A laugh so sharp it startled me. "Oh, you don't like that idea, do you? You can play the cool professional, act like you don't give a shit what anyone thinks, but you've got your share of ego, of ambition. You're just good at hiding it. Reminds me of someone else." Her gaze slid to Jack, now walking to the bathroom. "What I can make you, Nadia, isn't better. It's famous. Legendary. Reach the point where you can do exactly the kind of work you want and nothing else."
I stared out the window, watching Jack as he returned.
"He's still with me, isn't he?" Evelyn said, as if reading my thoughts. "I haven't damaged him. Haven't made him anything he didn't want to be. Jack doesn't hang around because he feels obligated. He wouldn't do that and you know it. So if I'm good enough for him..."
Jack dipped his head, peering into the car, gaze shooting to Evelyn, as if he could see us watching him and talking.
"I'll let you think about it, Dee," she murmured. "Take all the time you need."
For over an hour, I'd been standing in front of a fifth-story window, watching the parade route fill. To pass the time, I mentally ran through ballistics tables, recalculating the distance, velocity, trajectory, wind drift, making sure I had everything right.
I'd have rather been in one of the taller office buildings down the street, but if there were SWAT team snipers here, that's where they'd be. And even if there weren't, the Feds would be checking out the best perches in case Wilkes was trying for a sniper shot himself. So I had to make do with one that was third rate.
Having to take the shot standing didn't make the situation any better. The higher up you get, the less stable you are. Ideally, I'd be on my stomach. Given that the window was four feet off the ground, lying down wasn't an option. So, as any good sniping manual would tell you, I should have used the materials at hand to create a level and sturdy four-foot-high platform. Works great, if you're on a SWAT team...not so great when you're a professional killer who can't leave any trace and may have to abandon your perch at a moment's notice.
So I'd shoot standing, as I usually did. Not only was it the least steady position, it was the hardest to hold for an extended period. Since I used it the most often, though, I'd trained for it, doing most of my practice upright--the offhand position. To alleviate some of the unsteadiness, I used a sling. A dark-colored loop of nylon, the sling attached to a swivel at the end of the gun stock, near the barrel. I put my left arm through the opposite end of the loop and pulled the keeper along the strap until the loop was snug against my biceps.
At this distance, it was possible--if unlikely--that someone on the parade route could look up and see a silhouette in the window. To reduce the risk, I wore a brimmed hat, beaten into a shapeless lump, so my head wasn't a rounded dome. Mosquito netting over the front of the hat darkened my face and helped it blend in with my black clothing. I'd also draped a larger swatch of netting over the window, to further darken and blur my silhouette. For the window itself, I'd cut out a pane. Breaking glass makes noise. Lifting the sash looks suspicious. If you see a closed window, you assume all the panes of glass are there.
I could see Evelyn's hat weaving through the crowd. It was pink and old-ladyish. For Evelyn, I'm sure that was a fashion torture on par with my push-up bra, and judging by the look she'd given me when I found it for her, I was in for some serious payback. But it made her easy to track, and that's all that mattered.
I needed to be able to find her in a split-second survey of the parade scene because my attention had to remain focused on the main lure, Jack. He couldn't wear anything as obvious as a pink hat. Fortunately, tracking him wasn't the issue because he'd staked out a table at the edge of a licensed patio, where he nursed a pint of beer and read a motorcycle magazine. If he attracted the attention of anyone who looked as if he could be Wilkes, Jack would fold up his magazine, vacate the patio and head for the alley beside it, which was right across from my perch and lined up for a perfect shot. Alternately, if Evelyn spotted Wilkes, she'd get Jack's attention and he'd make his way to Wilkes, while staying within my line of fire.
Wilkes could be planning a sniper shot himself, but according to Evelyn, he was crap at distance shooting. Besides, if he wanted to reassert his credibility with the Feds, firing from a safe distance would be a cop-out. Just in case, though, I'd been careful to pick a spot with no surrounding high buildings.
As I was thinking this, something thudded over my head. My first reaction was an instant gut-clench, accompanied by a vision of Wilkes standing at the window over mine, his scope trained on Jack. My second reaction was a stifled laugh. There was no floor above mine--just a roof, one with a sloped front and a high lip, unsuitable for shooting.
From overhead came the distinct sound of gravel crunching underfoot. I gave myself a mental shake. Nerves are a sniper's worst enemy. The slightest tremor, and you might as well put the rifle back in its case.
I checked my pulse. Steady. Good. Now concentrate on--
A chirp from the rooftop exit hatch.
Maybe it was only my mind playing tricks, but until I reassured myself of that, my shot was in jeopardy. I took one last look at Jack, then checked my watch. Six minutes to parade time. I laid down my rifle, slipped out of the sling, then spread my tarp over my gear--the fastest way to hide it.
As I pulled out my handgun, I ran though the description Evelyn had given for Wilkes--late fifties, six foot one, big-boned. The rest didn't matter--a disguise could change hair and eye color, make him older and heavier, but shorter or significantly younger were impossible.
It was only then, as I visualized him, that the full impact of what was happening hit. This man, now sneaking into the building, could be Wilkes. The Helter Skelter killer. My target.
I was transported back to the opera house, to that hour when I'd been so sure we'd get him, and I felt again that excitement, that rising sense of oddly calm anticipation. Senses heightening, muscles tensing, pulse hitting a steady rhythm, sliding into that perfect zone.
In that hour at the window, I'd known who I hoped to find in my scope. Yet I never felt it. Too distant a target, too cerebral a goal. What I loved about distance shooting--that total control--also robbed me of this, that delicious moment of knowing that in a few minutes, I'd see my target's face, hear his gasp of shock, smell his fear.
As a loose ladder rung creaked, I pictured him, frozen in midstep, the creak seeming to ring out like a gunshot. He'd listen for any responding sound from below, then start down again, slower now, testing each rung first. Finally, he'd reach the bottom. A few steps and he'd be at my door, turning the handle...
The soft click of the latch. Good. Now look out into the hall. Make sure it's clear, then step out...oh, better close the door behind you.
Click.
Silence.
He was in the hall, looking, listening. No sign of the Feds--if they had a team camped out on this floor, he'd hear it; there was no need for them to be quiet when they were just pulling stakeout or sniper duty from a fifth-story window. Hearing nothing, Wilkes would start forward again, looking for the best window, which was right here, in my room.
I flexed my grip on my gun and smiled.
At least three minutes of silence passed. Still listening for an occupying force? Wilkes hadn't struck me as the nervous type. Maybe the pressure was getting to him. Another two minutes, then a floorboard creaked. Still sneaking down the hall, expecting trouble?
Another creak. He'd be at my door in a few seconds...
Silence.
From my vantage point, I couldn't miss seeing anyone passing the doorway. So where was he? Being cautious was one thing, but he was moving so slowly--
I stopped, imagining not Wilkes, but an officer from the security detail canvassing the building. But if Wilkes wasn't in this hall, that meant Jack was in danger, down there trying to lure in a killer, confident that I was watching his back.
My gaze tripped between the window and the door. Just a few seconds. Let them pass the door and move on. Dear G
od, I hoped they moved on.
I watched the doorway, tensed for the first shadow. I lowered my gun barrel to leg height. No, too risky for an impulse shot. I might hit his femoral artery. A shoulder shot? That had been my first choice with Wilkes, but would I risk it on a cop? Could I even shoot one?
Silence from beyond the door. Awaiting backup? If so, I had time to move away from the door and...And what? Jump out the window? Hide. I could get behind--
A shadow moved across the door opening. I could make out a filthy sneaker and an arm clad in a battered leather jacket. Hardly standard wear for law enforcement. An undercover officer?
I stayed against the wall and waited for him to step inside. Then I'd knock him down and get the hell out--
The shadow crossed the open doorway. Through the crack behind it, I saw a young man, maybe twenty, dressed in ill-fitting clothes that screamed charity wear. He cast a nervous glance through my doorway, then scuttled down the hall.
It could be an undercover officer, but if so, he should have stepped into this room to conduct a thorough search. Through the crack, I watched the young man continuing down the hall, peering into some rooms, ignoring others, haphazardly searching. Not a cop but a junkie spooked by the police presence outside and looking for a safe, quiet hole to shoot up.
All this for a goddamned junkie who probably wouldn't have even noticed me standing at the window with a rifle?
I swallowed a burst of rage, reminded myself I had a bigger concern. When the figure reached the end of the hall, I sprinted for the window, looked down...and saw an empty table.
I whirled and grabbed my rifle. Then I spun back to the window, my gaze going to the alley. It was empty. From here, I could see right to the end. I swung back, visually retracing the path from the alley to Jack's chair, but saw no sign of him. A server was at his table now, holding his half-empty beer glass as she wiped his table.
Heart thudding, I scanned the crowd for Evelyn's pink hat, and found it a few storefronts away. I slowed my survey of the crowd, searching for Jack's light brown wig, bearded face and leather jacket. But people were moving off the road and crowding onto the sidewalk as the distant sound of music announced the beginning of the parade.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Evelyn glance up. I waved my arms. She lifted her hand to shield her eyes. I grabbed my gun-cleaning cloth--the lightest-colored item I had. I waved it, then gestured toward Jack's table. When she saw that empty chair, she stiffened, and I knew she understood. She jabbed her thumb down, then pointed at me and jabbed down again. Come down.
I hesitated. I could see better from up here--then I understood: if she'd looked up here for me, Jack was likely doing the same. He'd check for my shape at the window before he got near Wilkes. If I wasn't ready, better that he shouldn't see me at all and know something was wrong.
With one eye and my gun aimed at the door, and both ears on full alert, I pulled the tarp off my gear and stuffed it into my rucksack. Then I unloaded the rifle and slung it across my shoulder--dismantling it was too loud and too time-consuming.
I hurried to the door and peered out. All clear. A pause, a deep breath, another check, then I sprinted down the hall. Keeping an eye out for the junkie and anyone else, I retraced my steps down to the first floor and out the back exit.
I never should have left that window. I never should have left that window.
Even as I beat myself over the head with the chant, I knew if I hadn't left my post, I could have been seen. There had been no way to know it was only a junkie until it had been too late. What I should have done was arranged an emergency alert plan, told them that if I had to leave my window I'd stick a piece of paper on the pane, so when Jack looked up he'd know he was unprotected.
From the door, I headed into the back alley. As I ran, I stripped out of my gear and haphazardly wiped the camouflage makeup from my face, then stashed my rucksack and rifle behind a trash bin and kept going.
As I stood at the junction of the sidewalk and alley, a float rolled past. The men's swim team, clad in Speedos and goose bumps, enduring the cold as they basked in the hoots and catcalls of the students and alumni lining the street. My face had to still be streaked with paint, but I attracted no more than a casual glance. If there were near-naked young men on a float, then a face-painted alumna on the sidelines didn't look out of place.
I strained to see over the crowd and, for once in my life, wished for high heels or platform shoes, anything that would help me spot that pink hat bobbing along in the mob. When Jack had vetoed the use of cell phones, I should have insisted we have something for emergency communication.
"I hate backup plans," Evelyn had said. "If you have one, it makes it acceptable to screw up the original."
Maybe that was true, but under these circumstances, a fallback plan wasn't an escape hatch, it was a safety net.
The parade was in full swing, and I doubted it would last much longer. Was I too late? Not unless a man could drop dead on the sidewalk and no one noticed. Maybe the Feds were right and there would be no hit at the parade. Or maybe Wilkes hadn't seen Jack. Or maybe he had, and decided to strike elsewhere. At least Jack was armed and knew what was happening. I just had to keep--
There! Across the street. A bearded profile over a leather jacket moving behind a cluster of drunken alumni. Now how was I going to get across the road? In the middle of the parade? Run like hell...that was the only way, as much as I hated doing anything that might call attention to myself. I elbowed my way to the front of the crowd, with murmurs about "someone holding my place" and plenty of apologies.
Maybe the streaks of face paint made it easier, but I managed to get through the blockade. Perched on the curb, I rolled on the balls of my feet, counting the seconds until the float was just far enough past--
I darted out between the photography club float and the woodwind band. I dashed for the curb. As I neared it, I caught the stare of a man about twenty feet away. An older man, late fifties, just over six feet tall, big-boned. In that second I knew I'd accomplished what Jack had failed to do: attract the attention of a killer.
My heart slammed against my rib cage. Wilkes. Right there.
I had to make him chase me.
As the thought formed, my heart rate swung into rapid acceleration. Lure him away. Make sure he was the one. Let him think he was in control, the great hunter stalking his innocent prey. And then...
I grinned.
I jumped onto the curb and started making my way to the rear of the crowd. Would he follow? As Evelyn had pointed out, Wilkes had done my demographic. But if it was an easy kill? If I made it an easy kill? A seeming guarantee of success?
I had to make this easy. Too easy to resist.
As much as I longed to scan the crowd for his face, to see his reaction, I didn't dare. I walked fast, eyes straight ahead, chin high, striding toward some imaginary rendezvous point.
When I neared the point where he'd been standing, the urge to look into the crowd was so strong I had to force myself to glance the other way. As I did, I caught my reflection in the window of a storefront. Behind me was the crowd. After a moment's searching, I saw that face again. Watching me. Curious. Considering...
I suppressed a shiver of excitement, shoved my hand into my pocket and slid it around my gun. Then I wheeled left and headed into the alley.
* * *
FORTY-FOUR
When we'd first arrived that afternoon, Jack and Evelyn had done a full reconnaissance sweep, checking every street, alley and nook. With my extra setup work, I'd only had time to map out two escape routes from my building perch. That should have been enough. I just needed to know how to evacuate my perch in an emergency. They were supposed to be the ones luring Wilkes into an alley.
Those routes I'd investigated were across the road, and my chances of getting Wilkes there were slim to none. So I had to do something I hated--blindly walk into the first suitable-looking alley I crossed.
When I stepped into that alley, I lo
oked toward the first intersection and thought of nothing but getting there...as fast as possible. For that thirty-second trip, Wilkes could come around the corner and shoot me from behind, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.
I could argue that a gun hit made no sense. It was too risky this close to the sidewalk. Shooting someone in the back was a coward's ploy, and unlikely to impress the Feds. Plus, considering he'd invited the police, he wouldn't take the chance of walking around carrying a gun.
Dirt crunched as my pursuer rounded the corner behind me. I kept my pace fast but steady. Speed up and he'd know I heard him. Just a few more steps...
I hit the first corner and took a split second to look each way, searching for the nearest doorway or second corner, getting Wilkes far enough from the crowded street. The alley intersected with another about fifteen feet to my right, so I turned that way. I crossed the first half of the distance in a few long strides. From the occasional whisper of his shoes on the dirt, I knew my pursuer was still behind me. Yet he seemed to be moving slowly--slower than I expected. Being cautious? Or wasn't it Wilkes?
I was convinced it was him, but I could leave no chance I would, in my eagerness, shoot an innocent man.
The man I'd seen could have been a random pervert or mugger, more than willing to follow a woman into an alley. It might not be the man I'd spotted, but Jack or Evelyn or a cop seeing me turn into the alley and following. Or it could be some drunken student who'd slipped from the parade for a piss break. And if it was the latter, then I sincerely apologized for what I was about to do, and hoped his full bladder could withstand it.
When I reached that next junction, I'd round the corner, then get up against the wall and wait, gun drawn. Wilkes would turn--
I hit the corner...and found no corner to turn. What I'd thought was the junction of another alley was a doorway--with a recess so shallow I couldn't even duck in and hide. As I slowed, my gaze swung forward again, looking for a second option. Ahead, less than a dozen feet away, a real alley intersection, one I could see from this angle wasn't another dead end. But Wilkes was too close. He'd never let me get that far. My only option was to break into a run and escape.