Germ

He put the disk in an outside pocket of Vero's jacket and slipped into it. It covered most of the bloodstain on his pants. He pushed his own bloody jacket into the wastepaper basket and tossed handfuls of tissue over it. The effort obviously pained him, but he held strong. He then reached up under his shirt and yanked something out. Donnelley examined a small box with a wire that abruptly ended. He reached under his shirt again and removed a steel disk with a short wire tail.

"The body mike broke," Donnelley said, seemingly to himself. "I thought I felt it ripping loose. Piece of garbage." He pushed it into a jacket pocket. To Vero he said, "Let's sit down and wait for my partner. I really need a drink."

Julia Matheson's heart pounded in her breast, a fist wanting out. She had periodically listened for Goody's body mike and called for him on the radio. Her mobile phone lay in her lap, useless. It had rung several times, the word Private popping up on the caller ID screen. She had ignored the calls; Goody would have used the code they had devised. And she wanted to avoid Molland until Goody filled her in on his suspicions. The idea of LED involvement in the hit was ludicrous, but he had been clear about not involving anyone. She wasn't about to violate his confidence now.

She'd driven as far as Chattanooga without seeing another sign of him. She wanted to find solace in that, but it would not come. Just past the junction of I-75 and I-24, she'd turned around. Now she was heading back toward Atlanta, still looking and offering up silent prayers . . .

In a car on a quiet street off Brainerd Road, two men inspected their weapons: the driver with a NeoStead combat shotgun, the passenger with a Mini Uzi.

Mr. Uzi put the weapon in his lap and dropped down his visor. In the mirror, he examined his nose, swollen to twice its normal size and mottled in blue and red and even green—green! A fat gash like a little mouth right on the bridge. He touched it gently and flinched. "I can't wait to blow that dude away!"

The driver said nothing, just rubbed a silicone cloth over the shotgun's twin tubular magazines above the barrel.

The passenger watched him for a moment, then said, "I can't believe I lost my shotgun. I loved that thing." He watched a few more seconds'. "We gotta go back and—"

"Don't even think about it, Launy," the driver said without looking.

"I meant after all this is—"

The driver turned. "Did you hear what I said? It's gone. We're not going back for it." He set the cloth on the seat and pivoted the magazines up at the rear. "Local PD probably got it now, anyway. Get another'n."

Launy slapped up his visor. "I was just saying . . ." He touched the side of his nose again and hissed. "What was that guy doing with a gun anyway? I thought he was CDC."

"He wasn't CDC. FBI."

"That would have been nice to know up front. How do you know?"

"I seen him before."

"Well, ain't that just dandy." Launy yanked a thirty-two-round magazine from the bottom of the Uzi's handgrip, tipped it to see the two topmost rounds, and shoved it back in. He was silent, then he held up the Uzi. "Now this is a fine weapon."

"No. I'm using the shotgun. Now shut up." The driver began dropping heavy shells into the magazine tubes until he'd loaded the NeoStead with twelve rounds.

They did their work in a green, late-model Chrysler, stolen from the outer edge of a mall lot where employees parked. They planned on being long gone before anyone discovered the theft, or the black Maxima—which they had hot-wired in Atlanta—stashed behind a tall clump of bushes.

A satellite phone on the seat chirped. Tethered to the phone was a CopyTele Triple DES cryptography device.

"'Bout time," Launy said.

"Shut up. Nobody wants to hear your whining." He punched five numbers into the keypad on the CopyTel, then answered the phone. He listened, said, "Yeah, got it," and disconnected.

He turned a strip of metal protruding from the ignition switch, and the car roared to life. He eyed his partner. "Now listen. We're getting nice change for this and we don't have to sweat getting busted, not with these guys we're working for. It's a sweet gig. So be happy you got it, okay?" He paused. "You ready?"

Launy smiled like a dog showing its teeth. "Oh yeah."

The Chrysler pulled away from the curb and turned onto Brainerd.

ten

Donnelley looked at his watch. "She should have been here by now."

"You haven't talked to anyone," Vero said. "How will your partner find us?"

Donnelley downed a shot of Jack Daniels and set the glass beside two empty ones on the table in front of him. He had poured one over the hole in his side. It had burned at first but felt better now. He wasn't worried about how the alcohol would affect his ability to out-maneuver his opponents; its dulling effect was less inhibiting than the pain, making him feel even more quick-witted than before the drinks. Besides, it would take a lot more than two shots to counteract the adrenaline coursing through his veins.