by Captain Sammitch
He used one hand to plot the demise of a serial kidnapper.
He used the other hand to dial up a Chinese take-out.
Phil was triangulating locations where his current target had been sighted in that neighborhood, and using that information to plan a "prowl route" from which he hoped to take Hector Vargas down.
On the battlefield, a sniper had to remain undetected at all costs, and in most situations that called for little if any movement, since in open spaces, to move was to be detected. But in the city at night, it was possible not only to move around freely but to follow a victim all the way to his planned destination. There was a set procedure for such an active hunt, and it worked on everyone from suspected foreign spies to would-be carjackers.
Phil was gambling that it would work on Hector Vargas.
He used textbook Mandarin to place an order from the Chinese take-out, then hung up and finished polishing the sniper rifle. Phil carefully put it back in its case, which he then slung over his shoulder as he crept outside into the night. He folded up the little map and pocketed it.
Now all he needed was a good set of wheels.
Phil was pretty sure nobody was watching, but even if they were, they probably wouldn't notice anything odd. He walked up to a nondescript Chrysler sedan parked in front of the row of brownstones. It was about two years old, slate grey, in nearly new condition. A perfectly square ride.
Phil checked again to make sure nobody was watching, then placed his hand over the door handle and concentrated. The locks opened themselves, and the alarm system disarmed itself quietly. Phil opened the door, set his gun case in the back seat, and slipped into the driver's seat. Placing his hand over the ignition, he focused hard and was rewarded by the engine humming to life.
Now this was going well. Smiling in spite of himself, Phil put the Chrysler in gear and pulled out of the parking space, completely unnoticed.
Time to go hunting.
Traffic on 22nd Street was a bit heavy for eleven o'clock on a Tuesday night, but on the near west side, you never knew what to expect. Phil was following the route he had mapped out, waiting for the moment when...
There he is.
A black El Camino sat at the stop light three cars ahead of the Chrysler Phil was using. Phil knew from his own recon that Hector Vargas would be behind the wheel.
The hunt was on.
The light turned green, and Vargas turned right onto Crown. Phil let a few cars pass him, then turned onto Crown a good forty yards behind Vargas. He had time on his side, and as long as he didn't lose Vargas, he would be okay.
About a quarter mile later, Hector turned right onto 30th Street, then a few blocks later turned right again, onto Fuller. Soon, he was back at 22nd Street.
Driving in a big circle.[i]
It was pretty common, of course. If you wanted to be sure nobody was following you, you just went in a big circle and hoped to lose them, and if there wasn't anybody in your rearview when you got back to point A, then either you lost the guy tailing you or there wasn't anyone following you in the first place. Apparently, Hector Vargas had a fair amount of experience both in being followed and in how to [i]avoid being followed.
Phil decided to humor him and hung back a fair distance before closing back up on Vargas, this time without his headlights on. As the two-car motorcade moved deeper into a run-down section of town, the street lights diminished in number, and the reduced amount of light was definitely useful to Phil.
Finally, Hector pulled up to a dilapidated brick house surrounded by vacant lots. He parked and headed inside as Phil parked across the street unnoticed by the Colombian.
So far, so good. He had followed Vargas to what was apparently either his residence or the place where he conducted "business". And thus far, Vargas was unaware of Phil's presence. But Phil was starting to regret having chosen a moderately upscale car like the Chrysler and then driving it here, into what was obviously not an upscale neighborhood. It wouldn't be too long before someone would notice him.
About five minutes passed before a light went on in a first-floor window of the house. Phil donned a pair of night-vision goggles, confident that the dark night and the Chrysler's tinted windows would mask the faint glow coming off the NVGs. He dialed up the magnification slightly until he could make out a face in the window.
It was Vargas.
Talking on a phone.
This didn't necessarily mean that Vargas was sounding an alarm, but Phil had learned not to take anything for granted. He made a mental note and looked back at the window.
Hector Vargas was looking right at him. Still holding the phone.
There weren't too many ways to interpret that.
Phil weighed his options. He was pretty sure that Vargas had at least one of the two girls in that house. But there were too many unknowns. He had just found the house. It was too early. Phil might be able to overpower Vargas, but he had no idea who else might be in there. The small windows and relative lack of angles made any sniper work impractical, and if Vargas wasn't alone in there, barging in might be nothing short of suicidal.
Phil wasn't a superhero.
He put away the NVGs, started the engine, and pulled away. He stopped at the end of the block and checked his rearview mirror. Two cars had pulled up to the front of the house, disgorging five or six men, who stood on the lawn for a moment and looked around before going into the house.
Good call.
Phil drove off and navigated his way back to his apartment. He was frustrated over not being able to rescue the girls right now, but at least he had gotten away without making a reckless attempt, and now he had a little more information to go on for next time. You couldn't take any chances in this line of work.
But now he knew where Hector Vargas lived.
And the next time Phil paid him a visit, there would be hell to pay.
Phil didn't pay much attention to the morning news. He sat at the kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee and munching on a bagel while he looked over the map he had drawn up and weighed contingencies in his mind. He would have to go back tonight. Someone had to save those two girls...
...And in other news, two girls reported missing three months ago have been found dead in an abandoned apartment building on the near west side...
Phil dropped his bagel.
...Fourteen-year-old Philadelphia native Alyssa Thompson and thirteen-year-old Tina Porter from Albany vanished from their own homes at roughly the same time, and it was suspected that they had been taken by a ring of serial kidnappers implicated in a string of similar kidnappings that took place around the same time. But the worst was confirmed today when the two little girls' bodies were found at 1733 Bowman Avenue. The two girls had both been strangled using an electrical cord, and both bodies showed signs of severe sexual abuse. Police have no new leads at this time...
Phil hurled the coffee mug across the room. It exploded into hundreds of shards against the wall above the television. He sank into his chair.
He had failed.
He had been right there, but he had been afraid to try. He might have been able to free them, but he didn't.
And now they were dead.
Because of him.
Phil's hands were shaking. He couldn't think clearly. What to do?
He still had the list. He knew that the other girls were still alive.
And he knew where to find Vargas.
A plan was forming in Phil's mind. It would have appalled him if he weren't so far gone already.