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Saturday, October 25, 2014, Seattle, Washington
They came just before lunchtime.
Brian Winters saw them pass the camera coming in from north off the 520 bridge. It almost triggered his PTSD to see a convoy lead by a Humvee headed his way. Not some civilian’s wet-dream Hummer, but an honest-to-god military-grade Humvee. He could tell there was another vehicle behind it, but he didn’t know how many more.
Didn’t matter. He hit the alarm button in the guard house. Then he pulled out his cell and called his brother. “They’re coming now with an armored Humvee in the lead,” he said.
“Don’t open the gate!” Kevin said. “I’m on my way.”
“No,” Brian said, determined not to let his brother down. “I won’t open it. But Kevin? They’re going to plow right through it.”
“Call Mac?”
“Next,” Brian promised. He ended the call to his brother, and then he took a deep breath, and called Mac Davis.
“Yo,” Mac said.
“There’s a Humvee headed our way,” Brian said. “Just passed the camera off the bridge. It’s moving slow. But Mac, that gate isn’t going to hold.”
“I’m on my way,” Mac told him. “Hang tight. Don’t open the gate. Don’t leave the guard house. That’s all you have to do.”
“Follow directions, right?” Brian said, trying to keep it light.
“That’s it.”
Mac dropped the call. He was on the perimeter path and figured he could make it to the gate faster than a Humvee could. But fuck, that was as close to a tank as a civilian could get — and actually better for their purposes. Andy Malloy, he figured. That SOB was the kind of guy who would have a military Humvee in a garage where he could go sit in it and feel like a badass.
He let go of the breath he was holding and started off at a run.
He called the house. It was Paulina who answered. “They’re here,” he said simply. “Get the kids — and the dog — in the safe room. Unlock the door to the gun locker. They brought a Humvee — it will go through the gate. Tell Dunbar to get on the roof, make sure Stan Warren and Rand Nickerson know it’s coming. Tell everyone to secure their work. Then hand them a handgun, rifle or shotgun, if they know how to use one.”
“I will, Mac,” she said. Mac had no doubt she would.
Mac thought about the situation. He had to back up Brian Winters. Then what? He shrugged. It all would depend on what happened at the gate. He picked up a bit of speed. He was wearing running gear. No vest. But he was armed. His smaller Glock was in its ankle holster thankfully. Not that it was going to do much against the firepower they’d brought to the Rodriguez house.
Got to get them before they can get set up, he thought coldly. And he ran harder.
Angie had gone down to the lake intending to catch up with Mac on his perimeter run. It was his second loop around the property. She knew he was having a hard time coping with the confinement. He needed a gym workout. If they were going to be here much longer, they needed to figure out how to set one up. Lord knew there was plenty of space.
She had just reached the wooded portion of the perimeter path, when she saw Mac answer his phone. He listened, then he dialed another number, and said something briefly. And then he started to run.
Didn’t take a genius to figure out there was a problem. And really, there was only one problem that would make Mac run like that. There was a problem at the gate. Angie picked up her pace. She wasn’t going to catch up with him, but she wanted to make sure she was up there where she could do something to help. She wasn’t sure what. But something.
She was carrying her small Ruger. Mac had insisted. Get used to having it on you, he said. It needs to become second nature, so that you feel weird without it — as if you forgot your underwear, he’d said with a grin. But he meant it, and she carried it. She wasn’t the only one carrying a weapon. Most everyone had a handgun on them or nearby — even the phreaks and Tim Brandt. She wished she was sure which way Tim would point the gun, but he was carrying one, nonetheless.
She frowned. She could hear a truck. It sounded like a dump truck — something big and noisy, and it was moving slow. No acceleration, just a steady, loud engine. That couldn’t be good. Had they brought something that could just plow through the gate? She started to run faster, then slowed back down. The few minutes she saved wouldn’t be worth much if she was gasping for air when she got there.
Steady, she told herself, just a steady lope that you could do forever. She snorted. She followed Mac through the Cascades at this pace, however. She might not be able to do it forever, but she could do it long enough.
Joe Dunbar followed Mac’s instructions, and laboriously made his way up the outside staircase to the roof. Tim Brandt carried the AR-15s that Paulina had decreed were necessary for Joe to have. That kid as his spotter? Joe shrugged. Well, really, all he needed was someone who could carry shit since he couldn’t.
He felt like he was assigned up here to keep him out of the way. Because what could a guy on crutches do anyway? But once on the roof, he realized, a guy on crutches with this viewpoint could do a hell of a lot. He looked at Tim. “You ever fire an AR-15?”
Tim shook his head.
“You hunted, right?” Joe asked him, his eyes on the road.
“Yeah,” Tim said. “I’m OK with a rifle.”
“We’re going to be shooting at people, not deer,” Joe went on. “Think you can handle that? If not, you can just be my spotter and hand me loaded weapons.”
There was silence, and Joe looked over his shoulder at the kid — Janet’s son? He couldn’t be older than 20.
“I shot a person,” Tim said, quietly. “He was going to kill Janet.” He swallowed hard. “I can do it again if I have to. There are kids here.”
Joe looked at him and wondered about that story. Well if they survived this, he’d ask. “OK,” he said now. “Let me show you how to use an AR-15. And more important, how to load the damn thing.”
Tim nodded.
Paulina stuck her head into the computer room and told them what Mac had said.
Shorty looked at his team. “Send everything to the Examiner server and log out. Close everything down. Frag anything you don’t want to fall into the hands of cops — the dirty ones,” he ordered. “Or the good cops, for that matter. Then head downstairs and grab a gun, maybe two. Paulina can help you find one you can shoot. Some are complicated. But some? You point and pull the trigger. Then find Rand Nickerson. He’ll tell you where you need to be.”
“What about you?” Misaki asked as she and Ruri started the shutdown procedure they’d worked out. Mike was sending databases to the Examiner server.
“I stay here,” he said. Something nagged at him. Something they were on the verge of discovering, he thought, but there was something. “If they get this far, I’ll be here.”
She looked at him and nodded. And she erased everything from her laptop’s hard drive.
Stan Warren and Janet Andrews were having coffee on the patio. It was cold and gray out, but it wasn’t raining or windy. Janet counted that as a win. She had the architectural plans out for her house, and they were talking about them. Stan thought she needed a sunroom in back where she could enjoy the garden rather than a big front porch that she wouldn’t use. Her old house had a big porch, and it had fit the house and the era it was built in, he said, but the days when people sat on a porch and talked to neighbors as they walked by were gone.
Janet considered that. It made good sense to build a house she could use, rather than just rebuild the bungalow as it had been. She nodded. She took a deep breath and then asked the question that they were dancing around: “Stan?” she said. “Will you share this house with me?”
He looked at her steadily. “Are you sure?” he asked. “You’re used to your own space.”
She smiled at him. “If this safe house has taught me anything, it’s that having people in my space isn’t as bad as I thought. I would love for this new house to be our house.”
He smiled back. “I like the sound of that,” he said. “Our house. Our home.”
She kissed him. Paulina came out of the house. “Sorry,” she said, sounding somewhat amused to interrupt. “But there’s a problem at the gate. Mac says they’ve come — and they’re driving a Humvee. The gate won’t hold.”
Janet watched as Stan changed from the loving man she’d just kissed to the coldly professional FBI agent — who, unfortunately, she was also all too familiar with as well. “Thank you, Paulina,” he said. “Are the kids safe?”
Paulina nodded. She looked at Janet. “We have Pulitzer too,” she said with a slight smile. “They’re in the safe room with Juan. Carolina’s in charge of the kids, and they’re working on homework. Or petting Pulitzer. I’ll be outside, guarding that room.”
The way she said it, Janet doubted anyone was going to argue with her. “Give me a rifle I can actually shoot,” Janet said. “I’ll go with you.”
Stan nodded at the two of them. “Good,” he said. “We’ll try to make sure they don’t get that far, but if they do, I have faith in you two. Protect the children.”
Stan headed to the gun locker on the first floor. He might think Mac had some serious issues to have accumulated weapons like these, but he was damned glad he wasn’t going to be facing a Humvee with just his service weapon. Rand was there already. He was instructing the computer geek team on what they were to do — the roof of the garage. There was a ladder on the back side that led to the roof. Get on top, sight your gun in midway down the slope from the gate to the house. Pick your shots. Stay close to the roof, so they don’t shoot you.
The three of them nodded, and Misaki headed off, the other two following her.
“Not a bad location for you either,” Stan said. “Who’s on the roof here?”
“Joe is, and Tim’s up there too,” Rand replied. “I thought I would go there. What about you?”
“I’m going to open up the guard house at the foot of the tram,” Stan replied. It hadn’t been in use for a long time — probably not since Mac had invaded this fortress and rescued the hostages. “It’s got bulletproof glass, and if they come through the gate? It’s a good spot for an ambush.” He looked up at the road as the Humvee hit the gate. “Scratch that,” Stan said. “I’m heading for the garage. They’re already taking out the gate.”
“You think they’ll make it through?” Rand asked, as he started up the steps.
Stan shrugged. “Depends on Mac,” he said. “They’ll have to go through him to do it.”
“Mac vs a Humvee?” Rand considered that. “Glad I’ll have a clear view to watch.”
Stan Warren snorted and headed toward the garage. He grabbed scoped Remington .270 rifle. He could have sworn there was at least one AR-15 in the arsenal. Someone was hoarding the good stuff.
Brian Winters had stood guard duty like this before. In a different country, a different compound, a different enemy. He had hoped never to do it again. But his brother had been persuasive. It was an easy gig, he said, just turn the tourists back, and hand out the key to the realtors on the approved list.
And Kevin had been right. It was an easy gig, until former Marine Mac Davis came through the gate with a whole bunch of people who needed a safe place to hide out.
And guard duty became real again.
Well, sort of real. It was hard to believe this was a compound that might come under attack — it was in Medina, for God’s sake. A rich man’s house on Lake Washington. It was on the market at $12 million, a mansion really. And that stupid tram so that people didn’t have to walk up the hill? That said it all, as far as he was concerned. He’d watched realtors take prospective buyers down and back up in it. And he shook his head.
If it had only been sort of real until now, the sound of a Humvee rumbling down the street brought the world into sharp focus. And what he saw wasn’t good. The guard house was inside the gate — which was good for his safety, but it also meant that he could do little until they smashed through the gate. But then, if they couldn’t smash through it — or they didn’t even try — then he didn’t need to do anything, did he?
The gate was white-painted wrought iron bars. He grimaced. Fancy looking, but he would have been happier with a solid gate like the one down the street, or even reinforced steel bars. A lot of money had gone into security for this house — he’d heard some bigwig in the intelligence community owned it — but there were some serious gaps.
It was as if the builders hadn’t seriously believed anyone was coming for the people inside this compound in Medina, either. Not to a rich-man’s neighborhood created to keep the riff-raff at bay.
His brother had warned him. The people who came might look like cops, might be cops. Don’t open the gate. If they’re not on the list? Don’t open the gate.
He got it. He did. He didn’t like it. But he got it.
He wasn’t going to open the gate. But now, he feared it wouldn’t make a difference whether he opened it or not. That Humvee would come right through that gate.
Then what? What was he supposed to do then? He considered that question, and hoped to God Mac got here before he had to answer it.
The Humvee pulled up in front of the gate. It was at a bad angle really, Brian thought, a bit amused. The gate was too close to the road for the driver to angle into it directly. The driver had a loudspeaker of some kind.
“Open the gate,” he said. “This is the Seattle Police, and we have warrants for the arrest of people believed to be inside.”
Brian picked up his own microphone. “The Seattle Police Department doesn’t have jurisdiction here,” Brian said. He thought that was true. It sounded good. “Do you have a search warrant? Where are the Medina officers to execute it? I have strict orders to not open the gate.”
“We’re coming through whether you open it or not,” the man said. Brian couldn’t get a sense of him at all. Just a voice coming through a speaker. “The question is will you survive it? Or will you end up injured or worse for resisting arrest?”
Brian raised his eyebrows at that. Had he just threatened to kill him? “Sir, could you identify yourself? Name, badge and rank?”
“Who the hell are you?” another voice said. This was lower, angrier — kind of gravelly as if he’d been, maybe still was, a smoker.
“My name is Brian Winters,” Brian said, figuring it didn’t matter. “Who are you?”
“Screw this shit,” the second voice said. Brian thought he was talking to the first speaker more than he was speaking to him. “I want Mac Davis. Forget all this crap, and plow through that gate!”
The driver backed up a bit to get a better angle, and then he moved forward. The gate held. Brian was surprised actually.
But he could hear it begin to creak. The hinges, he thought. They can’t handle the stress. Or the lock? He looked at the Humvee and he thought about the kids inside the house down there. Nice kids. That big fluffy mutt. He watched them play on the lawn by the lake. And the older girl? Carolina? She’d stopped to talk to him a couple of times when she walked the perimeter path. Too young to even think about flirting with. Too young to face these fuckers.
What would these men do to them if they came through the gate?
Probably nothing deliberately, he thought, but he knew how that was. Civilian casualties were often young.
Or women. He thought of the tall woman, Janet, who was always so calm and clear in what she told him. Or Angie, Mac Davis’s girlfriend, who had the warmest smile he’d ever seen — and had a teal streak in her hair. He grinned, thinking of it. Or those two girls who dressed like Manga characters? What was up with that?
Or what about Paulina, who brought him treats when he was on duty at supper time? She’d seen guard houses before, he thought. He wondered when and where.
What would these men do to them?
“Who are you looking for?” Brian asked now, hoping to delay the situation.
“We have warrants for Mac Davis, Joe Dunbar, Stan Warren, Janet Andrews, Anna Rodriguez and Juan and Paulina Moore.”
“Nope,” Brian said. “Don’t know any of them.”
The man on the microphone snorted. Well, Brian couldn’t blame him. He knew he couldn’t lie worth a damn.
The gate creaked and then it gave way. The Humvee ground through.
Brian brought his gun up ready to fire. Could he take out the driver? A Humvee’s tires were almost impossible to take out. There wasn’t any air in them to deflate. Not if they were military run-flat tires. He eyed the vehicle and grimaced. No, this wasn’t a rich man’s toy. Someone had gotten their hands on the real thing. He wasn’t going to take out the tires.
Maybe the driver. He’d rolled down his window when he started speaking. Brian was an OK shot, but he’d have to wait until the driver was parallel to try.
But he would try, he decided. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t. If he cowered in here, and let them reach the house?
No, he wasn’t going to do that.
He steadied his gun. It was an OK sidearm, not really much more than a basic ‘handgun’. A simple Glock 19 9mm like Mac’s. He didn’t have any special ammo. He shrugged. If the driver didn’t roll up his window, he wouldn’t need any. He would just need to take the shot and hit what he aimed at.
He grinned. He could hear his dad saying that when he’d first learned to shoot, going hunting: just take the shot and hit what you aim at, son. That’s all there is to it.
The gate had collapsed, but it got tangled up in the bumper of the Humvee. The driver tried to push through, but it wasn’t going anywhere. Brian snickered and lowered his pistol.
The passenger got out. He was one of those men who had been out of the military for 30 years and still wore his hair cut as if he’d got out yesterday. He was wearing blue jeans and a western shirt. He stomped up to the front of the Humvee and pulled the gate away from the vehicle and tossed it to the side. Brian swallowed. He might be pushing 60 but he wasn’t out of shape — or he was fueled with rage.
Both, he thought. The man started to get into the vehicle again. He glared at Brian, and then said, “Oh, to hell with it. No point in leaving the enemy at our backs.”
He pulled a gun from a holster at his waist and pointed it at Brian. Brian raised his own gun again, but he was too slow. He heard the shot, he felt the pain, and then he was falling.
Well, shit he thought, and fired at the driver. He didn’t hit him, he didn’t think. But he wasn’t going down without even taking a shot.
He heard someone shout, and then someone was there, pressing something against the wound. It was a bad one, Brian knew. A gut shot, just off to the left. He tried to focus. Mac. He’d pulled off his shirt, and then he had it wadded against the wound, and was pressing down hard.
“I didn’t open the gate,” Brian said.
“You did good, soldier,” Mac said. “Now, you just hang on. We’ve called the good guys, both cops and an ambulance. I can hear the ambulance. So, you hang on, you hear me?”
“Do my best,” Brian promised.
Mac pressed down firmly on the bullet wound. Second bloody shirt in a week, he thought grimly. Said something about his life lately. He looked up. Some sound, some movement. And Andy Malloy was standing there.
“Well, well,” Malloy said. “They promised if I’d come on board, I’d get to see you dead. And since you fucked up my gig in the North Cascades and cost me the gun range, I had time on my hands. So sure, I said, why not? You dead. An attorney to represent me. A chance to get even with the do-gooder brigade. You dead. Did I already say that? But even I didn’t think it would be this good. I’m going to put a bullet right between your eyes, Davis. You’re going to see it coming.”
Shit, Mac thought. He glanced at his ankle. He could dive for it. Tuck, roll, and shoot. He stood a good chance at getting out of the way of the shot at least. But he looked down at the young man — a boy really — and knew he was holding on by a thread. He’d bleed out if Mac let off the pressure for even a minute. And Andy Malloy was just as likely to shoot the kid in retaliation — and get Mac too.
What day was it? Not the 31st yet. Well, he had never expected to make it to 30 anyway. And he couldn’t live with himself if he let this boy die to save his own life. Maybe save it. He shook his head. Buy time. You always can buy a little time.
He flashed back to the last time he’d knelt beside a gullible, likeable guy bleeding out at this damned house. Brian reminded him of Danny, he realized. Well, shit. Your subconscious was your own worst enemy sometimes.
The Humvee started its slow movement toward the house. Andy Malloy moved out of its way, walked closer to Mac. The Humvee moved past him. Mac thought there were four more in it. Behind it was a black SUV; he recognized the driver. Win Whalen. Mac frowned. He could only be here because of data they had. Whalen saluted him mockingly as he inched his way past. There were three in his vehicle. Another vehicle behind that. They had more people than they’d known about.
“That your Humvee?” Mac asked Malloy. “Seems about your speed. Do you sit in it out at your gun range and remember you were a soldier once? Before you decided to play cops and robbers — and you picked the bad cop role?”
“You done?” Malloy said furiously. “Since they’re the last words you’ll ever use, you might as well get it all out.”
Mac laughed. “Malloy, you think you’re going to come out a winner in this? God, man, there are two Fibbers and a cop down there. They’ve got you covered. You shoot me, and you’re as good as dead.”
“Maybe,” Malloy said. “I told them this was a fool stunt, but Whalen and his son think they’re king of the walk. Doesn’t matter. I’ll get to see you die before I do.”
“Why?” Mac asked. Come on, man. He knew someone was on the roof. Take the damn shot! “Why do you have such a hard-on about me? I hadn’t given you a thought in years, until you turned out to be running a gun range offering certificates to men who later shot their wives.”
Mallory snorted. “Because you’re the one who got away,” he said sourly. “So tell me, what are you? Mexican, Black? What are you?”
Mac laughed. “Not even my mother knows for sure,” he quipped. “But she’s white. The forms say I’m white. Does that make you happier?”
“No,” he said. “Because it became personal last spring. You fucked up a really good gig for me.”
Joe Dunbar was on the roof, trying to position himself to get a clean shot. But damn, wouldn’t you know it, that asshole had stopped right where he couldn’t do it?
“Let me try,” Rand said from behind him. Joe moved out of his way. Rand straddled the balustrade and sighted through the scope. “Shit, the gate post is blocking the shot.”
Joe grunted. A failed shot, and Malloy would pull the trigger. “That is Malloy, right?” he said.
Rand nodded.
“What’s Mac doing?” Tim asked.
“They shot the kid at the gate,” Joe answered. “And Mac’s got pressure on the wound. Must be bad.”
“He’s risking his life for the guard? Does he even know him?”
“Mac decided we were his to protect,” Dunbar said, torn between laughing and screaming. “And protect us he will.”
“Dumb fuck,” Rand grunted. “Shit thoughts like that will get a man killed.”
Rand handed the AR-15 to Tim Brandt, picked up a pistol, and headed down the stairs. “I’ll circle around. If he can keep him talking, maybe I can get in position to take out Malloy.”
Joe was still watching, using his scope to examine the scene. “Rand,” he said softly. “You better move fast. Angie just reached the guard house.”
“The hell she did,” Rand said. And he ran.
Angie came to a halt. She could hear them talking. What the hell? She walked closer, listening. Who was that? It wasn’t Craig Anderson. She wondered if he was among those who were coming for them. She hoped not.
Approaching the guard house from the south, she could hear Mac talking with another man. Couldn’t see them. Good news was, they couldn’t see her either.
What was Mac doing? She hesitated. Mac could run some pretty complicated strategies, she’d learned. She would hate to barge in and ruin his plan. But this made no sense. Where was the guard? She thought Brian Winters was on duty this morning. She frowned. She could hear an ambulance in the distance. She hoped it was headed here.
She crept closer, peering around the guard house. She could see a leg stretched out. Well that explained where Brian was. Was he still alive? He must be, she decided. And Mac was doing something to keep him that way? CPR? Something.
She listened for a moment. Not all of the words were distinct, but the hate was. Andy Malloy, she thought suddenly. Wasn’t that the deal they’d pieced together? That Andy Malloy came aboard as their sharpshooter if they gave him Mac Davis?
She wanted to vomit. She looked up on the roof of the house. Saw three of the men up there. Rand and Joe, she thought. She didn’t know who the third was. Why didn’t they shoot the bastard? She knew Rand could make the shot at that distance. She drew a mental line from the roof to where Malloy was standing and saw the problem.
Well, hell, she thought. Did Malloy know he was standing in a dead zone? Or was it just luck?
She glanced at the roof of the garage, and saw evidence of multiple guns pointed this way, but the trajectory wasn’t any better. Worse. They’d probably hit her before they could hit Malloy. She swallowed hard.
You’re the one who says you are part of his crew, she told herself. You’re the one who says you don’t want to be sent to safety with the women and children. A partner, not someone to be protected. Well, here it is, babe. Suck it up.
Mac thought it was ironic that it would end here, in the drive of the Parker House, with him kneeling over a kid’s body — a kid with more ideals than sense. It was where the story had started, really, nearly three years ago. Well, he’d been down on the lawn that time. He’d changed a lot since then. Back then, he’d have rolled and shot at Malloy and if Brian died, well he died. People did.
Danny had.
He couldn’t really put words to why he couldn’t do it. Except, he’d accepted responsibility for these people. He was their security, their protector, and if Andy Malloy wanted them, he would have to go through him.
And while Andy Malloy was so focused on him, the operation had lost its leader. There he was standing in the driveway, while his men were getting out of the Humvee and the two SUVs. Did they have anyone in charge? If it was Malloy who was supposed to be in charge, he wasn’t. No. He was focused right here. He just met Andy Malloy’s eyes and watched him come.
He could shoot him at any time, Mac knew. But Malloy had a lot of hate riding him and he wanted to watch Mac sweat. He wanted to get in close, watch Mac die. Mac just waited. The ambulance sounded really close now. Maybe they’d have room for both of them. Hard-headed as he was, he might live through it.
Malloy smiled. “You sweating, yet?” he asked softly. “You know you’re going to die — that I’m going to kill you. And then we’re going to kill everyone in that house. Every man, woman and child. I want you to know that — to know that you failed, and they died.”
Mac didn’t say anything. The man was unhinged. But he’d seen that the day he’d gone out to the gun range. Volatile, hate-filled. He’d damn near killed Mac then, and laughed while he fired the shots.
Malloy stopped, planted his feet, and started to raise his pistol.
“Roll,” Brian whispered.
Mac shook his head minutely. Wouldn’t do any good, not at this distance. He steeled himself, waiting for the shot. He’d been shot before. Had the scars to show for it. Hurt like a son of a bitch, but this wouldn’t hurt long. He hoped.
And then he heard the shot and flinched.
Angie saw Malloy start to walk forward toward Mac. Mac, who was still crouched down, next to Brian’s body. Mac, who stared at his death unflinching, because it might buy Brian time for the ambulance to get here. Damn the man.
Twenty feet, she reminded herself. He wasn’t that close yet. She bent to pull out her Ruger — fuck! She hadn’t reloaded it. She glanced in the guard house, saw the Glock Mac had stashed there the first day. It would be loaded. Her Ruger wasn’t. Now she understood why Mac thought it should be. Treat every gun as if it was loaded, he instructed. Because it should be. Now she saw why: when you needed it, you needed it loaded. If you had time to load, you didn’t really need it. Wasn’t conventional wisdom. But then Mac was about life and death, not playing games.
She snatched up the Glock 17, it was heavier, harder for her hands to hold. Suck it up, she told herself again. You can do this.
She took her stance, held the gun in a two-handed grip. Don’t flinch, she chanted. Don’t close your eyes. Wait until Malloy’s within 20 feet, and then you pull the trigger and keep pulling it until the gun is empty. Those are the instructions, remember?
She sighted in on where Malloy would be in two more steps. She let out the breath she’d been holding and squeezed the trigger on the exhale as he stepped in front of her sights. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t close her eyes. And she kept on firing until the gun was clicking on an empty chamber.
Someone grabbed her and pulled her into a tight hug and took the Glock away. She looked up — Rand. “You did good, girl,” he murmured comfortingly. She shuddered. She didn’t want to look at the man she’d just killed. She didn’t want to deal with anything.
Rand wrapped her in his jacket, and eased her onto the bench in the guard house.
“Are you going to have to arrest me?” she asked in a small voice. She’d killed a man.
“No,” he said, comforting her. “No one is going to press charges. You shot him to save Mac. He’d already shot Brian. You’ve got two FBI agents and a cop to vouch for it. You’re the hero, Angie.”
She nodded. She didn’t feel like a hero. She felt like she just killed a man. A despicable man, to be sure. A man who was going to kill Mac. But nevertheless. He was dead. And she’d killed him.
She closed her eyes and pulled the jacket tighter around her, and tried not to think about anything.
The men in the Humvee piled out near the garage. Stan Warren sighted in on the one closest.
“You’re just going to shoot them?” Misaki said startled.
Stan glanced at her. “Knew I forgot something,” he teased. “Stay down. Sight your guns on the back door. Anyone reaches the door? Shoot at them. Then get back down, so they don’t hit you if they shoot back.”
“This is the FBI!” Stan shouted. “Drop your weapons. Get down on the ground, now!”
Someone shot in his direction.
“Now, I’m just going to shoot them,” Stan told Misaki and Ruri as he took his first shot.
Mac glanced behind him to see who had killed Malloy. Angie was standing there, white as the proverbial sheet. Her hands were shaking. He wanted to hold her, to comfort her. Then Rand was there, and he wrapped her in a jacket. Rand met his eyes, and Mac nodded. He turned back to Brian. “You still with me?” he asked.
“I’m here,” he said with some difficulty. “Who shot him?”
“Angie,” Mac said. “We were rescued by the girl.”
Brian tried to laugh. “Hurts,” he said.
“Ambulance is close,” Mac assured him. He could hear the ambulance. He heard shots. Not his problem. His job was keeping Brian alive until the experts got here. He put a bit more pressure on the wound. Brian grimaced.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He glanced up. An EMT crouched beside him.
“Ready?” Mac asked. The EMT nodded. “Transferring.” Mac rolled out of his way, and the EMT put pressure on Brian’s wound.
Mac stood up to let the EMTs load Brian onto the stretcher and move him toward the ambulance. He turned toward the guard house. He knelt down in front of Angie. “Hey,” he said.
She tried a smile. He brushed her hair away from her face. “Thank you,” he said simply. “You did the hard thing, but you saved my life.”
She shuddered, and then she buried her head in his shoulder and cried. He held her, stroking her back like he might a child.
Shorty wasn’t sure why he knew he needed to stay in the computer room. There was something in the data they’d gathered. Something that had pinged his awareness. It was that sense that made him good at the data mining he did for his clients. Not as many clients now. Teaching was hard work, although he loved it. But he had a few left from his college days and early teaching years who still sent him work. It was lucrative.
Anyone could collect data. It was all out there on the web, somewhere. Good data, garbage data. Lots of facts, figures, falsehoods. When he was tracking down the answer to a question, he luxuriated in it — like the warm waters of a hot tub. Not that he’d ever tell anyone that. They’d think he was nuts.
But that’s what he did. He immersed himself in the data he collected, and it spoke to him. And then he’d tease out the significant parts, and answer his client’s question.
He’d done it for Mac on occasion. His questions tended to be more life-and-death matters, not ‘is this start-up worth investing in’ kinds of things. Interesting questions. And it was eye-opening to watch Mike Brewster work. He was competent, not brilliant. But he approached the data differently — like a reporter did. More like Mac. He was learning some things from watching Mike.
So he knew there was something in the data. He’d reached that stage. Misaki said she knew how they had diverted the calls, and created dead zones. How they’d set up a separate dispatcher, and diverted the calls there, and from there to an officer. She thought she’d be able to get names. One more day was all it would take, she said.
But there had been something else, Shorty thought. Something to do with Whalen. Whalen was up to something. Fraud? Defrauding his investors? A shell game? Something.
And if the bad cops had come for them, he fully expected that Whalen would be with them. And he would be coming for the computers and the people who were working on them.
He knew they had to be leaving tracks. Couldn’t do this massive of an info collection operation this fast without it. And that whole thing with that employee? What was her name? Sharon? They needed to call her back and grill her. Mac let her off too easy. She’d triggered his protect-the-civilian mode.
Shorty wasn’t sure she deserved that. Well, that was down the road. Right now? He heard the elevator ding. Someone was coming.
He pulled a Smith and Wesson snub-nosed .38 special revolver from his backpack. It was smaller and lighter than the handguns Mac preferred. Easy to load. Easy to fire for a man who didn’t shoot very often. Perfect for him. He checked it, made sure it was loaded.
And then he aimed it at the door, and waited for whoever to come in.
It took longer than Shorty expected, but then, they didn’t know which room and this house was freaking huge. Finally, the door opened, and a young man warily peeked in. “Here,” he called back.
More than one then, Shorty thought. Well, maybe they’d learn the names for Misaki faster than she expected.
Win Whalen walked into the room. He was a confident man in his 60s. Shorty hadn’t met him, but he’d seen a lot of photos of him in the last few days. He kept his pistol pointed at him and waited for Whalen to see him.
“Turn these suckers on,” Whalen ordered. “They probably tried to erase them, but we didn’t give them much time.”
“What exactly are we looking for?” a young woman asked.
Shorty smiled. “That’s a good question, Whalen,” he said calmly. “What exactly are you looking for?”
Whalen started, then turned slowly in Shorty’s direction.
“Walk away, son,” Whalen said. “You don’t want the trouble I can bring down on your head.”
Shorty considered him for a moment. “Looks like you’re worried about the trouble I’m going to send your way,” he observed. “But do tell. Let’s start with those scenarios you give out bonuses for. That’s a creative strategy for problem solving. So separating a cop from his backup gets turned into a scenario where it’s a drug lord to be separated from his guards. I’ve been building a whole list of scenarios as I pull data on you from the web. People talk. They always do.”
Whalen was turning red in the face. He wasn’t used to being challenged. “They’re scenarios for game development,” he said dismissively.
“I’m sure they are,” Shorty said agreeably. “Some of them. So who got to role play out the takeover of police dispatch? One of you people? And who got to play the cop?” He looked at the others who were with Whalen. A young woman. He wondered if that was Sharon. The young man who had first stuck his head in. Whalen. And a fourth man who slouched against the wall, with his hands in his pocket. Shorty considered him. He was trouble, he decided.
“That’s none of your business,” the young man said indignantly.
“Well, it kind of is,” Shorty said, almost apologetically. “I’ve been hired to reverse-engineer what you did and identify the players. It’s a business thing — you know how it is.”
The young man didn’t say anything more. Shorty looked at the young woman. “The fake dispatcher was female,” Shorty said. “You? Do you have a name?”
She looked to the man against the wall instead of answering. Not to Whalen, which Shorty found interesting. Did Whalen know he wasn’t in charge of this mission?
Shorty looked at the man who apparently was really running this gig. He was in his mid-late 20s, Shorty thought. Lean, probably 6-foot tall, he was wearing black: black jeans, a black T-shirt, black boots. Shorty thought he probably always dressed like that — it wasn’t just for this job. Reminded him of someone. Shorty studied him.
“Were you the one who impersonated a cop?” Shorty asked. He was beginning to tire of pointing the revolver at them. He needed to herd them out of here, and back downstairs to the loving arms of a Fibber or two.
The man grinned at him, but didn’t say anything.