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“You think there are men in it?”
“Pretty sure.” Rapp’s eyes were scanning the roofline across the street.
“So what do we do?”
“You’re going to go stand on the other side of the window so you have a good view of anyone approaching from the east, and we’re going to wait for the show to start.”
CHAPTER 31
BRAMBLE was about to shove his fist through twenty-five grand worth of electronics. Why the hell was Hurley pulling him? They were on the same page. He was as gung ho to catch the little fucker as Bramble was. Rapp was an arrogant, reckless little prick and Bramble had asked for point and Hurley had given it to him. He’d been waiting for more than a year for his chance and he sure as hell wasn’t going to fold up shop and go sit in some hotel bar and wait for orders.
What could have changed Hurley’s mind? Bramble wondered. He started sorting through possibilities, and pretty quickly realized that it wasn’t what, but who. It had to be someone high up on the food chain. In fact there was only one man Bramble could think of who issued Hurley orders. It was Thomas Stansfield, but the last Bramble had heard, Stansfield was on board with yanking Rapp’s leash.
That meant Stansfield had been given some information that they weren’t privy to, or someone had intervened on Rapp’s behalf. Bramble rapped his scarred knuckles on the small metal shelf that created the base of the surveillance console and sifted through the possibilities. His mind stuck on one person. She was a royal pain in the ass and Bramble couldn’t understand for the life of him why she had anything to do with their unit. He’d heard she was smart, but he had yet to see any proof of it. All she did was get in their way and thwart Hurley at nearly every turn. She was the one who had found Rapp, recruited him, and forced him onto the team. Bramble couldn’t understand it, and in a moment of frustration he’d asked Hurley why he put up with the stupid cunt.
Hurley’s reaction had been swift and decisive. He stepped toward Bramble without a hint of violence and kicked him
so hard in the groin that Bramble collapsed into the fetal position and stayed there for five full minutes. After that, he never brought Irene Kennedy up to Hurley again. She continued to meddle in their training, selection, and deployments, though, and Bramble watched with increasing irritation as she seemed to have her way with every major decision. The only reason was that she worked at Langley and had Stansfield’s ear. After they were all placed on the sidelines and Rapp was given free rein to start taking out targets, Bramble was on the verge of quitting. He’d rather freelance, or move out to Hollywood and start tagging a little ass while pretending to protect some teenage superstar from imagined killers. He’d heard there was a lot of money to be made, but he also suspected he’d end up killing someone. It was one thing to smoke some turd in a Third World shithole. That was like going on safari. Do it in the United States, though, and he was likely to end up behind bars.
Fortunately, Hurley had talked him out of it. He assured him that Rapp would stumble, and more than likely, he’d stumble in a spectacular fashion, and when that happened they would move in and clean up the mess. And by clean up the mess, Bramble took Hurley to mean that he would be allowed to kill the little shit and end this dumb-ass experiment.
Bramble had heard the arguments between Hurley, Kennedy, and that faggot shrink Lewis. Kennedy had created this problem, and Lewis and God himself Thomas Stansfield had abetted her. The shrink was worthless. If any of them needed to talk about their feelings they were in the wrong line of work. Kennedy was nothing more than a glorified desk jockey with a hold over Hurley that he couldn’t understand. And Bramble had spent far too much time trying to figure it out. The only thing he could come up with was that Kennedy had caught Hurley doing something so embarrassing that he had no choice but to back down every time there was a confrontation. Ultimately though, it was Stansfield who was the problem. He was a damn relic from way back when. Rumor was he’d been OSS during World War II and had parachuted into France and then Norway, and Bramble could give a shit. So the guy knew how to cross-country ski, operate a ham radio, and live off pine needles and tree bark—big deal. The fossil needed to be put out to pasture and let guys like Hurley run the show.
None of it made any sense to Bramble, not then and especially not now. Based on what had happened over the past thirty-six-plus hours, Hurley’s order to stand down seemed downright stupid.
“Was that Stan?”
Bramble slowly turned his head to look at Steve McGuirk. “Shut up. I’m thinking.”
McGuirk smiled and asked, “Does that hurt?”
“Does what hurt?” Bramble asked.
“Thinking.”
Bramble was in no mood for McGuirk’s smartass attitude. He sprang from his chair and smashed the smaller man against the back of the driver’s carriage. “Did I somehow give you the impression that I was in the mood to listen to your bullshit today? Because I’m not.”
McGuirk was wiry and strong, but in such close quarters he was no match for Victor’s size. He wedged his right arm up under the bigger Bramble’s and pushed back just enough so he could breathe. “You need to lighten up, Victor.”
“I don’t think so. I think I’m done taking your shit. I think I’m going to tell Stan to cut your ass loose. What do you think of that? Or maybe I’ll just break your fucking neck right now.” Bramble felt something hard press against his back.
Todd Borneman, the third man in the van, held his silenced pistol against Bramble’s lower spine. “Take your hands off, Steve, or I’m going to lodge a hollow-tipped bullet in your spine, and you can spend the rest of your life wearing a diaper.”
Bramble slowly backed off, holding his hands up in the air. Borneman was former Delta, the kind of guy who measured his words very carefully. If he said he’d shoot him, Bramble wasn’t about to doubt him.
McGuirk sat up straight and said, “You’re a real prick, Victor. We’re on a fucking stakeout, for Christ’s sake. Take a joke.”
Bramble looked at McGuirk and then Borneman, who still had his gun out. “Sorry . . . I’m frustrated. Put that thing away,” he said to Borneman.
Borneman pointed the gun at the floor, but kept it out. “Who was that on the phone?”
Bramble considered lying but decided it would do little good. “It was Stan.”
“What did he want?”
“Nothing.”
McGuirk shook his head and said, “So you were pissed off about nothing. You’re so full of shit.”
