The Coffin Dancer by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online

glorified traffic cops but there were no better soldiers than New York’s ESU. The Wife and the Friend had disappeared, probably flung to the floor. The old lady too.
    More cars, filling the street and pulling up onto the sidewalks.
    Stephen Kall, feeling cringey. Wormy. Sweat dotted his palms and he flexed his fist so the glove would soak it up.
    Evacuate, Soldier . . .
    With a screwdriver he pried open the lock to the main door and pushed inside, walking fast but not running, head down, making for the service entrance that led to the alley. No one saw him and he slipped outside. Was soon on Lexington Avenue, walking south through the crowds toward the underground garage where he’d parked the van.
    Looking ahead.
    Sir, trouble here, sir.
    More cops.
    They’d closed down Lexington Avenue about three blocks south and were setting up a perimeter around the town house, stopping cars, looking over pedestrians, moving door to door, shining their long flashlights into parked cars. Stephen saw two cops,hands twitching on the butts of their Glocks, ask one man to step out of his car while they searched under a pile of blankets in the backseat. What troubled Stephen was that the man was white and about Stephen’s age.
    The building where he’d parked the van was within the search perimeter. He couldn’t drive out without being stopped. The line of cops moved closer. He walked back to the garage and pulled open the van door. Quickly he changed clothes—ditching the contractor outfit and dressing in blue jeans, work shoes (no telltale tread marks), a black T-shirt, a dark green windbreaker (no lettering of any kind), and a baseball cap (free of team insignia). The backpack contained his laptop, several cellular phones, his small-arms weapons, and ammunition from the van. He got more bullets, his binoculars, the night vision ’scope, tools, several packages of explosives, and various detonators. Stephen put the supplies in the large backpack.
    The Model 40 was in a Fender bass guitar case. He lifted this out of the back of the van and set it with the backpack on the garage floor. He considered what to do about the van. Stephen had never touched any part of the vehicle without wearing gloves and there was nothing inside that would give away his identity. The Dodge itself was stolen and he’d removed both the dash VIN and the secret VINs. He’d made the license plates himself. He’d planned on abandoning it sooner or later and could finish the job without the vehicle. He decided to leave it now. He covered the boxy Dodge with a blue Wolf car tarp, slipped hisk-bar knife into the tires, flattening them, to make it look like the van had been there for months. He left the garage through the elevator to the building.
    Outside, he slipped into the crowd. But there were police everywhere. His skin started to crawl. It felt wormy, moist. He stepped up to a phone booth and pretended to make a call, lowered his head to the metal plate of the phone, felt the sweat prickle on his forehead, under his arms. Thinking, They’re everywhere. Looking for him, looking at him. From cars. From the street.
    From windows . . .
    The memory came back again . . .
    The face in the window.
    He took a deep breath.
    The face in the window . . .
    It had happened recently. Stephen’d been hired for a hit in Washington, D.C. The job was to kill a congressional aide selling classified military arms information to—Stephen assumed—a competitor of the man who’d hired Stephen. The aide had been understandably paranoid and kept a safe house in Alexandria, Virginia. Stephen had learned where it was and finally managed to get close enough for a pistol shot—although it would be a tricky one.
    One chance, one shot . . .
    Stephen had waited for four hours, and when the victim arrived and darted toward his town house Stephen had managed to fire a single shot. Hit him, he believed, but the man had fallen out of sight in a courtyard.
    Listen to me,