This was his plan, the getaway meticulously plotted and prepared so many months before. It was always inevitable that CG would begin putting things together, eventually. Once they got an inkling of what he had done, things would turn dangerous. He knew his house was being watched, knew about the trailers who followed him everywhere.
It was time to dump the watchers and trackers and disappear for a while. Time to go underground, time to see how things developed and make his next moves from there.
Everything would be handled with cash. A complete set of papers sat in the bottom of his briefcase, under a different name, a passport, charge cards, driver’s license. His money, almost fifty million in cash, was at that moment electronically careening through various overseas banks. It would not stop moving for hours, until all possible trace was lost.
A trusted friend with long experience in these matters was handling the transactions. By six, the money would be cooling its heels in an impenetrable Swiss bank, undetectable to anyone hunting for Jack.
He pulled out a cell phone and placed a quick call to his lawyer. The conversation was short and to the point. The second he finished, he ditched the cell phone with a quick toss out the window. Ten more disposable cell phones were stashed in the rental car in New York. Can’t be too careful, he reminded himself as the Capitol dome flashed by to his right.
Things were about to turn really interesting.
The neighborhood was dark and almost spookily quiet. The skies were thick with clouds that hid the moon, and that made them happy. They were parked in a narrow alleyway up on a hill less than a block behind her house. They could look down and see everything.
She got home from work later than the past three nights, at eight, and launched into her usual ritual. After seven days of watching and peeking, they could almost predict what she’d do next. They made a game of it and tried, but it was too easy to be fun. They quickly lost interest.
It was a small house with large windows-women had such a thing for light-and they could observe her every move with a pair of good German-made binoculars. First, thirty minutes in the kitchen cooking roast beef and potatoes. Chicken the night before, now she was in the mood for beef. She carried her plate into her den, sat down on the couch, and settled in to catch the evening news as she nibbled from her plate. At nine she switched channels, started to watch a movie, quickly became bored, dumped the plate in the kitchen, and shifted to the bedroom.
She undressed and changed in her bathroom, emerging fifteen minutes later with her teeth and hair brushed, in a stingy teddy they all admired immensely. Nice long legs, broad shoulders, wonderful athletic build, they agreed. They laughed and shared a few lewd comments to illuminate the extent of their veneration. After fifteen minutes of reading, the bedside light flipped off. Nighty-night, Mia, one of them crooned.
That was three hours before. “Time to go, boys,” Castile, the boss, hissed at the others. The moon had just dodged behind some thick clouds, the lights were off in the surrounding homes. It was perfect.
They eased out of the car and crept through the small, well-kept yards of the two houses directly behind hers. Three men in all, scooting along in dark pants, black sweatshirts, and running shoes, and each had a balaclava hood rolled on his head, which they tugged down the moment before they entered her home.
Castile, the expert at locks, did the honors. He had it picked in less than a minute, he eased the door open, and one by one they snuck inside. The house was pitch-dark but for a few nightlights sprinkled in strategic locations. Just right. Jones hauled in the bag filled with the evidence it was his task to plant in some suitable location. Phillips crept swiftly and silently through the kitchen, through the tiny living room, straight to her bedroom door, which was closed tight, as they knew it would be. He hefted the baseball bat in his right hand and waited. He was the security hack. If the door opened, if she peeked out, he would bean her, hard, and they would bolt into the dark night.
Castile tiptoed to the den. He flicked on his pencil flashlight with a concentrated directional beam and surveyed the surroundings for a moment. A small room, nothing much here. Two bookcases packed with thick legal volumes and a few novels. A short wooden filing case in the corner. A desk against the far wall-a wooden double-pedestal model with three locked drawers on the right side.
After deciding to tackle the desk first, he bent over and got to work on the locks.
Jones, in the interim, had found the back stairs and worked his way down to the basement, which was pitch-dark. His flashlight came on and he began nosing around to select the perfect place. The basement had recently been refinished and was nicely done in his view-a fifty-inch flat-panel hanging on the wall, with a pair of thick leather couches arrayed for a great view. There were two doors, and Jones eased open the nearest one first. A small bathroom that definitely wouldn’t do, and he quickly moved on. He opened the other door, and voilà-a storage room cluttered with boxes, oversize luggage, and unwanted furniture. Perfect, just ideal. He hauled in the bag and got to work, unpacking the contents and stashing bits and pieces in various places that weren’t too obvious, but not too inconspicuous either.
It was at that moment that the lights flashed on. He would remember that distinctly, for whatever it was worth. They emanated from outside and seemed to pour through every window in the house, accompanied by the loud sounds of both the front and side doors crashing open at once.
Then what seemed like an army of cops swarmed inside, hollering and flashing their guns. As though they had X-ray eyes, they spread out and lunged straight for the three men inside.
Phillips was still standing beside the door, hefting his bat, when three cops showed up, pointing big mean pistols in his face, one screaming, “Drop the bat, asshole, or you’re dead.”
Phillips cursed, closed his eyes, and dropped the bat.
Castile was caught just as he pried open the second drawer. He wasn’t ordered to do anything-two cops jumped on top of him, forcefully wrestled his arms behind his back, and slapped on a tight pair of cuffs.
Jones had just removed another brick of heroin from the sack when his turn came. Two cops pounded down the stairs and burst in, at exactly the wrong moment as far as Jones was concerned. They smiled as he dropped the brick and tried desperately to look innocent.
In less than a minute all three burglars were standing in the living room wearing matching pairs of cuffs. They were efficiently patted down by a mountain of a cop, who observed to the others that none of the three were carrying identification. The matching dark clothes, the lack of ID-the cops understood immediately. They were dealing with pros. “Keep your mouths shut,” a plainclothes officer barked in their faces every time they tried to speak.
The front door flew open and Mia Jenson, dressed in dark jeans and a dark overcoat, stepped inside. A gun was holstered to her waist; a pissed-off frown was holstered to her face. “Well, well, what are you boys up to?”
The breath seemed to escape from their lungs at the shock of seeing her. How did she get outside? They had seen her in bed, with the lights out. How did she get dressed, and what was she doing with all these cops?
The idea that they’d been set up dawned on them like a bad dream. One of the cops began blasting their rights into their stunned faces; they shuffled their feet and stood dumbly taking them in.
But they were all professionals and had a well-rehearsed routine in the event something like this happened. Well, not exactly like this, not with ten cops staring down their throats in a trap they had blundered right into. And definitely not with the home-owner standing with her hands on her hips, a pistol strapped to her waist and a knowing look in her eyes.