Collision

“Well, he is very far along in developing the program. I think that’s why he died. And Homeland Security, they’ve confiscated his computers, and they’re going to sit on his software or take it for their own use, and well, it doesn’t belong to them. It belongs to.. . him, to his estate now, I guess.”

“And you would be his estate?”

“No,” she said, sounding horrified. “His mom. She’s sick, she needs money. But it’s not the government’s. I’m scared they’re going to take it and keep it… it’s not right. I need your help, Mr. Hector. They won’t listen to me but they’ll listen to you. Or your lawyers.”

“Yes,” he said. “We should talk. But privately.”

“All right.”

He considered. “May I come to your house? I’m afraid the press are all over my place, and I’m constantly interrupted with calls from Homeland Security.”

“Yes, that’s fine.” She gave him directions and he said, “I’ll see you shortly then,” and he hung up.

He called in his assistant.

“I’m going to work from home today.”

The assistant-a former army clerk who was not easily rattled-went pale. “Sir. You’ve gotten another twenty interview requests including CNN and Fox and The New York Times, you’ve got that noon meeting with the lawyers if the guards’ families sue, the PR firm wants to give you a strategy update…”

“Cancel it all. I’m not giving further interviews; I’ve said the words that matter most to me, they can rerun the press conference. I’m simply not available.” He knew he didn’t have to explain, but he believed so fervently in the power of his own company to do good, he added: “I have to assist the government in its investigation. Are there still a lot of press camped out in front of the gates?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell the driver to get a car with tinted windows. I don’t really want the world knowing where I am right now.”

The two men from the Cellar had not returned or reported their progress. Teach sat at the conference table. A laptop, not connected to the Internet, sat before her. She had been typing into a document a detailed history of the Cellar, its agents, and its operations, as ordered that morning by Hector.

He slid into a seat across from her. “Your boys aren’t back. Do you think Green and De La Pena abandoned you?”

“No.”

“You think Pilgrim intercepted them.”

“Maybe.” Hate filled her eyes. “Making us your puppets won’t work.”

“It won’t work today,” he said, “but it will tomorrow. If I get any inkling that those two took off, I start killing people on the Cellar roll calls.”

“You may end up killing us all.”

“I may.”

“Don’t believe for a second that it will be easy.”

He leaned over, printed her draft report on the Cellar’s activities. As the paper spooled from the printer, he scanned each sheet. At one page his gaze widened slightly; but he felt her gaze on him and he put his poker face back in place.

“What?” she said.

“I’m both impressed and disturbed by the scope of your activities. Would it sound contrary to say I admire you?”

“Yes.”

“As you say, this won’t be easy, but I know you’ll smooth my path. Keep writing.” He set the draft on the table and left the room, locking her inside. He leaned for a moment against the door; it was reassuring to know he’d made the right business decision. He felt an inappropriate, insidious urge to laugh, but he choked it down.

Hector found Jackie sitting in a guest room. He’d sent an aide to buy him clothes: black pants and black shirts, as Jackie requested. Jackie kept wearing his pair of black cowboy boots. He looked like a poor man’s Johnny Cash. He balanced a wicked knife’s handle on the flat of his palm.

The knife glinted in the light as Jackie steadied his hand.

“I need you to put that knife to work on a loose end. Her name is Delia Moon.”

Jackie tossed the knife up, caught the handle. “I didn’t think Dallas had hippies.”

“They can have one less. Be quick and don’t get caught.”

Jackie put the knife back in its sheath and stood. “I’d like to know why you hate these two guys so much.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Pilgrim and Forsberg. What’s your motive?”

“It’s not your concern.”

“My brother died trying to put Pilgrim down. I’d like to know why he died.”

Hector crossed his arms. “Jackie, I wonder if you’ve thought about your future.”

“Yes. Quite a lot. Are you going to answer my question?”

“No. It’s irrelevant to your work.” He cleared his throat. “Running a business like yours is dangerous-not just on account of the violence. Trying to bring in the contracts, find clients who will pay, it’s almost as dangerous as killing the targets. Every potential client’s a cop or a rival who wants you to let your guard down.”

“It’s not like you can go cold-calling to drum up business.”

“So you complete this job, and if you want, you’ll work for me. For as long as you like.”

“Work for you. Doing what?”

“I’m going to give you Pilgrim’s job,” Hector said. “His exact same job.”

Jackie laughed. “His job’s too bloody dangerous.”