Artemis Grange took the Blue Line south. He watched the Arlington Cemetery and Pentagon stops go by. He sat impassively, spine erect, eyes forward, feet flat on the floor, hands in his lap, neutral expression on his face. It was an utterly conspicuous pose. No normal person in the modern Western world sat like that, but Artemis Grange was no normal person.
The Pentagon City stop came and went, then Crystal City. The subway doors opened and Grange stood up and exited the train in a single fluid movement. He found the appropriate stairway and emerged onto the street.
Crystal City was little more than overflow office space for the Pentagon. It was chockfull of military officers and even more retired military officers who either worked in the government’s gargantuan civilian workforce or earned twice the government salary by working for one of the myriad defense contractors.
Here, a man like Grange wasn’t entirely conspicuous. He had never served in the military, but he had a military bearing about him. He certainly had a killer’s coldness in his eyes that was disturbing in other environments but not so disturbing around other trigger-pullers.
Grange had chosen the spot with a purpose. He walked with the brisk pace and practiced self-absorption endemic to the District. He made eye contact with no one. His heels clicked on the sidewalk. His arms swung too little for the size of his steps. He covered more ground with each step than seemed probable. It was as though he alone was walking on a moving sidewalk while the rest of humanity had no assistance.
As he walked, his mind churned. He thought about Hayward’s words. He thought about what Senator Oren Stanley had said, and about what he had refused to say. He thought about Alexander Wells’s lie. He thought about Joao Ferdinand-Xavier, ChemEspaña, and the chemical formula that would uncork the genie’s bottle. He thought about risk, calculated and otherwise, and about exposure. There were still too many loose ends.
He thought about the wild card. Grange knew her by reputation. Flawed, disobedient, insubordinate, over-the-top, ballsy. Her fire-red hair and blazing green eyes said it all. She would free him or destroy him. The middle ground seemed to hold no probability whatsoever. He would, of course, engineer the most favorable set of circumstances.
Grange arrived at a mid-rise office complex on Crystal Drive. He walked down the automobile ramp to the parking garage, found the 2005 Toyota Camry registered to someone who had never existed, inserted the key, and soon found himself southbound on the Jefferson Davis Parkway.
He moved effortlessly through traffic. He was alert for followers, though he knew that spotting a properly resourced tail team was next to impossible. His mind returned to the loose ends. There were dozens, but the most pressing problem had to be dealt with immediately.
He opened the glove compartment and retrieved the Glock 20. It was chambered in 10mm, the same diameter as a .40 caliber round but with more propellant behind it. The slug flew faster and made a bigger mess. Plenty of stopping power. Not that the extra oomph would be necessary, but current circumstances notwithstanding, Grange liked to make sure little was left to chance.
The drive took a little over half an hour. Grange turned east off Highway One onto the 242. He drove out onto a peninsula of land jutting into the Potomac River called Mason Neck. Gunston Cove was on the north and east. Belmont Bay bordered the peninsula to the south and west.
The scenery turned pastoral and the road narrowed. The houses and lots grew larger and sparser. Grange passed a horse stable on the left and took the next right. The two-lane road followed a canal leading to the river, became a dirt path, and terminated at the front door of a stately home that could have been transplanted from a cotton plantation.
Grange opened the door to the house with a key from his pocket. He stepped inside and smelled dust, mold, sweat, and urine . . . not unusual for these kinds of circumstances.
A large man in cargo pants with four days of growth on his face met Grange in the foyer. The large man recognized Grange and his posture changed. He stood up straight. He put a mildly obsequious expression on his face. “Sir,” he said.
Grange walked past the man as if he didn’t exist. “Report, please,” he said.
Cargo Pants obliged. “Vitals are steady for both. Psychological indicators are becoming critical. They’ve stopped eating. The old man stopped bargaining three days ago. The girl became indifferent to penetration within the last two days. They’ve both asked for a bullet to the head.”
Grange nodded. “Results?”
Cargo Pants shook his head. “My assessment is we’ve gotten everything we’re going to get.”
“Everything but what I asked you to get,” Grange said. Cargo Pants didn’t answer. “Who else is with you?”
“Some guy on loan from the Farm,” Cargo Pants said.
“Take me to see them.”
Cargo Pants led Grange out the back door of the house and around to the side. A cobblestone path led to a standalone workshop, tucked away between the large home and the thick forest. Cargo Pants produced a key and unlocked the door.
The smell hit Grange first. Cloying, visceral, fecal. Biology in extremis. If fear and desperation had olfactory qualities, this was what they would smell like. “You’ve left nothing to chance,” Grange observed.
“Tried just about everything,” Cargo Pants said.
Grange nodded. His eyes adjusted. He found himself in a dark hallway. The workshop was divided into smaller rooms, each with its own steel door. A man in khakis sat on a folding chair, assault rifle across his hip, futzing with his telephone. Cargo Pants released the padlock on one of the interior cells. He opened the heavy steel door. The hinges protested.
The stench intensified. Grange entered the room and regarded the two heaps of humanity curled up on the floor. The girl was naked, chained to the wall by her ankles. There was blood all over her face and between her legs. The man was bound by his wrists. His shirt was stained dark crimson. His pants were soiled.
They looked up at Grange. Their faces held the profound indifference of the damned. The man muttered something in a language Grange didn’t recognize. The girl said nothing. Her eyes were already dead.
Grange knew he would get nothing further from them.
“Newspaper,” he said.
Cargo Pants handed him today’s edition. He plopped it on the floor next to the girl, filmed a little video, then did the same with the man.
Then he pulled his pistol, aimed, and squeezed the trigger twice. He quickly moved his sights to the remaining target and fired two more rounds. The sharp odor of oxidized propellant hid the smell of blood and sweat and shit.
Four rounds. Two fewer loose ends.