Clark took a breath and wondered what his next move should be. The fact that the agents had knocked Tony out on his ass only meant one thing—they weren’t his usual handlers, which meant they represented something else. Something more sinister. Someone with an old score to settle? Possibly, but Clark doubted it. Clark had been trained on how to read people. In his previous line of work, Presidents and other important figures had lived and died on how well Clark and his fellow agents could scan a crowd and figure people out. You couldn’t protect someone unless you’d assessed the potential threats; in Clark’s case, he could glance at someone and guess within thirty seconds what they did for a living, know approximately how much they made per year, their marital status, and most importantly, whether they represented a threat or not. The only other individuals that Clark had ever met who had this innate ability were salespeople.
Genova’s assailants were unmarried. None of them wore wedding bands, nor was there a white circle on the skin of their fingers denoting where a ring had been. They were neat and well groomed. Dressed casually, but not sloppy. They had an air of self-assuredness. More importantly, their demeanor and body-language denoted them as professionals. Professional what, was the question.
Not criminals. They didn’t fit the type, not even for the ailing and aging Mafia wiseguys who Tony Genova had once worked for. And not FBI. And probably not any of the government’s other alphabet soup agencies, either. So who were they? Black Lodge? When he’d worked as a Secret Service Agent, Clark had heard rumors about such an organization. Back then he’d chalked what he’d heard up to nothing more than conspiracy theories and the paranoid ravings of internet madmen who couldn’t cope with their everyday reality. But since the Clickers and Dark Ones invasion four years ago, which had sent Clark Arroyo’s life into an unending spiral of turmoil, he’d come to the conclusion that perhaps some of what he’d heard wasn’t all conspiracy theory bullshit.
The Clickers had been real. So had the Dark Ones. And if they were real, why not Black Lodge?
And if that was the case?
Clark felt a pit of fear settle over him as he closed the door to the utility shed. He’d arrived at the condominium complex wearing the green coveralls worn by the staff groundskeepers. The Mexican groundskeeper he’d gotten them from had been only too happy to accept Clark’s thousand bucks in cash in exchange for the uniform, his job for the next few days, and his silence. Clark had observed the groundskeeper for a full week before making his proposition, so he knew the man worked solo all day. It had provided the perfect opportunity for casing Tony Genova’s unit and plotting his next move.
Only now, he didn’t know what his next move was going to be.
Clark leaned against the closed utility shed door, his mind racing. He was in close enough proximity that he would hear when the shadowy figures who’d entered Tony’s unit left. He’d come too far now to abort his mission. He had to wait this out, see what kind of move they’d make, before he could decide what to do.
His original plan had been simple. Gain entry to Tony’s unit by pretending to be a Mexican immigrant groundskeeper who needed access to the rear deck of the unit. Clark was one-half Mexican anyway, spoke Spanish (as well as Japanese, French, German, and Cantonese) and could easily emulate the speech and mannerism of an immigrant worker. Once he was inside he’d knock Tony unconscious, get him tied up, then wait for him to wake up. Once he was conscious, Clark would explain Tony’s options. Cooperate or Old Man Marano would get word that Tony was still alive, as well as the former hitman’s exact location. Clark figured the choice was obvious; the don might be serving time, but he had a reach outside the prison walls that would result in a very dead Tony Genova within twenty-four hours.
Simple, right?
Clark was pretty confident Tony would cooperate. After all, this was a guy who’d negotiated his way into a pretty cool relocation/new identity thanks to Livingston’s Administration. Both his original options would have resulted in painful deaths. That indicated Tony Genova was very interested in staying alive, no matter what the cost. If he dropped dime on the Marano family in exchange for this cushy new life, he’d drop dime again to get Clark what he needed.
To be exonerated.
Left alone.
To live out the rest of his life in peace.
Livingston had that power. He could end this relentless investigation into former President Jeffrey Tyler’s death. He had the influence to shape and manufacture evidence, which would in turn be used to provide the official documentation on the man’s untimely death. Conspiracy theorists would still ponder the events of that day, would still come to their own crackpot theories, and some would even cling doggedly to the notion that Clark had, indeed, killed President Tyler. But those theories would never go on any official record. Until the current investigation was shut down, a false solution presented, and the trail leading to Clark Arroyo was erased permanently, he could never be at rest.