Six Mad Kings, Chapter 2. by DarkBeta
The other six men were astonishingly predictable. Ezra was reassured that he knew where each of them was likely to be, while they had no idea of his own habits. If evading them ever became necessary, he thought his chances were good.
Of course he was not worried when Mr. Wilmington and Mr. Dunne failed to pass by the coffee shop where he had stopped for an espresso Saturday afternoon. He was only disconcerted. The break in the pattern had to be researched, that was all. Information was never wasted.
He found no sign of Tanner or Larabee in their accustomed routine. The likeliest explanation was that all four of them had engaged in some laborious or uncivilized endeavor, for which his disinterest would be evident. Some portion of the perpetual labor that seemed requisite to Larabee's possession of real estate, for example. Mending fences (an activity for which he was remarkably ill-suited), or mucking out the barn. 'Muck.' Even the verbal stem was inherently loathsome.
Jackson was still accessible though, and Sanchez, and they would have been invited participants in such activities.
He had other plans for the afternoon and the evening. Contacts to be made, and cover identities to be maintained. Yet the discrepancy preyed on his mind so he called the good healer at an hour Nathan would consider early (though for Ezra it was late). He was not surprised when Rain picked up the phone. She yawned.
"Nathan, you're supposed to call when you have to stay this long at the hospital."
Ezra closed the telephone connection gently.
He did not indulge in "bad feelings" like the team's sharpshooter. He did not watch for the flight of omens, like the profiler. His gift was to see patterns, in cards and events.
Five-sevenths of the team to which he was currently attached were in the hands of a sly enemy. He stroked his lip, considering options.
They could be dead. Yet the level of skill and planning argued for something more than simple assassination.
He had not been followed during his night's activities. He would have discovered a tail, having reason to fear and to ward against such an eventuality. His current location was unknown to their enemy, and would remain so until he returned to a predictable locale.
Was Mr. Sanchez also still at liberty? Or had he been rapt away like Jackson in the night? Ezra went to find out.
He did not enjoy the sacrifices he made for veracity. The persona he borrowed was beneath his sartorial and hygienic standards. He shuffled past Mr. Sanchez, receiving from him a loathsome mound of steaming oatmeal and good wishes in his supposed endeavors, but no second glance. Nor was he spotted by the shadows of whom Mr. Sanchez was unaware.
If Josiah was already taken, Ezra had meant to return to his condo. His own kidnapping would provide an opportunity to recover the others. He'd leave a message to apprise Judge Travis of the situation. Action might be taken on his word.
Since Mr. Sanchez continued his accustomed activities, Ezra had a decision to make. He did not touch his lip as he thought. That was a gesture that belonged to another person, another role.
He could warn Josiah with a whisper or a folded note. Further abductions would be thwarted. Travis would listen to Mr. Sanchez, and activate all the machineries of law enforcement. They might -- might -- be able to trace the other five. Eventually.
Or he could allow Josiah to be taken. Gamble that he could follow the kidnappers, that Mr. Sanchez would be brought to the same place as the others, that the older man would suffer no irrecoverable damage, that Ezra himself could remain undetected until he was able to summon assistance.
Ezra knew himself to be a cold man. He watched the kidnapping. He did not allow himself to react by so much as a frown to blows given or resistance broken, or to the unexpected fragility of unconsciousness. He could not afford to be distracted. The ante was too high.
Following the dark SUV, a small part of his mind considered contingencies.
Suppose he failed to track the kidnappers and Josiah? Suppose he aroused suspicion among their assailants, and his return to an identifiable routine was unmolested? Suppose his actions meant the team was lost?
He would explain the whole to Travis. Team 7 was well-respected, but he might survive the resentment of their peers. Only when he could offer nothing more to the hunt for the lost agents, or their enemy, would he be free to depart.
Maude would not worry if she didn't hear from him. She would suppose him adventuring like herself. She would never tire of the continual exhilarating stretch for the brass ring.
He had been a reluctant pupil, but he'd learnt from the most feral of their band how to vanish into empty places. He would not need to fear that the baggage he meant to abandon would become an offense to anyone remaining.
The old slang phrase for dice was most suitable. Bones, rolled on the ground. Accepting Mr. Larabee's invitation to join the team had been a gamble. He disliked gambling. It allowed for loss.