Page 2 of To Die For

As he continued to observe, two men strolled into view. One on either side of the street. The humps under their jackets signaled the weapons they carried. The bumps on their rear waistbands were clear tells of the transponders powering the squiggly-lined earpieces so they could communicate hands-free.

They were trying too hard to be cool, nonchalant, and also kept their gazes dutifully averted from one another. But their guns and communication hardware and fluid synchronicity of movement were all Devine needed to conclude that they were working together with the firm goal of ending his life, unless POTUS was coming here and they were the Secret Service advance team. But they didn’t look legal. They looked the opposite.

Devine got confirmation of that possibility when he noticed the bulky black Lincoln SUV with wrap-around dark-tinted windows slide into view like a slimy snake bellying out from its hole looking for dinner.

They knew about the Uber. And they probably followed me here from the airport. And the SUV is here to take me to the girl on the train so she can say goodbye properly with a bullet to my brain. But that is not happening. Not right now at least. I have things to do.

He three-pointed his phone into the trash since it was now clearly compromised and thus akin to a laser sight on his skull. Hedidn’t turn it off or take the SIM card or crush it, because they would waste time tracking it (and him, they would think) to this receptacle. And without his facial recognition authenticator and password to access his cloud, the phone was a useless brick instead of a data treasure trove.

Devine exited the rear of the building, found an old-fashioned cabstand in front of another expensive northern Virginia hotel, and got into the lead taxi.

He gave the driver the address and said, “Ride like the wind, friend.”

“I’m not looking to get a ticket,” said the gent, eyeing Devine in the mirror.

Devine flashed his badge. “Don’t worry, you won’t. Now, just drive.”

The driver noted the embossed symbol of federal authority.

“You the man?” he asked.

“I am today,” replied Devine.

CHAPTER

2

ALL DURING THE RIDE DEVINEmaintained a vigilant lookout as they careened along the capital beltway with thousands of other vehicles on the hamster wheel known as the DC metro rush hour, which actually extended to more hours than any weary commuter ever dared to admit. That was one reason why Devine had never wanted a nine-to-five desk job.

As they got off the highway, he wasn’t so sure.

Annandale was a bubbling brook of immigrant-owned mom-and-pop businesses, and restaurants serving dozens of international cuisines, the smells of which constantly enticed the famished. For its part, US 50 was a perpetually bottlenecked artery of weary travelers heading directly into or out of the heart of the nation’s capital. There seemed to be no reason to associate Annandale’s ordinary commercial and commuter activity with anything clandestine.

Which was the point and also the only reason Devine was here.

He surprised the driver by paying in actual cash, and got out, his gaze sweeping fore and aft, threat-assessing all the way.

The outdoor strip mall looked just like thousands of other such places across America where cheap and pointless was the signature style of a nation falling into the fragments cast off from capitalistic excess. The small office located there was so bland that one would forget its existence in three or four footfalls.

That was also the intended reaction.

The front window held a sign that readBYAPPOINTMENTONLY.

Devine had to smile at this prop of deceit, when he had little else to smile about.

This was one of the places of operation for the Office of Special Projects, a tiny, stealth sub-group under the crowded circus tent cover of DHS, the conglomerate of the government world stuffed full of acronym agencies.

Devine doubted that many at Homeland Security even knew of its existence. He worked for the little boots-on-the-ground organization that could and often did punch above its weight. However, his service was not entirely voluntary.

Devine was a closer, snooper, fixer, investigator, and sometimes he had to kill in order to keep on breathing or complete a mission. He tried not to think too much about it, just as he had when he’d worn a uniform on behalf of his country. But killing was killing, no matter the reason, noble or cruel or a combo thereof. If it didn’t make you feel something, maybe you were incapable of feeling anything, becoming akin to Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, or Jeffrey Dahmer, which had never been a life goal of his.

Inside, he sat across from Emerson Campbell in an office outfitted with dinged governmental hand-me-downs. His boss was a retired Army two-star whose aversion to bullshit military politics had cost him a legit shot at the third and fourth stars. He had close-cropped iron gray hair, a workingman’s lead pipe fingers, and a tree trunk neck, with a low whisper that was more menacing than a drill sergeant’s spit-shot baritone. He deserved lusher surroundings, but Devine also knew the man didn’t give a damn about that. He had fought wars in hellscapes; impressive office furnishings and vanity photo walls like they had at the senior officer level at the Pentagon did not move Campbell’s internal needle even a little bit.

He eyed Devine cautiously. “Any problems getting here?”

“Aside from the fact that they seem to know my every move, no problem at all. By the way, I need a new phone. My old one’s in a trash can over in Reston. And new plastic, too. They’ve probably hacked that as well.”

Campbell sent a text, and a minute later Devine was presented with a new phone and credit card.

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