support systems in the form of eligible men. No wealthy male was exempt. Age or infirmity of the prey was no detriment, as both potentially shortened the wait before inheritance. Many of these ladies had been trade- ins on newer models, another cruel twist of fate, but one that had paid dividends in increased settlements.
Lang was that most desirable game: wealthy, and without the inconvenience of greedy heirs.
Lang had withstood the siege like a well-fortified castle.
A week ago he had met Alicia Warner, and cracks had appeared in the wall of the keep.
A recent addition to the U.S. Attorney's staff, she had moved to Atlanta from Denver and what she minimized as an "unpleasant" divorce.
Were there pleasant ones?
A person was more likely to enjoy a root canal.
Lang pressed for no details and she did not reveal any. They had started with sharing a coffee break at the federal courthouse and met for drinks after work.
She was refreshingly cautious; he was in no hurry.
He was busy; she was more interested in her career than in a second husband.
They were circling each other like two animals claiming the same turf.
Lang was going to make his move today: He would ask her for a real, no-kidding, adult-type date, like going to a real restaurant, where, perhaps, they would discuss something other than the criminal justice system.
Lang was not timid by nature, but the possibility of facing rejection from this woman filled him with more dread than did the several attempts that had been made on his life in the last few years. Of course, in the past he hadn't had time to brood before an assassin appeared with a knife, or a shadow government's bomb destroyed his car.
He checked his watch and pushed back from his desk. He went down the hall to the men's restroom, where he combed hair that was already in place, ran a hand over cheeks still smooth from the morning's shave, and grimaced for the mirror, checking teeth that had touched nothing since being brushed.
Although he had never served as a regular in ops, the Agency had preached to its agents to check their equipment, recheck it, and then check it again.
Training or nerves?
He straightened an already perfectly centered tie, shrugged on his tailored suit jacket, and headed for the elevators.
Other than fast-food chains and hotels, downtown Atlanta could boast of few places to have lunch. Once the office workers fled to the suburbs, the streets became the domain of druggies and beggars, the first unsightly and the second overly aggressive. Other pedestrian traffic consisted of hotel guests with great courage or greater ignorance of the city and the few hardy urban pioneers who insisted on going about their nocturnal business even if they had to step over sleeping bodies in doorways and ignore loud and accusatory panhandling.
The homeless and the needy, as termed by the politically correct, were, however, voters and therefore impervious to efforts to remove them.
Understandably, most restaurants were located in somewhat more upscale areas.
One of the few brave eateries was located in Underground, a section of the city that had been bridged by a succession of viaducts over the late nineteenth-century railroads, leaving the first floor of many old buildings subterranean.
In the late sixties and early seventies, a village of unique restaurants and bars had moved in, bringing a nightlife downtown had never seen before. Ever watchful of possible revenue, the city had subsequently taken over, with a predictable decline into low-end apparel and tacky souvenir shops, a succession of chain restaurants, and an equally foreseeable black hole of taxpayer money.
Former habitues stayed away in droves.
But the place was within walking distance, roughly between the federal building and Lang's office, and the day was warm and sunny. He stepped out with a brisk walk, futilely hoping to outdistance persistent street people. He ignored the hands shoved at him as mercilessly as microphones
Lang was that most desirable game: wealthy, and without the inconvenience of greedy heirs.
Lang had withstood the siege like a well-fortified castle.
A week ago he had met Alicia Warner, and cracks had appeared in the wall of the keep.
A recent addition to the U.S. Attorney's staff, she had moved to Atlanta from Denver and what she minimized as an "unpleasant" divorce.
Were there pleasant ones?
A person was more likely to enjoy a root canal.
Lang pressed for no details and she did not reveal any. They had started with sharing a coffee break at the federal courthouse and met for drinks after work.
She was refreshingly cautious; he was in no hurry.
He was busy; she was more interested in her career than in a second husband.
They were circling each other like two animals claiming the same turf.
Lang was going to make his move today: He would ask her for a real, no-kidding, adult-type date, like going to a real restaurant, where, perhaps, they would discuss something other than the criminal justice system.
Lang was not timid by nature, but the possibility of facing rejection from this woman filled him with more dread than did the several attempts that had been made on his life in the last few years. Of course, in the past he hadn't had time to brood before an assassin appeared with a knife, or a shadow government's bomb destroyed his car.
He checked his watch and pushed back from his desk. He went down the hall to the men's restroom, where he combed hair that was already in place, ran a hand over cheeks still smooth from the morning's shave, and grimaced for the mirror, checking teeth that had touched nothing since being brushed.
Although he had never served as a regular in ops, the Agency had preached to its agents to check their equipment, recheck it, and then check it again.
Training or nerves?
He straightened an already perfectly centered tie, shrugged on his tailored suit jacket, and headed for the elevators.
Other than fast-food chains and hotels, downtown Atlanta could boast of few places to have lunch. Once the office workers fled to the suburbs, the streets became the domain of druggies and beggars, the first unsightly and the second overly aggressive. Other pedestrian traffic consisted of hotel guests with great courage or greater ignorance of the city and the few hardy urban pioneers who insisted on going about their nocturnal business even if they had to step over sleeping bodies in doorways and ignore loud and accusatory panhandling.
The homeless and the needy, as termed by the politically correct, were, however, voters and therefore impervious to efforts to remove them.
Understandably, most restaurants were located in somewhat more upscale areas.
One of the few brave eateries was located in Underground, a section of the city that had been bridged by a succession of viaducts over the late nineteenth-century railroads, leaving the first floor of many old buildings subterranean.
In the late sixties and early seventies, a village of unique restaurants and bars had moved in, bringing a nightlife downtown had never seen before. Ever watchful of possible revenue, the city had subsequently taken over, with a predictable decline into low-end apparel and tacky souvenir shops, a succession of chain restaurants, and an equally foreseeable black hole of taxpayer money.
Former habitues stayed away in droves.
But the place was within walking distance, roughly between the federal building and Lang's office, and the day was warm and sunny. He stepped out with a brisk walk, futilely hoping to outdistance persistent street people. He ignored the hands shoved at him as mercilessly as microphones
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