Grillo withdrew his hand, his fingers shaped in the form of a pistol. “Bang.”
Washburn shook his head. “Been behind a desk way too long.”
62
A firm hand awoke Alex from her sleep.
“Ms. Forza. I’m sorry to disturb you.”
Alex opened her eyes. The pilot stood above her. “Yes,” she said. “I must have dozed off. I’m sorry…what time is it?”
“Just after nine p.m. New York time. Three in London. Someone wants to talk to you. A Special Agent Mintz. He’s patched through to the cockpit. He says it’s urgent.”
Alex threw off her blanket and moved forward through the cabin. The copilot handed her a headset. “Yeah, this is Alex.”
“It’s Barry. Got some news that you need to know about right away. Looks like our shooters came through Mexico City last night.”
“How do you know?”
“This group was coming out of Caracas traveling on virgin Portuguese passports that had been stolen from the embassy in Macao.”
“Lambert’s passport was Portuguese.”
“Exactly. And you’ll never guess how many.”
“Twenty-three.”
“Bingo. Same as on those city maps. And they weren’t speaking Portuguese. All of them were speaking English.”
“Do we still have a bead on them?”
“All we know is that they climbed into a couple of vans and drove away. Two big shots from the Federales greased their arrival. Neil Donovan is trying to locate them now, see if he can sweat them.”
“Not likely,” said Alex.
“Turns out you were right, boss.”
“About what?” asked Alex.
“The groceries in the cupboard at Windermere Street. If the shooters hit Mexico last night, there’s no reason that they couldn’t already be here.”
“Did you tell Barnes?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“He’s presenting it to the mayor, the police commissioner, and Homeland Security in the morning. Says he needs more info before hitting the panic button.”
“In the morning? That could be too late.”
“Alex?”
“What?”
“Hurry.”
63
Midnight on the Jersey Turnpike.
Astor sat in the passenger seat of the Sprinter, peering out the window at the rotting hulk of industrial America. Newark, Trenton, New Brunswick. All were beaten down by time, neglect, and obsolescence. Rusted factories and abandoned plants loomed in the distance, specters of a hopeful, prosperous past. Astor was no doomsayer. He believed that the American dream was alive and well. He just didn’t understand why no one cared that it had been snuffed out here.
“Everything feel okay?” he asked Sullivan. “No problems steering or anything like that?”
“You mean am I driving it myself and not some asshole with a remote control a thousand miles away?”
“Something like that.”
“So far, so good. First sign of the body snatchers, I’ll let you know. Till then, why don’t you get some sleep? You don’t look so hot.”
“I’m good.”
“You want, I can pull over and let you climb in the back. The bed’s nice.”
“You’ve tried it?”
“Sneaked in one night after I’d had a few too many. Knew the Mrs. would kill me and I didn’t want to shell out for a room at the Athletic Club.”
“Cheapskate.”
“You try bringing up four kids on a cop’s salary.”
“What did you make your best year?”
“A hundred, maybe one-oh-five with overtime. ’Bout what you dump in a month.”
“That’s about right. Tough raising a kid on my salary.”
“With all due respect, fuck you.”
“Get in line, Sully. Get in line. But seriously, how much did you put away?”
“The wife was good about saving. Her brother was a broker. We handed him the nest egg. He wasn’t so good about investing.”
“Lose it all?”
“Not all, but in dribs and drabs. He was always putting us in the next hot stock. Me, I’m a Mick from Queens. What do I know?”
“How much you got with me?”
“Everything I got left.”
“Nothing in the bank?”
“And what, earn one percent per year? I hear what you and your buddies are pulling down. I figure I’ll stay with the master. What did that magazine call you? ‘The prince of risk’?”
“Where are you now?”
“We started at two twenty-five. Think you got us up to four and a quarter. Thank you.”
“That’s something.”
“Not like I can stop working. I’m sixty-seven. I’m feeling pretty good. Who knows how long before I crap out?”