“Orders. But I was told you’d gone bad, and you’ve talked to me—I see you haven’t. I believe you, not the guy who’s got Teach. I can help you. He’s planning a big job he needs Teach for. I heard them talking. The job is on Sunday.”
“What’s happening Sunday?”
“I don’t know.”
Pilgrim watched him. He went to the bedside table, rummaged in its depths, found the keys. He readied his gun. He wished he’d brought Ben with him, useless as he might be, because this was the moment of greatest risk. He kept the gun on De La Pena, unlocked the first cuff, then the second.
De La Pena slowly stood, hands apart. Fighting in the restraints had scored his wrists raw and bloody. He spat blood again.
“Where’s the guy’s house?”
“Jesus, I’m bleeding inside . . .” De La Pena stumbled, his hand going to the collar of his shirt. Pilgrim hesitated, but then he saw the flash of silver coming from under the collar, De La Pena’s arm slashing toward him, felt the bite of the blade into his gun hand as he raised it, and he fired.
The bullet caught De La Pena in the throat. He collapsed, dropping the thin little knife he’d hidden in his collar. His gaze found the ceiling and stayed there.
“You stupid,” Pilgrim muttered, both to himself and to De La Pena. The cut wasn’t bad but close to his wrist and he mopped up the blood with a towel. He splashed water on his face, spat into the sink. Everything ached; his wounds were seeping, nausea rocked his stomach.
He finished the search of the house. Nothing. He had a thread—narrow and possibly meaningless—leading to New Orleans and a dirty job in less than forty-eight hours. But Teach was still here in the Dallas area, and he couldn’t leave without trying to find her.
He went to the car parked in front of the house, used keys from Green’s pocket to open it. A rental; he found the receipt in the glove compartment. The reservation was in the name of Sparta Consulting, the regular Cellar financial front. Nothing to trace back to the new boss. Other than a vague description, and he had no idea if De La Pena had even been honest about that.
He returned to the stolen Volvo and headed down the street. The pregnant lady, still kneeling in her garden with a smile, waved at him again as he drove past, and he waved right back.
21
On Friday morning after the mayhem in Austin, Sam Hector stood, tall and resolute, in front of press microphones at the briefing room at Hector Global’s complex northeast of Dallas.
“Nothing can replace the two brave men lost yesterday in Austin. They were working for Homeland Security, as contract guards for an important new office in Austin, in an effort to make all Americans safer.” He briefly eulogized the two men and lauded their families. He honored Norman Kidwell, the dedicated Homeland Security officer who had died with his men. “Let me assure you that the three thousand employees and all the worldwide resources of Hector Global will be available to the authorities to bring those responsible to justice.” He cleared his throat, and gave the viewing public the benefit of his stern, determined gaze. “All early indicators here point to this heinous attack being the work of a terrorist cell, operating here on American soil. Clearly this is a new danger, a more serious threat to us all that our nation—both government and private business—must work together to respond to with strength and resolve.”
He paused to let the drama build; the scratching of pens against paper stopped; the gathered reporters waited. “Hector Global is and will continue to be an integral part of the War on Terror, especially when terror comes again to our shores. We will give our full cooperation and support to Homeland Security, the FBI, and other governmental agencies.”
He took no questions from the press, although they yelled several at him as he left the podium. He heard one inquiring about his business relationship with the missing Ben Forsberg and one asking how much his contracts with Homeland were worth and would he be losing the department’s business. Another reporter yelled a question about how much business he’d already lost in the past six months, and it was an effort for Hector not to flinch as he walked away.
He retreated from the conference room to the sanctuary of his own office. Alone. He sat at his desk and pulled from a locked drawer a photo, yellowed with age. The man in the photo was big-built, plain-faced, with brown hair. His name had been Randall Choate. He was supposed to be dead, but he was not.
Sam Hector wanted Choate dead. Soon. The stakes were far too high to let a man like Pilgrim—Choate—interfere with the operation.
Contractors are sometimes each other’s most important client—much of the large contracts handed to companies are then subcontracted out to other, more specialized concerns. The resulting network of suppliers and firms made for a considerable intelligence advantage.