The Killing Season Read online

  As it turned out, the final Russian’s nerve was solid, but his aim was lousy. He got off a shot, but it came nowhere near Wardell. Wardell brought the shotgun level, having to angle his body sideways to do it within the limits of the cuffs, and blew the top four-fifths of the Russian’s head off. The truncated corpse toppled forward like a felled tree. The last gunshot gave the illusion of echoing for longer than the first, and then the silence descended again and the hunter’s moon beamed down, impassive.

  Wardell started to jerk another shell into the chamber and winced as the cuffs rubbed the fresh scrape on his left wrist. He turned his head to look at the wrecked transport van, wondering if the keys would be on one of the dead marshals or if he’d have to get creative.

  “Th-thank you,” a weak, shell-shocked voice croaked from behind him.

  Wardell’s head snapped around. He’d forgotten all about Clarence. It was easy to do. The skinny man was still on his knees, shuffling forward, his eyes glassy with a mixture of trepidation and hope. Those eyes reminded Wardell of a pet rabbit he’d methodically starved to death as a boy.

  “Those guys, they would have—”

  “Evidently,” Wardell said, cutting him off. He wasn’t particularly interested in who, what, or why.

  Something in his voice made the other man shrink back, his eyes widening. “You’re not gonna shoot me, are you?” Clarence said, a nervous we’re-in-this-together-brother smile breaking out on his face.

  Wardell looked down at the shotgun and at his bloody wrist, then back at Clarence. He smiled and shook his head slowly. Then he swiveled the shotgun in his hands and rammed the butt into Clarence’s face.

  Clarence dropped without so much as a squeal, and Wardell adjusted his grip on the gun again, turning it into a club. He brought it down across the middle of Clarence’s face, feeling bone and cartilage give way. He hit the same spot another three times and felt the facial bone structure crumble completely on the third strike. He lost count after that, stopped thinking. Kept pounding until what had been Clarence’s head was just mush and matter and fragments.

  He stopped when his arms started to get tired, letting the adrenaline seep out of him like an ebbing tide. As his pulse returned to normal, Wardell looked down at himself with disgust. He was a mess: covered in dirt, sweat, and blood. A lot of blood. Some was his own, most was Clarence’s. It made him want to retch. He hated being unclean. He hated a mess.

  Five minutes later, he’d located the keys to his handcuffs on one of the dead guards and shed his orange prison jumpsuit. He used it to wipe down his arms and face as best he could and discarded it, evaluating his sartorial options. Mess had practical drawbacks as well as aesthetic ones: the clothes belonging to the last two Russians and Clarence were absolutely unusable. That left the big guy.

  Shrugging, he stripped the Russian and pulled on his pants and T-shirt. It felt like wearing a circus tent. He paced back to the wreckage and surveyed his choice of weapons. The dead guards had both been carrying Smith & Wesson semiautomatic pistols. The driver’s was still in its holster.

  He crouched down and looked inside the crushed cabin, at a spot between the front seats. What he saw there made him wonder if a long incarceration could knock your perception of time utterly out of whack, because this was surely December 25th.

  There was a Heckler & Koch PSG1 rifle with a telescopic sight strapped there, within easy reach of both driver and passenger. Good for picking off escapees like himself, he guessed. Good for lots of things.

  It was a thing of beauty, as powerful and precise as anything he’d used in the desert. More precise, in fact, because it was specifically designed for law enforcement and did not require the compromises for weight and durability necessary for military use.

  Wardell made a pretense of weighing up practicalities and logistics before giving in to his desire and taking the rifle. It would slow him a little more than taking one of the Smiths, but not much. Hell, it was what he was trained for. It was meant to be.

  That was when Wardell remembered the barn roof. He looked back up there, saw only a straight black line against the dark blue night sky. There was no one on the roof, probably never had been in the first place.

  There was a line of trees a quarter of a mile south. Wardell slung the rifle under his arm, cast a final glance at the barn roof, and then he was gone.

  Gone to look for America.

  2

  5:06 a.m.

  Nine minutes after the phone call began and seven minutes after it ended, I had showered and shaved and was opening the closet door.

  I selected a single-breasted charcoal suit, off-white shirt, and Italian shoes. Nothing flashy, even though the full ensemble had cost roughly the equivalent of a small family car. There were another three identical suits in the closet. I closed the door on them; I could pick them up later.

  I dressed quickly and strapped on my shoulder rig. I opened the drawer in the bedside table and took out a Beretta 92FS and its detached magazine. I checked the load of seventeen nine-millimeter Parabellum rounds, slid the magazine home, racked the slide, clicked the safety on, and put the weapon into the holster. I slipped my jacket on top and walked across the hotel room to a small writing desk, on which sat the other three items I would need. The first was a wallet containing an even thousand in cash, a ­driver’s license in the name Carter Blake, and a platinum Amex card. The second item was a Dell Latitude laptop in a leather carry case. Finally, there was a set of keys for the car in the basement garage.

  I reached for my cell phone and my hand froze. The phone had a screen saver that selected random images from memory, refreshed every fifteen minutes. It had chosen a picture I hadn’t seen in a long time: a twentysomething woman with strawberry-blond hair and long eyelashes smiling at the camera and shielding her eyes from the sun. In the background, you could make out the curve of a Ferris wheel. Astroland, Coney Island. It’s not there anymore. It was the only picture of Carol I kept.

  I tapped the screen to kill the image and pocketed the phone.

  Less than fifteen minutes after my cell had buzzed, I was behind the wheel of the car and on my way to Chicago.

  3

  7:40 a.m.

  The FBI building was located at 2111 West Roosevelt Road. It was a long slab of glass and concrete, ten stories high and wider than it was tall. It loomed behind a neat waist-high steel fence, on a perfectly level lawn that stretched out to meet the sidewalk. The sky had begun to lighten, but for the moment, the streetlamps and the lights illuminating the exterior of the building continued to burn.

  I pulled through the main gate in the fence and stopped at a barrier. A uniformed security guard approached me as I rolled down the window. I told him my name was Blake and that I had a meeting with the special agent in charge, and he nodded as though he’d been expecting me. He touched the brim of his hat and waved me through as the barrier rose.

  I checked my gun in at reception in exchange for a laminated visitor’s badge, passed through a metal detector, and was escorted up to the tenth floor by an unsmiling agent who responded to my pleasantries with the occasional grunt. I was shown into an expansive office with a great view of the city at dawn. There was a big desk in front of the window. Behind the desk sat a man.

  He was younger than I’d expected, perhaps not even fifty. He wore a top-of-the-line Brooks Brothers suit, button-down shirt, dark tie, rimless glasses. His jet-black hair was emphat­ic­ally slicked back, with no attempt made to disguise the fact it was receding.

  He made no effort to stand up and did not offer his hand. There was a thick file on his desk.

  I stood at the doorway for a moment. The unsmiling agent who’d brought me up stepped back into the corridor, carefully closing the door behind him.

  “Donaldson,” I said, by way of hello.

  “That’s right. Blake, isn’t it? You got here faster than I’d expected.
”

  “Traffic was light.”

  “First time in Chicago?”

  “First time in a long time.”

  Donaldson leaned forward in his chair and put his hands on the desk, as if to signal we had successfully negotiated the small-talk portion of the meeting. I took the hint. “So, you need to find somebody.”

  He paused a moment, as though reluctant to go further. “This information cannot leave this office.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not on Twitter.”

  He didn’t smile. “Do you know who Caleb Wardell is?”

  The name was familiar, even though I hadn’t followed the original case particularly closely. If you attain a certain level of celebrity, your name kind of seeps into the mass consciousness. “Of course,” I said. “The sniper. But he’s in jail, right?”

  Donaldson said nothing.

  “I see.”

  “He escaped from a prisoner transport van this morning. It looks like there was some kind of ambush, possibly Mob related. Wardell was caught up in it and managed to get loose.”

  “And you want that situation rectified before anybody finds out.”

  “In a nutshell.”

  “Can I ask a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Who recommended me?”

  Donaldson’s lips widened a quarter inch on each side of his mouth. I took it for his attempt at a smile. “Let’s just say it was the kind of recommendation that’s unwise to turn down.”

  “But you don’t have to like it.”

  He sighed and stood up, placing both palms on the desk. “Look. Don’t get me wrong. I can use all the help that’s available. We’re putting together a task force, and it’s been suggested that you have certain specialized talents that might do some good, whether my people like it or not. And chances are, they’re not going like it.”

  “That’s okay. I have extensive experience with not being liked.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I’m bringing the task force leads in for a briefing in an hour. Do you think you can help us?”

  I nodded slowly. “You’re aware of my terms?”

  “I believe payment has already been discussed with your . . . agent.”

  “Yes, but I have three rules before I take a job,” I said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Number one: You pay me half up front, half when I catch your man. Number two: I work alone. I won’t be coming into the office nine to five. I won’t be joining the team for beers once we put this guy back inside. If you’re buying me, you’re buying an additional resource; that’s all.”

  “And number three?”

  “Number three is that if you’re paying me to catch your guy, you’re paying me to do it my way. My way is whatever works best. Sometimes it’s entirely legal, sometimes not. What I need from you is an assurance that any reasonable steps I need to take in the course of my work that may be in technical violation of the law will not result in you going after me.”

  Donaldson’s mouth was open to interrupt, but I held up a hand.

  “I’ll let you decide what’s reasonable. I’m not asking for a blank check here.”

  His brow creased and he looked away from me, out the window. I walked forward five paces and took the seat in front of the desk. “It’s a great view,” I said, just to fill the silence.

  “It’s a great city, Mr. Blake.”

  “Spiritual home of the Bureau, right? This is where Hoover got started.”

  Donaldson turned back to me. “You know your history. Mr. Hoover built us up from nothing.”

  “And Mr. Dillinger helped him along a little too, of course.”

  His face was totally impassive. I couldn’t tell if he was amused or offended. I extended my right hand across the desk. He looked at my hand as though he were a bomb disposal expert working on a type of device he hadn’t seen before. “I decide what’s reasonable?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Donaldson studied me for a moment. Then he reached out and shook my hand. “Welcome aboard.”

  4

  9:05 a.m.

  Despite her best efforts, Special Agent Elaine Banner was late.

  The call had come in just after eight o’clock, summoning her to an emergency meeting with the SAC at nine sharp. That meant she’d been forced to leave ten minutes into the first PTA meeting she’d managed to attend all year. Another discarded obligation, another letdown for Annie. She didn’t suppose this one would register as high on the scale as the time she’d had to fly to Indianapolis on Annie’s birthday, but she knew the small disappointments added up all the same. The guilt was a constant, nagging presence. Banner had actually thought it would be easier once Mark moved out, but that illusion hadn’t survived long.

  There was one slender compensation for her lousy work–life balance: Her abrupt departure had not attracted the usual smug head tilts and smiles from the other mothers. They all knew what she did for a living, and she knew they’d all read the feature that had appeared in the Times last year, after the Markow case. Even as she hustled out the door, she sensed her departure send a frisson of vicarious excitement through the classroom: Annie’s FBI-agent mom leaving abruptly following an urgent phone call.

  After that, all that lay between Annie’s school and the Chicago headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was a city of three million in the midst of rush hour. All things considered, Banner thought as she pushed through the opaque glass conference room doors, five minutes late was respectable.

  The room was bright, spacious, and sparsely furnished. Just a long boardroom table, some chairs, and a coffee ­machine in the far corner. There were four men already in the room: two spaced apart with their backs to the door, two sitting closer together on the other side of the table. She recog­nized the latter pair as Assistant Special Agent in Charge Dave Edwards and the SAC himself: Walter F. Donaldson. They were mismatched. Edwards was sixty, heavyset, wore a cheap suit, and was sweating despite the season. Donaldson, though he had seniority, was younger and dressed with style and care.

  The two men on her side of the table had turned to look at her as she entered. She didn’t recognize the guy sitting farthest from the door, but the one closest to her was Steve Castle. Damn. Castle was in his late forties, but despite the gray streaks in his hair, he could pass for a decade younger. The look on his face said that he didn’t think five minutes late was at all respectable.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Banner said, taking the seat nearest the door.

  Edwards and Donaldson murmured pleasantries; Castle looked at her in stony silence. The fourth man smiled briefly, but with warmth. He looked . . . nondescript was the word, she supposed. Average height, average build, dark hair, a clean shave. Good-looking, she guessed, but nothing special. The kind of guy you’d find it difficult to provide a distinguishing description of if you had to. He wore a nice suit but no tie, so she knew he wasn’t Bureau, if nothing else.

  Banner took all this in with a glance, then turned away. She noted the table was entirely clear except for a neatly squared pile of photographs, facedown in front of Edwards.

  “Now that we’re all here,” Donaldson said, the merest trace of a South Boston accent in his delivery, “I’ll get straight to the point. We have a situation.”

  Banner looked on, nodding. Of course they had a situ­ation. She just wondered what variety of situation. Perhaps the president had changed his mind again about visiting the city before the midterm elections.

  Donaldson turned his head to Edwards like a news anchor handing over to a junior colleague for the spade work.

  Edwards glanced at Banner and then at Castle, as though ensuring they were both paying attention. “This morning, around three a.m., a transport van carrying two prisoners from USP Marion to the federal correction complex at Terre Haute was ambushed on
a county highway, about ten miles out.” Edwards stopped to take a breath, as though the sentence had been an exertion. “We have a coordinated mixed scene out there, our people assisting local law enforcement. Looks like there were only two marshals on board, both killed. There was no escort. We’re still trying to find out why, given the status of the passengers.”

  “Who were they moving?” Castle asked.

  Edwards looked a little peeved at being interrupted. Which was disingenuous, Banner thought, given the pregnant pause he’d left there. Edwards leaned back in his chair, which creaked. “We believe the target of the attack was this man.” He held up one of the pictures: a glossy eight-by-ten color mug shot of a weedy, balding man of about forty, the hint of a wry smile at the corners of his mouth. The nameplate he held at chest level spelled out mitchell, c. j. in blocky letters.

  “Clarence James Mitchell. Photograph taken about four months ago. He’d been awaiting trial on charges including racketeering, aggravated assault, and rape.”

  Banner studied the picture. The Bureau’s involvement made sense already, given the racketeering charge, and so did Edwards’s interest: She knew his background was in the Organized Crime section. But why were she and Castle there? Neither currently worked OC. She shot a glance at Castle, who looked like he was also in the dark.

  “Mitchell was due to turn state’s evidence on one Vitali Korakovski,” Edwards continued, “one of our high-value targets in the Russian Mob. We’ve confirmed that the three men who carried out the ambush were Korakovski soldiers.”

  Banner tilted her head in surprise. How could the number and identities of the attackers have been established so quickly without any surviving witnesses? Unless . . .