American!” It was a slight young man with a local accent. His baby face was draped with scraggly hair, and he had on a dirty red coat over a stained T-shirt.
Shit. This was all he needed. “I don’t have any money.”
He smiled with mock offense. “No! Come on, American friend! I just want to have a conversation!”
“I don’t have any of that either. Good-bye.”
He went off to bother someone else. Morgan looked at Pulnik, standing by the statue with his hands in his pockets, looking around at the crowd for the man he was there to meet.
It was Conley who spoke first. “I have eyes on the target. Approaching from my corner.”
“Keep your distance,” said Bloch. “I want confirmation before we do anything.”
Morgan leaned against a lamppost and looked at the man now crossing the plaza. He looked more like a fashion designer than anything, with a svelte silver-fox thing going on and a stylish designer suit.
“Positive ID,” Morgan said. “That’s Lukacs.”
“Get in position,” Bloch instructed. “Diesel, on alert. You need to arrive with the van just as they reach the street with Lukacs. Lily will provide a distraction.” Lily referred to Lily Randall—young, green-eyed, eminently distracting to any heterosexual male with a pulse.
Morgan caught sight of her coming in from the far side, her auburn hair glistening in the morning sun. “We need to attract as little attention as possible,” he muttered.
The band incongruously broke out into a Dixieland rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The singer had a voice that suggested he’d been a heavy smoker since age five. The effect wasn’t exactly beautiful, but, hell, if it didn’t work.
A small semicircle of tourists formed, but some went about their business without a glance at the musicians. That nagged at the corner of Morgan’s mind.
“Hold positions,” he said. “Lukacs’s got company.”
“Where?” Bishop asked.
“Tall, bearded guy by the church. Short and stocky next to the tour group on the north side. Red hair by the lamppost, near the southwest corner. And another likely suspect sitting on the far side of the statue.”
“The bastard brought a security detail.”
“Bishop. Conley.” It was Bloch. “Scan the windows for snipers. If he brought this much backup, it’s doubtful he’ll be stopping there.”
Morgan joined the scan, looking at the rows of windows that surrounded the plaza. Two churches, two hotels, a museum, and a government building. All old and elegant.
“Got one,” Bishop said. “White building, north side, fourth floor. Third window from the left.”
“That’s bad news,” Lily said.
Morgan shifted his gaze to the band as they launched into a rollicking rendition of “Mack the Knife.” “The sniper’s in a hotel,” he said and called on one of Zeta Division’s resident computer geniuses. “Shepard, can you get me room access?”
“Already working on it,” came the man’s clipped, assured, even cocky, voice.
“Cougar—”
“On my way.” Peter Conley moved toward the hotel entrance. One good thing about working together so many years was that they had a connection that seemed, at times, nearly psychic.
“I don’t like this.” It was Bishop. “This is getting hairier by the second. I suggest a reassess.”
“You’re running point on this, Morgan,” Bloch snapped. “Your call.”
Morgan squinted into the cloudless blue sky. Then he looked at Lukacs, who was talking closely with Pulnik.
“Stay in position,” Morgan ordered. “Move in as soon as Lukacs breaks away from Pulnik.”
“And Lukacs’s people?” Bishop demanded.
“Fan out with the team. I want one of us on every guard. Cuff and drop them. Lily, you go ahead with the diversion on my mark. We’re going to need perfect timing on this.”
“And Lukacs?” Bishop asked.
“I’ll take care of Lukacs,” Morgan said. “Extraction van ready?”
“I’ll move out on your mark,” Diesel answered. “Pick you up on the southeast corner.”
Morgan watched as the team moved through the crowd as naturally as any tourist, betraying no sign of their purpose.
“I’m in position at the sniper’s door,” Conley said. “Shepard, how close are you to getting access?”
Shepard scoffed. “I’m in, big guy.”
“Morgan, awaiting your signal,” Bloch said.
“Hold. Not yet.” Morgan kept his eyes on Lukacs and Pulnik, who were still having their conversation. But then Lukacs pulled him close. Morgan watched, silently swearing, as Pulnik’s mouth popped open, his eyes widened, and he grabbed at his own belly.
Morgan couldn’t see the stabbing clearly, but he did see blood as Pulnik bent double. Lukacs casually eased him down to sit against the low ledge around the statue.
“Damn,” Bishop seethed. “Morgan, call it off.”
“The mission doesn’t change.” Morgan was not going to let Lukacs get away. “Target’s moving out. Lily, that’s your cue.”
On the far side of the plaza, Lily pulled a megaphone from her pack and turned it on with an earsplitting whine.
“Wake up, sheeple!” she screeched, her voice amplified and flattened by the megaphone. “The Illuminati run your lives!” Lily was really selling the insanity, and people took notice. “The reptilians have invaded the highest level of government!” Tourists moved toward her or rubbernecked to get a look at the crazy girl. “They want us for our blood!”
That was the Zeta team’s cue. They moved in on Lukacs’s security. Lukacs had left Pulnik on the ground and was moving back from the direction he had come from. As he turned, Lukacs’ eyes met Morgan’s, and they held his stare long enough for the message to come across as clear as a New York glass of water.
“Goddamn it!” Bishop exploded. “I told you this was a bad idea. Didn’t I goddamn tell you?”
“Too late now,” Morgan snapped. “Move!”
They had lost the element of surprise, but Pulnik was losing his life. Morgan heard the sound of Conley kicking the sniper’s hotel door in as Lukacs’s security drew their guns. Morgan couldn’t spare the attention to see what was going on. He heard gunfire, then screaming, as he ran straight for Lukacs.
There was
