The Last Mile (Amos Decker, #2)(114)

“But you’re no longer a cop.”

“I still feel like one.”

“And Mars?”

“He’s along for the ride.”

“You’re sure that’s smart?”

“He’s a big boy. There’s nothing I can do to stop him. And we might be safer together than apart. Two old helmet heads blocking for each other.”

“Your original plan for us to track McClellan if he tried to contact the others won’t work now that we’ve been pulled from the case.”

“I know. We’ll have to go at it from another angle.”

“And you want me to keep Jamison here?”

“I’d appreciate it. She knows nothing of what I’m planning.”

“While you two go off into harm’s way? Sounds very 1950s. Jamison is hardly a damsel in distress.”

“No, she’s not.”

“So?”

“So it’s the way I want to play it. Jamison, despite her street creds, is not a cop.”

“Neither is Mars.”

“And he’s tougher than you and me put together. I can’t say I don’t feel better having him next to me on this. And he has a bigger stake in this than anyone. And he’s determined to be there at the end.”

“Muscle against guns? Which do you think wins?”

“Muscle against brains? Which do you think wins?”

“So you have a plan?”

“I have a plan.”

“Care to share, just in case something goes wrong?”

“I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it’s not exactly legal and I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“Can you at least tell me what it’s based on?”

“Yes. It’s based on a swap that took place.”

Bogart eyed him suspiciously. “Meaning what precisely?”

“Meaning that, precisely.”





CHAPTER

67



THE THREE MUSKETEERS were all accounted for.

On a private plane no less.

It was owned by Danny Eastland. Or, rather, by the company he’d built largely with government defense contracts. It used to be primarily the land of thousand-dollar wing nuts and million-dollar tires. Now it was more often software and counterintelligence platforms at a billion bucks a pop.

Eastland’s plane had gotten bigger now that he dealt more with cyber than guns. The manufacturing costs were a lot lower and the ability to gouge Uncle Sam under a trillion bytes of bullshit was even higher.

The three men were in their seventies now, their trio of birthdays within two weeks of one another. They had been superstars in Cain, the three best known citizens to emerge from the small town.

Eastland, the mega-capitalist.

Huey, the über-politician.

McClellan, the perennial cop.

They were the only passengers on the G5. The two pilots up front sat behind a closed door.

McClellan poured out drinks for all and the three men faced each other across the width of a polished mahogany table at thirty-seven thousand feet.

Their visages were worn. Their bodies had started to wither. They each benefited from excellent health care, so they might have ten or even twenty more years, but maybe not all good ones. They clearly understood this.

Younger women still chased after Eastland, but only because of his wealth. His third wife had cost him enough that he was reluctant to indulge again in legal matrimony. He now focused on his business, and when he needed sex, a woman was provided, paid for, and then taken away. It worked well. He had three children by three different wives, and all of them had been a disappointment. They were largely silver-spooners, because he had made his fortune early. And he had no grandchildren since it seemed his worthless kids couldn’t even manage to do that. He was wondering lately to whom he would leave his fortune.

Thurman Huey was a widower, his wife of forty-plus years having lost a long battle with breast cancer the past summer. He was currently being consoled by his four children and twelve grandchildren, and also by one eligible D.C. mover and shaker who had recently lost her husband of three decades. Yet his deceased wife could not be replaced. He felt lost without her, but he had a country’s purse strings to manage. That was growing harder and harder to do as each election cycle sent more people to Congress who were ever more determined to obstruct rather than govern. He could have left the Hill years ago and earned a fortune as a lobbyist or consultant and his only real work would be to make calls, have lunches and dinners, and let the young bucks do the heavy lifting. But he hadn’t. He expected to die at the job he currently held. He believed he was doing good work for the country. It was really the only thing he had left.

Roger McClellan was dressed in civilian clothes. He was the poorest of the lot, because being a cop in a small town never paid much. The woman he’d married over forty years ago was alive but had divorced him fifteen years back. “Irreconcilable differences” had been the term, nearly ubiquitous in all separations now. If his ex had listed years-long physical abuse on her divorce papers, it would have been more accurate. The same went for his kids. They were grown and scattered and had never come back, because why would they?

McClellan had had a temper from a very young age. Whenever they had lost a football game in high school or college—because the men had gone to Ole Miss and played ball there as well—his fellow Musketeers had had to hold him back from attacking members of the victorious team.