Killer Focus. Fiona Brand
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part had grated. She wasn’t sick and she needed to work. The last thing she wanted was time alone. Without her job, she was an emotional amputee.
When she walked out of Bayard’s office, the field room was abnormally quiet and no one glanced up, which was also unusual. She had known several of the agents for years, attended most of the departmental parties and done her share of hanging out at bars; the camaraderie had always been one of the best aspects of the job.
She had heard about the rumor that was circulating, that she had lost her grip, that someone down in records was running a book on the odds that she had mailed the card to herself.
Her stomach burned as she reached her desk. She checked her watch. It was after one, and she hadn’t stopped for breakfast. Instead of sitting down, she shrugged into her coat and buttoned it against the wave of cold that was going to hit her the second she walked out of the building.
Colenso rocked back in his chair. “How did it go with Bayard?”
“The card was sent the same day Slater and his hired muscle were sentenced. He thinks it was one of them.”
“Makes sense.”
She hooked the strap of her handbag over one shoulder. “Want to go get some lunch?”
Colenso tapped his watch. “I ate an hour ago. Besides, if I don’t get these notes written up, Bayard’s threatened to send me out with Tripp.”
Taylor glanced across the office, more than willing for some light relief to stave off her own growing conviction that Bayard was right and that she really was losing her grip. Martin Tripp was sitting at his desk, staring at his computer screen as if it were about to suck him into cyberspace and he wouldn’t mind the journey one little bit. Tripp, in his late forties, was a genius with computers and equipment, but he was also notorious for his bumbling in the field. Personally, Taylor thought he had a lot more potential than anyone had ever given him credit for. She glanced at Colenso with his sharp suit jacket and edgy haircut. At least Tripp had his ego under control. “He’s not so bad.”
Colenso glanced at Tripp and lifted a brow. “You’ve never been on a stakeout with him.”
Rico Casale hunkered down on the roof of one of the older brownstones that lined the street just down from the Bureau’s building. The brownstone was low enough that he got a good view of most of the street. With the aid of a pair of high-powered binoculars, he could just see the back entrance and the employee parking lot.
The roof of the brownstone also had the virtue of a water tower, a jumbled series of maintenance sheds and a waist-high parapet. It was cramped, and the parapet meant he couldn’t use a tripod because the angle to the street below was too acute, but there was enough cover that he could remain hidden while he observed, even from buildings that overlooked his position. These days, after the Washington sniper, he couldn’t be too careful. People were a lot more observant and a lot more suspicious. If he was spotted this close to the FBI building, it was game over.
A scattering of rain turned a miserable day even grimmer, but he was wrapped up warmly, with a padded coat, a woolen beanie pulled down low on his head and thick woolen mittens on his hands.
Crouching lower to avoid the worst of the rain and find an angle that would shield the lenses of his binoculars, he took time out to jerk the sheet of plastic he’d brought with him more securely over the rifle he had assembled more than an hour before.
Long minutes passed as he scrutinized the FBI building. He shifted, easing stiffened muscles and wiping moisture from his face. It was possible she wouldn’t come out today, but she had yesterday and the day before. She might not eat at the same place or even walk in his direction, but so far she hadn’t shown any signs of deviating from her pattern. He took a break to sip hot coffee from a thermos and checked the time. If she was going to eat lunch today, she was late.
A split second later, the door slid open and Taylor Jones stepped outside.
Tipping out the remains of his coffee, he slipped the binoculars into his knapsack, tugged the plastic sheet off the Remington and eased the butt of the rifle against his shoulder.
He swore beneath his breath. Jones had finally left for lunch, but today she had taken a route that angled away from his position, which meant he had to move, and fast.
With fingers stiffened by the icy wind, he disassembled the rifle and repacked the gun in a guitar case that had been customized to store the weapon. Seconds later, he slipped through the janitor’s door and took the stairs to the ground floor.
He emerged out of the back entrance of the building, threaded his way down a service lane and out onto another, smaller street. Within minutes, his knapsack stowed in the trunk of his car, and his coat, beanie and mittens stripped off to reveal the business suit he was wearing beneath, he entered a second office building and took the lift to the sixth floor.
Within seconds of entering the room he had rented earlier in the week, he had reassembled the gun, locked it onto its tripod and trained it on the street below.
Taylor strolled into view, huddled against the wind. She disappeared momentarily beneath a shop awning, then reappeared, head down, walking directly into the crosshairs.
Four
Taylor paused by a Chinese food stall called Chen’s, which was set up on a street corner just two blocks from the office. The stall was hemmed in by high-rises and situated in the protective lee of a large department store but, even so, the wind whipped her coat around her legs as she surveyed the stainless-steel bins of dishes.
Gray clouds were a solid mass above. In the few minutes it had taken her to walk from the office, the temperature had plummeted, the weather unseasonably cold for spring. The steady trickle of water from a gracefully weeping fountain set to one side of the department store didn’t make her feel any warmer. “Nice day.”
Chen shrugged. “Last I heard the forecast is for sleet.”
A faint pattering of rain started as she ordered fried rice and spiced chicken. Huddling in closer beneath the small shelter, Taylor flipped up the collar on her coat and waited while he packaged her selection. The coat was pure wool, and lined. It would protect her for a while, but if it poured she was going to get soaked. “Sleet, great. I love cold—”
The raucous honking of a car horn cut her short. A taxi was stuck in traffic only feet away, slewed at an angle as a delivery truck double-parked. Wincing at the sustained assault on her ears, Taylor shifted to the other end of the counter, far enough that the steel wall of the take-out stand cut the direct blast of the horn.
Simultaneously, a tiny projectile sliced past Chen’s head, bounced off the booth, ricocheted off the hot plate and embedded itself in the fountain. He blinked and went back to shoveling rice.
Taylor cocked her head to one side and stared at the punch mark in the back of the booth. It glinted in the dim light as if freshly made. She hadn’t noticed it before and, cumulatively, she had spent a lot of hours staring at the back of Chen’s take-out stand.
She continued to study the punch mark, then shook her head. The job was getting to her. To anyone else it would just be a dent; to her, the dent looked like it had been made by a bullet.
She dragged her gaze from the dented steel and
made herself watch the pedestrians hurrying by. Ordinary, everyday people: a businessman trying to talk into a cell phone; a woman struggling with an umbrella as the rain thickened and the wind turned gusty; a mother with two children in tow, all of them clutching bags filled with shopping.
The children, huddled close to their mother, and the nostalgia of gaily colored bags stuffed with bargains from the spring sales spun her back to her own childhood. Hot blue San Francisco skies, winters without snow, windblown beaches and walks in Golden Gate Park.
Looking back, the years she’d spent in a cramped apartment a stone’s throw from the Pacific Ocean with her parents had seemed bright and happy, although she now knew that normality had been a sham.
Her