City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(78)

Thirty seconds.

But then, even as the seconds ticked off, Pendergast once again had misgivings. Was he overthinking the situation, giving Ozmian too much credit? Perhaps the man had a simple plan after all to exit by the rear door. If he did, Pendergast not only would miss his chance but would be highly vulnerable in his position on the tree limb, especially if Ozmian did indeed plan to circle around from the rear and fire at him from the weedy knoll.

Ten seconds.

For better or worse he had made his choice. Iron sights trained on the metal rolling door, his shoulder braced against the trunk, he waited, stilling his breath.





54

VINCENT D’AGOSTA, TRUSSED and gagged, watched as Ozmian sat calmly in the chair opposite him. The man, who had been so shifty and restless before Pendergast’s arrival, was now supremely calm, his eyes closed, his hands on his knees, his back straight in the old wooden chair. He appeared to be meditating.

D’Agosta cast his eyes about the large, unheated space. It was so cold that the blood that had drained from Longstreet’s head, puddled on the metal table, was already freezing. A harsh fluorescent illumination came from a trio of remotely controlled spotlights hung in the corners of the room.

Once again, his mind began racing. He savagely upbraided himself for his own gullibility: not only for falling into the trap, but for being angry with Pendergast and refusing to try to see things his way. Longstreet was already dead—and a most horrible, agonizing death it had been. And now, because of his stupidity, Pendergast might well be killed, too.

Above all, his hatred of Ozmian and thirst for revenge glowed like a furnace inside him. But even as he considered every one of his options, everything he might do to turn the situation around, he knew that he was helpless to act. It was all in Pendergast’s hands. Ozmian would not get away with it. He would underestimate Pendergast, as so many had done in the past, to their great sorrow. And what was he thinking? Pendergast would not be killed—an absurd idea. All this would be over soon. He kept repeating it like a mantra: All over soon.

A few long minutes passed, and then Ozmian stirred. He opened his eyes, stood up, raised his arms, and went through a series of stretches. Walking over to the table where his equipment was laid out, he tested his flashlight and put it in a pocket, slipped the knife into his belt, checked his pistol, made sure a round was in the chamber, and shoved it into his waistband. The extra magazine went into another pocket. Then he turned to D’Agosta. The look on his face was one of eagerness and focus. D’Agosta found the calm assurance unnerving.

“Let’s play a little game, you and I,” he said. “Let’s see if, in the five minutes remaining before I begin my pursuit, I’m able to anticipate your friend’s moves.” He took a step, then another, trailing his hand on the metal table. “Shall we?”

A queer smile played about his lips. D’Agosta, of course, could not respond even if he wanted to.

“My first guess is your partner doesn’t make a beeline for Building Ninety-Three. He’s not a man to run.”

Another pensive turn around the table.

“No…Instead, he decides to press the attack immediately. He decides to ambush me as I emerge from this building.”

Ozmian made another turn. He was certainly enjoying himself, D’Agosta thought, and he wondered how much the bastard would enjoy taking a round in the brainpan from Pendergast’s .45. He was going to be in for the surprise of his life.

“So your partner reconnoiters this building. Lo and behold, he discovers the back entrance. And then he notices the hinges have been cleaned and oiled.”

He paused. D’Agosta stared, eyes full of hatred.

“Naturally, he concludes that I have secretly prepared this back door as my exit point. He stakes it out, ready to take me down as soon as I emerge.”

How the scumbag was enjoying the sound of his own voice.

“What do you think, Lieutenant? Following me so far?” He put a pensive finger to his chin. “But you know what? I don’t think he’s staking out the back door. Do you know why?”

He resumed his slow pacing. “Being a clever man, and knowing how clever I am, your friend will think further. And he will decide that the oiled hinges are, in fact, a ruse. He will think I oiled the door to mislead him into thinking I’d be leaving by that exit.”

He took a few more pensive steps. “And so what does he do? He stakes out the front door!”

A low chuckle. “Okay, now he’s staking out the front door. But from what vantage point? As every hunter knows, big game don’t normally expect an attack from above. The best way to hunt deer, for example, is from a stand in a tree.”

Slow steps.

“Humans are like deer. They don’t think to look up. And so Agent Pendergast climbs into that big dead oak out front, beautifully positioned and in deep shadow. I predict he is up in that tree as I speak, with his gun aimed at the loading dock door, waiting for me to exit.”

No logic, no matter how elaborate, D’Agosta thought, was going to save the ass of this son of a bitch. Pendergast would outmaneuver him at every turn. The man wouldn’t last five minutes.

“And therefore my move is this: I will leave by the back door, circle around to a brushy knoll off to the right—and shoot your partner out of that tree.”

A mirthless smile.