where he lives.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the techie scurried out, Fahd heard a ringtone sound coming from the headphones, indicating one of the lines he was tracking was making a call. He looked at the computer screen. It was Billy Barnett again. Fahd grabbed the headphones and jammed them on.
Fahd hoped he was calling his party back, but this time it was an eight hundred number. It rang twice before it was picked up.
“Thank you for calling American Airlines. If you are checking on a reservation, press one. If you are changing a reservation, press two. If you are making a new reservation, press three.”
The recorded menu would have daunted most callers, but over the mechanical voice there came the touch tone sounds of Billy Barnett punching in some code or other, and almost immediately the line was answered by an actual human being.
“American Airlines reservations, this is Jeremy, how may I help you?”
Aside from taking Billy first, Jeremy treated him just like any other customer, and took his reservation.
When Billy hung up, Fahd smiled in satisfaction. At last he had something he could deal with.
Fahd took off the headphones and picked up the phone.
6.
DARBY WAS GLAD to get the call. His current assignment was dull work on behalf of a Syrian asset. No chance to hone his skills. Not that they needed honing. He was, and always had been, a first-rate assassin. A good soldier, he’d accepted the transfer, still, L.A. was a little like being put out to pasture. He’d been happier in Washington, D.C., where jobs were frequent. He heartily disagreed with the assessment that the capital had become too hot for him, though he kept that opinion to himself, of course. He moved to L.A., and waited for the job that never came.
He could hardly believe it had.
“Yes?”
“Billy Barnett just booked a seat on the red-eye to New York. See that he doesn’t go.”
“Is he listed?”
“Address on Mulholland Drive. You can google him for a picture.”
“I know my job.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Darby knew better than to answer. He took his medicine and waited.
“Call me when it’s done.”
The phone clicked dead.
Darby put on a shoulder holster and slipped in his gun. It was a brand-new throw-down piece, as were all his weapons. Ballistics would never link one hit of his to another.
Darby went to his computer and found a photo of Billy Barnett. He didn’t bother to print it out. One glance and it was engrained in his memory.
He looked up Billy Barnett’s address and checked the time of the flight’s departure. It would be easier to kill him at home, but he wasn’t necessarily there, and finding out that he wasn’t would take too much time for comfort.
It didn’t matter where Billy Barnett was now. He knew where he was going to be.
He’d have to take him out at the airport.
7.
TEDDY BREEZED RIGHT through the airport. The check-in line was long, but he was flying business class, so he zipped through the priority line. He checked his suitcase, collected his boarding pass, and headed for security. Billy Barnett had TSA precheck, so once again he skipped the line. He handed his boarding pass and photo ID to the TSA agent, was approved, and walked on toward the metal detector. He didn’t even have to take off his shoes.
Darby watched in helpless frustration. His first assignment in months, and the man just walked away. He could not fail. He had to get through security.
Darby went back to check-in and got in the priority line. There was only one passenger ahead of him. He waited impatiently for the man to be done, then stepped up to the counter.
“One business class ticket to JFK.”
“That flight is sold out.”
“Check again.”
The woman did. “Actually we have a late cancellation. I can put you on standby.”
“Standby?”
“There is a waiting list.”
“Put me on the top of it.”
“I can’t do that.”
Darby palmed three hundred dollars across the counter. “Yes, you can.”
The woman whisked the bills under the counter. “May I have your credit card and photo ID, please?”
* * *
• • •
DARBY HAD one more problem. There was no way he was getting his gun through security. He went into the men’s room, took his jacket off, and slipped out of the shoulder holster. He draped his jacket over his arm, covering the holster and gun, and found a bank of storage lockers. He stuck the gun and holster into locker 67, slipped the key into his pocket, and went to security.
Darby did not have