall clock. It was already close to two. He couldn’t let himself get caught up in a minor distraction. He had something more important to do before dawn. Something much, much more important.

He turned back to his security chief. “Kill them. Then get rid of the bodies. Dump their weapons with them. Do it over at the old shafts. I don’t want any forensics left on the premises, especially not around the lab. You know what I mean: hair, blood, anything with DNA. Don’t even let them spit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You—,” began Pendergast, but Bullard spun around and landed a massive uppercut in his stomach. Pendergast doubled over.