“It’s definitely far more personal than anyone in this situation should be comfortable with,” said Bishop. “Not what you’d expect for a guy who prizes anonymity so much. But maybe there is some upside to the handwritten note that we’re not seeing. . . .”
“Hard to see what that would be,” said O’Neal. “If he’s got access to the same typewriter, why make it different?”
“You’re assuming he did have access to it,” said Morgan. “You’re looking at this the wrong way. The bandaged forehead, the courier delivery, the new number. And look at this handwriting.” He pointed at the screen. “It’s shaky as all hell, written in a rush. This doesn’t have any of the careful style from before. No, something’s different. Something’s happened. Gone wrong. He’s lost his footing. He no longer has some of the resources he had before. For some reason, he can’t go back to wherever he stored that typewriter.”
“So, what?” said Bishop, sitting up and leaning forward, suddenly interested. “You think the feds caught up with him or something?”
“Not likely,” said Shepard flatly, without looking up from his computer. “There’s nothing up on the system. My guess would be someone on the other side of the law is after him.”
“So the fact that he’s still trying to get this money means he’s desperate,” said Bloch.
“That would be my guess,” said Morgan. “Something happened, and he needs the money. My guess is that he needs to disappear off the face of the Earth, and fast.”
“Which means . . .” started Shepard.
“. . . that we need to capture him,” said Bloch, setting two hands down on the table and looking at the assembled team intensely. “And we’ll have exactly one shot to do it before we lose him for good.”
CHAPTER 22
New York, January 28
They had prepared for the operation as much as possible given the time constraints. They had each separately scoped the place, which was a small unpretentious family-owned Vietnamese restaurant called the Lucky Noodle. It wasn’t normally too busy, they found, but hardly ever empty either. It wasn’t the ideal spot, but it had no security cameras. There were also two ways in and out, the front and the back, and the street outside was clearly visible from the main dining room inside. The tac team, however, had it all covered. There was no way they’d lose him if he went into that restaurant.
Morgan arrived early in his GTO. Diesel had parked a truck overnight across the street from the place. They timed it so that he pulled out just as Morgan arrived, leaving an ample parking space behind. Morgan was going to hang back on this one, act the lookout and wheelman so they had somewhere to usher their target when they got him, and be ready to give chase if he had to. It was a long wait, during which he sipped on hot tea from a thermos and pretended to read a newspaper he had propped up on the steering wheel, but kept an eye on the street. It was just after 11:30, late enough that the restaurant was open but early enough to miss the lunchtime crowd. Finally, he saw Rogue walk by and then enter the restaurant through the front door. A few moments later, giving no indication that they were together, Bishop did the same.
Morgan tapped his fingers against the newspaper, using the rearview mirrors to keep an eye on the streets. “Bishop,” he said, after counting a few minutes, “is your team in position?”
“Affirmative,” he said. Morgan saw him, through the window of the restaurant, sitting at a table by the door, pretending to do the New York Times crossword. Rogue would be seated at a table near the rear exit of the restaurant, out of Morgan’s sight, making sure no one went out that way. Morgan could see Diesel at the street corner in workman’s overalls, drinking hot coffee and making a show of rubbing himself from the cold and looking impatiently at his watch. Spartan was behind Morgan a ways, leaning against the outer wall of a convenience store pretending to have a conversation on her cell phone.
“All right, Len,” Morgan said into his comm. “Get a move on.”
“Okay, okay. I’m coming.”
“And act natural. Don’t speak to me unless you’ve got a gun in your face, understand?”
Two minutes later, Len Stuart turned the corner and walked down the sidewalk, carrying his briefcase full of cash. He seemed even more nervous than the first time, ambling awkwardly and looking down. He entered the restaurant and took a seat by the window. A waitress came to bring him a menu, which Stuart took without thanking her.
It took another seven minutes until their quarry appeared. “There’s our guy,” said Morgan. He had rounded the corner behind Morgan, visible in the left-side mirror. He was much like the courier had described. Thin, not very tall, unmistakably Asian, and while he was still wearing a baseball cap, this one sporting I LOVE NY, the bandage was just visible on his forehead. “Ten seconds to visual contact.”