Would he try again? I wouldn't. Even if the mark appeared unaware of the situation, an aborted hit meant a failed attempt. I'd try another way in another place. But, having seen him head back toward the building, I guessed he wasn't leaving yet.
If he was staying, then so was I.
I backed out and found the exit, then sandwiched the car between a minivan and an SUV, and waited.
Now came the big question. Who was trying to kill me? Start with "who knew I was here?" First, Jack. While I didn't like the idea of suspecting him, that didn't stop me from working it through objectively. But he'd only known Evelyn and I were visiting a former Nikolaev thug at a jail. We hadn't given him a name or location, and he hadn't asked. He'd also thought I was coming here with Evelyn, so if he set a hitman on my trail, it would be to kill both of us, which made no sense.
Then there was Evelyn. She knew exactly where I was and that I was alone. Why kill me? With Evelyn, I didn't dare speculate on motivation. I didn't know her well enough. But she was a viable suspect and I couldn't discount her.
There was a third possibility--another person who knew we were coming to visit Nicky Volkv: the guy who sent us here. Maybe we'd stumbled onto the solution to the Helter Skelter killer mystery without knowing it--he was a hitman hired by the Nikolaevs to clean up some unfinished business.
If that was the case, then this man following me had to be the Helter Skelter killer himself. Hitmen are predators, in the purest sense of the word. Most don't get a charge out of killing a mark, no more than a lion enjoys taking down a deer. It is a means to an end, a method of survival. As a human predator, we are at the top of the food chain. We hunt. We are not hunted.
When I realized there was a hitman after me, my instinctive response had been to turn the tables. To become the hunter. I may be misremembering, but I seem to recall some theorem about matter always wanting to return to its original state. That goes for people as well. We were chasing a predator. If Little Joe told him we were on his trail, he'd come after us.
And now, if I was lucky, he had.
My plan was to wait for him to drive out, then follow. I managed to stick to it for fifteen minutes before persuading myself I needed to make sure he was still around. So I got out of the car and scoped out the area first. I stood behind a van and waited for a car to leave the lot, listened to the bump-bump of its tires on the speed bumps and committed that sound to memory. If I heard it again, I'd know to look and make sure my target wasn't leaving.
It took some effort to find the right path--the one that would allow me to travel without being seen. After scouting the lot, I gave thanks for the North American preoccupation with vehicles big enough to carry a whole hockey team. I darted from minivan to SUV to oversized pickup, working my way closer to the doors while checking over my shoulder to ensure I could still see the exit.
At last, as I peered through the windows of a minivan, I could see the visitor
doors. But there was no sign of my target. The bump-bump of an exiting car sent me scrambling back to the lane, straining to see the exiting vehicle. A carload of people, driven by a heavyset woman.
As my heart rate returned to normal, I caught the eye of a passing couple. The woman's gaze flitted past me, but the man's lingered, checking me out, the response seeming more reflex than interest. I flashed my usual friendly grin--the sort that encourages strangers to ask me for directions but is only mistaken for a come-on by the most deluded. The man nodded and continued.
I breathed deeply, cursing. Not seeing my pursuer, then hearing a car leaving, I'd panicked. I should be above that. Better I should lose my target than risk exposing myself.
I returned to my spot, only to resume a fresh round of mental cursing. There was my target, back in place, smoking, having probably only been moving around when I'd first looked.
As I thought of the passing couple again, I was reminded that I wasn't hidden, even here between the vehicles, so I pulled out my cell phone and put it to my ear. To anyone walking by, I'd look as if I was just making a call before I headed out.
Even as I set up my "excuse," my gaze never left my target. I scanned him from head to foot, noticing and memorizing. He looked older than I'd first thought. Maybe early fifties. Casually dressed in jeans, a pullover and a jacket. A generic navy blue jacket. No insignia or markings. Likewise there was nothing about his appearance to draw the eye--brown hair, short beard, nondescript looks.
When he walked out to the smoking area, no one would notice. When he left, no one would notice. If he lingered, someone might think only "Is that the same guy who was there an hour ago?" but it would be a fleeting thought, chased away by his very mediocrity and the conviction that he probably just looked like someone who'd been there an hour ago. That was the goal in our business--to blend in, to pass unnoticed.
While I had to admire his skill, it didn't make my task any easier. How would I pick him out from a crowd later, if I needed to? Even his sneakers were generic, and he'd probably be savvy enough to change them if he suspected a tail. I was too far to see distinguishing features--a scar, a tattoo, a crooked nose, a chipped tooth--and even if I could, I couldn't accept them at face value. I'd been known to slap on a fake mole or birthmark just to give people something to focus on. Jack had taught me that. Witnesses love distinguishing features. If you can't avoid being seen, it may be smart to give them one.
All I could do with this guy was focus on what would be hard to disguise. General height was one thing--lifts can only give you a couple of inches. Bone structure, too. He was broad-shouldered and burly. While it's harder to fake being thin, his size gave me an attribute to remember. Facial shape was another thing. It takes a lot of work to change that--and it's not something you can do as quickly as pulling on fresh clothes. So I measured, taking mental notes until I was reasonably sure I could find him in a crowd.
So I could follow him. But could I kill him? Here? Now?
My free hand slid under my jacket, finding the gun I'd taken from the car. I pulled it out, getting a feel for the unfamiliar weapon. Tested the weight and slid my hand around the grip, my gaze still on my target, cell phone still at my ear, my mind only half focused on the gun, but automatically running through the details--how close I'd need to get, the quirks of this particular model. My fingers were as keen as a wine connoisseur's nose, recognizing the gun by feel, regurgitating everything I knew about this model.
There was a perfectly placed pickup in the front row, but with no vehicle on either side, it was too exposed. Next best location? The SUV one row away, with a minivan on the other side. Dark tinted windows meant I could creep up the side of the vehicle and take the shot over the hood, hidden behind the cab.
I slid the cell phone into my pocket and the gun into the holster. Then I set out, darting from oversized vehicle to oversized vehicle, leapfrogging across three rows. I slipped up along the SUV and checked my trajectory. Perfect. Target in sight and in line.
As I watched him, the world around seemed to constrict, like looking through a spyglass, everything focused on that one patch of the universe. The rumble of conversation from the smoking pit fell to a whisper. The bright sun faded, my eyes opening wider behind my sunglasses. The smell of cigarettes and exhaust disappeared. All I saw, all I cared about, was him.
I let myself hang there, in that pocket. One moment to revel in the exhilaration of total focus. Then, slowly, I closed my eyes, inhaled and shifted out of the bubble. As blissful as it was, I couldn't stay there. Too cut off from the world, too unaware of my surroundings.
I traced my finger over the gun grip, but didn't unholster it. Finding the perfect shot was step one. Deciding whether to take it was another.
This man still posed a threat. A hitman doesn't drop a job when the first attempt fails, not unless he's been made. So he'd try again, which was reason enough to kill him.
But killing him here was risky. Although I saw no cameras, this was a prison. There would be armed guards nearby. Yet should I decide he needed to die, all that would be merely obstacles, not barriers.