No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(61)

“Wait, wait, we don’t record things here. That’s the NSA.”

“Bullshit. Give me a cell number, or always wonder.”

Rattled, Grant gave him his personal cell, then said, “When will I hear from you?”

“When I’m ready.”

The line went dead, and Grant looked at Dwight.

He said, “A break?”

“Yeah. I think so. Hard to tell.”

He rushed out of the office, Kincaid following his every move with his eyes.

Grant reached his car before the cell rang. There was no preamble. “You know the C-and-O Canal run?”

“Yes. I’ve been on it.”

“Meet me at Fletcher’s Cove in twenty minutes. Park your car and wait. I’ll find you.”

“How?”

“I know what you drive.”

The phone went dead, Grant staring at it as if it could give him a secret he dearly wanted. He entered his car and began to drive.

Winding through the DC streets, he tried to collate the various questions he should ask. The story was the vice president’s son in the hands of terrorists or someone else, but the devil was in the details. A true story wasn’t just the meat. It was fleshed out all around with sinew and bone. He needed to know the why, when, and how, and he began rehearsing his questions. Trembling at the anticipation of his success.

He eventually reached Georgetown, the streets filled with college kids debating the worth of the world over a beer. He saw the women, bundled up in coats, yoga pants underneath, showing their wares to the leering college boys, and wondered if he’d ever been so vain. He knew he had been, of course, but he’d grown beyond that. At least that’s what he told himself.

The truth was he would like to shout at them, tell them what he was doing. Eradicate his college memories of debate with males only and join the fraternity of men who courted such women. It would never happen, and he would have to be content with his life now. Superior in what he was doing, a cut different from the men walking arm in arm with women above their worth. Even if they didn’t know it.

He exited on Canal Road, the traffic much sparser, a two-lane affair that led to Fletcher’s Cove. He passed two cars, continuing the rest of the drive in the dark, his headlights spearing the night. He slowed, now peering out the windshield for the turnoff. It sprang up before he was ready, and he whipped the wheel, swerving into the lane that led down to the canal. He entered the parking lot, seeing two cars but little else. He pulled to the far side and parked, turning off the lights.

He sat for ten minutes, waiting, for the first time realizing that he was out here on his own and dealing with dangerous forces. He considered going back and forcing the man to call him again, but the story was too great. He couldn’t afford to lose this lead.

He waited another five minutes and then considered leaving out of boredom. He reached for the keys in the ignition and heard a knock on his window. The interruption was so stark he literally jumped. He stared for a minute, seeing a shadowy figure in a Washington Nationals hoodie. He cracked the window.

“Open the passenger door.”

He did so, and the man circled the car, taking a seat.

He waited. The man said, “You’re working on a story, but you don’t know the true implications.”

The Irish accent came out again, a lyrical hymn that gave comfort to what was being said.

Wanting to build trust, Grant said, “I am, and I’m here. I can promise you complete anonymity. Nobody will know what you tell me.”

The man chuckled and said, “Trust me, I understand that.”

The words were sinister, but Grant had heard worse. He said, “What do you have?”

“You are on the right trail. There are people missing, but it’s much more than you think.”

Grant said, “How many more? What do you mean?”

The hood turned toward him. “First, who else knows about this? Who else is in the hunt for the story?”

Seeing competition, worried about losing the source to someone else, Grant said, “Nobody. If you mean you want credit, it’s just me. Nobody believes this story for a minute. They all think I’m crazy.”

And his words sealed his fate.

The man raised a pistol, the suppressor looking as large as a drainage pipe. He said, “Then I guess they’ll all wonder why you’re dead.”

Grant raised his hands and got out a single scream, cut short by the bullet splitting his head open.






42




Jennifer sat on the bed, toweling her wet hair, and said, “I hate this part. The waiting. All I ever do is start thinking of what can go wrong.”

“That’s a good thing. As long as it doesn’t start to paralyze you.”

“You think Dunkin’s information is correct? We’re basing a lot on it.”

“Well, not that much. We did the recce, and it matched his information.”

It was closing in on midnight, and I’d just kicked out Clifford Delmonty, aka Dunkin, the one bit of Taskforce help Kurt managed to break free to help us.

A five-foot-eight-inch computer geek, at his hiring board for the Taskforce he’d made an impossible claim that he could dunk a basketball. He thought we were looking for some superhuman physical specimen and figured nobody would test him on his claim. Since we were looking for a guy who could work miracles with electronic devices, not play point guard, we hired him. Then made him put his money where his mouth was.