Текст книги "The Hit"

Автор книги: David Baldacci

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He opened the door and stepped inside.

There was only one spot in the room from where the shot really could have been made. The turret room had three south-facing windows. The one in the middle had the truest sight line to Jacobs.

Robie drew nearer and shined his light around. On the windowsill was a narrow disturbance in the dust pattern. That was where the rifle muzzle had rested. Another disturbance of dust on the floor represented the shooter’s knee.

There was a slight discharge from the rifle on both the sill and the floor. The suppressor would have vented the propellant gas out just about there.

No shell casing had been found, so the brass had been policed, as Blue Man had pointed out. But the dust disturbances could easily have been covered up as well.

Only they weren’t, which told Robie that the shooter didn’t care if the sniper’s nest was discovered.

He picked up a long piece of shoe molding that had broken off, knelt down, and, using the molding as an imaginary weapon, drew a bead on Jacobs’s office.

Fifth floor looking down on third floor. The reverse wouldn’t work, of course, because of the angle of the shot. You couldn’t fire up and nail your target. You had to fire down. If Jacobs’s building had been taller than five stories and he had been on a higher floor, the old town house would not have worked as a shooting nest.

But they would have just found another place that did work.

Robie assumed that bulletproof glass was being added to the windows of many agency buildings right this second.

It was clear that Reel, or whoever the shooter had been, was in possession of the layout of Jacobs’s office. Back to the window, computer screen in front. No obstructions to the flight path of the killing round. Chest shot, wrecked the heart, clanged off a rib, and exited the body, hitting the computer.

Robie was guessing about the collision with the rib. If the bullet had passed right through the body it would have hit the top of the desk most likely, not the computer. The angle was too extreme. Ribs were hard enough to change a bullet’s flight path. He hadn’t seen Jacobs’s autopsy results, but he wouldn’t be surprised to see that sort of internal damage.

So the shot was fired. Jacobs was dead. If Reel were the shooter she would have heard through her headset the window breaking, the impact of her round with Jacobs, and Jacobs dying. Confirmation of a kill. It was always nice to have when you were firing blind through a window.

And she would have had possession of the layout of Jacobs’s office. Reel wouldn’t have actually been shooting “blind.”

Inside info again.

Like my email address.

She might be following me right now. Or she might be here waiting for me, figuring I would come to the town house at some point.

Robie scanned the street below, but saw nothing other than people scurrying along to get out of the rain. But people like Reel wouldn’t show themselves so carelessly. Robie looked down at his shoe. Something white was sticking out from under the sole. He picked the item off. It was soft, falling apart. He held it to his nose. It had a scent.

Then Robie forgot about that when he heard a disturbance outside the house. Raised voices. Sounds of footsteps on the front porch.

He raced out of the room and down the hall. He reached a window where he could see the front door. There were people clustered out there. An argument was going on. Robie could see people he assumed were from his agency.

And he could see other people who were not.

They were easy to tell apart. The ones notfrom his agency were wearing blue windbreakers with gold lettering on the back.

There were only three gold letters. But they were three letters Robie did not want to see.

FBI.

And when he saw who was heading up the FBI agents he turned and moved as quickly as he could toward the rear of the house.

He was meeting Nicole Vance for dinner at eight.

He did not want to meet her inside this town house in the next two minutes.

CHAPTER

8

ROBIE KNEW HOW TO EXIT QUIETLY. He did so now, coming around the corner and watching from behind some bushes as Vance continued to argue with the other men.

He pulled his phone and sent a text to Blue Man.

A minute later Robie saw one of the men arguing with Vance touch his ear.

Message communicated.

He stopped arguing and Robie heard him say, “The place is yours to search, Agent Vance. We’ll leave you to it.”

Vance halted in midsentence and stared at the man.

Robie ducked down as she swiveled her head, looking in all directions. He could tell she knew exactly what had just happened. The dogs had been called off. The place was open to her now. That order had come from high up. Some condition had changed in the last few seconds.

Robie was on the move, because he knew that Vance’s next tactic might be to send her men rushing in all directions to look for the source of the change on the ground. He didn’t want her to discover that the source was him. It would make dinner later even more uncomfortable than it was already shaping up to be.

Robie reached his car and drove off. He punched in a number and Blue Man answered almost immediately.

“Thanks for the assist back there,” said Blue Man.

Robie snapped, “I’m meeting with Vance tonight. Agreed to it before I knew she was involved in this. Would have been nice to know before. Getting blindsided like that out of the gate does not inspire confidence.”

“We didn’t know she had been assigned to it. We don’t run the FBI. I suppose that her success last time has lifted her up in the eyes of the Bureau.”

“Exactly how much does the Bureau know?” Robie asked. “Your guys being outside that building tells her that it’s not a routine murder.”

“We couldn’t completely cover up what happened to Doug Jacobs. FBI involvement was inevitable. But it’s up to us to manage it properly.”

“So, again, how much do they know?” Robie asked.

“They know that Doug Jacobs was a federal employee. They do not and will not know that he works for our agency. He is officially a member of DTRA.”

“Defense Threat Reduction?”

“More specifically in their Information Analysis Center. The building Jacobs was in is leased by the Center. It provides good cover for us. Not that we ever expected Jacobs to be shot dead in his office.”

“And DTRA will play the game?” Robie queried.

“They think big picture, just like we do. They’re part of DoD, after all.”

“Do they know what Jacobs was doing in that office when he was shot?”

“There would be no possible good coming from my answering that question. Suffice it to say that ignorance is bliss.”

“Meaning DTRA won’t have to technically lie to the FBI when they come calling?”

“They have already come calling.”

“And what is the official line?” Robie said.

“Jacobs was shot while performing his mundane job, possibly by a rogue gunman targeting the federal government.”

“And you think the FBI will buy that?”

“I don’t know if they will or not,” replied Blue Man. “That’s not my concern.”

“But you can’t let the FBI find out that Jacobs was actually orchestrating the assassination of a foreign leader.”

“He wasn’t a foreign leader yet. We do our best to be proactive. Eliminating those already in power is a tricky thing. Sometimes necessary but to be avoided if possible since it’s technically illegal.”

“Vance is tenacious as hell.”

“Yes, she is,” agreed Blue Man.

“She might get to the truth.”

“That is not an option, Robie.”

“Like you said, you don’t run the FBI.”

“What will you talk about with her tonight?” asked Blue Man.

“I don’t know. And if I cancel she might get suspicious.”

“Do you think she suspects your involvement in any of this?”

“She’s smart. And she sort of knows what I do for a living.”

“That was a mistake, Robie, it really was, letting her know that.”

“I really didn’t have a choice, did I?”

“What if she starts asking questions?”

“Then I’ll answer them. In my own way.”

Blue Man seemed about to continue this line of questioning, but then said, “What’s your next step on Reel?”

“Any way to trace her movements leading up to the shooting? I mean, do we know for certain if she was in the country and pulled the trigger? Her voice over the headset doesn’t prove she was actually the shooter.”

“Reel went silent before the shot, so we didn’t pick up any sounds on her end, just on Jacobs’s. But her voice means she was involved somehow.”

Robie said, “The sniper nest was set up overseas. Any clues there?”

“Nothing. We confirmed that she was seen there, but two days before. Plenty of time to get back here and shoot Jacobs.”

“What’s the latest on Ahmadi?”

“Business as usual. We removed all traces of the sniper nest, of course.”

“Planning another hit on him?” asked Robie.

“Well, if he was aware of the first try and foiled it, turning it back on us, I would imagine he would be ultra-cautious now. We might not see his face again until he’s Syria’s new leader.”

“I don’t like it that Reel had my email address.”

“I don’t like it either,” agreed Blue Man.

“We have a mole. A leave-behind.”

“Possibly. Or she might have gotten that in formation beforehand.”

“How would she know I’d be the one going after her?”

“A calculated assumption?” suggested Blue Man.

“She might be tailing me right now.”

“Don’t get paranoid on me, Robie.”

“You missed that window by a few years. My paranoia knows no bounds now.”

“Where are you off to now?”

“To get ready for my dinner.”

Robie clicked off and accelerated. He checked his rearview for Vance, Reel, and assorted bogeymen.

I’m not growing paranoid. I am paranoid. And who could blame me?

He punched the gas harder.

Sending a killer to catch a killer actually made sense.

We talk a different language and we see the world through a separate prism that no one else could possibly understand.

But it worked both ways. Reel would understand him as much as he would understand her.

So Reel dead.

Or me.

It really was that simple.

And also that complicated.

CHAPTER

9

JESSICA REEL SAT ON HER bed in her hotel room. Her sweat-drenched exercise clothes lay on the floor. She was naked and looking down at her toes. The rain was hitting with increased velocity outside.

Like bullets. But unlike bullets rain leaves you alive.

She rubbed her hand over her flat belly. Her firm core had come from agonizing exercise and careful diet. It had nothing to do with appearance. The core was power central. And fat slowed you down. In her world that was poison. She was also proficient in every martial art worth anything in close-quarter combat.

She had had to use her fitness and fighting skills to survive many times. She didn’t always kill with a gun from long range. Sometimes her targets were right in front of her, trying to murder her as fiercely as she them. And they were almost always men. That gave them a genetic advantage in size and strength.

Still, up to this point, she had always been the winner. But that was only until the next time. In her field, you only lost once. After that, no one bothered to keep score anymore.

You just got eulogized. Maybe.

She debated whether to send Robie another message. But she decided that would be overplaying her hand. She didn’t underestimate anyone. And though her cell was presumably untraceable, the agency might buck those odds, track her back through communication channels and find her.

And what more was there left to say anyway? Robie had his assignment. He would do his best to carry it out.

Reel would do her best to make sure he failed. One or both of them might end up dead. That was the nature of the beast. There was nothing fair about it. It was just the way it was.

Reel slipped on a robe, crossed the room, and pulled her phone from her jacket hanging on the door. She began hitting keys. It truly was amazing what these devices could do. Trace your every step. Tell you exactly how to get to somewhere else. With a flick of a key Reel could get the most esoteric information in a matter of seconds.

But there was a flip side to all this freedom.

People had trillions of eyes now with which to watch you. And it wasn’t just the government. Or big business. It could be the man on the street with the latest gadgetry and a modicum of technical savvy.

That made Reel’s job harder. But it was hard to begin with.

She digested the information that had come up on the screen. She put it away, slipped into the bathroom, and took off her robe. The hot water in the shower felt good. She was tired, her muscles weary from a workout that had pushed her harder than ever.

There had been a couple of young guys in the gym doing one-armed curls while preening in the mirror. Another had put in twenty moderately active minutes on the elliptical and obviously thought that qualified him as a stud. She had gone into an adjoining room and begun her exercise. She had sensed two of them watching her after a few minutes. It wasn’t the way she was dressed. She didn’t wear tight-fitting spandex. Loose, baggy clothing that covered her completely was her thing. She was there to sweat, not find a husband or a one-night stand.

She sensed they weren’t a threat. They were simply astonished at what she was doing with her body. Thirty minutes later, when she was barely a third of the way through her routine, they turned and left, shaking their heads. She knew what they were thinking:

I couldn’t last five minutes at that pace.

And they would be right.

She turned off the shower, dried off, and put her robe back on, her hair wrapped in a towel. She scanned the room service menu and selected a salad and indulged herself with a glass of a California zinfandel.

When the young, good-looking man brought the tray in she caught his reflection in the mirror. He was checking her out.

Reel had slept with men on several different continents. All had been in connection with a job. A means to an end. If she could use sex to get her where she needed to go, so be it. She assumed that was one reason the agency had employed her. And they had encouraged her to use that weapon in her arsenal, with the caveat that she was never to become personally involved with any of them. Which translated into never feeling anything for them at all. She was a machine and they were simply convenient for the mission.

In that regard men were decidedly the weaker sex. Women could get them to do anything with a promise of action under the sheets, up against a wall, or on their knees, as the case might be.

She signed the bill and gave him a generous tip.

His eyes asked her for more.

She denied the request simply by turning away.

Once the door closed behind her she took off her robe, freed her hair, and put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She pushed a table against the door, sat down to her meal, and slowly sipped her wine as the rain pounded away outside.

She would soon have somewhere to go. It was always important to keep going. Stationary objects tended to get run over.

At some point soon Will Robie would come after her in earnest. That would then occupy much of Reel’s time and energy. Until that point, she would have a window of opportunity.

She intended to make the most of it.

Doug Jacobs was one level.

Now Reel was moving to the next level.

It wouldn’t be easy. By now they were forewarned.

Doug Jacobs had a wife and two young children. Reel knew what they looked like. She knew their names. She knew where they lived. She knew they were now suffering tremendous grief. Because of what Jacobs did, his family couldn’t be told the exact circumstances of his death.

It was just company policy. And that policy never varied.

Secrets to the last.

There would be a funeral and Jacobs would be laid to rest. And that would be the only normal thing about his passing. His young widow would go on with her life, probably remarry. Perhaps she would have more children. Reel would suggest that she marry a plumber or a salesman. Her life would be far less complicated.

Jacobs’s children might or might not remember their father.

For Reel, that wasn’t such a bad thing.

In her mind Douglas Jacobs wasn’t all that memorable.

Reel finished her meal and slipped under the covers.

She remembered as a child listening to the rain beating outside as she lay in bed. No one had come to check on her. It wasn’t that sort of a home. People who came to you in the night where Reel had grown up usually had ulterior motives, motives that were not benign in the least. This had made her suspicious and hardened from an early age. This had made her want to be alone, only summoning companionship on her terms.

When people came for you in the night the only response was to hurt them before they could hurt you.

In her mind’s eye she conjured the image of her mother—a frail abused woman who on her last day on earth looked forty years older than she actually was. Her death had been violent, wrenching. She had not gone quietly, but she had, eventually, gone. And Jessica Reel, then only seven years old, had watched it all happen. It had been traumatic in ways that even now Reel didn’t fully understand or appreciate. The experience had come to define her, and guaranteed that many normal things people did in life would never be part of hers.

What happened to you as a child, particularly something bad, changed you, absolutely and completely. It was like part of your brain became closed off and refused to mature any further. As an adult you were powerless to fight against it. It was simply who you were until the day you died. There was no “therapy” that could cure it. That wall was built and nothing could tear it down.

Maybe that’s why I do what I do. Engineered from childhood.

Her gun was under her pillow, one hand clenching it, and the table still against the door.

She would sleep well tonight.

It might be the last time she ever did.

CHAPTER

10

ROBIE SAT AT A TABLE in the restaurant that allowed him to see out onto the street. He alternated between looking out at the street and at the TV that was mounted on a wall behind the bar. On the TV was a news report about an upcoming Arab summit that was scheduled to occur in Canada. Apparently it was felt that the neutral setting, far away from terrorist acts and wars, might shorten the odds of a breakthrough occurring. Sponsored by the UN, it hoped, the news anchor said, to usher in a new age of cooperation among countries that had for too long been at war with one another.

“Good luck on that,” Robie said to himself.

The next instant the channel was changed and Robie was watching an ad for Cialis with an older man and woman in bathtubs that were set outside. It was apparently a sexual metaphor he had never figured out. Then the bathtubs vanished and another news anchor was talking about an upcoming trip by the president to Ireland where he was hosting a symposium on the threat of international terrorism and ways to stop it.

“Good luck on that too,” muttered Robie.

He glanced away from the TV in time to see Nicole Vance walking down the street at a hurried pace. He glanced at his watch. She was about fifteen minutes late. She was applying a touch of makeup and lipstick and checking the results in a small mirror she carried. He noted that she had changed from her working clothes into a dress, stockings, and heels. Maybe the reason for the lateness.

She fortunately did not see him watching her as she hurried past him to the door of the restaurant, slipping her makeup kit back into her small purse. Robie doubted Vance would have wanted to be spotted “checking her face” before their dinner.

“You look thinner.”

Robie glanced up as Nicole Vance sat across from him. “And you look harried,” he replied.

“Sorry about being late. Got stuck on a case.”

The waiter came and took their drink orders. When he departed Robie broke a breadstick in half, ate part of it, and said, “Something new?”

“Something interesting at least.”

“I thought all of your cases were interesting.”

“The bad guys are usually pretty obvious. It just becomes a matter of evidence collection. And that tends to get very boring very fast.”

“Care to talk about it?”

“You know better than that, Robie. Ongoing investigation. Unless you got transferred to the FBI and nobody told me.” She stared across at him. “So, have you been out of town?”

“You already asked me that.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

“Yeah, I did. I said, not much.”

“But some?”

“And you’re concerned about my travel schedule why?” he asked.

“Some interesting things going on in the world. Right in our backyard, even.”

“They always are. So what?”

“I’m not entirely unfamiliar with what you do for a living.”

Robie looked right and then left and then back at Vance.

Before he could speak she said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone there.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“We got off on the wrong foot.”

Robie said nothing.

“Okay, Igot off on the wrong foot. How have you been?”

“Busy, just like you.” He paused. “I thought about calling you a few times. Just never got around to doing it. I’m sorry. Things got a little crazy for me.”

“I have to say I’m surprised you even thought about calling me.”

“Why? We’d agreed to keep in touch.”

“I appreciate that, Robie. But I don’t think your job allows for a lot of downtime.”

“Neither does yours.”

“It’s a different sort of thing. You know that.”

Their drinks came and Vance gratefully took a sip of hers. “Omigod that is good.”

“Can you taste the linen?”

She set her glass down and smiled. “Every single thread.”

“Sense of humor will get you through a lot.”

“That’s what people keep telling me. But I keep finding fewer things to laugh at.”

“Which brings us back to tonight. Why the call for drinks and dinner? Really?”

“Two friends getting together.”

“A busy FBI agent working long hours? Don’t think so.”

“I have no agenda, Robie.”

Robie just looked at her.

“Okay, I sort of have an agenda.”

“Then let me sort of hear it.”

She sat forward and lowered her voice. “Douglas Jacobs?”

Robie’s face was impassive. “Who is he?”

“Who washe. Jacobs is dead. Shot at his office.”

“Sorry to hear that. What happened?”

“Not sure. He apparently worked for DTRA. Do you know them?”

“I know of them.”

“I say ‘apparently’ because I’m pretty sure everyone I’ve spoken to is lying his ass off.”

“Why?”

“You know why, Robie. This is spook territory. I’m sure of it. And they always lie.”

“Not always,” he reminded her.

“Okay, but most of the time they do.” She took another sip of her cocktail and eyed him keenly. “You’re sure you didn’t know Jacobs?”

“I never met the man,” Robie said truthfully.

Vance sat back and looked at him skeptically.

“Do you know everyone at the FBI?” he said.

“Of course not. It’s too big.”

“Okay, proves my point.”

“My gut tells me that Jacobs was involved in something really important. And what happened to him has scared the crap out of certain highly placed people.”

Yes he was and yes it has, thought Robie.

“Even if I knew anything, Vance, I couldn’t tell you. You know that.”

“A girl can always hope,” she said sweetly, draining her glass and lifting her hand to order another.

They ate their meal mostly in silence. When they were done Vance said, “I never was fully briefed on what happened after Morocco.”

“I’m sure you weren’t.”

“Did it all turn out okay for you?”

“Sure. Everything’s fine.”

“He lied,” added Vance. “The thing at the White House?”

“What about it?”

“You were in the middle of it.”

“Not officially, no.”

“But in all important respects, yes.”

“It’s ancient history. I’m not much into history. I try to be more of a forward thinker.”

“Your compartmentalization skills are amazing, Robie.”

He shrugged. “Necessary part of the job. Hindsight might be twenty-twenty. You learn from mistakes, and you move on. But every situation is different. One size does not fit all.”

“A lot like working cases. So how much longer are you going to be doing what you’re doing?”

“How long are you going to be doing what you’re doing?”

“Probably till I drop.”

“You really think so?”

“I don’t know, Robie. You said you’re a forward thinker. I’m more of a live-in-the-present kind of person. So when are you going to call it quits?”

“I probably won’t be the one making that decision.”

She sat back, took in the meaning of his words, nodded. “Then maybe you should try to make sure you’re the one deciding.”

“Doesn’t go with the territory, Vance.”

They said nothing for about a minute. Each played with the drink in front of them.

Finally Vance asked, “Have you seen Julie?”

“No,” he replied.

“Didn’t you promise her you’d keep in touch?”

“I promised you too and look what happened.”

“But she’s just a kid,” countered Vance.

“That’s right. She has a long life ahead of her.”

“But a promise is a promise.”

“No, not really,” answered Robie. “She doesn’t need me anywhere near her. She’s got a decent shot at a normal life. I’m not going to screw that up for her.”

“Noble of you.”

“Whatever you want to label it.”

“You’re a really hard person to relate to.”

Robie again said nothing.

“I guess as long as you do what you do this is how it’ll be.”

“It is what it is.”

“Do you wish it could be different?”

Robie started to answer this seemingly simple question and then realized it was not nearly as simple as it appeared to be. “I stopped wishing a long time ago, Vance.”

“Why keep doing it, then? I mean, I have a crazy-ass life, though nothing like yours. But at least I have the satisfaction of putting slime away.”

“And you think I don’t?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

Robie put some cash down on the table and rose. “Thanks for the call. It was nice catching up. And good luck on your case.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Probably more than you know, actually.”

CHAPTER

11

JESSICA REEL HAD LEFT New York and flown to D.C. She had done this because what she had to do next had to be done here.

There were three ways to approach the mission. For a mission was what Jessica Reel was on.

You could start from the bottom and move to the top.

Or start at the top and move to the bottom.

Or you could mix it up, be unpredictable, go in no particular order.

The first option might be more symbolically pure.

The third approach greatly improved Reel’s odds of success. And her ability to survive.

She opted for success and survival over symbolism.

This area of D.C. was full of office buildings, all empty at this late hour. Many high-level government executives worked here, along with their even more affluent private-sector counterparts.

That didn’t matter much to Reel. Rich, poor, or in between, she just went to where she needed to go. She had killed whoever they had tasked her to eliminate. She had been a machine, executing orders with a surgical efficiency.

She placed an earwig in her left ear and ran the cord to the power pack attached to her belt. She smoothed down her hair and unbuttoned her jacket. The pistol sat ready in her shoulder holster.

She looked at her watch, did the math in her head, and knew she had about thirty minutes to think about what she was going to do.

The night was clear, if cool, the rain having finally passed. That was expected this time of year. The street was empty of traffic, also expected at this hour of the night.

She walked to a corner and took up position next to a tree with a bench below. She adjusted the earwig and looked at her watch again.

She was a prisoner not only to time but also to precisetime, measured in seconds. A sliver off here or there and she was dead.

Through her earwig she learned that the man was on the move. A bit ahead of schedule, he would be here in ten minutes. Knowing her agency’s communication frequencies was a real advantage.

She pulled the device from her pocket. It had a black matte finish, measured four by six inches, two buttons on top, and was probably—aside from her gun—the most important thing she carried. Without this, her plan could not work barring a major piece of luck.

And Reel could not count on being that lucky.

I’ve already used up all of my luck anyway.

She looked up as the car came down the street.

A Lincoln Town Car.

Black.

Do they make them in any other color?

She needed confirmation. After all, in this city black Town Cars were nearly as plentiful as fish in the ocean. She raised the night optics to her eyes and looked through the windshield. All the other windows were tinted. She saw what she needed to see. She lowered the optics and put them in her pocket. She took a penlight from her pocket and flashed it one time. A beam of light answered her. She put the light away and fingered the black box. She looked up and then across the street.

What was about to happen next had cost her a hundred bucks. She hoped it was money well spent.

She pushed the right-side button on the black box.

The traffic light immediately turned from green to yellow to red. She put the box away.

The Lincoln pulled to a stop at the intersection.

The figure darted out from the shadows and approached the Lincoln. He held a bucket in one hand, something else in the other. Water splashed on the windshield.

“Hey!” yelled the driver, lowering his window.

The kid was black, about fourteen. He used a squeegee to get the soapy water off the glass.

The driver yelled, “Get the hell out of here!”

The light stayed red.

Reel had her gun out now, its barrel resting on a low branch of the tree she was standing beside. On the gun’s Picatinny rail was a scope. The pistol’s barrel had been lengthened and specially engineered for a longer-range shot than most handguns could accomplish.

The kid ran around to the other side and used the squeegee to whisk off the water from that side.

The passenger-side window slid down.

That was the key for Reel, the passenger window coming down, because the man in the back was riding behind the driver. Angle of shot was the whole ballgame.

She aimed, exhaled a long breath, and her finger moved to the trigger.

Point of no return.

The black kid ran back to the driver’s side and held out his hand. “Super clean. Five bucks.”

“I said get out of here,” shouted the driver.

“My momma needs an operation.”

“If you’re not gone in two seconds—”

The man never finished because Reel fired.

The round zipped in front of the man in the passenger seat, cut a diagonal between him and the driver, and slammed into the forehead of the man in the back.