Angel Face, page 9
“Who watches the watchmen?” Carlyle quoted grimly.
“I do know one mole,” she went on. “But IAB can’t help with that and I don’t have enough proof to stick it to him.”
“Why can’t they help?” Sean asked.
“Because he’s an FBI agent,” she said.
“Oh.” Sean blinked. “Jesus, kiddo, what’ve you got yourself into here?”
“I ask myself the same thing every day.”
“But if the Feds have a leak,” Sean said, “how do you know the Marshals are okay?”
“The Marshals Service is separate from the Feebies,” she said. “You know that.”
“But if they’ve an ear in one branch of the service, who’s to say the others haven’t been penetrated?” Carlyle asked.
“Headley and his guys are okay,” Erin said. “If they weren’t, I don’t think things would’ve gone down the way they did on Fifth Avenue. They had my back every step of the way.”
“That’s grand,” Carlyle said.
Meanwhile, on the carpet, Anna was trying to figure out how to get inside Ian’s defenses. She had a small cavalry troop of My Little Ponies and was maneuvering them around the legs of the coffee table, attempting a flanking maneuver.
“What if I come at you from this way?” she asked.
“Don’t think you’ll make it,” Ian said. “I’ve got guards posted here, see?”
“But that guard works for me,” Anna said, pointing to the gate to Ian’s little compound. “He’ll open the door.”
Erin looked back at her father and boyfriend. “See why I’m worried?” she asked. “Even the kid gets it.”
“Treason’s the best way to get inside a place you’ve no business being,” Carlyle agreed.
“I think I’d better get to that safe house now,” Erin said. “I’m getting twitchy. Can I borrow your car?”
“Take Ian with you,” he suggested.
“To a WitSec safe house?” She was shocked.
“He understands operational security,” Carlyle said. “Better than your lot, I’d warrant. And he’ll not talk. You can swing by later to fetch me. I understand I’ve some photos to examine.” He winked.
“Hey, Ian?” Erin said.
“Problem?” he asked.
“No. I just need a lift. Care to give me a ride?”
“Happy to,” he said. Then he turned to the kids. “Sorry. Got my orders. I’m pulling out.”
Anna giggled. “I like the way you talk,” she said.
“How’s that?” he asked, smiling at her.
“Like you’re still in a war.”
His smile faded slightly. “Habits are hard to break.”
Chapter 10
“Not sure about this,” Ian said. He maneuvered the Mercedes through the Manhattan streets, his face calm but his eyes in constant motion.
“How do you mean?” Erin asked from the passenger seat. Rolf was in back, staring out the window and panting. He didn’t care where they were going. The fact that they were in motion was the important thing.
“Marshals might not like me being there,” he said.
“How come? You’re a decorated Marine veteran. You’ve got a clean record.”
“I hang out with Mob guys. Kill people sometimes.”
“Ian, I hang out with Mob guys and kill people.”
“You’re authorized. What’s my objective?”
“It wasn’t my idea. I guess Carlyle wants someone backing me up, someone I trust. You’re carrying, right?”
“Affirmative. Beretta 92. Expecting trouble?” Carlyle had used his connections to arrange for a concealed-carry permit for Ian. Since the former Marine had never been convicted of a felony, he could get away with it in spite of Manhattan’s tough gun laws.
“These days I’m always expecting trouble,” she said.
“Same.” He turned at a stoplight onto a side street.
“This isn’t our turn,” she said.
“I know.” Ian made a quick turn into an alley. He drove along it, then got out at the next street and put them back on course.
“You’re trying to shake a tail,” she said.
“You’re not the only paranoid one,” he said. “Don’t think we’re being followed. Better to be sure.”
“And you wonder why we want you around. Just remember, you can’t tell anyone about this. Don’t even tell Carlyle the address. Got that?”
“Affirmative.”
“I’ll call the Marshals and let them know we’re coming.” She pulled out her phone.
“Good idea,” Ian said. “Makes a blue-on-blue incident less likely.”
“Blue-on-blue?”
“You’d call it friendly fire. Marines say there’s no such thing.”
Erin punched in Headley’s number. It started ringing. She didn’t start to get nervous until the third ring.
“Pick up,” she muttered. That didn’t mean anything. Maybe he was in the bathroom. Maybe his battery was dead.
It rang a fourth time.
She gripped the phone tightly. Headley had two other Marshals with him. They were trained, experienced, armed. And after the day’s events, they were expecting trouble. They’d be fine. They had to be. They just had to…
“Headley.”
The Marshal’s voice in Erin’s ear made her sag with relief. “This is O’Reilly,” she said, forcing her mouth to work. “I’m inbound, should be there in just a couple minutes. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, we’re fine.” Headley sounded, if anything, a little bored. “Sent Boone out for pizza twenty minutes ago. Our subject’s bitching about not having any wine. Says he might as well have stayed in jail. It’s about the same, according to him. No booze and we won’t let him leave. He says behind bars, at least they let you make phone calls.”
“He’s got a point,” Erin said, smiling.
“Calley told me what happened to you,” Headley said. “Think we can expect any follow-up from the opposition?”
“They’re still looking for him,” she said. “By the way, I’ve got a guy with me.”
“Who?” Headley’s voice had an edge to it.
“Driver and personal bodyguard,” she said. “Name of Thompson. He’s former Marine Corps, Scout Sniper, tough as they come. And he’s rock solid.”
“I don’t doubt his credentials,” Headley said. “But every new face we bring into this is a security risk.”
“Not this guy,” she said. “I won’t be staying long. I just wanted—” She paused, trying to find the right words.
“I know what you wanted, O’Reilly,” Headley said. “It’s okay. People think WitSec is like in the movies, bad guys all over the place. What it really is, is cheap takeout, bad company, worse hours, boredom, and lousy apartments borrowed from the FBI.”
“FBI? What’ve they got to do with anything?” she asked sharply.
“We didn’t have an available safe house on such short notice,” Headley explained. “So we liaised with the Feebies. Their Organized Crime Division had a place we could borrow. It’s just for a couple of days—”
“Who did you talk to?” Erin interrupted. “What was his name?”
“I don’t remember. Some agent or other. Why?” Headley’s tone turned suddenly cautious.
“You’ve got to get out of there,” she said. “Now.”
Ian, hearing her words, and especially the tone in which she said them, put his foot down. The Mercedes surged forward, laying rubber on the final turn into the apartment parking lot.
To Headley’s credit, he didn’t waste time asking for details, or accusing Erin of imagining things or borrowing trouble. “We need somewhere to go,” he said briskly. “Best thing is probably to check into a motel under a fake name. It’s shaky, but it’ll buy us a couple hours while we get something else lined up.”
“I’m coming in,” she said. Ian stopped the Mercedes in front of the apartment’s front door.
“No, wait down there,” Headley said. “We’ll be moving to the Lincoln out front. Keep your eyes open and cover our exit. We’ll be down in minutes. Headley out.”
“Trouble?” Ian asked quietly. It was rhetorical. He was already scanning the area for threats. His coat was open and he’d unfastened the safety strap on his shoulder holster.
“Maybe,” Erin said. “We can’t take the chance. The FBI have a dirty agent who’s in bed with the Oil Man. If he’s heard about this, we’re made.”
“Understood.” Ian hadn’t stopped looking around while they talked. Now, still speaking in the same calm tone, he added, “Black SUV, ten o’clock.”
Erin saw the vehicle he meant. “What about it?” she asked. The sun had dropped below the skyline and the lot was shrouded in shadows. The SUV in question was parked just far enough from the nearest light to make it hard to see.
“Guy behind the wheel.”
She didn’t ask if he was sure. Scout Snipers were recruited for tactical proficiency, physical and mental toughness, and above all, steady hands and keen eyesight. If you pitted a cat against Ian Thompson in a nighttime staring contest, Erin would bet on Ian every time.
“What’s he doing?” she asked.
“Not moving. Watching the door. Got eyes on us, too.”
“Copy that,” Erin said. “Anyone else in the car?”
“Not up front. Could be in back. Windows too tinted to tell.”
It might be an ambush. Maybe it was a Lucarelli hit squad, just waiting for the Marshals to make a move. But that didn’t make sense. Alfie might not leave the apartment for days. The Mob didn’t do stakeouts like that. It was more likely that this was a getaway driver. And if that was the case, someone might already be inside.
“Shit,” she said. “Wait here. Cover my back.”
She opened the passenger door and got out of the Mercedes. Then she reached for the back door to let Rolf out. If she was going to play hide-and-seek with a Mob assassin, she wanted her K-9. Maybe she should call for backup. But that would directly involve the NYPD and would certainly blow Alfie’s cover, if it wasn’t already blown.
At that moment, Erin saw a bright flash from a second-floor window. A muffled thump accompanied it.
Shotgun, Erin thought. And she didn’t think the Marshals were carrying shotguns. There were three more flashes in rapid succession, accompanied by the sharp popping sounds of pistol shots. Then the shotgun fired again. The window shattered. Shards of glass came down in a sparkling shower, raining onto the pavement.
Ian was out of the car so fast, she barely saw him move. He dropped to one knee, taking cover behind the Mercedes’s engine block and pulling his Beretta. Erin’s Glock was in her hand, though she didn’t remember drawing it.
She yanked the car door open. Rolf hopped out onto the asphalt, tail wagging, ready to go to work.
“Stay here!” she told Ian again. Rolf’s leash wasn’t attached, but there was no time to link him up. She’d have to count on his training and his bond with her. “Fuss!” she said to the dog.
Then they did what good cops were supposed to do. They ran toward the gunfire.
Erin and Rolf crossed the apartment lobby in a few running strides. Erin shouldered her way through the door to the stairwell. More gunshots echoed down the concrete shaft. It sounded like at least two, maybe three shooters, but the reverberations made it hard to tell. She took the stairs two at a time. Rolf loped beside her, tongue hanging out.
Neither one of them was wearing body armor. This had just been a visit; it wasn’t like they were serving a felony warrant. Erin cursed inwardly, remembering her Patrol days, when she and Rolf would put on their Kevlar as part of their everyday uniform. Maybe she ought to go back to wearing her vest all the time. If she lived through the next ten minutes, she’d consider it.
As she reached the second-floor landing, she heard more shots popping off. She put her hand on the doorknob and took a breath.
“NYPD!” she shouted. “Hands where I can—”
A heavy blow slammed into the door, knocking her backward. Startled, off-balance, she stumbled. Pain shot up her leg from her twisted ankle, which nearly buckled. Her heel slipped into empty space, a full flight of concrete stairs yawning behind her.
The door flew open and a man tumbled through. Erin saw a face, teeth clenched, eyes wide. She saw a hand clutching the grip of a sawed-off shotgun. She saw the slick stain of blood on the man’s jacket.
“Fass!” she snapped reflexively, bringing her Glock in line as well as she could from her precarious position. The man kept moving, falling to the floor even as Rolf sprang at him. The Shepherd was blocking Erin’s line of fire, but he did what he’d been trained to do. His jaws clamped down on the man’s gun-arm. Man and dog hit the floor, Rolf on top.
“Marshals!” someone shouted from the hallway.
“NYPD!” Erin called again, recovering her balance and stepping forward. The shotgun had fallen from the downed man’s hand when Rolf had grabbed him. She kicked the weapon down the stairs. She didn’t worry about the guy himself. Rolf had him under control.
“Hallway clear,” the unseen Marshal reported.
“Who is that?” Erin asked. She wasn’t about to trust her life to a stranger’s word.
“Boone. US Marshals. O’Reilly?”
“Yeah. Got one in custody here. I’m coming out. Hold your fire.”
“Copy that, O’Reilly. Come ahead.”
Erin stepped into the hall. Her pistol was still in one hand, but she held it up and away from her body, just in case. After a firefight, people tended to get jumpy. The smell of gunpowder filled the air. Wisps of smoke drifted through the hallway. To her right, a body lay on the floor. It was a man, a stranger dressed in street clothes, blood all over his chest. He still clutched a pistol in one hand, but he wasn’t moving.
Just behind the body, Marshal Boone knelt in the doorway to Unit 208. He was covering the hall, pistol ready. His face was drawn and tense, his eyes holding a wild, fixed look Erin didn’t like at all. He relaxed slightly when he saw her, but his hands were shaking.
“Just the two of them?” Erin asked.
“That’s all I saw,” Boone said. “Is backup on the way?”
“Not yet,” she said. “I wasn’t sure we wanted the extra attention.”
“It’s too late for that,” he said. “Call an ambulance. Now.”
The bottom dropped out of Erin’s stomach. “Who’s hit?” she asked. She’d already known they’d need to call the paramedics, for the man in the stairwell if nothing else.
“Headley. God damn it, they got Headley.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yeah, I… I think so. He was a minute ago. Calley’s doing first aid.”
“Where’s Alfie?”
Boone cocked his head. “Inside.”
Erin fished out her phone and called Dispatch. “This is O’Reilly, shield four-six-four-oh,” she said. “I need a bus to my location, forthwith. Better send a couple Patrol units, too. We’ve had an OIS, multiple casualties.”
“We copy, O’Reilly,” Dispatch said. “Backup and bus are en route. Patrol ETA two minutes, bus seven.”
“Copy that. O’Reilly out.” She hung up and turned to Boone. “I better secure the other guy. Stay there for a second.”
Rolf was still on top of his target, enthusiastically gripping the limp arm. His tail was whipping fiercely back and forth and he was growling.
Erin considered the man. Rolf’s jaws could crack bones like matchsticks. The pain from that bite had to be immense, but the guy wasn’t twitching at all. His eyes were still open, but they had a wide, unseeing stare.
“Shit,” she muttered, dropping to one knee beside him. She felt for a pulse at his neck. Nothing.
Rolf glanced at her questioningly, but held on. He wouldn’t let go until she told him to.
“Pust,” she said quietly. This guy wasn’t going to get up; not now, not ever.
Rolf dropped the man’s arm and stopped growling. He looked at Erin and cocked his head, waiting to be told what a good boy he was. He already knew it, of course, but he never tired of hearing it.
“Sei brav,” she said, rubbing his head. She realized she’d forgotten his reward toy. She’d somehow left it out of her jacket pocket. How could she explain that to him?
Tires squealed outside. She heard the roar of an engine being gunned. She also heard sirens, but they were farther away.
The getaway driver. Erin hesitated just an instant, then sprinted back into the hallway. She ran to the window at the end, the one that had been shot out in the gunfight. Rolf went with her, all excitement again. Maybe there’d be more bad guys to bite.
She was just quick enough to spot the taillights of the SUV as it disappeared around the corner, accelerating as it went.
“Ian!” she called, cautiously poking her head out the window.
“Ma’am?” he predictably called back. Erin had made him promise never to call her that again, but in the heat of the moment, she let it slide.
“Put your gun away and get out of here!” she shouted. “We’ve got backup inbound, less than two minutes!”
“You good?” he asked. He stood up from his position behind the Mercedes, tucking his pistol back into its holster.
“I’m fine. Just go!”
“I’ll leave the keys in the glove compartment,” he said. After taking a moment to do just that, he jogged away into the gathering dark without another word.
Erin turned away from the window to find Boone checking the body in the hall. He’d knocked the pistol away and was in the process of standing up, shaking his head.
“He dead?” Erin asked.
“Yeah,” Boone said. “Your guy in the stairs?”
“Him, too. We’re clear.” Erin looked more closely at Boone. The man was wearing a white shirt under a black sport coat. The shirt had blood spattered on it. “How about you?”
“What?” Boone was confused. Then he realized what she was talking about. “Oh. This isn’t mine. Headley… Calley’s with him. I told you that. Damn it, we’d better check on him. Christ.”
Erin and Boone hurried into the apartment. The sirens were much closer now. Backup would be arriving any moment.
