Enigma (FBI Thriller #21)(74)

“Don’t make me think about ovens,” Ollie said. “It’s too hot.”

Ruth felt the sweat pooling beneath her shirt. She said more to herself than to Ollie as she scanned the lakeside with the binoculars, “He could have heard us, I suppose. He could be hiding behind the trees. Or under the bed. Or loading his gun to blow our heads off.”

“Or in the water hunkered under that boat dock, if he wants to be dramatic. Ruth, there’s no boat, so maybe he’s out on the water catching his dinner.”

“We don’t even know if he has a boat.” She lowered the binoculars. “There’s no reason for him to be afraid of us, Ollie. We’re here to save him.”

Ollie’s eyebrow went up. “Help save his skin, maybe. But he knows we’re going to throw his butt in jail.”

“Which is exactly where he belongs. Don’t forget what Dillon said, he’s already killed once, so we can’t think of him as a harmless civilian. I know in my gut he’s here. Let’s go get him.”

She and Ollie stopped at the edge of the forest and studied the cabin up close for any sign of Bowler, or anyone else. They saw no sign of life.

“Let’s give him a chance to end this,” Ruth said. At Ollie’s nod, she cupped her mouth and shouted, “Mr. Bowler, it’s Agents Noble and Hamish. We spoke to you Monday in your office. I was in the garage in Alexandria later on Monday afternoon when you managed to kill the man hired to murder you. It was self-defense, so you don’t have to worry about any charges being brought against you.”

Nothing.

She tried again. “Mr. Bowler, whoever hired you to broker the deal with Manta Ray, he won’t stop, he’ll keep coming until you’re dead. Your best chance to survive is to throw your gun out the front door and come out, your hands behind your head. We’ll take you back to Washington and keep you safe. You’re a smart man. You know once you tell us what you know, he’ll have no more reason to kill you.”

Well, except he’d be mightily pissed.

There was still no answer.

They drew their Glocks, racked the slides, and quietly circled around to the back of the A-frame cabin. There were two high windows on the second-floor loft. Mr. Bowler wasn’t staring down at them.

Ruth whispered, “What if Dillon’s wrong? What if Bowler never came here?”

Ollie smiled and pointed down at the freshly crushed grass. “Someone was here, got to be Bowler. He wasn’t taking any chances, probably parked his car some distance beyond the edge of the trees. If he’s not here now, he’ll be coming back.”

They walked around to the front of the cabin, pressed themselves against either side of the door. Ollie reached out his arm, knocked. “Mr. Bowler, FBI!”

They heard nothing, then a sort of mumbling. Ollie kicked the door and it crashed inward. They burst in, Ollie high, Ruth low, and saw Bowler tied to a chair facing them, a sock stuffed in his mouth, making guttural noises. He looked terrified.

A man’s deep voice, thick with a slow Southern accent, said calmly from the small kitchen, “Either of you special agents move and you’re both dead. I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to. Do not turn; keep your eyes on Mr. Bowler. Now, slowly drop your Glocks.”

Ruth and Ollie dropped their Glocks, both guns hitting the wood floor like cannon shots.

“Excellent,” the man said, stepping out now from behind the kitchen partition. “Both of you get facedown on the floor, hands behind your heads.”

Bowler managed to spit out the sock. “He’s going to kill all of us! You have to do something!”

“Shut up, Bowler. Down, both of you. Now!”

Ruth lay on her stomach, watched Ollie start to go down on his knees. He stumbled on a table leg, grabbed his leg, and yelped. Ruth twisted onto her side to face the man, jerked her Kahr P380 from her ankle holster and fired. He flinched but fired back, missing Ruth, the bullet thudding into a sofa back. She rolled behind a ratty old recliner and the man kept firing, at Ollie now, and one bullet hit him squarely in the chest as he dove behind the sofa. Ruth’s heart flipped when he went sprawling backward to the floor.

Ruth fired again, but he’d ducked behind the bar dividing the kitchen from the living room. She stilled, waited until he finally reared up and fired two more rounds. More bullets hit the recliner. Ruth came up on her knees, fired two more shots, and struck him center mass before he could get off another round. The man stared at her a moment, silent, and fell heavily to his knees, then tipped over onto his side, his gun flying out of his hand to the linoleum floor. Ruth ran over to kick the gun out of his reach, then rushed to Ollie’s side. He lay on his back, taking light shallow breaths, holding his chest. He cocked an eye open. “Give me a minute, Ruth. I’m okay, but you know a bullet at this range packs quite a punch. Thank you, Kevlar.”

Ruth said a silent prayer of thanks he hadn’t shot Ollie in the head.

Bowler called out, “You killed him?”

Ruth patted Ollie’s arm, got up, and walked to the kitchen to kneel beside the man. She pressed her fingers against the pulse in his neck. There wasn’t one. His chest was soaked with blood, now dripping into a pool around him. His eyes were open, staring up at her in mute surprise. Soon his eyes would begin to dull. She felt the shock of violent death, forced herself to breathe deeply, until her heart began to slow. She checked the man’s pants pocket, pulled out his wallet. No ID, only three one-hundred-dollar bills.