WYATT STARED OUT THE WINDOW AS AN SUV CRUISED INTO the parking lot. No further visitors had entered Carbonell’s condominium, and the spring gun sat waiting. He’d inspected the gadget and wondered if the Commonwealth had planted it. It was certainly a device that fit their operating mode. But that could have been exactly why someone else chose the method. Clearly, Carbonell had double-crossed more than one participant in this dispute, and neither the Commonwealth nor the intelligence community could be happy with her. But he could not help thinking that perhaps, like last night, she’d ordered it herself.
What was she thinking?’
He watched as Carbonell stepped from the vehicle, the interior cabin light revealing her wearing the same clothes from yesterday. She said something to the driver, then marched toward the building entrance. Her apartment was on the second floor, past an unlocked ground-floor door. The SUV waited in its parking spot, lights off.
He stepped over to the gun.
The ingenious array of screw eyes had been geometrically arranged so that the door, as opened, gradually tightened the twine, working the trigger. The gun was an automatic rifle. He’d already checked. Fully loaded with more than enough rounds to obliterate any and all the flesh and bone standing less than two feet away.
He tested the nylon one more time.
Taut as a guitar string.
Would it matter if she died?