He saw Larison approaching along one of the wet concrete walkways, wearing a rain parka that nicely concealed the Glock 17 he was carrying in a small-of-the-back holster, but that did considerably less to hide his weight lifter’s bulk. Deployed above him was an umbrella Kanezaki had provided—functional, but with a forty-inch lead-lined hickory stem.
Beyond its potential utility as a long and nasty nightstick, Dox had hoped the umbrella might help make Larison look like an innocent tourist determined to visit the iconic park no matter the weather. But he could see now the ruse was weak. It wasn’t exactly that mothers would pull their babies to their breasts and slam the shutters closed at his approach, but Larison was definitely one of those operators with an unmistakable air of fuck with me and die. If Dox ever had to tangle with him—and back in the day he almost had—he’d do all he could to ensure it was from a quarter mile out and an elevated position.
But what couldn’t be concealed could sometimes be used to distract. In fact, once upon a time, the KGB had deliberately shadowed CIA officers in Moscow with obvious surveillance. The officers would focus on what they could see, get clear of it, and then overlook the real surveillance that clung to them all the way to a dead drop or something else operational. So let Manus focus on Larison’s rattlesnake vibe. That would soak up all his attention, while Dox ghosted in from his flank.
He wished again that Kanezaki could have provided a little more intel on what Manus looked like. On the other hand, Dox had yet to meet the operator he couldn’t make. John might be an exception, true, but he was smaller than Dox and Larison, which was an advantage in these things. And unless this Manus had John’s level of grappling expertise, he must have been a sizeable specimen himself. Even if the story about how he had crushed Anders to death was bullshit, the man must have been large for a rumor like that to take hold.
Other than the patter of rain on wet concrete and the rush of the waterfalls below him, the park was quiet. He couldn’t even hear the traffic from I-5, over which the park was built.
He watched as Larison got closer. Nothing in the man’s demeanor had changed from twenty minutes before, when he’d set off to have a look around. Or nothing Dox could have easily articulated, anyway. But there was something—some extra level of alertness. A narrowing of focus. A purposefulness. Like a jungle cat’s stillness in the instant it catches the scent of prey.
Larison reached Dox’s position and paused to scan the area. In his low rasp of a voice he said, “He’s here.”
chapter
nine
LARISON
In response, Dox offered only a simple nod. Larison was glad. Rain, for all his impressiveness as a leader and a tactician, had a tendency to micromanage. Not that Larison, who had his own trust issues, could fairly object to the habit. But Dox was different. Once you’d earned the big sniper’s confidence, there was no second-guessing.
“What’s your take?” Dox said.
“A reloader, no doubt.”
Reloader was a term he’d picked up from Dox. It meant someone so formidable you’d empty the whole magazine into him, eject, reload, and empty the second magazine, too, just to be sure.
“Oh, hell,” Dox said. “Not another sumo? My insides are still healing from the time one of those boys rammed me damn near into low-Earth orbit. I’m telling you, these less-than-lethal parameters are the worst.”
Larison chuckled, still scanning the area. Dox had told him the sumo story many times. “Not sumo-sized. But big. And . . . solid. Rooted. You’ll see. He’s circling the park now. I’m guessing when he’s done with the perimeter check, he’ll head here for the view from the high ground. What about Diaz?”
“According to Kanezaki, she’s on her way. We were right about our Mr. Manus wanting to do it here. Too good a spot to pass up.”
“Listen,” Larison said, closing the umbrella. “I’m not about to get rammed, into low-Earth-orbit or anywhere else. If he doesn’t like the look of us, or the sound of whatever you’re planning to say to him, I’m using the Glock, not a damn umbrella.”