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Blood List(58)

By:Patrick Freivald


"Great, Sam. Don't file that report. Lose it for now. Misfile it. Something."

"Right-o," she said. "Consider it lost."

Gene smiled at Jerri.



* * *



February 2nd, 3:29 AM EST; Summer home of Dr. Abraham Lefkowitz; Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts.



Dr. Lefkowitz told his secretary that he was going to his summer cottage for a little winter solitude. Gene thought it was the perfect place to entrap a killer, an eighteenth-century cottage just west of the tiny town of Aquinnah on the southwestern tip of the island of Martha's Vineyard. A popular vote in 1997, just 39 to 36, changed the town's name to Aquinnah, a Wampanoag word for "land under the hill," from the original name "Gay Head." Marty had had a field day with that name, highlighting why the residents decided to change it in the first place.

The island was accessible only by aircraft and boat, and Aquinnah was more remote even than that. The only road leading to the town passed between Menemsha and Squibnocket Ponds, and it was washed out due to recent storms.

Fewer than four hundred people lived in the town, a full third of them Wampanoag. Everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew and liked the good doctor Abraham Lefkowitz. Gene introduced his team to the townspeople and asked them to report the presence of any strangers immediately. If asked, they were to say that the doctor was at his cottage, then call a toll-free number that patched through to Sam Greene.

The Gay Head Cliffs were on the west side of town near the lighthouse visible from Lefkowitz' cottage. The cottage sat at the top of the cliffs, a three-story edifice designed for the large families of yesteryear. It had a widow's walk on top from which Jerri and Doug took turns keeping watch over the water, and it also had a finished basement with an access door leading down a winding trail to the beach below. Motion-sensing cameras covered the trail. A location so remote was easy for a small team of agents to watch and presented itself as the perfect place to make a discreet kill.

Beautiful during the summer, at three in the morning on Groundhog's Day, Martha's Vineyard was a miserable place to be. It was twenty-four degrees, blustery, and frosty ice from the ocean spray crusted everything. Snow covered the ground, and a stinging salt wind blew in from the east. This was the second night of the stakeout, and the team couldn't wait for either something or nothing to happen so they could all go home.



Gene shivered in his parka. He'd been sitting in the lighthouse for four hours, alternately playing solitaire and looking around with high-powered, night-vision binoculars. Paul Renner sat next to him, reading an ancient issue of Field and Stream. Carl Brent slept on a cot in the next room.

Gene idly scanned the beach through his binoculars when his ear bead crackled to life. Jerri's voice was low and tense. "I have contact on the water. Three small lights, inbound from the southwest. ETA six minutes."

Sam replied over the COM, "Sighting confirmed. Performing image enhancement." The teams' binoculars were rigged with a video feed that relayed right into Sam's information-filled cocoon five hundred miles away. Paul stood, but came up short when Gene snapped out, "Wait!" He swung the binoculars out into the ocean and scanned the water. Three white-green pinpricks in the darkness of the ocean approached at a steady rate of speed.

"I see them. Be advised, Renner and I are en route to the house. Carl will maintain watch here. Everyone, get ready for contact. Assume suspects are armed and dangerous. Use your judgment here, people; we weren't expecting three boatloads of perps." He headed for the exit.

Carl stood at the door, yawning. As soon as Gene noticed him, Carl headed over to the .50 caliber sniper rifle swivel-mounted to the wall. He kneeled down, grabbed the stock with his better arm, and swiveled the scope back and forth, looking for the incoming boats. Gene ran down the stairs, a step behind Paul.

Gene got into the Hummer H2 that served as his command vehicle and gunned the engine while Paul clambered into the passenger's side. The roar was nearly inaudible over the surf, and he left the lights off. The run to the cottage crossed flat ground, and the area had been cleared of hazards the previous day. It would take two minutes to get there, which left them another two to prepare for the incoming hostiles.

Paul grinned at Gene. "I hope those boats don't hold a lot of people, or we're going to get slaughtered." He chuckled as Gene gunned the gas.

"Not funny, Paul. We were expecting two or three killers, not a football team."

"So what are the rules of engagement?" Paul asked.

Gene sighed, frustrated. The plan had always been to capture the killers and interrogate them. Eight or more well-armed mercenaries coming at them complicated matters. The last thing they needed was a running gun battle. As if reading his mind, a drowsy-sounding Marty spoke into the COM, his voice an awful impersonation of an old-West cowboy, "We lookin' at a shootout at the Gay Head Corral, pardners?"