The first operative had come to the Marriott. The second had shown up at Jim’s place at that garage. And in both cases, everyone had reasonably assumed the assassins had been sent for Matthias.
Except he wasn’t the target.
Jim Heron was.
The man’s dossier had been marked orange, which meant his death hadn’t been confirmed in person when he had “died” in Caldwell. So as far as the organization was concerned—and they were right—Heron was living and breathing.
And they were going after him.
The first rule of XOps always had been no loose strings. And there had been a number of people who had disapproved of Matthias’s letting the man go—and now that he was out of the picure?
Heron was fair f**king game.
52
It wasn’t that Jim couldn’t appreciate the thoroughness, but come on. The CPD had shown up in the early afternoon, and it was now close to nine at night and the boys in blue were still hanging around.
The initial breaking-and-entering had just led to a walk-through. The real fun and games had come when they’d called the landlord—who, after he’d been informed his tenant had died well over a week ago, came at once and gave them permission to search the property in a legit way.
Funny, the old guy had still been wearing a traditional butler’s uniform—and still looked like he should have been in a home instead of marching up and down stairs and offering everyone “refreshments.” But he’d been very gracious, and opened up all manner of doors—except for one.
Even he hadn’t been able to crack the crawl space where Eddie was kept. Then again, the spell that guarded that compartment had turned its panels into those of a bank vault.
When the cops had wrapped up their preliminary stem-to-stern, they hadn’t found much. No weapons, because Jim had collected them all. No laptop because it was under his armpit. A couple of casings out in front from his playing target practice—but they already had one of those. Cigarette butts in an ashtray and some food in the fridge—big whoop.
Annnnd then it was time for round two, with the nitpicks arriving with their fingerprinting brushes and their big-ass Scotch tape, and the photographer snapping everywhere, inside and out. Finally, the yellow police tape had been run around and nailed into a tree on either side of the pea gravel. Kibitzing. Followed by a couple more exterior photographs.
Finally they were pulling out—and at least it hadn’t been a total waste. Halfway through the penetration, as it were, Jim had sneaked off with the computer and his phone and made arrangements to rent another place in Caldwell.
There were advantages to having kept a couple of his homegrown aliases alive—and he and his three boys sure as shit couldn’t stay here anymore.
As the last squad car took off and the CSI van pulled out, Jim put Dog down. “I thought they were never going to f**king leave.”
The animal chuffed in agreement and sank into a big stretch, even though he’d hardly been traumatized: He’d slept soundly on Jim’s arm, draped boneless as a waiter’s cloth. Now, however, he wanted out.
Jim took a piss first, though. And texted Adrian that the coast was clear.
Opening the door to the outside stairs, he broke the nice official seal the CPD had put on things. “Oops.”
Carrying Dog down to the ground floor, he let the furry little guy do his thing in his favorite stretch of bushes.
Just as the animal trotted back and Jim started walking him back up the staircase, a car came tearing along the main road at the far side of the meadow, going at a dead run and skidding onto the lane that led to the garage’s front door.
Matthias was behind the wheel.
Jim could sense the imprint clear as day. And Ad was with him, as instructed—had been all along, providing a stream of text updates: apparently, the angel had trailed the guy from a meeting with Mels at a Barnes & Noble downtown to a car rental place where Matthias had gotten himself a shiny new Ford product…to outside that reporter’s home, as if the guy were doing a final check-in.
Certainly appeared as though Matthias had followed through on the XOps data dump, giving over the keys to Pandora’s box to his woman.
So…what the hell? If that was the crossroads—and it seemed logical it could be—at any moment the man should get subsumed into Heaven, the win complete. Instead, he was pedal to the metal, coming here?
Unless the reporter had to follow through before it counted?
No, that was her will, not his—and Matthias was the focus. What he did, his actions and choices, was the issue—Jim had learned that one in the initial round with the guy: When Matthias had pulled the trigger on that gun, with the intention of killing Isaac Rothe, that had been enough to condemn him—the fact that the kid hadn’t died had not been dispositive.
Intent had been the key.
Jim put Dog inside and jogged back down the stairs, wondering what the twist was.
The driver’s-side door opened before the car was in park—probably not a good sign.
Matthias jumped out and ducked under the police tape. “We were wrong.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The operatives were coming for you. They think I died—I saw it in my file. And XOps doesn’t waste time on the dead, unless they’re reclaiming them.”
Jim frowned. He’d assumed the organization believed he was taking a dirt nap as well. “They think I’m still breathing?”
“I went into the system, and it’s right in your dossier—status unconfirmed.”
“But you came to check on me.”
Matthias frowned like he was fighting with his memory. “I did?”
Well, that explained why the XOps record read as it had.
Matthias slashed his hand through the air like the particulars were the least of their problems. “Look, the assassins only came when we were together, and that first one may have seen me, but he was dead before he could pass the intel along. Think about it—they were coming for you the whole time.”
So what, Jim thought. It wasn’t as if they could kill him.
And then it dawned on him. “So what are you doing here? I thought you were leaving town?”
The man looked around, searching the shadows. “I wanted to make sure you knew so you’d watch your back.”
Jim shook his head slowly in disbelief. The old Matthias? This conversation never would have happened. Self-interest had been the name of the game.
“I always watch my back,” Jim said softly. “You should know that.”