suicide, or murder. But all he was concerned about was making sure the job got done. Once, such a weapon as his had been rare outside of Russia, too distinctive to use overseas. The modern weapons trade had changed that. Using a Vektor was no longer like leaving his name written on a corpse.
Demidov took out his 9 mm pistol, pulled a sofa pillow over the target to limit the back splash of gore, and shot Tommy twice in the head.
Moving quickly, Demidov poured kerosene on and around the body. He lit it with matches the dead man had dropped. When he was sure that the fire would take hold, he went out the same way he had come in, a dark dancer moving through the forest.
19
DAY THREE
ROSARIO
2:37 A.M.
T he sirens had already awakened Emma. She was just getting back to sleep when her cell phone vibrated and warbled on the motel’s end table. With an impatient movement she snagged the phone.
“What,” she snarled.
“I’m out front in your Jeep,” Mac said. “In three minutes I leave without you.”
“I have the keys.”
“I don’t need them.”
The line went dead.
Emma had slept fully clothed—shoes, socks, jeans, and a black pullover—too exhausted after her turn watching
Blackbird
to care about undressing. She grabbed her purse and a jacket and ran out.
Twenty seconds after Mac had hung up on her, she was in the parking lot of the motel.
Sure enough, he was sitting at the wheel of her Jeep. Wires dangled from the console. She got in the passenger seat, threw him the keys, and shut the door very quietly when she really wanted to slam it.
“Is it
Blackbird
?” she asked as he drove out of the parking lot without benefit of headlights.
“Not directly.”
He went down a side street, turned onto an eastbound feeder street, and flipped on the lights.
“Where’s your truck?” she asked.
“Crapped out, waiting for a new water pump.”
Silence.
Emma turned toward him. “You have about ten seconds to tell me what the hell is going on. If I don’t like what I hear, I’m going to reach into my girly purse, pull out a Glock, and turn you into splatter patterns.”
Mac gave her a sideways look and started talking. “I have a police scanner at my house. There was a fire on the rez. They’re talking about arson. One crispy critter in the ashes.”
She grimaced. She’d seen—and smelled—enough of that kind of death in Iraq to last her a lifetime.
“I don’t know how firemen stand it,” she said.
Mac didn’t have to ask what she meant.
“Some of them turn vegetarian for a while,” he said. “Then they get over it and go back to rare beef.”
“Glad to know I wasn’t the only one.”
“Where?” he asked.
“Baghdad. You?” she asked, wondering if he would lie.
Or if his file had.
“Afghanistan,” he said shortly, accelerating onto the highway, “well beyond any city.”
“Out with the tribes?” she asked casually.
“Not much else out there but rock. Got a lot of that, all of it standing on end.”
“How long were you there?”
“Why do you care?”
“Call me curious,” she said.
“Call me classified.”
Behind them an official vehicle came on fast, light bar flashing and siren screaming the need for speed.
Mac pulled over like a good citizen.
The sheriff’s car blew past them into the darkness.
“Guess he’s late to the barbeque,” Mac said.
She grimaced, thought about calling Faroe, and decided against it until she knew more. There was no point in waking her boss up to share the ignorance.
“I’ll wait until the sheriff’s car is out of sight,” Mac said. “Then I’m going to speed like a dirty bastard. Every official in a twelve-mile radius will already be at the fire.”
Mac hit the accelerator hard. Being a rental, the Jeep took its time getting up to eighty.
And that was all it had. Eighty.
“What a piece of crap,” he muttered.
“Wheels need alignment or balancing,” Emma said. “Or both.”
“What it needs is another
Demidov took out his 9 mm pistol, pulled a sofa pillow over the target to limit the back splash of gore, and shot Tommy twice in the head.
Moving quickly, Demidov poured kerosene on and around the body. He lit it with matches the dead man had dropped. When he was sure that the fire would take hold, he went out the same way he had come in, a dark dancer moving through the forest.
19
DAY THREE
ROSARIO
2:37 A.M.
T he sirens had already awakened Emma. She was just getting back to sleep when her cell phone vibrated and warbled on the motel’s end table. With an impatient movement she snagged the phone.
“What,” she snarled.
“I’m out front in your Jeep,” Mac said. “In three minutes I leave without you.”
“I have the keys.”
“I don’t need them.”
The line went dead.
Emma had slept fully clothed—shoes, socks, jeans, and a black pullover—too exhausted after her turn watching
Blackbird
to care about undressing. She grabbed her purse and a jacket and ran out.
Twenty seconds after Mac had hung up on her, she was in the parking lot of the motel.
Sure enough, he was sitting at the wheel of her Jeep. Wires dangled from the console. She got in the passenger seat, threw him the keys, and shut the door very quietly when she really wanted to slam it.
“Is it
Blackbird
?” she asked as he drove out of the parking lot without benefit of headlights.
“Not directly.”
He went down a side street, turned onto an eastbound feeder street, and flipped on the lights.
“Where’s your truck?” she asked.
“Crapped out, waiting for a new water pump.”
Silence.
Emma turned toward him. “You have about ten seconds to tell me what the hell is going on. If I don’t like what I hear, I’m going to reach into my girly purse, pull out a Glock, and turn you into splatter patterns.”
Mac gave her a sideways look and started talking. “I have a police scanner at my house. There was a fire on the rez. They’re talking about arson. One crispy critter in the ashes.”
She grimaced. She’d seen—and smelled—enough of that kind of death in Iraq to last her a lifetime.
“I don’t know how firemen stand it,” she said.
Mac didn’t have to ask what she meant.
“Some of them turn vegetarian for a while,” he said. “Then they get over it and go back to rare beef.”
“Glad to know I wasn’t the only one.”
“Where?” he asked.
“Baghdad. You?” she asked, wondering if he would lie.
Or if his file had.
“Afghanistan,” he said shortly, accelerating onto the highway, “well beyond any city.”
“Out with the tribes?” she asked casually.
“Not much else out there but rock. Got a lot of that, all of it standing on end.”
“How long were you there?”
“Why do you care?”
“Call me curious,” she said.
“Call me classified.”
Behind them an official vehicle came on fast, light bar flashing and siren screaming the need for speed.
Mac pulled over like a good citizen.
The sheriff’s car blew past them into the darkness.
“Guess he’s late to the barbeque,” Mac said.
She grimaced, thought about calling Faroe, and decided against it until she knew more. There was no point in waking her boss up to share the ignorance.
“I’ll wait until the sheriff’s car is out of sight,” Mac said. “Then I’m going to speed like a dirty bastard. Every official in a twelve-mile radius will already be at the fire.”
Mac hit the accelerator hard. Being a rental, the Jeep took its time getting up to eighty.
And that was all it had. Eighty.
“What a piece of crap,” he muttered.
“Wheels need alignment or balancing,” Emma said. “Or both.”
“What it needs is another
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