The Interloper Read online

  It turned out she didn’t know all that much. She’d only met Willis the night before. But Luce then knew the name of the diner where she worked. Possibly Willis would return there looking for her. He also knew that Willis had a white bull terrier with him, which could prove useful. The rest of what he got out of her was suspect. There was little doubt that she believed it, but Willis must’ve been stringing her along about what he did for a living, telling her that he bought and managed storage properties, although there might’ve been something there about Willis being from Akron, Ohio. Luce had learned long ago that there was usually a grain of truth in most lies.

  After he finished up with her, he cleaned up and headed to one of the other addresses McCoy had given him. It was in Scituate, the same town where Howlitz and McCoy both had lived, and the address was for Hugh Simon. According to McCoy, Simon was the top man in their crew.

  Luce arrived at the small Cape Cod style home at ten minutes to nine. The house didn’t have a garage, and the driveway was empty, but parked out front was a late model Buick, not the Chevy Malibu that Luce had seen all of them drive away in from Howlitz’s house. That didn’t mean anything. The Malibu could’ve belonged to the other guy McCoy gave up. And the Buick could’ve been parked there by a neighbor. Still, it showed how sloppy Luce had been. He should’ve had McCoy tell him what cars Simon, and the other guy, Gerrity, drove. If he could’ve accessed Factory resources, he’d have everything he needed about Simon: photos, car registration, arrest records, and other assorted background information. But since he had to do this without The Factory’s knowledge, he had no choice but to go in blind.

  Luce slowed down enough to get a good look at the house, then drove past it. The curtains were drawn, and he didn’t see anything that gave him any help. He continued on to the street behind the house so he could get a look at the back of it. If he tried going through Simon’s front door, he’d be exposed. A small copse of trees separated the two properties and blocked him from getting a good look at Simon’s house. Those same trees, though, would provide enough privacy so he’d be able to break in without being seen.

  He pulled over to try to think it through, and felt a tightness in his chest as he did so. The house could be empty for all he knew, or it could just be Simon in there. If it was just him, there would be no problem, at least if he was the same sort as Howlitz and McCoy. But it was possible that Willis could be there. Maybe Willis and the other two could all be there together strategizing over their next move. The thought of that possibility unnerved Luce. Another thought also nagged at him. That McCoy was fucking with him, and Hugh Simon had no involvement with the robbery. While McCoy gave up Willis’s address, that could’ve been only because he didn’t care about him. Of course, that fat slob would’ve also been hoping that Willis would be the one to kill him instead of the other way around. At the time, Luce believed McCoy was giving up not only Willis but his two friends—that he was too afraid to do otherwise, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  Luce sat paralyzed for several minutes as he tried to sort it all out. Simon, or whoever lived in that house, could be one of the men Luce was after, or could not be. Luce had no way of knowing. There wasn’t any place to set up surveillance, and even if there was, he had no time for that.

  He had to make a decision, and make it fast. He could ask neighbors about the man who lived there and try to get a feel for whether Simon was who he was after. Or, he could just break in, and if there was someone home, interrogate and kill the person. Possibly he’d be killing an innocent—someone McCoy set him up to kill. The more Luce thought about it, the more the neighborhood felt wrong to him. Both McCoy and Howlitz had lived on far seedier streets, this street and the one Simon lived on were better kept up, and had a more family-oriented feel to them. But Luce decided it didn’t matter. If he ended up killing an innocent man inside that house, it wouldn’t much matter to him. For now, he just needed to do whatever was necessary. Once he eliminated the rest of the robbery crew, he could plan his great escape from The Factory and the killings would stop soon enough. Not that that even mattered to him.

  He found a place to park a quarter of a mile away, then rummaged through his trunk for what he needed. He put on a jacket and cap that identified him as working for the electric company, attached a silencer to his 9mm Beretta, which he shoved into his waistband, and added to his jacket pockets a Taser, two fully loaded eight-round clips, and a lock pick. He then packed up a small bag with other items he might need, grabbed a clipboard that held a dozen or so generic forms clipped to it so it would look more authentic that he worked for the electric company, and started moving in a light jog back to the street that ran behind Simon’s.

  When he got to the house directly behind Simon’s, he casually walked to the side of it as if he were there to read the electric meter, then drifted to the back of the house as if he were studying something of importance. He continued drifting back until he slipped past the trees separating the two properties and made his way quickly to the back of Simon’s house. Once there, he dropped his clipboard and bag onto the ground, then took his Beretta in his left hand while using his right for the lock pick. The lock on the back door opened easily. Luce dropped the lock pick back in his pocket, switched gun hands, and held the Beretta straight out in front of him. He swung the door open and waited several seconds. Nothing happened. If Willis was there with his bull terrier, the dog would’ve smelled him already and would’ve been waiting to charge him. The tension that had been building up in his chest released. With his free hand, Luce picked up his clipboard and bag and brought them into the house, then dropped them onto the floor by the door.

  He moved quickly through the house to the front door. He needed to make sure there wasn’t a keypad for an alarm system. If there was, and the alarm had been set, he’d use his Factory gizmo to disable it. There was no keypad in sight. Luce relaxed more then and walked back to the small living room he had raced through. It felt wrong. It had a homey, pleasant feel, completely unlike what he found in McCoy’s and Howlitz’s homes. It didn’t seem likely that this could be the home of a lowlife thief unless he still lived with his mom. Luce spotted the first photo then. A police officer in full uniform surrounded by his wife and three kids. He saw more photos scattered about the room, all with a mix of the cop, his wife, and one or more kids. The pictures were taken at different times over at least a fifteen-year period given the varying ages of the participants. If this was Hugh Simon, not only was he a cop, but he had to be in his late forties. A hard smile etched Luce’s face as he accepted that McCoy not only sent him to someone unrelated to the robbery, but to a cop’s home.

  He heard a gasp. Standing fifteen feet to the left of him was the same woman from the photos. She had one hand raised to her mouth as if she were going to bite down on a knuckle, her other hand was grasping her chest as if she were afraid she might have a heart attack at any minute. Luce guessed she was in her mid-forties, although she might’ve looked older than she really was given her fright. It was a shame she had to walk in on him right then. Another thirty seconds and he would’ve been leaving the same way he had come in without having to harm her.

  “My husband’s a police officer,” she said in a gasping, shaky voice. “Get out of here now or I’ll call him!”

  Luce sighed. She had gotten too good a look at him. Without any hesitation or bothering to say a word, he raised his Beretta and shot her once in the forehead. She hit the floor hard. There was no doubt it was a kill shot. He didn’t have to check whether she was still alive. He walked to the back of the house and was opening the bag that he had brought when his cell phone vibrated. He frowned at the cell phone as he saw the Caller Id indicating the call was from Homeland Protection. That was the actual name of the government agency that he worked for—The Factory was only a nickname. In the past, when his handler called, the Caller Id would show up simply as Pat, which was the only name Luce had for him. It was the first time it showed as Homeland Protection.
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  Luce’s heartbeat began racing as he realized that if they were tracking his GPS coordinates they’d know his address, which meant they’d later know he killed this woman. It was yet another fuckup on his part. He knew there was a chance that he’d be killing an innocent person, and he should’ve left his badge in his car or someplace further away. Somehow he kept his voice under control as he answered the phone.

  “Luce,” a man’s voice said in a heavy drone, “let me introduce myself. My name is Wally. Your supervisor, Pat, works for me. We have an incident we need you to investigate. This will take priority over your current assignment.”

  “Okay,” Luce forced out. He hadn’t reported in yet that he had completed his assignment with Howlitz. If they were tracking his GPS coordinates, they were probably only paying attention to the fact that he was in Scituate, which would make sense to them since Howlitz lived there. It was very possible they’d never make the connection between those coordinates and the woman’s murder.

  “We need you to go to an address that I’ll be texting you,” Wally said. He hesitated as his voice made a breaking-up croaking-type noise, kind of like what a door with severely rusty hinges might make. Then, “I don’t know what you’ll find there. The house might be empty, or possibly you might find someone incapacitated or dead. You need to locate and recover the Homeland Protection badge for Allen Patterson. You also need to clean out any work files that he may have in his home and bring them directly to our Boston office, and you are not to look at them in any detail. You will be questioned under a polygraph later about this, and there will be severe consequences if we find that you have disobeyed this order.” There was another slow breaking-up croaking noise, then, “If Patterson’s body is there, and it appears that he has died violently, you will need to clean the area and dispose of him according to protocol.”

  “What’s going on?” Luce asked.

  There was a pause, then, “What I have told you is all you need to know for now,” Wally said, abruptly, as if taken aback by the question.

  Luce knew it was a mistake pushing it, but he couldn’t help himself. There was something going on, something he needed to understand.

  “Patterson is Pat, my handler, isn’t he?” Luce asked. “That’s why you’re calling me instead of him.”

  There was a dead quiet over the connection for several seconds, then, “Do what you’re being told, and don’t ask any further questions. Report once you’re at the address.”

  The call was disconnected from Wally’s end. A text message came shortly afterwards with a Waltham address, and a phone number for Luce to call once he investigated the address.

  Luce felt a numbness spreading through his head, almost as if he had a killer MSG headache. Somewhat mechanically, he searched his bag for a blond wig, fake mustache, and matching goatee. After he put them on, he pulled his cap low to his eyes and slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses. He put the Beretta and Taser away in the bag, closed it, and left the house holding the bag and clipboard in one hand.

  He knew there was more going on than what Wally had told him. His Factory bosses suspected Allen Patterson—his handler—had met with a violent death, and Luce couldn’t help thinking the timing of it with what he was going through wasn’t a coincidence. It had to be related, but his mind was too foggy to figure out how. When he was halfway across Simon’s backyard, it clicked and the obvious struck him. He panicked badly then, but he forced himself to stay under control. When he crossed into the other property, he put on the same act as before, stopping at the meter so he could pretend to be reading it, then moving at a normal pace away from the house. He waited until he was a block away before he started running to his car.

  Willis must’ve grabbed Patterson, and he knew enough to leave Patterson’s badge behind. And he did that because he was trying to find out which field agent had been assigned to terminate Howlitz. Luce guessed Willis must’ve grabbed other supervisors also. There was something more going on—Luce picked that up from Wally’s voice, and that must’ve been it. Factory supervisors were being grabbed. And that was why there was such an urgency to send Luce to check out Patterson’s home. And that was why Luce was panicking. If Willis was able to get Patterson to talk, he’d have Luce’s name and address, and he’d be heading straight to Luce’s apartment for the five hundred and fifty grand. While Luce had hidden the money in his apartment, he didn’t hide it well enough. He didn’t know that he needed to.

  Now it was a race.

  And if Willis beat him to his apartment, all of it would’ve been for nothing.

  Worse, Luce had been rushing things, possibly making more mistakes than he had realized. That would’ve been okay if he had the money and could disappear in the next two to three weeks. But if the money was gone, one of those mistakes might end up leading The Factory to what he had been up to. Which would leave him a dead man.

  Chapter 13

  Willis was stuck in traffic on the Mass Pike. Cars were stopped for the most part, maybe spurting forward by as much as a dozen yards every half minute or so before slamming on their brakes. There could’ve been an accident further up the turnpike. Or it could’ve been construction. Or something else entirely. It didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do about it except watch the small handheld GPS tracking device and see that Luce was speeding up Route 95 North at an average speed of seventy-two miles per hour. Willis had originally hoped to intersect with Luce in Quincy, but Luce had driven past that intersection point twenty minutes earlier.

  Bowser sat on the passenger seat next to him. The dog yawned in such an extreme fashion that his jaw seemed to unhinge enough where he could have swallowed a small piglet. Once his yawn was completed, he let out a short whine to show that he was anxious for the car to get moving. Bowser loved riding in a speeding car, but hated sitting in traffic. Willis reached over and scratched him under the ear.

  “I know the feeling, buddy,” he said.

  His cell phone rang. It was Hanley calling to give him the addresses of the two Factory hit men that Willis had asked for.

  “You’re getting off cheap with these two,” Hanley said, gruffly. “It only cost me five hundred dollars. We’ll settle later.”

  Willis had him text him the addresses. When he saw a Needham address for Luce, it was what he expected. The GPS tracker had been showing that Luce had been stopped at that same address for the last seven minutes.

  Willis called Hendrick to give him Dunson’s address, which was for an apartment in Revere. After that, he found a seventies music station, and sat back and relaxed to Creedance Clearwater’s Have You Ever Seen the Rain as he waited for the traffic jam to break up. There was no reason to get anxious or impatient. Unless Hendrick and Gannier found the money in Dunson’s apartment, sooner or later he’d catch up to Luce.

  *

  Luce found the money still hidden in his rented condo. He should’ve felt relieved by it, but he didn’t. His handler, Patterson, had been either killed or kidnapped. Other Factory handlers probably also. It was turning into a mess. The Factory would soon be engaged in a full-scale investigation as to who was involved, and that meant it would be a race soon to see who would get to Willis first—Luce or them. There was also the fact that if Patterson talked, Willis would know who he was and where he lived, and that sonofabitch would be coming after him soon. As far as Luce was concerned there was no if. Even though he’d only known Patterson through their phone calls, the man impressed Luce as weak. Given the opportunity to try to save his life, he’d talk in a heartbeat.

  Luce decided his best course of action would be to wait for Willis to try breaking into his apartment, and ambush him then. He was thinking through places nearby where he could set up surveillance when his cell phone rang. The Caller Id showed Homeland Protection. Luce answered the call and Wally asked him why he was at his home instead of at the address that had been texted to him.

  “I had to stop off here to pick up some tools,” Luce said.

  “Y
ou’ve been in your apartment for fourteen minutes. I’m assuming by now you’ve gathered up whatever you might need, and that you’ll be leaving within the minute.”

  They were keeping tabs on him. Goddammit!

  “Not quite,” Luce said, mostly keeping his voice a dull monotone, but he let some of his irritation show. “I haven’t eaten in twenty hours. I’ll be leaving in five minutes after I pack a lunch.”

  “I don’t believe you appreciate the seriousness of this—”

  Luce hung up on him. The phone rang with Caller Id showing Homeland Protection. He turned the phone off. Wally and the other Factory bosses had to be nervous. Setting up surveillance outside of his condo was out of the question. Not with them tracking his movements. But he had five minutes, and he had a good idea of how to use the time.

  Luce kept a stash of weapons and explosives, including hand grenades, hidden in a false wall in his bedroom. He cleaned all of it out of the hidden compartment, packed it into a duffel bag, and then went to work taking the back panel off of his dresser. Once that was done, he rigged a grenade up so if the bottom drawer of the dresser was pulled open, it would detonate. After reattaching the back of the dresser, he pushed it against the wall. He checked his watch. Six minutes. Wally would just have to stew over that extra minute.

  Luce slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and left his apartment. If Willis broke into his apartment, he wouldn’t expect to find the money in that bottom dresser drawer—he’d expect instead to find it in a hidden compartment in one of the walls—but he’d check the drawer anyway to be complete. The Factory would figure that Willis had gotten names of field agents from Patterson, and that he was out to kill as many field agents as he could and was in the process of booby trapping Luce’s apartment when the grenade went off prematurely. The police wouldn’t be a problem either. The man broke into his apartment, and the police would have no reason to believe that the grenade wasn’t Willis’s, especially with the additional urging from The Factory. With some luck, not only would that happen, but Luce might be able to wrangle out of The Factory the five hundred grand bounty that they had put on Willis’s head.