Collision(112)

“Fine,” Pilgrim said. “You go get phone records, I’ll go shoot people.”

“You better calm down,” Ben said, “or you’re going to make a mistake and get killed.”

Pilgrim pulled the sedan over to the side of the road. “Pardon my anger. I’ve lost my life, same as you. But I’ve done it twice now. First I lost my family, my career; and now I’ve lost Teach and the Cellar. I wanted to retire two days ago. I wanted to leave and be in the real world. He killed my hope.” For a moment he was silent, fingers clenching above the steering wheel. “But there’s no place out here for me now. As long as I could stay in the Cellar, then I could hope it could be different for me . . . that I could have a real life. But I can’t. Vochek and Homeland, they’d put me in a cell, have me talking for years.”

“You offered to do that for Vochek.”

“I was desperate, Ben. To get here. Because Hector’s not winning. Do you understand me?”

“Yes. I hate the bastard as much as you do. That’s why I want you to let me help you . . .”

“Call me on my cell if you find anything interesting in the phone records. I’ll call you when I’ve killed Hector.” He pulled the pilot’s stolen cell phone from Ben’s hands, activated the screen, memorized the number.

“Assume we succeed, then what?”

“I walk away. You negotiate an immunity, I’ll feed you plenty to give Homeland that’ll be worth gold to them. It’ll buy you your life back.”

“Buy your own life back. You’ll always be looking over your shoulder.”

“No. I won’t.” Pilgrim drove in silence for several minutes and then turned onto Poydras. On the streets were clumps of tourists, not like in pre-Katrina days, but more than Ben had expected. “Here.” Pilgrim pulled a few hundred dollars, hoarded from his storage unit, slid them to Ben. “You won’t be able to get the records without bribery. Nothing’s cheap. The hotel’s a few blocks down that way. Good luck.”

“You almost hope I get caught.”

“You don’t want to be in the cross fire, Ben.”

Ben offered his hand. Pilgrim shook it. “Sorry. Not good at good-byes.”

“Good-bye, Randall.” Ben stepped out of the car. First and only time to use his real name, the one Vochek mentioned.

“Bye, Ben. I’m sorry. For everything.”

Ben closed the door and the car raced off into the night.





38

The Cellar. They arrived, one at a time, taking rental cars from Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport. The safe house was a two-story family home on the edge of the suburb of Metairie, in a neighborhood spared the Katrina flooding. Hector felt like a magician summoning spirits to do his bidding as each of them arrived, and he greeted each at the door with the pass code that Teach had given him—and with their real name.

Six in all. Two women, four men. The six of them had never been in the same room together, and he could see them glancing at each other, trying not to study each other overmuch. Trying not to be remembered or to remember.

Jackie stood in the back to the room, arms crossed, wearing sunglasses like he was a bad-ass.

“I’m afraid I bear tragic news. Teach is dead,” Hector said when they had all gathered. He pushed a button on his laptop, which was hooked to a projector. A slightly grainy photo of Teach lying dead on the carpet. He’d snapped the picture with his cell phone when he’d run back to the apartment, knowing proof of her death might be useful.

One of the men rubbed his eyes as though weary. One of the women gasped. The rest were silent.

“Let me assure you that the Cellar continues as it always has. The transition to my leadership will be as seamless as possible. Like you all, I am ex-CIA. I worked in Special Ops as deep cover. I currently run, in my regular life, a private security firm. But I’ve worked with Teach in partnership with the Cellar for the past several years.” It was best, he thought, to weave truth and lie together.

“Who killed her?” one of the men asked.

He clicked another button. Pilgrim’s face appeared on the screen. “She was found dead in an apartment leased to this man. He is a Cellar operative known as Pilgrim. He is also responsible for the deaths of three other Cellar agents.” Pilgrim flashed the file photos of Barker, Green, and De La Pena, one by one, and let the growing anger fill the room. “He killed one in Austin, two in Dallas. This is the most grievous attack on the Cellar in its history, especially coming as it did from within.”

“Why did he turn on us?” one of the women asked.