Free Book of Souls by Glenn Cooper by Glenn Cooper

stomach. As team leader, DeCorso had presided over a giant cluster-fuck.
    Frazier didn’t have to take him back, but he did.
    When Adam Cottle finally entered the hall with his roller case, looking like a dazed tourist, Frazier raised his chin, and said, “That’s him,” before tucking himself behind DeCorso’s frame to stay out of sight. They watched Cottle approach the British Airways information desk, where he was handed an envelope, then made for the exits.
    “My car’s at the curb, behind the taxi stand. I’ve got a cop watching I don’t get towed.”
    Frazier started walking. “Let’s find the cocksucker who outbid me.”
     
    They followed the yellow cab onto the Van Wyck Express-way. The traffic was light, so they were able to keep their mark comfortably in sight, no tense moments. DeCorso announced they were heading toward the Midtown Tunnel—a Manhattan destination. Frazier shrugged, dog-tired, and muttered, “Whatever.”
    Cottle’s taxi dropped him off in the middle of the block. The young man took his bag and asked the cabbie to wait. Apparently, the level of trust was insufficient. He was required to pay in full before the driver agreed to hold at the curb. Cottle stood on the sidewalk and double-checked a piece of paper before disappearing into the lobby of an apartment building.
    “You want me to go in?” DeCorso asked. They were across the street a short distance away, idling in their car.
    “No. His cab’s waiting,” Frazier growled. “Get me data on all the residents of the building.”
    DeCorso opened his laptop and established an encrypted connection with their servers. While he typed, Frazier closed his eyes, lulled by the soft clattering of thick fingers on the keyboard.
    Until, “Jesus!”
    “What?” Frazier asked, startled.
    DeCorso was passing the laptop. Frazier took it and tried to focus his bleary eyes on the line listings. He shrugged. “What?”
    “Near the bottom. See it?”
    Then he did.
Will Piper
. Apartment 6F.
    Frazier started kneading his lower face as if he were molding a block of clay. Then, a torrent of epithets. “I can’t fucking believe it. Fucking Will Piper! Did I tell those fucking idiots at the Pentagon they were crazy to let him go?” His mind filled with the infuriating image of Will sitting pretty in the plush cabin of Secretary Lester’s private plane, smugly sipping scotch at forty thousand feet, practically dictating terms.
    “You did. Yes you did.”
    “And now here he is, working us.”
    “Give me a shot at him, Malcolm.” DeCorso was almost pleading. He rubbed his right thigh, which still throbbed at the spot Will’s bullet had shattered the bone.
    “He’s BTH. Remember?”
    “That doesn’t mean I can’t seriously fuck him up.”
    Frazier ignored him. He was working angles in his head, scenarios. He was going to have to make some calls, push this way up the food chain to higher pay grades. “A retired FBI agent living in this neighborhood doesn’t have three hundred thousand bucks to lay down on an auction. He’s fronting for someone. We’ve got to play this out. Carefully.” He passed the laptop back to DeCorso. “Fucking Will Piper!”
     
    Young Cottle was sitting stiffly in an apartment in a strange city trading whispered pleasantries with a fat, sickly man on a scooter, his equally geriatric friend, and another younger man who was looming large and menacing.
    Will figured the kid was probably feeling more like a drug mule than an antiquarian book dealer.
    Cottle unzipped his bag. The book was swathed in bubble wrap, a soft, fat cube. The man on the scooter did a juvenile gimme with his hands, and Cottle obliged. Spence struggled to control its weight and immediately had to lower it onto the expanse of his lap, where he gingerly started to unwind the plastic, letting it slip to the floor.
    Will watched Spence peeling back the layers of the onion, getting closer and closer to calf hide. Despite the profundity of the moment,