Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

longer. Then the bearded giant, Jakob Hagen, walked out of the woods and strode purposefully toward The Rendezvous.

Ellie and I watched him stroll. It wasn’t like the guy had any other way of moving. He was ripped and ready, like a one-man bulldozer. But I’d seen an intelligence there that belied the menace. Too smart to be a simple thug. Maybe a complicated thug.

Once Hagen was inside, I collected the pistols from the passenger seat and put them in my jacket pockets. Smith & Wesson on the left, Glock on the right. The spare magazine went in the back pocket of my jeans and I was ready to roll.

I said, “You follow me.”

We didn’t walk across the lot. Instead, we moved back from the Toyota into the woods, and worked our way painstakingly around to that gulley. I led the way laterally, avoiding a descent to the trail I figured Hagen had taken. That way, when he came back out he wouldn’t see any disturbed twigs or rocks that might alert him. The mist helped.

After about a half mile, the gulley resolved in a boulder-filled creek, pregnant with water boiling down from the hills. On the other side of the creek was a steep incline. I had a hunch that Hagen had parked his car on the other side of it. I figured I had at least a couple of minutes, so I carefully scanned the area. Five minutes later I discovered a faint boot print on one of the stepping stones that poked out of the rolling water. A big boot, which had crossed the creek toward the Rendezvous.

I showed it to Ellie and she nodded. I pointed her to a spot behind boulders a half-dozen yards from the crossing point. I came close and spoke softly. “You stay there and watch for my lead. If he crosses at the same spot, we won’t have to worry about lines of fire, if it comes to that.”

Ellie removed the Ruger from her holster and chambered a round. The action snicked softly, a different set of frequencies from the rushing water. She moved off in the darkness.

I concealed myself between two truck-sized boulders that Hagen would have to pass through if he was taking that path. The moving water was loud. There was no way I’d hear him coming. I could see the way up the gulley, but I figured it was too dark to be seen.

I leaned back against the damp stone and made myself calm and silent, allowed my pulse and breathing to slow down. It felt nice to be there. Peaceful with the sound of rushing water.

Fifteen minutes later there was movement up the trail. Hagen was picking his way down the gulley, keeping an eye on his footing. Which meant he wasn’t looking ahead. I let him get over the creek, making his way one foot at a time over the stones. When he stepped over that last stretch of water, he entered the range of his own gun.

Hagen must have sensed my presence because he looked up from the ground then, and we locked eyes. I stepped forward.

I said, “What does it mean?”

The Smith & Wesson special was pointed directly at his head. With five of his own bullets in the cylinder, Hagen knew the likely outcome if he made a wrong move. He tensed up at first and looked very concerned, and rightly so. My finger was already teasing back the trigger, finding the sweet spot. I was prepared to pull at the slightest opportunity. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he tried something, I would have put him down and moved on.

But Hagen did exactly the right thing. He relaxed and shrugged, moved his hands away from his body. He said, “You mean the symbol. The eight-pointed star.”

I said, “Yes.”

“It means a high-level thief. Usually it’s a tattoo. A prison tattoo.”

“A Russian prison tattoo.”

He nodded. “That’s right.”

“So given the context, right here and now, what does that eight-pointed star tell you?”

“It’s a confirmation, Mr Keeler. We are dealing with the theft of nuclear materials at a high level.

Forty-Five

I said, “How would Chapman know that, if she hasn’t yet entered the compound?”

Hagen had his hands raised, palms up and out. He said, “May I reach into my jacket pocket to show you something?”

“Open the jacket first.”

Hagen opened the black leather jacket. There was something rectangular held by the inside pocket.

I said, “Take it out.”

He removed a burner phone. “It isn’t just a phone, it’s a radiation detector. Measures different kinds of emission. Chapman has one concealed in a lipstick case. If she sent this message it means that she’s detected sufficient trace radiation to make that assessment.”

“You mean radiation from the people she’s been with?”

He said nothing.

I said, “Show me.”

Hagen thumbed buttons on the phone, a combination of dialer numbers and side buttons. He held it up for me to see. I was looking at a little green screen with numbers on it. Low numbers, with decimal points that made them even smaller. Hagen looked around and pointed to a crop of craggy boulders in the creek.

He said, “Those boulders are Alaskan white granite. Which is a stone containing trace elements of radioactive stuff. Like uranium, and thorium. This should get a reading. You want me to show you?”

I gestured for Hagen to continue. I said, “What are you, a nuclear scientist or something?”

Hagen kept his hands up and walked to the stones. He looked the epitome of a Hell’s Angel, but he was speaking like a college professor. He said, “Actually yes, I am.”

When he arrived at the granite stone, the device in Hagen’s hand began to click. First slow, then more rapid. Until it was clicking along steadily like a pacemaker on a rabbit.

Hagen read off the screen. “Zero point four one BQ, which stands for Becquerel. A very low trace, but fine to demonstrate. The device is sensitive.”

I said, “Geiger counter?”

Hagen shook his head, “Geiger counter is too crude, it’s fine