Twisted Prey (Lucas Davenport #28)(30)
Lucas had a step on them, probably not enough . . .
Then there was a burst of light, and another, and Lucas thought maybe he’d been shot at, but there was no sound, and the lightning flash came from across the street rather than from behind him. He glanced that direction and saw a tall, thin Asian man holding a cell phone and a briefcase, and it registered in the back of Lucas’s brain that the Asian man had taken a cell phone photo of the fight . . .
The flash also diverted the attackers. One of them took several running steps toward the Asian man, but another of the men shouted, “No! No! No!” as the Asian man turned and sprinted down the street. Lucas followed, slower than he might have if he hadn’t worn dress shoes to buy a suit.
And Lucas began screaming: “Help! Help! Help!”
He was loud and moving fast, and though there were few people on street, heads were turning their way. Lucas continued running for another hundred feet before risking another glance back . . . and saw the three men running in the opposite direction, before disappearing down a cross street.
The Asian man had stopped ahead, and Lucas ran toward him and called out, “U.S. Marshal. Wait! Wait!”
The man slowed, and Lucas got his ID from his jacket pocket and held it in front of him. Gasping for air, he stuttered, “I’m a . . . I’m a U.S. Marshal . . . Did you take a . . . a photo of that fight?”
The Asian man nodded, and said, in perfect English, “Yes. Two pictures. Who were those men?”
“I don’t know,” Lucas said. “Maybe muggers.”
“I don’t think so,” the Asian man said. “They all wear masks. They all look the same. I don’t think muggers.”
Lucas nodded. “Could you please send those photos to my phone?”
“Yes, I will. Of course.”
The photos came in: they were sharp enough, but all you could read from them were shapes and sizes. Lucas got the man’s name and address in Japan. He was staying at a Washington hotel, on a business trip.
* * *
—
AS LUCAS shook the man’s hand, a cab came around the corner. Lucas jumped in front of it, and the driver ran his window down, and said, “I’ve got a call,” and Lucas said, “If it’s Figueroa & Prince, it’s me.”
He was still breathing hard and sweating, and the driver looked at him doubtfully, said, “Well, okay, that’s where I was going.”
Lucas got in the back, and said, “Watergate Hotel.”
The driver pulled away, saying, “I could be wrong, but in my opinion it’s too goddamn hot to jog in a suit and tie.”
“Gotta get your cardio where you can,” Lucas said. They passed the spot where he’d last seen the trio of men, but they were gone. He wouldn’t be going out again without a gun, but even if he’d had one, he didn’t know if he could have gotten it out in time. The three men had been closing fast, and looked competent, and maybe were armed. If he’d pulled a gun, they might have shot him. Still, he was . . . embarrassed. He’d had to run, and he’d been screaming for help like a little girl.
“So how about them Nationals?” the driver asked.
“I’m from Minnesota,” Lucas said, sinking back in the seat. “I’m a Twins fan.”
The driver thought for a few seconds, and said, “Then I got nothin’.”
* * *
—
AT THE HOTEL, he checked the recorder. Nobody had been in the room, as far as he could tell. And he called Rae. “How soon can you and Bob get here?”
She said, “Oh-oh.”
Lucas said, “Yeah.”
* * *
—
WHEN HE GOT OFF THE PHONE, he was still high on adrenaline. He eventually put on some gym shorts, a T-shirt, and athletic shoes, went down to the fitness center, and ran off the high on the elliptical machine.
Back in his room, he showered, concentrating on his back: he’d have a major bruise where the Maglite hit, he thought. Out of the shower, he watched the end of a Dodgers game from the West Coast, flopped on the bed, and thought about getting old. He’d barely cracked fifty, but he’d lost at least a step in the past ten years, and maybe two steps. The three muggers would have beaten the shit out of him.
He spent some time brooding, and finally managed to get to sleep at two in the morning.
He’d gotten up the next morning, had shaved, showered, and was about to go to breakfast when Forte called and said, “You’re not fucking around with this Heracles place, are you?”
8
Forte said, “These are bad guys, Lucas. Mercenaries. There have been a dozen complaints filed against them by military people in Iraq and Syria, and more by the Iraqi and Libyan governments. They shoot first and ask questions later, but it appears that we continue to contract with them. By ‘we,’ I mean the Defense Department and contractors working with foreign governments. Can’t tell about the CIA, but probably there, too.”
“Do they work here in the U.S.?”
“They’ve got no special status here,” Forte said. “They poke a gun at somebody, and that’s ag assault, and they go to jail. They’re not LEOs. Not law enforcement officers, no way, shape, or form.”