Touch & Go (Tessa Leoni, #2)(112)

Their base camp was six miles in, at the base of a hill that Radar had studied for weeks before finally deciding it would do. A rocky hill. Not huge, but comprised mostly of boulders, New Hampshire being the Granite State and all.

He pulled forward, then carefully backed his way in between two rocky outcroppings, the mountain version of parallel parking. Satisfied he was as close as possible to the target, ensconced on three sides with stone, he killed the engine and they began the next phase of operations.

All necessary supplies were in the van. Z had a bag of tricks. Mick had a bag of tricks. Radar had a small bundle, being the most nondescript of them to begin with.

Z started with his “tattoo.” Solvent to sponge, sponge to shaved skull, and inch by inch, the green cobra disappeared, scrubbed away as if it had never existed. Next, he exchanged his black commando gear for a pair of broken-in men’s jeans, comfortable T-shirt, oversize gray hoodie bearing the Red Sox logo and even larger L.L. Bean barn coat. Since a tinge of green remained on his skin, he donned a Red Sox cap. Add a pair of scuffed-up hiking boots, and he could be any white guy who lived in New England. Just a dude, hanging out in the mountains until the right plane could take him to a better location…say, a beach in Brazil.

For Mick, the transformation was even easier. Pop, pop and two bright blue contact lenses were out, leaving behind warm brown eyes framed by surprisingly thick lashes. Quick buzz of the electric razor and the checkerboard hair was gone, leaving a smooth, round skull. If Z was a mountain dude, then Mick went for Euro chic. Straight-legged black jeans, a fine-knit cranberry-colored sweater covered by a slightly rumpled dark sports jacket. A tourist, probably visiting from Canada, which, as a native French speaker, worked for him. Over his shoulder, he slung a black leather attaché case, carrying fresh ID, not to mention paperwork on his new bank account, now flush with $1.5 million dollars. His cut; Radar had received the same, while Z, being the brains of the operation, had pocketed $2 mil. As for the remaining $4 million…there were brains and there were masterminds. Masterminds, it turned out, were very expensive.

Not that Mick was complaining. Any operation was only as good as the planning behind it, and given how smoothly this operation had gone, it would be the easiest 1.5 million Mick had ever made.

Last person to swap out his disguise: Radar. He changed clothes. That was it. From jeans, flannel and baseball cap to Dockers, white button-up dress shirt and designer wire-rim glasses. He looked like any young professional in Boston. Maybe a recent MIT grad, now killing it at a software firm. A job he probably could’ve excelled at, had he been inclined to do things such as real work.

Now Radar placed his old gear in the van. So did the others. A pile of incriminating evidence, not to mention the bloody knife as well as additional gore. They stepped away, putting some distance between themselves and the vehicle.

Z hadn’t been lying. Radar’s true expertise was demolition.

And given that forensic techs were so good that even blowing up a van couldn’t completely destroy all the evidence, they were going for one step better. Disappearing. Burying the van in a small avalanche of boulders, the kind that occurred naturally all the time in the Granite State, just ask the Old Man of the Mountain. With any luck, the van, the remnants of their operation and all traces of evidence would never be seen again.

They donned protective eye gear, as taking a rock fragment to the cornea at this stage of operations would be just plain stupid.

Z gave the signal. Radar pushed the button. A small rumble. Not terribly loud. Explosives are as much about placement as power, and Radar had worked hard to identify the hillside’s natural weaknesses. Then with almost a groan, the top half of the rocky terrain gave way, and the ensuing slide whomped down upon the white van. The shatter of glass, the squeal of crumpling metal, then, the van was gone. Random boulders continued to rain down for a few minutes afterward.

The men waited patiently; for, again, to rush at this stage of the operation would be stupid.

When the dust settled, they made their final inspection. The van, every square inch of it, was gone, a fresh pile of rocks forming the perfect tomb.

Z made the call.

“Men,” he declared. “Vamos.”

Mission complete, each helped himself to one of the waiting four-wheelers. They would not race through the woods together, but set out alone, each heading to his own vehicle, waiting for him at a spot he’d chosen ten days prior and discussed with no one. Life would be resumed under a new name, known by no one and probably never shared. These men could work together. But they survived alone.

Radar was still considering tropical beaches and large-breasted women. As for the others, he could care less.

He pulled away first. One by one, so did the others.

Monday afternoon, 4:05, the whine of four-wheelers scattering north and northwest. Staying off major roads and away from clearings where one might be spotted by, say, a police chopper flying overhead.

North, northwest, as if approaching Vermont, or even Canada.

Except for one driver. Who, thirty minutes later, arrived at his vehicle and promptly headed due south.

Back to Boston, and some unfinished business there.





Chapter 40


THE FBI AGENTS TOOK ASHLYN from me. I wanted to protest. Wanted to grab her hand and hold my daughter close. But the EMTs needed to check her out, they said, and as I’d been the one requesting a doctor, I had to let her go. Not to mention, the last of the adrenaline was leaving my bloodstream and I could feel myself crashing.