“Soon.”
My arguing won’t get him upstairs any faster. So I kiss his lips, then make my way to our bedroom. I clean my teeth. I undo the braid Granny made, then brush my hair. I turn back the sheets on Cole’s side of the bed. I slip out of my clothes, taking the time to return them to their proper drawers.
Collecting my mobile from the nightstand, I climb into bed. I have to scroll down to reach the number I need. All my calls over the past four weeks have been devoted to the task force.
“Fiona Moran,” she answers, sounding like a businesswoman, even though it’s late on a Saturday night.
“Kate Lynch,” I confirm.
She waits.
“When this is over,” I finally say. “If something goes wrong… If I’m not able…”
I take a deep breath. Hold it until my vision starts to turn red. Exhale.
And then I can finally say the words. “My da has the brain of a toddler. My mam’s turned traitor to the Russians. My sister’s not part of this; she never has been. I’ve done all I can to reach Robbie Malloy in Donegal. If this doesn’t end the way we want it to, will you see that Malloy takes over Clan Lynch?”
“I’ll call him,” she says. “But he’s a strange one, Malloy. I can’t promise he’ll want to clean up whatever mess is left in Baltimore. Especially if your plan falls apart.”
“That’s all I ask. Let him know. Let there be a chance Baltimore doesn’t fall to the bratva.”
“I’ll do it,” she says.
I thank her and end the call. After that, there’s nothing left to do but turn out the light and wait for morning.
36
COLE
The pickup goes exactly as planned. I watch the capture live, tapping into a Baltimore city security camera we identified weeks ago.
The Sawgrass operatives take advantage of a cross street and an alley, sandwiching Tarasov’s driver between two SUVs. One man trains a rocket propelled grenade on the windshield while two others begin firing rifle rounds into the bulletproof windows. Tarasov only decides to take his chances on the street when the man with the RPG stretches his finger toward the trigger.
It takes less than fifteen seconds for Best’s masked men to hood the pakhan, cinching zipties around his wrists and ankles. Tarasov is carried to one of the SUVs, which reverses at high speed down the middle of the block.
The entire operation takes less than two minutes. Video begins showing up on the internet almost immediately, butneither our men nor their vehicles have any identifying characteristics.
With Best at the wheel, the SUV carrying the target follows a well-rehearsed route, making its way to an underground garage near Baltimore’s football stadium. Clean license plates are attached to the vehicle, front and back, and window stickers are applied, indicating the SUV is owned by a happy family of four with a dog and a cat.
Best makes his way to DC via the interstate, driving ten miles above the speed limit with the rest of traffic. A parking pass assigned to Pinckney K. Willoughby—a name partner of the law firm on the twelfth floor—gets access to the K Street building’s garage. A timely power outage temporarily takes out all security cameras in the building, including the ones in the elevators. The glitch is resolved in under five minutes.
Standing by Megan’s receptionist desk, I watch two Sawgrass men frog-march Tarasov into a soundproofed closet specifically built for the purpose. They cut the zipties and cuff the pakhan—wrists and ankles—to a steel-tube chair bolted to the floor. Placing headphones over his hood, they begin playing Metallica at full volume.
“Help yourself to food in the break room,” I say to the muscle as I offer Best a bottle of water. He cracks the seal and takes a long drink before he salutes me with the bottle.
“Any complications?” I ask.
“None. Any idea what his men are doing?”
I shrug. “We aren’t up on their phones. I expect a drive-by at the Georgetown house within the hour.”
“My team is ready.”
“So now we wait,” I say.
“We wait,” he agrees. “My guys will babysit overnight. Go home and get some sleep. This might be your last chance for a while.”
I shake my head. “I’m staying.”
