Cross Fire - James Patterson [36]
The extra cash got them a couple of nice cheesesteaks, a fifth of Jim Beam, a pack of ciggies for each, a pair of loose joints from a guy they knew in Farragut Square, and, best of all, a flop for the night at a cheap motel on Rhode Island Avenue.
Denny brought the old boom box up from the car. It didn’t have any batteries, but they could plug it in here and have some tuneage for their little celebration.
It was sweet, just to lie back on a real mattress for a change, copping a buzz, with no worries about lights-out or who might be stealing your shit in the middle of the night.
When some old Lynyrd Skynyrd came on the radio, Denny perked up his ears. It had been a long time; Mitch probably didn’t even know this one.
“ ’Cause I’m as free as a bird, now…”
“You hear that, Mitchie? Listen to the lyrics. That’s the shit right there.”
“What is, Denny?”
“Freedom, man. The difference between us and them crooks we been taking down.
“You think people like that are free? Nohow, no way. They don’t wipe their damn noses without checking with some committee on dumbass details first. That ain’t freedom. That’s a fuckin’ anchor around their necks.”
“And a target on their asses!” Mitch started giggling like a little kid. He was definitely feeling the weed. His eyes looked like a couple of pink marbles, and he’d downed the lion’s share of the Beam, too.
“Here you go, man. Drink up,” Denny said, and handed over the bottle again. Then he lay back and just listened to Lynyrd Skynyrd for a while, counting cracks in the ceiling until Mitch started to snore.
“Yo, Mitchie?” he said.
There was no response. Denny got up and prodded him on the shoulder.
“You out cold, buddy? Looks like it. Sounds like it.”
Mitch just rolled halfway over and kept sawing wood, a little louder now.
“All right, then. Denny’s got a little errand to run. You sleep tight, man.”
He stepped into his black engineer boots and picked up the room key, and a second later he was gone.
Chapter 46
DENNY HURRIEDLY WALKED DOWN Eleventh Street and over on M to Thomas Circle. It felt good to get out on his own, without Mitch on his back for a change. The kid could be a lot of fun, but he was a real piece of luggage, too.
Just past the Washington Plaza Hotel, on the relative quiet of Vermont Avenue, a black Lincoln Town Car was parked under a flowering crab apple.
Denny walked up the opposite side of the street and crossed over at N, then came back down. When he reached the car, he opened the back door and got in.
“You’re late. Where have you been?”
His contact was always the same guy, with the same stiff attitude. He went by Zachary, whatever his real name might have been. It didn’t matter. To Denny — whose name was not Denny — this asshole was nothing more than a well-paid mule in a Brioni suit.
“These things don’t run on a fixed schedule,” Denny said. “You need to get that through your head.”
Zachary ignored the tone. He was like Spock, this guy, the way he never showed emotion. “Any issues?” he asked. “Anything I need to know about?”
“None,” Denny said. “I don’t see any reason not to proceed to the next phase.”
“What about your shooter?”
“Mitch? You tell me, partner. You’re the ones who vetted him.”
“How is he in the field, Denny?” Zachary pressed.
“Exactly the ringer I thought he’d be. As far as he’s concerned, this is the Mitch and Denny Show, nothing else. I’ve got him completely under control.”
“Yes, well, all the same, we’d like to take some further precautions.”
He gave Denny two folded sheets from his inside breast pocket. Each one had a simple map printed on it, with a handwritten name and address beneath, and a single color photograph paper-clipped to the front.
“Hang on,” Denny said once he’d seen them. “We never discussed anything like this.”
“We never set any parameters at all,” Zachary said. “Isn’t that the whole point? I hope you’re not going to start quibbling now.”
“That’s not