Horns of the Devil - Jeff Trask [02] Read Free Page B

not an appetizer.”
    “All right. Just chew fast.”

    They were home in Waldorf, Maryland, two hours later. When Trask unlocked the front door to the split foyer, he could see the light on the answering machine blinking from the table at the bottom of the stairs. He pushed the message button, and after listening to the recording, complied with the instruction to call Ross Eastman.
    “Thanks for getting back to me, Jeff,” the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia said. “Sorry to disturb you at home.”
    “Not a problem.”
    “You’ve heard about the murder of the ambassador’s kid, I assume?”
    “Yes.”
    “Commander Sivella called about it this morning, and Bill Patrick and I agreed the case should go to you, at least for now.”
    “For now?”
    “ For now . The conclusion at the autopsy was that the killing was probably the result of a feud between Salvadoran street gangs. ‘Eighteen’ versus ‘thirteen,’ Sivella told me. Barrio 18 against MS-13. That being the case, it’s probably a drug-related murder, just with a lot of special interest from Main Justice. If it turns into something else, like a politically motivated hit on the ambassador’s family, you can expect the Office of International Affairs to take the case, or at least assign somebody to it. I spoke to them today, and they’re OK with us keeping it, for now .”
    Wonderful , Trask thought. I bust my hump and some departmental weenie with no idea of how to walk into a real trial steps in at the last minute for some high-quality TV face time.
    “I understand.”
    “Just keep me informed so I can keep the Department informed,” Eastman said.
    “Will do.”
    “Good night, Jeff.”
    “That sounded heavy.” Lynn came down the stairs, a glass of Diet Coke in her hand. She handed it to him.
    “Yep. I’m afraid things are going to get goofy for a while. Thanks for the drink.”
    “Let them get goofy tomorrow,” she said. “You’re going to concentrate on me tonight.”
    He downed the glass in three large gulps.

    August 9, 11:32 p.m.
    The man with the eye patch looked up and nodded as two cases, each still bearing the bright stickers that identified them as diplomatic pouches, were brought into his room at the embassy compound.
    “ Gracias, Hugo.”
    He handed Hugo a scrap of paper bearing a telephone number and pointed to one of the cases.
    “Tell Marcos to take this one and make contact at this number. Keep one, sell five. Twenty-one thousand dollars each, not subject to negotiation. Bring the cash back to me in the same case.”
    “Sí, Señor.”
    After Hugo left, the man with the eye patch walked to the mirror above the sink in the bathroom and removed the patch, staring angrily with his good eye at the sunken socket and the scar stretching across it.
    I have one eye left. It is all I need for shooting.
    He replaced the patch and returned to the bedroom and the other case, a long, narrow one. A key from his pocket opened the lock. He began disassembling and oiling the weapon, a Knight’s Armament Company XM110 sniper rifle. When the weapon was properly reassembled, he mounted the laser scope, loaded the rifle, and returned it to its case.
    At least we can thank the Americanos for providing this tool to help deal with the problems they have created for us. I think I’ll go hunting tonight.
    He picked up the phone and pressed the intercom.
    “Hugo, get the car ready. We leave after midnight.”

.
    Chapter Three
    August 10, 1:18 a.m.
    T he man with the eye patch watched the sidewalks carefully as the sedan with diplomatic plates rolled by the streetlights in Langley Park, Maryland. He was alert for the usual telltale signs: the flash of a sky-blue jacket, the sound of a familiar accent, the sight of a number or the letters he hated.
    “There. Slow down, Hugo.”
    From the backseat he pointed to a group of three young men standing in a parking lot beside an all-night convenience store. One was wearing a jacket