5 what hinks thinks

The white panel van is unmarked, but it will almost certainly be mistaken for a phone company van, or a vehicle dispatched by one of the many utility companies that service the area. Which is precisely why it was selected. A white panel van in a suburban neighborhood is as close to invisible as a solid object can get.

Some minutes before Mrs. Katherine Bickford enters her home on Linden Terrace, the white van parks next to a street-surface utility access on Beech Terrace. Two men wearing generic work clothes and tool belts exit the van, place three incandescent orange cones near the manhole cover and return to the van.

The white van is positioned in such a way as to afford it a clear view through the common, toward Linden Terrace and—no coincidence—the target home, a shingled Cape with a large garage. This common area, which abuts three cul-de-sac streets in the development, is known as “the green,” to local residents.

A full two-acre swath, the green is a popular dog-walking area. No resident would think of walking a dog there without a pooper-scooper in hand. It’s that kind of neighborhood. By mutual agreement foliage is kept low, no more than twelve inches in height, so as not to provide cover for any nefarious activities that might arise. Drug dealing, teen drinking, whatever. Residents are in the habit of glancing toward the green whenever they exit their driveways, because children play on the green, kicking soccer balls, playing laser tag, or fluttering Frisbees. So far there’s never been a problem with strangers or suspected pedophiles, but by common consent all the residents keep an eye on the green, and are prepared to report anything unusual.

The white van with the orange cones is not unusual and will therefore not be reported. Likely it will not even be noticed.

Inside the van, two men, both approximately thirty years of age, drink from a silver thermos of coffee. Both men are trim and physically fit, and seem at ease with each other, as if they are well suited to working as a team. From the outside, a passerby might suppose the two men are listening to the radio as they pause for a coffee break—Rush Limbaugh, perhaps, or maybe G. Gordon Liddy—but in reality they’re monitoring an audio feed from the target home.

“Fucking guy,” says Hinks in a tone of admiration.

“You gotta hand it to Cutter,” says Wald. “He’s got a way with women.”

“Fucks he do it?”

“Language, Hinks. We’re working for the phone company here. They have standards.”

“They can kiss my ass,” says Hinks, sassing him back.

He’s known Wald for nine years now, eight in the military when they held the same rank in a special ops unit commanded by Captain Cutter. This is their first foray into a civilian mission, and so far it has been interesting—and potentially much more lucrative than any of the boring jobs either man has been offered since being discharged. That the assignment is highly illegal, and laden with danger, makes it all the more appealing.

Their banter is interrupted by the intercepted cell call to Cutter, currently inside the target home. Upon hearing the substance of the call, the two men exchange glances.

“That woman is out of her ever-loving mind,” comments Hinks. “The lovely Lyla.”

“Piece of ass,” agrees Wald, “but definitely missing a few crucial marbles.”

“Violating protocol.”

“Cell’s scrambled,” Wald points out. “No harm, no foul.”

“Still. The woman is a loose cannon. What if she goes to the cops? Think they’d believe her?”

“Cutter will handle her. Just like he’s handling this Bickford bitch.”

Hinks pauses, listens to the feed. The boss dispenses with the cell call and is now laying it out for the Bickford bitch in no uncertain terms. Less than twenty minutes inside and she’s eating out of his hand. Eager to obey.

Truly an amazing talent.

Out in the field, the special ops rule of thumb was ten hours. That’s how long it would take, on average, to break a typical target. Scare the shit out of ’em, strip away the ego, leave ’em so empty they have no choice but to cooperate. Of course, this is a civilian situation, totally different, but even so, good old Captain Cutter is impressive. Has it down to a science. His so-called “method,” which the unit had used in numerous special ops situations. The idea, Cutter bores in on the target with that crazed-psycho routine of his, keeps it up until their eyes bug out with fear, then he backs off just before they start screaming. Hinks had witnessed Cutter pulling the same bullshit act in a bar in the Philippines. Mindfucking a couple of rowdy jarheads who, had they realized it, could have torn Cutter into small pieces. And yet he had prevailed by convincing the dumb-shit marines he was crazy enough to want to die and take them with him, just for laughs.

The man was convincing. So convincing that now and then Hinks wondered if it really was an act, but thus far Cutter had always been able to snap back precisely when the situation required. The cap ever got to the point he couldn’t turn it off, they’d probably have to frag him. But that was theoretical—so theoretical he and Wald had never even discussed it—and for the time being Hinks was content with the situation. Working for Cutter was way better than sorting letters for the postal service or sitting on his butt as a security guard. There were risks to Cutter’s method, of course—very serious risks—but the rewards were commensurate with the risks. Cutter’s words. Cutter’s method. For right now, for today, Hinks was in with both feet.

Wald, not exactly a deep thinker, tended to follow Hinks’s lead. It had been that way since basic, and so far Hinks hadn’t steered his bud wrong.

“You think he’ll do her?” Wald wants to know. “Kind of hot, for a oldie.”

“Oldie?” Hinks chuckled. “The Bickford bitch is thirty-four. That’s only a few years older than we are.”

“Nineteen is my target age. I like ’em fresh. As you well know.”

“Think of it this way. When you were a freshman she’d have been a senior.”

“Yup. And I’d have waited a year until she was nineteen. That’s when they’re ripe.”

Hinks shakes his head. “You’re a wack job, Wald.”

“I just know what I want.”

“Total wack job.” It was said with some affection. Wald’s wacky humor made him interesting.

For instance, this time on a night patrol in Takrit, trying to sort out the Saddam sympathizers from the general malcontents, Hinks had seen Wald suddenly wheel around and shoot an unarmed camel jockey in the head. Guy had been standing there with his hands empty, glowering at the troops but not resisting while the unit conducted a search for concealed weapons. Without warning, Wald dropped the son of a bitch like a side of meat. After which he turned to the rest of the unit and said, “What can I say? I could read his mind. Fucker was thinking evil thoughts.”

Later it was determined that Wald’s victim had indeed been a former member of Saddam’s Baath party. Even if he hadn’t been carrying grenades at that particular moment, no doubt he really was directing evil thought waves at the American soldiers, just like Wald said.

“So,” says Wald, “the question remains. Will Cutter do her? He gonna bone the bitch or what?”

Hinks shrugs. “Doubtful. He never did much fooling around I ever saw, not even in Thailand. Also, it’s not part of the method.”

“Fuck the method. If she’s in my range, bam.”

“Not how the captain operates,” says Hinks.

“So far.”

Hinks checks his watch. “Twelve minutes, we have to move the vehicle.”

“I got ten bucks says the captain will have her licking his ice-cream cone by then.”

“You’re on.”

Safe bet. Hinks is convinced that Wald is projecting his own adolescent fantasies, what he’d do if he was the one inside the target home. Cutter is different. Cutter will remain in control not only of the target but of himself.