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WASHINGTON, D.C. (Thursday, Dec. 13, 2012) — Mac stretched wearily. He felt like he had been on the phone for fucking forever. The main office was quiet and dark. The receptionist had gone home at 6 p.m.; other reporters had straggled out of the office another hour or so after that. Mac glanced at the clock; it was 8 p.m. He looked at the others. Troy had finally fallen asleep with his head on the table. He’d gotten very little sleep the night before; Mac didn’t begrudge him now. Kristy was still dialing the phone, her pleasant southern accent beguiling people into talking about that great man — or ruthless son of a bitch. Whichever. Jason glanced up at Mac. Shook his head.
“Amazing,” he said simply. “It’s hard to believe.”
Mac shook his head. “Shouldn’t be,” he said. “How do you think things get done in the field? You make it work however you can. Pretty soon the lines blur. Parker came home, but his methods didn’t change.”
“I guess.” Jason shook his head. “So you’re saying he’s no different than the others?”
Mac rolled his shoulders to work out the stiffness. “He crossed the line. At some point he started sacrificing his own men for his career rather than sacrificing for his men. One thing to roust the enemy for your troops. Another thing to roust your troops for yourself.”
“You see it like a military man,” Jason said. “I’m a civilian through and through. So maybe that’s how military men see it. But I think the guy is one of the most ruthless sons of a bitch I’ve ever seen. And I’ve worked in D.C. for 20 years.”
“No argument,” Mac agreed. “We got enough for a story?”
Jason snorted. “Yeah, we’ve got enough.”
Kristy interrupted, her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone. “Mac, I think you should talk to this woman,” she said. “You need to hear her story.”
“Her?” Mac said. There’d been very few women in Parker’s Rolodex, few in his world, Mac suspected.
“Her name is Mrs. S.R. Warren,” Kristy said, handing the phone to him. He looked at her questioning. “His mother,” she said.
“Mrs. Warren, my name is Mac Davis,” Mac said pleasantly, reaching for his notepad. “Kristy probably told you that we’re working on a profile of Howard Parker. I understand you know him.”
“Know him? I should say I do,” a firm but obviously elderly voice replied. “He’s one of the finest men alive.”
“We’ve heard that a lot today, talking to people,” Mac said smoothly. “How do you know him?”
Her husband had been a Marine, she told him, killed behind enemy lines. Covert ops. The Corps wasn’t going to pay his survivor benefits. She’d been a young widow with a son to raise. Then Howard Parker had come to her. Said it wasn’t right, he’d made an endowment for her and her son.
“Yes, he’s known for doing things like that,” Mac said. It was true. Parker had once taken care of his own. “Has he ever asked you for anything in return?”
“Never. Put my son through college, he did,” she said firmly. “When he told me my son wasn’t willing to help him out in an operation he was running now, I was just ashamed. After all that man has done for me and for my son. I called my son up and said you help that man. He’s a good man.”
“Yes ma’am,” Mac said agreeably. “What did your son say?”
“At first he didn’t want to. You men, sometimes,” she said. “But I told him it was only right. He should be proud to help out a man like Howard Parker.”
“What did he want your son to do?”
“I’m not sure I know. It seemed pretty hush, hush, national security stuff you know? My son, he’s at the FBI now, so he deals with those kinds of secrets too.”
“What was your husband’s name?”
“Stanley R. Warren. My son’s name too. Mine’s Elmira, Elmira Warren. You just tell those readers of yours, that Elmira Warren knows a great man when she sees one. Why when I saw that Mr. Parker was going to be Secretary of Homeland Security, I was so proud.”
Mac thanked her and hung up. He looked at Kristy who was watching him with big eyes. “She doesn’t understand what she did at all, does she?” Kristy whispered.
Mac shook his head. Parker, you really are a son of a bitch, he thought.
“So, Warren sold out?” Kristy asked.
Troy lifted his head groggily. “Warren? What are you guys talking about?”
Mac just shook his head. “Depends on if he did what his mama told him to,” he said.
The conversation with Mrs. Warren seemed to end the calls for the evening. It was nearly 9 p.m. Bleary eyes gazed at him waiting for instructions. He rotated his shoulders, shook out his arms.
“You got a safe place to go?” he asked Jason.
Jason shrugged. “Thought I’d stay with friends in Dupont Circle. I live out in Silver Springs — Maryland — but I don’t feel like going out there and then coming back in early in the morning. I assume early in the morning?”
Mac nodded. “You live alone, or you got wife and kids?” he asked. Jason shook his head with a half-smile on his face. “No partner, no significant other? These guys take hostages,” Mac pursued. Jason shook his head again. “I’ll be safe in Dupont Circle,” he promised.
Mac nodded. “Then you need to leave now. Stick to your usual routine but use the metro. You didn’t drive in did you?” Jason shook his head no.
“If Parker has got someone stationed out front, won’t they shoot him?” Troy objected.
Mac shook his head. “If we all left at once, sure. But the shooter is only going to get one chance. Gunfire is going to draw all kinds of cops here. He isn’t going to shoot at Jason here, knowing we’re inside still.”
“Makes sense to me,” Jason said, standing and stretching. “I’d blow off your concerns, but the evidence is on your side. How are you going to get out of here? Or are you planning on spending the night?”
Mac looked around the office mess and shuddered. “No, we’re going. Out the side door to the parking garage where Troy left the car.” He held out his hands for the keys. Troy handed them over reluctantly.
“Won’t Parker have someone there, too?” Jason said, shrugging into his coat. He opened the front door, closed it after all of them were in the hallway and locked it. He rattled the knob to make sure it was locked.
“Yeah, I have a plan for that,” Mac began.
Troy groaned. “You always have a plan.”
Mac’s plan was simple and direct. He was learning from Parker that complicated plans went awry. Keep it simple, stupid, he told himself. Troy and Kristy would wait by the side door. He’d go after the car, bring it around, pick them up.
“What makes you think you can do that without getting shot?” Jason asked.
Mac shrugged. “I’m betting I’m faster and smarter,” he said and grinned. “Want to place a side bet?”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. And how do I collect if I win?” he asked and headed out the front door.
Mac laughed. He stretched out his legs and arms a bit. Met Kristy’s worried eyes. “It will be okay,” he promised. “Really.”
The problem with simple plans is that someone else is likely to fuck them up, Mac found that out the minute he left the building. A tall, dark shape moved away from the wall. Mac dropped into a defensive posture.
“It’s okay, Mac. It’s me,” Stan Warren said softly. He didn’t approach any closer.
“Back off, Agent Warren,” Mac warned, his voice low, almost a growl. Adrenaline was beginning to course through his body; his breathing was shallow and rapid.
“I’m not a threat to you,” Warren repeated.
“Aren’t you?”
The two men stared at each other for a moment.
“Talked to your mom today,” Mac said almost conversationally. “Does Parker know you’re not a threat?”
Warren shrugged. “Parker believes what he wants to believe,” he said tersely. “I....”
Mac looked at him waiting for him to finish the sentence. When he didn’t, Mac asked, “There a shooter in the garage?”
“Don’t know,” Warren said. “Parker’s into redundancy, these days.”
“So odds are if you don’t take me out, someone else is out there waiting?” Mac shook his head. “Back off, Warren. I don’t trust you. I’ll give you this one chance, but the next time I see you uninvited I’ll assume you’re the enemy. Back off.”
Warren hesitated, then nodded, and turned to leave.
“You know what happens to a man who tries to straddle a fence too long,” Mac called softly after him. “He ends up with no balls at all.”
Warren’ shoulders hunched. He looked back over his shoulder. “I know where I stand,” he said. “Maybe no one else does, but I know.”
Mac gave him a sloppy two-finger salute, but he didn’t take his eyes off of him until Warren was down a block and turning the corner. Then he refocused on the parking garage next door. Out, down the block, 15 paces, he estimated. The stairs were dangerous, someone could shoot down and he’d be trapped. Go up the ramp, more room to maneuver, cars to hide behind.
Act as if there’s a sniper there, he reminded himself. Tell yourself that until every muscle and nerve believes it. He took a deep breath, slowed his breathing. Then walking briskly, his head bowed as if from the cold, he walked down the block and darted into the parking garage.
The first ramp parking area was baren, no cars to hide behind. He stayed close to the wall, watching, listening. A car started up on the floor above, its engine echoing in the silent garage. Mac eased up to the turn onto the first parking level. He listened. Nothing. His eyes adjusted to the dimly lit gloom. Nothing moved.
The sniper wouldn’t be able to see him clearly, he thought, as he moved around the corner and onto the second floor. He’d wait where he could see the Saturn, see Mac head toward it to be sure he had the right man. Still Mac didn’t take any chances. He stayed close to the wall, prepared to duck behind a car if something happened. Turned the corner up the ramp leading to the second floor.
He hoped the shooter was watching the stairs, not the ramps. He sprinted up the second ramp, flattening himself against the wall. Listened. Nothing. Troy said the car was parked just around the corner of the ramp on the outside wall. He’d be able to see it when he ducked around the corner. But the shooter would be able to see him when he moved out too.
This was the most vulnerable moment of the operation. Mac took his time. He visualized ducking around the corner at a crouch. Most shooters aimed for the chest or head, but he would be lower than that. He felt for the clicker that unlocked the door, took it in his hand. As soon as the door sounded, the shooter would know he was here. Do it too early, he gave himself away. Too late, and he stood beside a car waiting for the door to unlock. He took a deep breath, crouched and moved quickly.
The first shot reverberated off the wall above his head the second he came around the corner. A chunk of concrete exploded pelting him with tiny fragments. Mac clicked the door unlocked and scrambled across the pavement in one fluid zigzagging movement. A second shot missed again, but not by much. The shooter was good. Mac hoped he was better.
He reached the car, pulled the door open. Another shot shattered the glass in the driver’s window. Mac flung himself across the seats, fumbled for the key, and put it in the ignition. The Saturn started up smoothly, to his relief. The sniper could have fucked with it, Mac realized belatedly.
He stayed down, closed the car door, and using one hand to drive, backed out of the parking spot. No shots. He twisted himself around in the car, not easy in a Saturn, and started the car down the ramp. No one. He peered out, barely visible over the steering wheel. Nothing. Still wary, he turned the corner, down the next ramp. No shots. He sat up, gave the car a bit of gas and gathered speed for the last down ramp. If the shooter was still here, he’d be waiting at the bottom, Mac thought.
A shadow moved to his left, Mac reached under the seat, grabbed the 9mm. He pointed it out the broken window and fired. The shadow yelped, and Mac shot out of the garage into the open street.
He pulled to a stop in front of the door to the building. Troy pulled Kristy out from behind him, opened the rear car door shoved her in and then slid in himself. Mac was moving before Troy had the door closed.
“We heard shots,” Kristy whispered. Troy held her head down below the seat. He too stayed low.
“Yeah, there was someone waiting.”
“You okay?” she asked.
“I’m okay. Winged him.” Mac made a turn at the corner and another turn a couple of blocks later. He took State Street, it would send him diagonally across town, he knew. He watched the rearview mirror. Finally, he sighed and pulled over.
“Where are we?” Troy said, sitting up cautiously.
“Haven’t a clue,” Mac admitted. “It’s your city. Get up here and drive us home.”
Troy parked the battered Saturn in a guest spot in his secured parking lot. His own car was downtown if it hadn’t been towed weeks ago. “They got in this far, before,” he warned as the three of them headed toward the elevator. “Be wary.”
Kristy bit her lip but nodded and followed Troy. Mac brought up the rear, the 9mm tucked into his coat pocket. He watched carefully with his back to the other two. The elevator pinged; Troy herded them into it. Mac didn’t relax until they were in Troy’s apartment and had checked all the closets. Then he engaged the safety on the gun, shoved it back in his pocket and stretched out in the leather chair.
“You going to protest if I cook dinner?” Kristy asked shakily as she took off her coat.
“Not a word,” Mac promised.
Mac felt restless and went into the bedroom, shut the door, while Troy helped Kristy in the kitchen. He picked up the phone and dialed Parker’s home number.
Parker answered.
“Your shooters missed,” Mac said, without preamble. Parker said nothing. Mac continued, “Talked to Elmira Warren, today. That was a fine thing you did for that family. Took care of your men, there. Heard that a lot today. But that was in the '90s. By 2007 you could shoot one of your men point blank and order another one killed by Mexican bandits. I don’t get it.”
Parker was silent. Mac let the silence continue. Finally, Parker said, “Sergeant Warren died obeying my orders,” he said at last. “Hightower was going to betray me.”
“Is that how you justify it?” Mac asked. “Clayton too?”
“Clayton refused an order! I told him to take out Hightower, and he said he wouldn’t. The boy’s just shooting his mouth off, he said. It won’t go anywhere.”
“But you were afraid it would.”
Parker snorted. “We could see Bush was not going to be re-elected. That pansy Obama was going to be president. What would he know about the necessities of war?”
“What war was Hightower the enemy in?”
“He was aiding the enemy, shooting off his mouth like that. People were beginning to listen, to ask questions. I couldn’t afford that.”
“What enemy was he aiding?” Mac pursued.
Parker said angrily, “People were out to get me, don’t you understand? People who were looking for a chance to bring me down. One misstep, one bungled operation. That’s all they needed. And I’d be nobody.”
“I see,” Mac said. “So Hightower was aiding your enemies in politics. Not enemies of the United States. You killed your own man because of your personal enemies.”
Parker was silent. “Enemies of mine are enemies of the United States,” he said at last.
“Obama supporters? Liberals, Democrats?” Mac asked, adding to himself, sane people? “All of them are enemies of this country because they disagree with you?”
“Someone has to make the hard decisions,” Parker snarled. “That someone was me. I did the things that needed to be done for this country. Things that other people didn’t want to get their hands dirty doing. Things that were hard, sometimes. I got them done. I deserve credit for that!”
“What were you doing in Central America?” Mac asked.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Come on Parker, I heard it okay? What hard things were you doing down there? The Contras? What else? Panama? Were you the reason I slogged through Panama for six months?”
Parker laughed. “Probably,” he said. “We needed to roust out Castro’s influence down there. Sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better.”
“You worked to destabilize the region, then sent in military to help re-establish order.”
“Well not just me, of course,” Parker demurred. “But I had a role in that, yeah. And we did it.”
“So, in the late 70s you were in Asia, the 80s you were in and out of Central America. Come home to be a drug lord. Somewhat of a come-down wasn’t it?”
“I had the contacts,” Parker said. “We caught a smuggler who had the operation already going. Turned him, expanded it. Grew the operation.”
“Must have been pretty scary when reporters started writing about it in the mid-90s.”
Parker’s laugh was cold. “Discredit the bastards. Turn a few sources to deny they’d said anything. Not hard. Besides, there’s been stories like that for 50 years. No one really believes them. Or disbelieves them. Just rumors.”
“And poured your product into L.A.”
“Don’t know where the cocaine was sold,” Parker said, disinterested in this line of questions. “Not my job. Coke flowed out and money flowed back in.”
Mac shifted the phone to his other ear. Checked to make sure the recorder was still running. A dead battery right now would be a bitch.
“So you shut that down. The Democrats come in, and you kill two of your men. That was a low point in your career. You were so low on power and money then that you had to pull the trigger yourself. Not like sending the Marines into Panama.”
Parker didn’t say anything. Mac went on, “You seem to have regained your position and power. How did that happen?”
“I realized that I had to take care of myself,” he said slowly, reflectively. “People owed me. I made sure they remembered that. I showed them I wasn’t afraid to collect. If they didn’t pay up, there were consequences.”
“Consequences?”
“You pay for what you do,” Parker said, regaining his confidence. “If they didn’t want to pay me for rescuing them, they could pay for their original crime.”
“And people like Sgt. Warren’s son? What crime is he paying for? And Kevin at the Examiner?”
“I paid for their education. This is the interest payment,” Parker said coldly.
“So who did you hire to kill a cop? Didn’t that bother you some?”
“Donnelly you mean? Half-assed cop. But he could research. Wasn’t expecting that his curiosity would direct him to me.”
“What did?”
“He got curious about why I wanted to know about you,” Parker said. “My man went by to pick up your profile, and Donnelly was asking all sorts of questions. The wrong questions. When my man called in, he recommended we take Donnelly out, blame you for it. Kill two birds with one stone.”
“Complicated,” Mac observed. “Didn’t work out real well.”
“No,” Parker said.
“Didn’t work out in Louisiana either. Nor tonight. What does that tell you?”
“Have to do it myself,” Parker said coldly. Then he laughed. “Hard to believe these conversations, isn’t it? Kellerman said you and I were a lot alike. Perhaps he was right.”
Mac smiled grimly. “Kellerman died because he bet on you rather than on me,” Mac said flatly. “You’re making the same mistake.”
Parker laughed. “We’ll see won’t we?” he said, and hung up. Mac turned off the recorder and sat in the silence until Kristy called him to supper.