Chapter Two

Six months earlier…

Stanford Carter whisked a hand across his thigh, smoothing out the blended wool fabric of his pants. His wife, Jill said just this morning that the clothes made the man, but the former captain of the Boston P.D. felt the universe favored substance over fashion. As discretion is often the better part of valor, he kept his mouth mercifully shut. Today, fashion ruled, no matter what he thought.

Carter was a devoted student of Zen Buddhism. It helped give him peace of mind and an understanding of the universe so that he could operate within it. For a lifetime cop, this was no small undertaking. So far, he’d found neither one, but he kept trying, believing the answers were there if he looked hard enough. What he hadn’t yet learned was that an attractive philosophy offering solace didn’t necessarily help one find any answers at all. Or peace. Carter was on a journey wearing blinders. He staunchly refused to analyze thoughts he wasn’t prepared to face. He was, therefore, neither equipped to face the future nor able to fully enjoy his life in the present.

Carter sat outside the office of New York F.B.I. Deputy Director William Fischetti. The deputy director invited Carter and his wife, Jill Seacrest, to join the Bureau hoping they could solve a string of murders that changed all the rules of the game. Carter was offered the rank of a seasoned agent and would also act as a team leader.

Seacrest, a scientist at the very top of her profession, was to work directly under the supervision of the director of Forensic Sciences. They’d heard the deputy director was notoriously capricious in nature, so he was determined to meet Fischetti on high ground and keep it. That’s why he was more than a little surprised to be greeted by a middle-aged, balding man, about six inches shorter than himself and twenty inches wider around the middle. He greeted Carter with clipped speech and a curt manner while he scribbled something on a piece of paper. It was rude to multi-task during a meeting, especially with a new hire, and Carter was already starting to have second thoughts when Fischetti finally looked up and spoke to him.

“Come in, Agent Carter. Have a seat. Welcome to the fold.”

“Already in and sitting, sir. Thank you.”

“I’ve wanted you for here for some time now. Your dossier is very impressive. Let’s see; you’ve been with the Boston P.D. for your entire career; you became a cop because your cousin was the victim of a particularly heinous crime; your nose has always been clean; apparently, it is not possible to make you lose your temper; and you’re a spiritualist, yet you chose a career that is frequently violent and requires you to understand how criminals think, capture them, and enforce the law rather than judge or change it. Tell me, why did you finally decide to join us here in New York?”

“Expanding my horizons, sir. At least that’s what my wife says.”

Carter leaned back in his chair. Fischetti was toying with him, so he broke the tension by invoking the name of his fearsomely smart wife, a woman with a temper even more fearsome than her I.Q. “We both needed more room to grow. She thinks New York is my next logical career move, and I think her talent and dedication deserves a post that will showcase her skills and prove her value in crime scene forensics, so, here we are.”

Both were so much a part of the other that their relationship blurred the line of distinction at times. Lately, they’d been going through a rough patch. She wanted to talk things out and he didn’t, but he grudgingly admitted to himself that if he didn’t switch gears soon, he might lose her.

“Let’s get down to cases, shall we? In the last several months, we’ve had a rash of murders committed by perpetrators whose sole motive seems to be the sick thrill of killing. Can you beat that? Did you ever encounter anything like that in Boston, Agent Carter?” The deputy director leaned forward with his fingers tightly woven. “I need someone who can tell the trees from the forest. I’m hoping you’re the man for the job.”

“I appreciate your confidence, sir, but there must have been a host of capable candidates. Why me?”

Fischetti showed a glimmer of admiration for Carter. “So there’s more to you than meets the eye. O.K., let me be frank. Special Agent Blumenthal trained some of my finest people over the past decade, but he recently retired, and I have an outstanding rookie who needs to be taken under someone’s wing until we can get the program running smoothly again. You’re a seasoned career cop and an ex-captain, so that gives you the edge on mentoring rookies. I’m also well aware of your conviction rate in Boston, but I’m more impressed with how you handled multiple serials, even when it meant taking down some of your corrupt brothers in blue.”

Carter was suddenly very uncomfortable.

Is he hinting at something? Am I here because he doesn’t trust his own people? It sounds to me like he doesn’t believe they’re thrill kills. He mentioned multiple serials, but the chances of them all being related to each other is astronomical….

Fischetti pretended not to notice the look on Carter’s face and kept fishing. “How’d you ferret out the bad apples?”

“I don’t have an exact science or game plan, sir. I rely more on gut feeling and instinct than on what I’m told in the briefing room or read in the files. I’m perfectly at ease with my own ability to know the individual from the team. Like you said, it’s all about being able to tell the trees from the forest.”

Let him think about that one.

Fischetti wedged his chin in between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand for a moment. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear. Agent Carter, I’m going to have to trust you, because we don’t have the time to see if that trust is warranted. I hope you can do the same. I believe in the integrity and values of the Bureau. That’s a big chunk of the reason you and Agent Seacrest were asked here.”

Carter nodded his thanks.

He wants us here because he believes in the integrity and values of the Bureau. That more than implies there are those here who don’t.

“What’s next on the agenda, sir?”

“You and Agent Seacrest both have to complete training at Quantico.”

Carter sighed. “You are aware I’ve spent the last few years behind a captain’s desk.”

Fischetti was amused and sympathetic. “You’ll have to keep up with criminals and a rookie half your age. Her name is Shania Deeprose, and she’s from Alabama. She’ll have you back on the fast-track in no time and keep you there. Her enthusiasm knows no bounds, Agent. She could charm the clouds out of the sky, but be prepared for the accent. It’s slightly nauseating.”

Carter remembered Seacrest’s intensity early on in her career, especially the times he heard her talking to herself in the lab. She may have seemed a little screwy to everyone else, but not to him.

Carter was pleased to have a partner who still saw the glass half full, because it wouldn’t be long before reality set in. A bad disposition was nearly always a sign that a rookie wouldn’t last long. It took all his strength and every last drop of optimism to combat his own burnout. Meditation was essential to Carter’s ability to last, even with the enduring and indefatigable support Seacrest gave him.

Fischetti stuck out his right hand. “Enjoy Quantico. It won’t be a cake-walk anymore, but getting back to basics is the best way to start.”

They walked out of the office and into the common area where a pair of elevator doors opened on an out-of-breath Seacrest, whose hand immediately shot out in introduction. “Sorry! I was parking the damn car. Boy, it’s murder out there!” She smiled exuberantly. The men turned to glance at one another.

Fischetti whispered in Carter’s ear, “Interesting choice of words.”

***

One week later…

Carter held his gun with both hands around the grip. It was cocked skyward.

He mouthed silently, “On three…”

Flanking Carter to his left was hopeful Adam Royals, and just behind him was Seacrest. He barely mouthed “two” when Royals charged. Carter made a desperate grab for Royals’ shirt, but he couldn’t stop him. Earlier, the squad experienced a major telecommunications failure, leaving them at odds with the demands of the bank robbers inside the building Royals was already charging. They had very little hope of getting assistance from a S.W.A.T. team now.

Royals skirted around the corner of a brick building, but his shadow fell across the sidewalk in full view.

“He’s going to get himself killed.” Seacrest stated the obvious.

“We’ll have to change the plan to compensate.” Carter rose, but his breath rate did not. He sprinted with a fluid grace most men nearing forty only dream of. Seacrest tagged behind him darting to the left and right, each pivot carrying her forward on a horizontal plane, in case there was a sniper aiming at them from the top of the building. It was a beautiful dance, a rhythm born of their long, hard years of partnership, and it was a breathtaking sight to see.

Ahead, Royals was bearing down on the bank’s front door, gun drawn. Carter willed him to succeed.

You’ve already committed yourself, so move with purpose; move as if you are an army of one…

The young man, glory-bound and out to make his mark, instantly abandoned every protocol taught to him in the classroom. He made a wild card of himself, but Carter thought he could work around it. It made life a little more interesting even if it was also a little more dangerous. The outcome was not likely to be a good one, though. Royals had been counting on the element of surprise. Unfortunately, he was the one surprised.

You made your mark, all right - a big, red one all over the pavement.

With the advantage lost, the enemy’s strength was in numbers. An armed man standing guard just behind the door’s small window was not the first hostile to see Royals. A coded message transmitted by a hand-held communication device on the roof across the street had already warned him to cut the head off the snake. It was done with technology as high-grade as the agents chasing them.

The guard was prepared to kill Royals, but before he could fire his weapon, the blinding light of a Personal Halting and Stimulation Response rifle, better known as a PHaSR, threw Royals to his knees. The laser light bounced off the bank’s windows blinding both of them. It was a one-for-one chess move well played by Seacrest, but whoever had been behind the guard now had direct aim on her and Carter.

It was two against God-only-knew how many holed up in the bank, mainly because their infrared imaging scan could not distinguish enemies from innocents. Carter was going to have to rely on good old human ingenuity, instead. If he failed, the hostages would be killed.

He grabbed the rifle out of Seacrest’s hands and threw it at the bank window, another wild-card play meant to throw off the enemy. Shots rang out from the inside, shattering glass that made Carter and Seacrest leap this way and that. They were forced to separate to maximize the odds that one would survive to save the innocents.

Carter was on one knee to the left of the entrance. Negotiation was out of the question. He and Seacrest were the only ones left on the Bureau’s defensive team. Because their attempt to radio for help had gone unanswered, Carter couldn’t blame Royals for his early charge. Nevertheless, they had very little time to wait in the shadows. The squad had to become offensive fast; every moment the enemies held the hostages at gunpoint increased the likelihood that their lives would be lost.

“I surrender! We’ll meet your demands!” Carter yelled at the top of his voice. Seacrest watched in horror at the sacrifice, but no one was more surprised than Carter when the shooting actually ceased.

Carter held his arms above him like a pair of eagle’s wings. “We’re ready to give you a helicopter in exchange for the hostages, but our radio is jammed. We need to find another way to signal them.”

He didn’t have much hope of buying time. The enemy knew by now they were only up against a handful of agents, but if he could keep them focused on what he was saying, there was a chance he could keep them from noticing anything else. It was worth a try, anyway.

He waited to see what their next move would be. The silence was awful. Suddenly, Seacrest darted around the corner of the building and headed toward the back of the building, side-arm blazing. Fire resumed on both sides.

I knew you would do that…

Carter rolled on his side and remained on the ground to avoid being hit by the barrage of enemy fire that blasted out the remains of the front door and windows. Royals, still blinded, flipped around like a fish out of water.

Seacrest heard the hostages screaming inside. Carter was still down, but she had an idea. She scooted around the back of the bank looking for an employee entrance.

Bingo!

She fired relentlessly at the unguarded doorway, throwing down her gun when the bullets were spent and grabbing another from her holster. Meanwhile, Carter had to make the enemy think he was out of cards to play, so he threw down his weapon, stood up very slowly with his arms over his head for the second time in fifteen minutes. Then, he waited for the enemies to show themselves.

***

When speech was no longer possible, Carter and Seacrest often resorted to communicating through an instinct born of years spent together in the field, so she already knew what he wanted her to do. She raced through the employee entrance in back and pulled the fire alarm at the same time Carter charged the front entrance in a Hail Mary play. The alarm was supposed to send the enemy running out the front entrance thinking they’d been raided from the back.

It worked. She found the hostages bound together, huddled behind a desk. If Carter failed to eliminate the enemy…

I die with the hostages.

Less than a moment later, the S.W.A.T. team showed up in response to the alarm she pulled. They successfully took out the hostiles and saved all but one of the hostages, who took a stray bullet in the head, but they were too late to save Carter. Despite his Kevlar vest, several bullets grazed arteries in his neck and legs. Even if the blood was staunched, no surgeon could ever repair them.

Seacrest dropped down to the ground next to him and sobbed, even though they’d been able to pull off victory in a no-win-scenario bank robbery staged on Quantico’s academy grounds.

There is no victory in death.