Page 84 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
Midnight is historically viewed as the witching hour, when supernatural creatures appear and black magic is at its most powerful, but Xander knew from many years of experience that 3:00 a.m.—the devil’s hour, deepest of the night, when all the world’s abed—is best for hunting prey. Or in this case, staging a dicey, hastily conceived search and rescue operation. So it was just before 3:00 a.m. when he and Bartleby rolled to a stop in the black shadows of a grove of Roma pines that ringed a small urban park, and killed the engine of the huge black SUV he’d “appropriated” from one of his neighbors in the Aventine, a burly Russian he suspected was an arms dealer, judging by the automatic weapons—
modified to high capacity—he’d found stashed in the spare tire well.
If all went well, they’d be back at the safe house in less than an hour and his neighbor would be none the wiser. If it didn’t go well and he had to abandon the vehicle...his neighbor might be in a lot of trouble with the authorities.
The animal shelter was located adjacent to the ancient ruins of Largo di Torre Argentina, a large square of dirt and broken travertine pavers that hosted four crumbling Roman temples and the remains of Pompey’s Theater where Julius Caesar was killed in 44 BC. Located just minutes away from landmarks such as the Piazza Navona, the Pantheon, the Colosseum, and the Campo de’Fiori, it was smack in the middle of ancient Rome.
Which posed some rather obvious problems.
“There’s a lot of apartments around here,” Bartleby muttered disapprovingly, peering up through the windshield at the rows of brick buildings surrounding the park. Hundreds of windows gleamed in the light from the streetlamps, windows that might be hiding watchful eyes.
“Hotels, too.” Xander watched a pair of doormen at a boutique hotel across the street load luggage into an airport transfer van that idled at the curb. Two groggy tourists stumbled their way into the van, and it lurched away from the curb, coughing smoke, even before the door was shut. “But that’s why it’s called a clandestine op.”
Bartleby lifted a pair of field glasses to his eyes and said, “Not a covert op?”
“Covert ops are about deniability,” Xander explained, checking his weapons pack one last time.
Inside were his daggers, a pair of wire cutters, a length of rope, a grenade, a canister smoke bomb, a lock pick, and six cyanide capsules encased in a blister pack in case the entire op went to shit. He never carried guns: too loud, too heavy, too unreliable. “Clandestine ops, on the other hand, are about secrecy.”
The doctor lowered the field glasses and looked over at him. “What’s the difference?”
Xander gave him a grim smile. “Politics.”
Bartleby returned his smile. “Ah. Well, at least the tourist traps don’t open for another six hours. Hopefully we’ll be long gone by then, with no one the wiser.” He pointed to something beyond the windshield, several blocks down. “They might be a problem, though.”
Camped out on one side of the wire-topped fence outside the facility where his boys were being held were three mobile television trucks with their camera-topped jib arms extended high over their roofs. The press. Vultures.
“I saw them when we pulled up,” Xander said. Only a few reporters were ambling around, smoking and talking on cell phones. The rest of the area was deserted. “At least the animal rights demonstrators are gone.”
“They were probably too weak to stand up all night. A diet of tofu and lawn clippings will do that to a person.” Bartleby leaned over, picked up a small stainless steel suitcase near his feet, and set it on his lap. He flicked two latches and popped it open, then pulled out a laminated photo ID on a lanyard, an official-looking document, and a business card—all fake, of course—and shut the case. He wound the lanyard around his neck, folded the document in fourths, put it in the front pocket of his white lab coat along with the business card, and turned to Xander.
“Ready to go balls to the walls?”
In spite of himself, Xander laughed. “You’ve been hanging around the Syndicate far too long, my friend.”
Bartleby opened the door and stepped into the street. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, adjusting his spectacles. He checked his wristwatch. “The taxi should be here any minute.”
As if on cue, another airport transport turned the corner behind them. It crawled slowly down the street, searching for the address they’d called in to the dispatcher just moments before from one of the disposable cell phones Xander always kept handy.
“Are you sure about this, Doc?” Xander asked quietly, noting the slight tremor in the old man’s hands as he watched the cab approach.
Bartleby inclined his he
ad and gave Xander a penetrating look. “You boys are the only family I’ve got. You’re like sons to me, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for any one of you,” he said softly.
Then he pursed his lips. “But don’t let it go to your head. That’s big enough already.”
Xander saluted, suppressing a smile.
Without another word, Bartleby closed the door. He walked briskly toward the cab, whistling through his fingers. The cab jerked to a stop, and Bartleby got in. Xander watched from the shadows as the taxi slid by, made its way slowly down the street, then turned into the gated entrance in front of the shelter. The driver spoke into a wireless call box mounted on the wall in front of the gate. Nothing happened for several moments, then two armed guards appeared in the main doors of the facility and approached the taxi. One of them, tall and burly, exchanged words with Bartleby through the window, then took the documents he presented. The guard studied them briefly, then nodded.
A barked shout, then the press spilled from their mobile vans like a swarm of locusts. But too late: the taxi had already deposited the impostor Dr. Hermann Parnassus, who, striding quickly through with the steel briefcase clutched in hand, breached the inner sanctum of the facility’s fenced parking lot before they could reach him. The gate swung shut with a solid clang behind him, and the guards, stone-faced and silent, followed Bartleby inside as the reporters shouted questions at their backs.
Xander started the car and took side streets and a back alley to skirt the facility. He parked the car behind it, close enough that he could carry his boys out if necessary, but far enough that he was out of sight of the reporters and any security cameras. He’d come in from the back or the roof, whichever was more expedient, while Bartleby provided a distraction to whomever might be inside.
It seemed simple enough. God knew he’d executed a thousand ops more dangerous and complicated than this. But a faint buzz of discontent, the feeling he was missing something, nagged at him.
As he slung the weapons pack over his shoulders and set off at a trot down the street, the soles of his shoes silent over the asphalt, the night air cool on his face, it hit him.
