The problem was that South Glover, like almost all the north-south streets in this neighborhood, was a one-way street. In this case directed south. It took him several passes to finally score a parking space, which was ill suited for any of their possible follow-on missions. Located south of the town house, on the other side of Fait Avenue, he’d have to throw the SUV into reverse and blindly cross Fait Avenue, a marginally busy two-way street, to reach the town house—if CONTROL gave them the order to hit the house.
As much as he’d like to be positioned upstreet from the target house, pointing him in the right direction, he didn’t dare give up what might end up being the only parking opportunity on the street. From here, he’d guide the rest of the team into place on nearby streets, where they’d be in quick striking distance if Devin Gray made an appearance. Rick Gentry had found a space two blocks over, facing Foster Avenue. He could arrive in front of the target house within thirty seconds.
Jolene joined him moments after he backed into the space, insisting that they prepare for possible breaching orders. They moved a duffel bag packed with flash-bang grenades in case they suspected armed opposition inside; bolt cutters for simple but persistent chain locks; a handheld, solid-steel battering ram for bypassing dead bolts or standard doorknob locks; and a pistol-gripped, short-barreled shotgun loaded with breacher slugs in case the locks proved to be resistant to brute physical force. Along with the compact pistols hidden in concealed holsters along their waistbands, they were ready for pretty much anything.
“You hungry?” asked Rudd.
“Hold on,” said Jolene, focusing a pair of binoculars on the town house.
She passed them to him a few moments later. “Take a look.”
Marnie Young stood in the open doorway of the town house, nodding and laughing with the woman, who handed her a set of keys and a folder. The two of them shook hands after another minute or so of conversation, and the smartly dressed woman departed—walking to her car, which had been parked at the end of the street, on the corner of Foster Avenue. A near-perfect position for their purposes! He was about to suggest relocating to that spot when another vehicle slowed to turn onto the street as the other car departed, sliding into its place. It wasn’t meant to be. He shifted the view back to Marnie Young, who glanced up and down the street before shutting the door behind her.
“She’s up to something,” said Rudd.
“Yep. Let’s eat before this goes down,” she said. “I give it fifteen minutes tops.”
CHAPTER 25
Timothy Graves parked the rental sedan on the corner of South Glover Street and Foster Avenue and passed the keys between the seats to the woman lying on the back row under a blanket. She didn’t say a word, which was fine by him. He wanted to get as far from here as possible. Just minutes ago, he’d driven out of a parking space down the road to make room for one of their targets before slowly circling the block to take the Airbnb owner’s space—moving the final chess pieces into place.
If the couple in the Durango noticed that the cars were the same, a remote but existent possibility under the circumstances, trouble could escalate quicker than any of them had planned. And unchoreographed trouble was the last thing he was looking for tonight. Graves much preferred the kind the team could control, since they typically directed it away from him.
He wasn’t a combat type. Far from it. And he was here only as a favor. He’d emerged from his mostly permanent retirement because Anish needed his help on a short-fused job, and Graves was within easy striking distance.
He’d settled into a nice living on the southern Outer Banks, near Emerald Isle, where he’d vacationed as a kid. Hauling himself to Jacksonville to get on a flight to Baltimore hadn’t been any trouble at all.
“Good luck,” he said.
“Yep,” she said.
He got out and shut the door, the vehicle’s locking system immediately chirping behind him. A little early on the locks, Emily. The average system took a little longer than that to arm itself. Hopefully, nobody would notice. He’d never worked with Emily Miralles before today. She’d joined Farrington’s crew a year and a half ago, replacing Cassiopeia, a.k.a. Caz, who’d accepted a lucrative head security position for one of Capitol Hill’s more influential senators. Miralles didn’t say much, which, once again, suited him fine. The less he knew about any of these people the better, and the less they knew about him? Priceless.
It wasn’t that he disliked any of them. He’d enjoyed his years working for Sanderson’s program and subsequently with Farrington’s spin-off operation. They’d taken on some giants in that time and come out on top, making the world a better place—he hoped. It was just that he could count on one hand the number of people who had been around from the beginning. Some of them had split and gone their own way, like him, but most of them had been killed on missions or assassinated in retribution for some of their more notorious jobs.