Ben put his face in his hands and took a long breath. He’d helped create this monster. And now—with contracts imperiled, with funding drying up—what would the monster do to survive? His work and smart counsel had helped Sam Hector win deals, made Hector richer and more powerful, with a grasping reach into every agency that surpassed that of senior elected officials.
Pilgrim came into the room, loading a clip into his gun. “I’m leaving. I want to scope out the site thoroughly before I meet her.”
“I hope you come back,” Ben said.
“If I don’t . . .”
“Then I’ll find a way to bring him down.”
“I would rather eliminate him with a bullet than a spreadsheet.”
“Whatever works.” Ben stood. “Good luck.” He offered Pilgrim his hand and Pilgrim shook it. He left without another word.
Ben sat down to finish his brain-dump on the laptop. He wrote every conversation he could remember with Hector regarding work for Homeland. Writing was peace, a return to normalcy, from the chaos of the past two days. But his shot arm began to ache with the typing. Now he just needed to compile a group of people to send it to—representatives and senators and State and Defense officials who didn’t much care for the contracting business—and convince them to take him seriously.
Since he was currently a fugitive, that would be difficult.
He got up, went to the kitchen, got a glass of water, needing to stretch his legs. He wanted to think.
Pilgrim’s sketchbook lay on the counter; a clear sign that he expected to return.
Ben picked it up. He was tempted to page through the drawings again but it felt like a violation. But he didn’t like leaving it where it might be forgotten if he had to leave quickly. He stuck the small black book in his shirt pocket.
He took his water and went to the window. The day had grown cloudy, gray skies the color of worn chains. He scanned the parking lot. Nothing odd. The construction crews weren’t working this Saturday on the massive construction next door; he heard the soft calming whisper of the wind.
As he closed the curtain and turned away from the window, a Lincoln Navigator turned into the lot.
He glanced at his watch. Pilgrim should be at the soccer fields by now. He decided to write down the list of people who were Hector’s political enemies and then find Internet access so he could start e-mailing them. He finished his water, refilled the cup.
A sound from the front door. A scrape. The lock clicked, being forced, and then the door was open, Jackie entering, gun out in front of him, sweeping the room, finding Ben.
“Hands on head and get down!” Jackie ordered. “Oh, this is going to be good, man. Seriously.”
Ben obeyed. His gun was still under his pillow on the futon. No way to get to it.
The door slammed closed. He kept his face to the gritty kitchen tile. He heard rapid movement through the apartment: Jackie seeing if Pilgrim lay in wait in the bedroom. He started to crawl for the futon and then Jackie was back in the bedroom doorway, gun aimed at him.
“I don’t get to rough your face up,” Jackie said. “But I’m still going to hurt you.” He leaned down and pulled the cell phone from Ben’s pants pocket, tucked it into his dark jacket. He was dressed in black, with black cowboy boots. His face was braced with a nose guard and bandages.
“Clear,” Jackie called to the other side of the door.
Sam Hector stepped inside, holding a woman in front of him. She was fiftyish, graying hair, a generous mouth, haunted blue eyes.
“Sam . . . ,” Ben started.
Sam’s smile was a crooked slash of arrogance.
Jackie hauled Ben up by his shirt, shoved him to the living room floor. Now the futon was four feet away from him; the pillow, hiding the gun, was at the opposite end. The woman—Teach, he presumed—sat on a chair, pushed there by Hector.
Hector stepped between him and the futon. He held a gun, aimed at the floor.
“It would have been easier if you came to my house, like I asked. The customer’s always right, Ben.”
“I hate being wrong,” Ben said, “and I was wrong about you.”
Hector gave a twitch of a shrug. “You’ve been wrong about a great deal, old friend.”
“I’m not your friend,” Ben said.
“True. And you’re not going to grow old.”
“Like Adam and Delia and your own guards down in Austin. You’re a murderer.”
Hector raised a hand, waved his fingers. “My hands are clean. Where’s your new friend?”
“Gone for good.”
“Give him his answers.” Jackie yanked Ben up from the floor, delivered a savage blow to the face that slammed Ben’s head into the wall. Ben felt a tooth loosen; blood oozed from his nose. The tip of the knife skimmed down to his stomach. “Or I’m playing cut-the-dick with you.”