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I went upstairs to our bedroom and punched in the number for my recently found long-lost father. He answered on the second ring.
“Haven’t heard from you in a bit, Alex,” my dad said.
“You either, Dad. Retirement got you busy?”
“Picking up more work than I can handle with the Palm Beach County prosecutors,” he said, sounding as if he couldn’t believe it.
“Why does that surprise you?” I said. “They may have thrown you out of sheriff’s homicide, but they’re not going to waste talent.”
“I’m still pinching myself I’m not in prison.”
“You paid your dues. You became a good man, Jason Cross or Peter Drummond or whatever it is you’re calling yourself these days.”
“Pete’s fine,” he said. “End of that. What’s up with you and the family?”
I told him about the job offer.
He listened and then said, “What turns you on, son?”
“Being a detective,” I said. “It’s what I’m good at. Being an administrator—not so much.”
“You can always delegate,” he said. “Stick to the stuff you’d enjoy about being COD and get rid of the rest of it. Negotiate it with your chief up front.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll sleep on it.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve already made your decision.”
Chapter
18
On the eve of battle, he always changed his identity to suit his role. That night he thought of himself as John Brown.
Brown rode in the front passenger seat of a tan panel van that bore no markings. Perfect for a predator. Or a pack of them.
“Seven minutes,” Brown said, rubbing at a sore knee.
He heard grunts from behind him in the van and then the unmistakable ker-thunk of banana magazines seating and the chick-chink of automatic weapons feeding rounds into breeches.
They left Interstate 695 and crossed the bridge over the Anacostia River, heading toward the part of DC few tourists ever ventured. Drugs. Apathy. Poverty. They were all here. They all festered here, and because they were an infection, they had to be cut out, the area doused with antibiotics.
They left the bridge, headed south on I-295 and then east again on Suitland Parkway. They exited two miles later and went south of Buena Vista.
“Be smart and disciplined,” Brown said, pulling a sheer black mask down over his face. “Nothing gets taken, and nothing gets left behind. Agreed?”
Grunts of approval came from the blackness of the van behind him. Brown leaned over and took the wheel while the driver put on his mask.
A female voice in the back said, “Work the plan.”
“Smart choices, smart fire,” a male said.
“Surgical precision,” another male said.
Brown pressed the microphone taped to his neck. “Status, Cass?”
His headphones crackled with a woman’s voice
“Good to go,” Cass said. She was in the van trailing them.
