rented Focus from the airport to police headquarters. “What’s this ‘ghost’ thing all about?”
Thompson smiled at the question as she weaved through Route 112’s dense morning traffic, though it was less a smile of amusement than vindication. The term had started as a joke. She’d been on this case since long before her fellow agents thought there was a case at all, and in the early days, they’d ribbed her mercilessly for it. Much as she loved her job, the FBI was still a good ol’ boys’ club at heart; the instincts of female agents were called into question far more often than those of their male counterparts. But she hadn’t cared what they thought—she’d known in her gut she was right. That there was a new player in the game. Someone talented. Dangerous. And one hundred percent off the Bureau’s radar.
Every time Thompson had added another kill to her whiteboard, another report to her file, her colleagues would tease her, saying, “Thompson’s ghost has struck again.” And whenever a case on her list was proven to be the work of some low-level thug—in the early days of her investigation, she’d yet to discern the pattern and had cast too wide a net—she’d never heard the end of it.
But then a pattern did emerge, and the killings escalated to the point that the Bureau brass could no longer ignore them. By the time the deputy director appointed Thompson, the resident expert, to head up the investigation, her colleagues had stopped laughing.
Garfield gripped the dash and inhaled sharply through clenched teeth as Thompson threaded their rental between a minivan and a delivery truck. Somewhere behind them, a horn blared.
“It’s not a what, ” Thompson replied, “it’s a who. Some new hitter on the scene. Relatively new, at least. Bagged thirty-five kills we know of in the past two years alone, though I suspect his CV stretches farther back than that.”
“And you think this Cruz was number thirty-six?”
Thompson didn’t think Cruz was thirty-six—she knew it. “Has all the hallmarks.”
“What hallmarks?” Garfield asked. “He shot a guy. Seems to me anyone can pull a trigger.”
“You kidding me? I wouldn’t call popping a guy from four blocks away just pulling a trigger, ” said Thompson. “But anyway, that wasn’t what I meant—he rarely kills the same way twice.”
Irritation flickered across Garfield’s face. “Okay then, what’re the hallmarks?”
“For one, his hits are flashy. Asphyxiation in the middle of a crowded convention center. An airport knifing. A precision shot on a busy city street. Hell, he once used a shaped charge to blow a theater chair—and the guy inside it—to pieces without injuring the patrons on either side. And for two, despite the fact that they’re so flashy, no one’s ever
managed to get eyes on him.”
“Not even traffic cams? Surveillance footage?”
Thompson shook her head. “Disabled or obscured.”
“Then I’m guessing he ain’t the sort to leave prints, either.”
“You’re guessing right. But I haven’t told you the best part yet.”
“And that is?”
“My ghost only hits other hitters.”
At eleven a.m., after nearly two hours’ wait, their contact finally arrived. A stocky, hirsute man in a cheap gray suit bounded across the atrium with a vigor that belied his heft. Both his suit and bald pate gleamed beneath the lobby’s fluorescent lights.
“Agent Thompson? Agent Garfield? I’m Detective De Silva.”
He extended a hairy-knuckled hand to each of them in turn.
Thompson shook it.
Garfield didn’t. “ Special agent,” he corrected. Thompson winced. The Bureau doesn’t have a rank of agent— all investigators are titled special agent—but it was a common enough mistake, and one only a supercilious prick would bother to correct. Particularly when the person that supercilious prick was correcting was someone whose cooperation was far from guaranteed.
“Detective,” Thompson said, as De Silva
Thompson smiled at the question as she weaved through Route 112’s dense morning traffic, though it was less a smile of amusement than vindication. The term had started as a joke. She’d been on this case since long before her fellow agents thought there was a case at all, and in the early days, they’d ribbed her mercilessly for it. Much as she loved her job, the FBI was still a good ol’ boys’ club at heart; the instincts of female agents were called into question far more often than those of their male counterparts. But she hadn’t cared what they thought—she’d known in her gut she was right. That there was a new player in the game. Someone talented. Dangerous. And one hundred percent off the Bureau’s radar.
Every time Thompson had added another kill to her whiteboard, another report to her file, her colleagues would tease her, saying, “Thompson’s ghost has struck again.” And whenever a case on her list was proven to be the work of some low-level thug—in the early days of her investigation, she’d yet to discern the pattern and had cast too wide a net—she’d never heard the end of it.
But then a pattern did emerge, and the killings escalated to the point that the Bureau brass could no longer ignore them. By the time the deputy director appointed Thompson, the resident expert, to head up the investigation, her colleagues had stopped laughing.
Garfield gripped the dash and inhaled sharply through clenched teeth as Thompson threaded their rental between a minivan and a delivery truck. Somewhere behind them, a horn blared.
“It’s not a what, ” Thompson replied, “it’s a who. Some new hitter on the scene. Relatively new, at least. Bagged thirty-five kills we know of in the past two years alone, though I suspect his CV stretches farther back than that.”
“And you think this Cruz was number thirty-six?”
Thompson didn’t think Cruz was thirty-six—she knew it. “Has all the hallmarks.”
“What hallmarks?” Garfield asked. “He shot a guy. Seems to me anyone can pull a trigger.”
“You kidding me? I wouldn’t call popping a guy from four blocks away just pulling a trigger, ” said Thompson. “But anyway, that wasn’t what I meant—he rarely kills the same way twice.”
Irritation flickered across Garfield’s face. “Okay then, what’re the hallmarks?”
“For one, his hits are flashy. Asphyxiation in the middle of a crowded convention center. An airport knifing. A precision shot on a busy city street. Hell, he once used a shaped charge to blow a theater chair—and the guy inside it—to pieces without injuring the patrons on either side. And for two, despite the fact that they’re so flashy, no one’s ever
managed to get eyes on him.”
“Not even traffic cams? Surveillance footage?”
Thompson shook her head. “Disabled or obscured.”
“Then I’m guessing he ain’t the sort to leave prints, either.”
“You’re guessing right. But I haven’t told you the best part yet.”
“And that is?”
“My ghost only hits other hitters.”
At eleven a.m., after nearly two hours’ wait, their contact finally arrived. A stocky, hirsute man in a cheap gray suit bounded across the atrium with a vigor that belied his heft. Both his suit and bald pate gleamed beneath the lobby’s fluorescent lights.
“Agent Thompson? Agent Garfield? I’m Detective De Silva.”
He extended a hairy-knuckled hand to each of them in turn.
Thompson shook it.
Garfield didn’t. “ Special agent,” he corrected. Thompson winced. The Bureau doesn’t have a rank of agent— all investigators are titled special agent—but it was a common enough mistake, and one only a supercilious prick would bother to correct. Particularly when the person that supercilious prick was correcting was someone whose cooperation was far from guaranteed.
“Detective,” Thompson said, as De Silva
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