The Planck Factor

Chapter 44

Joe Cotter

When Cotter woke up, his first view was of a brick wall. He tried to move and invisible blades stabbed his skull and lower back.

Cotter groaned with the effort of trying to stretch his arms. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Lying still in an attempt to ease the pain, his nostrils flared at the stench of urine and body odor.

What the hell--?

He and Billy had been following the car that had taken Jessica. They'd stopped at the end of an alley, where he was now sprawled like a drunk. People didn't notice bums lying in alleys in D.C. If anything, they went out of their way to avoid them.

"Billy?" he croaked. Damn you.

After a time, Cotter fumbled for his cell phone. Missing. Of course. He eased to his feet and staggered from the alley, seeking a pay phone. There had to be one left somewhere on the planet.

The street was mixed residential and retail. A few restaurants, a used bookstore, a vintage clothing store. He spotted a phone booth and stumbled toward it, only to find the receiver torn from the apparatus.

"Shit, who uses pay phones?" He saw a passing man in a suit. "Excuse me, sir. Could I use your phone?"

The man looked at him askance a moment and quickened his pace, staring straight ahead.

"Excuse me!" He tried again with a couple. They shook their heads in unison. "I'm sorry," the man said, though he didn't sound it. They hurried away.

Cotter stopped to consider how he must look. He realized his shirt was wrinkled and dirty, his pants crusted with filth. He'd been lying in an alley for ... God knows how long. He checked for his watch. Thank God, I still have that. Almost two hours had passed.

He tested his cheek, which was tender, along with the knot at the back of his skull. He glanced at his reflection in the window of a parked car. His face was bruised and dirty. His shirt was disheveled. He looked like he'd gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson.

"Thanks, Billy."

Cotter managed to sweet talk the used bookstore's owner into letting him use the phone. He called the agent from Homeland Security, drumming his fingers on the counter as the phone rang. Voice mail? What the hell?

"Listen, this is Joe Cotter, A-Team Security. My partner, Billy ... well ..."

After leaving the message, Cotter limped through the bookstore, skimming the titles while waiting for a return call. The bookstore owner was tolerant, but watchful.

Cotter halted his pacing. He had a duty to his client, still unfulfilled. And she had a car.

Turning to the bookstore owner, he said, "I'm sorry. Could I use your phone again?"

The storeowner set his mouth in a grim line. "If it'll get you out of here, sure."

After making the call, Cotter bought a book—a well-worn copy of a John le Carre novel—and stationed himself near the non-functional phone booth. He must have checked for Liz's car fifty or sixty times, before her red Porsche jolted to a halt at the curb.

"What are you waiting for? Get in." Her voice was harsh with anger and hysteria.

The minute Cotter eased into the car, Liz took off like an Indy driver leaving the pits.

"So," she said. "Your man Billy didn't turn out to be the neophyte you thought. What the hell kind of security firm do you work for, anyway?"

Liz continued to rant and Cotter endured the verbal abuse, knowing she was right. A-Team Security wasn't living up to its name when it came to checking out its own employees. Billy was a relatively new hire. He'd only just been assigned to Cotter.

But Billy had fooled them all.

Liz finally stopped her rant long enough to take a breathe. Cotter fiddled with his watch and muttered, "Hell, his name probably isn't even  Billy."