He scanned the warehouse once more. Two qualifying fights battled in another dark corner. The winners would fight each other in the main ring later.
Safer to assume official and unofficial surveillance teams were stationed strategically throughout the building. He kept his distance and stayed in the shadows.
If Pak’s dog won the fight he’d be a rich man.
For a very short time.
The main fight ended when Pak’s one-hundred-twenty-five-pound Bully Kutta mauled the champion mixed-breed pit bull to submission.
Deafening applause and shouts of approval went up from the crowd. Nina played her part, laughing along with the rest, her total attention on Pak.
The sweaty, red-faced Pak cheered along with them. His wide grin revealed a mouth full of misshapen teeth almost more frightening than the bloody, defeated pit bull.
Pak collected fistfuls of bills from the gamblers. He dropped the whiskey glass on the ground as he filled both hands with the cash.
As more gamblers crowded Pak to pay their debts, Nina bent to retrieve the glass. The sexy woman slid behind the crowd and out of sight.
The man in black watched the show from afar and simply nodded when Nina slipped away. An overwhelming sense of accomplishment swelled his chest with every breath.
The deed was done. Pak was as good as dead. The poison he’d ingested with the whiskey would do its work.
Not immediately.
Not even tonight.
But later.
When Pak returned to his room.
After the whiskey glass and the flask had been destroyed.
When the sexy woman was long gone.
“May you die a lonely, painful death, you son of a bitch,” the man in black muttered under his breath. “No one deserves that fate more than you.”
He kept his gaze fixed on Pak for a few moments before he slipped farther into the shadows as the next fights began. The aromas and noises and thrills he craved enveloped him for the last time.
Only one loose end to clear up.
The woman, Nina.
But not yet.
And not here.
Ten minutes after Pak’s big win, the man in black was on his way. He walked the first four blocks, scanning for threats and witnesses until he located the stolen sedan he’d parked on the street.
A piece of crap set of wheels had been rained on at least once after he’d parked it. Soot had settled on the raindrops leaving black residue on the paint.
The silver sedan looked worse than it actually was. The old beater was in good enough shape to drive a couple thousand miles at least. Enough to get him where he needed to go.
Not the kind of ride he’d normally be caught dead in.
But then, he wasn’t the one he planned to bury in it.
He drove the sedan to the airport.
There he collected his personal effects and a change of clothes from a locker. He stuffed the black outfit into three trash bags and disposed of them.
Then he moved to the rendezvous point where he met the sexy woman he’d left back at the warehouse.
Nina Cloud wasn’t quite as young or attractive or sexy in the harsh overhead lighting of the terminal. She had some miles on her. She was forty, at least. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Native American. Not even the flashy gold fingernails remained to confirm potential witness accounts of her part in the murder. They’d been fake, too.
Nina offered a brown paper bag containing Pak’s empty whiskey glass.
He slipped the bag into his pocket before he gave her a kiss and a stack of counterfeit fifty-dollar bills to show his appreciation. They were good counterfeits. No one would object to them.
Then he told her where to find the sedan and told her to drive herself home.
“Take your time. Do some sightseeing. You deserve a little fun,” he said, pulling her close and kissing her a bit more thoroughly.
Breathlessly, she pulled away, a satisfied smile on her lips. “See you later.”
“You bet,” he replied as they turned and walked in opposite directions.
When he reached his gate, he looked back. Nina was already at the terminal’s exit on her way to pick up the sedan. He didn’t expect to see her alive again. Which was more than okay. It was perfect.
He grinned as he handed his boarding pass to the gate attendant and entered the jetway toward the plane.
CHAPTER TWO
Five Days Later
Wednesday, May 11
Washington, DC
9:15 a.m.
FBI Special Agent Kim Otto stepped out of the cab at the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building and stood for a moment in the foggy rain staring at the 935 Pennsylvania Avenue N.W. entrance. Some said it was the most hideously ugly 2,800,000 square feet of building space in DC. Hard to argue the point.
Eight stories of damp, ugly concrete on one side, eleven stories on the other, and three stories underground. The FBI had been taking a media beating for the past few years. At this point, even the building’s architecture seemed untrustworthy.
A lifetime ago, simply entering FBI headquarters had filled her with pride and excitement and a sense of belonging like no other place on earth. Back then her chief ambition was to become the first female director of the FBI. Back then she believed she’d get there.
She felt none of those things today.
Kim had been working the Jack Reacher file since early November, and she’d traveled all over the country and parts of the world like a bloodhound. But she hadn’t been to the Boss’s office even once since she got that first 4:00 a.m. phone call.
Her assignment was off-the-books. Not undercover. Not sanctioned or monitored by the usual FBI channels. Zero supervision or accountability.
Which made it feel clandestine and lonely and extremely dangerous.
In the movies, working outside the well-trained team environment was made to seem glamorous. In real life, not so much. The work was threatening, treacherous, and too often deadly.
Kim wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about walking into headquarters now, but pride and excitement were not in the mix. She was anxious, sure. Situation normal there. But what else?
She glanced at the wet scene, smelling nothing but exhaust fumes hanging on the heavy air. The famous cherry trees, a curious but welcome gift from Japan in the last century, had bloomed late this year. On the ride from National Airport, she’d seen a few wilted blossoms barely hanging on, here and there.
The National Cherry Blossom Festival had finished weeks ago, but the entire city was still flooded with tourists.
Too many people, traipsing through the puddles with their umbrellas, no reliable method for separating hostiles from friendlies. When she’d lived in Georgetown with her ex-husband, Van Nguyen, back in law school, she’d made every effort to avoid the crowds. Now, as then, the effort was futile.
An overwhelming sense of déjà vu settled on her shoulders, weighing her down whenever she thought about Van. It was strange how viscerally she reacted to him, even now. Humans seemed to absorb old wounds into our DNA somehow. We never let the anger.
She rarely allowed herself to go back there, even in her mind. She hadn’t heard anything from him in years, which was the good news. She wasn’t sure how she’d react if she met him on the streets of DC, out of the blue. She shivered involuntarily, all the way to her toes.
She shook off her sense of disquiet along with the rain sliding into her coat collar, squared her shoulders, grabbed her identification, and hustled toward the employee entrance. She felt like she was headed to the guillotine, but she couldn’t be late. She didn’t want to get fired today and she sensed she was in enough trouble already.