nosy neighbor from blowing your cover and sending you back to prison for life. Bottom line: maybe the old man had seen him, maybe he hadn’t—Isaac couldn’t take that risk.
He grabbed his gun. No silencer.The crack of gunshot in this neighborhood would be suicide.
A quick thought sent Isaac racing back to the garage. Earlier, he’d been searching only for replacement clothes, but there had to be something in that box of supplies that he could use now. He rummaged around and found a mop, a dustpan, and old rags. None of it was of any use to him. Except, maybe, the hammer.
A hammer!
Isaac gripped it tightly as he reentered the house and started toward the living room. From the dark hallway, with his back to the wall, he could see through the bay window.The little white fur ball was still barking, pulling the leash taut, practically dragging its so-called master toward the house. Isaac almost smiled to see that the old man was just about his size. No bugs in those clothes, he’d bet.
He tapped the head of the hammer into the palm of his hand, waiting and watching as the old man continued up the walkway.
This one’s on you,Theo.Traitor.
Chapter 7
The FBI had a sighting, and Agent Andie Henning was flying down the turnpike at ninety miles per hour, her unmarked vehicle’s removable blue beacon flashing in the early evening darkness. U.S. Marshals and the FBI SWAT unit had already surrounded the house in Homestead. Andie made a mental note of the fact that the address was less than four miles from Theo Knight’s bar. The anonymous source in the BOLO—“Be on the Look-Out”—had apparently been reliable.
“I’m five minutes away,” she said into her encrypted cell. Police radio wasn’t an option. It was well known that fugitives sometimes monitored stolen radios to stay one step ahead of law enforcement.
Andie’s adrenaline was pumping, but she was again chiding herself over that awkward conversation with Jack. Not that she would have liked to redo it. She never should have gone there, period. It was just her luck that Jack Swyteck was one of the names on the list of “fugitive’s friends and contacts” compiled by the task force. Her boss had jumped all over that in their multijurisdictional meeting.
“Henning knows Swyteck from the Salazar kidnapping case,”
the ASAC had told the group. “You think he would talk straight with you, Andie?”
“I . . . I suppose.”
“I only ask because he is a criminal defense lawyer. I imagine he’d be more inclined to talk to you than just any old cop showing up at his door.”
LAST CALL
55
“Swyteck used to be a prosecutor. I’m sure someone at the U.S.
Attorney’s Office knows him just as well as—”
“Andie, time is of the essence here. Can you talk to him or not?”
No. Absolutely not. Not gonna happen. “Sure,” she’d said. “I’ll talk to him.”
Idiot!
She blew past the last turnpike tollbooth and took the final exit. East-west traffic was heavy on Campbell Drive, but she had to kill her flashing blue light so as not to alert the world—and the fugitive—of the sudden arrival of law enforcement. She weaved her way down the four-lane road as fast as possible without a police strobe beacon. The tires squealed as she cut a hard right turn at the final major intersection. Moments later, she spotted the law enforcement presence in a dimly lit school parking lot. Her car stopped so abruptly that the front bumper nearly kissed the pave-ment. Andie jumped out and ran toward the SWAT van. Supervisory Deputy Steve Miller of the U.S. Marshals Service was there to meet her. The FBI SWAT leader was with him, dressed in full tactical regalia and toting an M-16 rifle.
“What’s the situation?” said Andie.
Deputy Miller was a former marine officer, and he still carried the look so completely that, instinctively, Andie almost wanted to salute him.
“House is two blocks east,” said Miller. “We’re staging from here to maintain the
He grabbed his gun. No silencer.The crack of gunshot in this neighborhood would be suicide.
A quick thought sent Isaac racing back to the garage. Earlier, he’d been searching only for replacement clothes, but there had to be something in that box of supplies that he could use now. He rummaged around and found a mop, a dustpan, and old rags. None of it was of any use to him. Except, maybe, the hammer.
A hammer!
Isaac gripped it tightly as he reentered the house and started toward the living room. From the dark hallway, with his back to the wall, he could see through the bay window.The little white fur ball was still barking, pulling the leash taut, practically dragging its so-called master toward the house. Isaac almost smiled to see that the old man was just about his size. No bugs in those clothes, he’d bet.
He tapped the head of the hammer into the palm of his hand, waiting and watching as the old man continued up the walkway.
This one’s on you,Theo.Traitor.
Chapter 7
The FBI had a sighting, and Agent Andie Henning was flying down the turnpike at ninety miles per hour, her unmarked vehicle’s removable blue beacon flashing in the early evening darkness. U.S. Marshals and the FBI SWAT unit had already surrounded the house in Homestead. Andie made a mental note of the fact that the address was less than four miles from Theo Knight’s bar. The anonymous source in the BOLO—“Be on the Look-Out”—had apparently been reliable.
“I’m five minutes away,” she said into her encrypted cell. Police radio wasn’t an option. It was well known that fugitives sometimes monitored stolen radios to stay one step ahead of law enforcement.
Andie’s adrenaline was pumping, but she was again chiding herself over that awkward conversation with Jack. Not that she would have liked to redo it. She never should have gone there, period. It was just her luck that Jack Swyteck was one of the names on the list of “fugitive’s friends and contacts” compiled by the task force. Her boss had jumped all over that in their multijurisdictional meeting.
“Henning knows Swyteck from the Salazar kidnapping case,”
the ASAC had told the group. “You think he would talk straight with you, Andie?”
“I . . . I suppose.”
“I only ask because he is a criminal defense lawyer. I imagine he’d be more inclined to talk to you than just any old cop showing up at his door.”
LAST CALL
55
“Swyteck used to be a prosecutor. I’m sure someone at the U.S.
Attorney’s Office knows him just as well as—”
“Andie, time is of the essence here. Can you talk to him or not?”
No. Absolutely not. Not gonna happen. “Sure,” she’d said. “I’ll talk to him.”
Idiot!
She blew past the last turnpike tollbooth and took the final exit. East-west traffic was heavy on Campbell Drive, but she had to kill her flashing blue light so as not to alert the world—and the fugitive—of the sudden arrival of law enforcement. She weaved her way down the four-lane road as fast as possible without a police strobe beacon. The tires squealed as she cut a hard right turn at the final major intersection. Moments later, she spotted the law enforcement presence in a dimly lit school parking lot. Her car stopped so abruptly that the front bumper nearly kissed the pave-ment. Andie jumped out and ran toward the SWAT van. Supervisory Deputy Steve Miller of the U.S. Marshals Service was there to meet her. The FBI SWAT leader was with him, dressed in full tactical regalia and toting an M-16 rifle.
“What’s the situation?” said Andie.
Deputy Miller was a former marine officer, and he still carried the look so completely that, instinctively, Andie almost wanted to salute him.
“House is two blocks east,” said Miller. “We’re staging from here to maintain the
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