Without remorse - Tom Clancy [329]
'Yes.'
'No matter what you hear, I'll be back. Please believe that.'
'John!'
'No time, Sandy. I'H be back,' he promised her, walking away.
Neither Ryan nor Douglas wore a tie. Both sipped at coffee from Styrofoam cups while the lab boys did their job again.
'Two in the body,' one of them was saying, 'one in the head - always leaves the target dead. This is a professional job.'
'The real kind,' Ryan breathed to his partner. It was a .45. It had to be. Nothing else made that kind of mess - and besides, there were six brass cartridge cases on the hardwood floor, each circled in chalk for the photographers.
The three women were in a cell in Western District, with a uniformed officer in constant attendance. He and Douglas had spoken to them briefly, long enough to know that they had their witnesses against one Henry Tucker, murderer. Name, physical description, nothing else, but infinitely more than they'd had only hours before. They'd first check their own files for the name, then the FBI's national register of felons, then the street. They'd check motor-vehicle records for a license in that name. The procedure was entirely straightforward, and with a name they'd get him, maybe soon, maybe not. But then there was this other little matter before them.
'Both of them from out of town?' Ryan asked.
'Philadelphia. Francis Molinari and Albert d'Andino,' Douglas confirmed, reading the names off their driver's licenses. 'How much you want to bet... ?'
'No bet, Tom.' He turned, holding up a photograph. 'Monroe, this face look familiar?'
The patrol officer took the small ID photo from Ryan's hand and looked at it in the poor light of the upstairs apartment. He shook his head. 'Not really, sir.'
'What do you mean? You were face-to-face with the guy.'
'Longer hair, smudges on his face, mainly when we were up close I saw the front end of a Colt. Too fast, too dark.'
It was tricky and dangerous, which wasn't unusual. There were four automobiles parked out front, and he couldn't afford to make any noise - but it was the safest course of action as well, with those four cars parked in front. He was standing on the marginal space provided by a sill of a bricked-up window, reaching for the telephone cable. Kelly hoped nobody was using the phone as he cupped into the wires, quickly attaching leads of his own. With that done, he dropped down and started walking north along the back of the building, trailing out his own supply of commo wire, just letting it lie on the ground. He turned the corner, letting the spool dangle from his left hand like a lunch pail, crossing the little-used street, moving casually like a person who belonged here. Another hundred yards and he turned again, entering the deserted building and climbing to his perch. Once there he returned to his rented car and got out the rest of what he needed, including his trusty whiskey flask, filled with tap water, and a supply of Snickers bars. Ready, he settled down to his task.
The rifle wasn't properly sighted in. Mad as it seemed, the most sensible course of action was to use the building as his target. He shouldered the weapon in a sitting position and searched the wall for a likely spot. There, an off-color brick. Kelly controlled his breathing, with the scope dialed to its highest magnification, and squeezed gently.
It was strange firing this rifle. The .22 rimfire is a small, inherently quiet round, and with the elaborate suppressor he'd constructed on it, for the first time in his life he heard the music-note pinggggggg of the striker hitting the firing pin, along with the muted pop of the discharge. The novelty of it almost distracted Kelly from hearing the far louder swat of the impact of the round on the target. The bullet created a puff of dust, two inches left and one inch high of his point of aim. Kelly clicked in the adjustment on the Leupold scope and fired again. Perfect. Kelly worked the bolt and then fed three rounds into the magazine, dialing the scope back to low power.
'Did you hear something?' Piaggi asked