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Once this was done, he returned to the bedroom and looked at the body again.
“Sorry, bro,” he muttered softly, but he didn’t mean it. Killing Danvers had been a critical mission requirement for tonight’s operation. He didn’t lament what he’d done.
Scott Kincaid was simply not wired to be sympathetic.
He dressed himself in a pair of black pants, then put on a gray shirt, buttoning the sleeves so the tattoos on his forearms didn’t show, and then over the shirt he slipped on a navy blue blazer.
A badge embroidered into the lapel read “MAE-SD/Massachusetts Automation Endeavors—Security Division.”
He walked to the bedside table, picked up a pair of tortoiseshell glasses lying there, and put them on. Instantly he took them off—Danvers had shit eyesight. Kincaid popped both lenses out with his fingers, and then slipped the frames back on his face.
Better.
He grabbed a set of keys from a countertop, then slid his big pistol into the small of his back and headed towards the exit.
Down in the parking lot he pressed the button on the GMC keys in his hand, and the lights flashed on a gray Sierra. Heading to it, he heard a noise on his left, and looked over in time to see a silver-haired woman dumping her trash from her plastic can into a larger receptacle.
The woman looked to him, put the can down, and began to wave.
He waved back but kept walking.
“Andrew?” She said it questioningly.
Kincaid was one hundred feet away, walking through a dimly lit parking lot, and the lady was every bit of seventy-five. He knew there was no more than a negligible chance she’d sense anything off about him from this distance and in this light.
He continued towards the Sierra, confidence in his gait.
Climbing into the vehicle, he adjusted the seat because he was a couple of inches shorter than the man whose identity he’d stolen, then moved the rearview mirror to match his sight line.
And then he fired up the engine. Reaching for the door to pull it closed, he was surprised to see the old woman standing there next to the truck and looking at him, just six feet or so away now.
Before he could say anything, she spoke. “You’re not Andrew.”
Kincaid’s shoulders slumped a bit, but he smiled. “Okay. You got me.”
“Who are—”
“I’ve gotta ask, though. What tipped you off?”
“Because you weren’t looking at your phone. Every time I see Andrew, he’s always got his nose in his phone.”
Kincaid snorted out another short laugh, nodded to himself a moment, then replied, “Good to know.”
“Who are—”
In one coordinated and blazing motion, he leaned forward, his right hand reached back, and he drew his pistol and shot the woman in the chest through the heart, dropping her instantly to the pavement like a rag doll tossed aside by a child.
The report was loud, but not too loud, the suppressor doing its job as it had done before upstairs.
Scott Kincaid shut the door to the truck, threw it into reverse, and then repeated himself softly.
“Good to know.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Zack Hightower climbed out of the Gulfstream and instantly recoiled from the bright sunshine and sticky Cuban heat. The temperature hovered around eighty-eight degrees, and the eighty percent humidity oppressed him as he squinted into the light.
José Martí International Airport wasn’t anything special to look at, but the skies above were simply stunning. Clear, blue, with massive fluffy white clouds. The terrain all around was green and flat, fields and forests for as far as he could see in every direction.
