“He won’t get past our guys,” Chase said.
“He sure as shit wouldn’t get past me or Rae,” Bob said.
Chase said, “Whatever,” and Bob and Rae got out of the car, and as she was getting out, Rae said to Bob, “Get me a chocolate cake donut.”
“’Kay.”
They split up and hurried away from the Yukon. Chase watched them go, and said, “It’s a little hard to take them seriously.”
Lucas said, “If there’s a problem, McCoy won’t get past them. They do this for a living. Rae was a starter in basketball at UConn. She has a degree in art history. Bob wrestled for Oklahoma State and finished third in the NCAA tournament his senior year, which means he lost just once. He has a degree in social work.”
“All right,” she said.
—
THEY SAT IN SILENCEfor a few minutes, saw Bob walk around the corner with a bag of Dunkin’ Donuts in hand. He walked far enough down North Veitch that he couldn’t be seen by a car coming up Wilson, and he waited. At the other end of the block, Rae perched on the hood of a Mustang.
The young agent said, “He’s here.”
Two cars ahead of them, a sedan pulled out of its parking space. Chase said, “Here we go.”
A Toyota 4Runner turned the corner, moving slowly, and Chase said, “That’s him.”
McCoy spotted the parking space, rolled ahead of it, backed in. A moment later, as he was getting out of the car, FBI agents climbed out of the cars ahead and behind him. McCoy saw them and did exactly what Lucas had done during the attempted mugging outside the tailor shop: he sprinted away.
A burly FBI agent tried to step in front of him in the street, butMcCoy juked, juked again, stuck out a fist, and smacked the agent in the face—just as Lucas had during his almost mugging—and without hesitating, ran back toward Wilson Boulevard, and Bob, with a string of FBI agents chasing after him.
Bob was standing there, a ring of powder on his upper lip, a jelly donut in his hand, and McCoy, paying no attention to him, tried to blow on by.
Bob stuck out his other, empty hand and clotheslined him. McCoy went facedown in a heap on the sidewalk, and Bob put one heavy foot on his head.
In the front seat, Chase said, “Indeed.”
A few seconds later, the scrum of FBI agents arrived, and two of them squatted over McCoy’s body, bent his arms behind his back, cuffed him, and pulled him to his feet.
Bob still had a half-eaten donut in his hand. Chase said, “Wouldn’t want to fight the guy who finished first.”
“Got that right,” Lucas said.
—
LUCAS, CHASE, RAE,and the young agent walked around the corner to the café, Rae finishing her chocolate cake donut, the young agent carrying an envelope. They looked inside, and Chase said, “That’s him. In line.”
McCoy’s attorney was a thin man, balding, the remaining hair, gone white, cut tight. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, a rumpled gray suit, and was carrying an attaché case. He was waiting patiently behind two young women, who were discussing the menu with the counter clerk, and Chase took his arm, held up her ID, and said, “Mr. Bunch? I’m Jane Chase with the FBI. Could we speak to you for a minute?”
She guided him out of line, and Bunch asked, “What’s going on?”
Chase said, “We’ve arrested your client John McCoy. We’re holding him around the corner in a car. We are serving you with an NSL, a National Security Letter.” The young agent handed him the envelope.
“I know what an NSL is,” Bunch said, as he took the envelope. “But why?”
“Because your client is being held on a national security issue. We’d appreciate it if you could walk around the corner with us and advise your client of his rights and consult with him about what he should do this evening. We are taking him in for questioning.”
“How did you know we’d be meeting? Have you wiretapped me?”
“We have a warrant to cover Mr. McCoy’s phone calls. One of his calls went to you. But we were not monitoring you specifically.”
“Better not have been,” Bunch said. Then, “Where’s John?”
