Jack moved toward the cop and then stopped as the 9mm swiftly came out of the holster.
The cop glared at him. “Mr. Graham.”
Jack shrugged and smiled. The guy had finally identified him. “In the flesh.” He held up the box. “I’ve got something for you.”
“I know you do, Jack. And that’s exactly what I want.”
Tim Collin watched the smile fade from Jack’s lips. His hand tightened on the trigger as he moved forward.
Seth Frank could feel his pulse quicken as he drew nearer to the station. Finally, he would have it. He could envision Laura Simon devouring the evidence like it was a slab of aged beef. And Frank was almost one hundred percent certain they would score a hit on some database, somewhere. And then the case would crack open like an egg hurled from the Empire State Building. And finally his questions, the nagging, nagging questions would be answered.
Jack looked at the face, absorbing every detail. Not that it would do him any good. He glanced over at the crumpled clothing on the floor, at the new shoes covering lifeless feet. Poor guy had probably wangled his first new pair of shoes in ages and now would never enjoy them.
Jack looked back at Collin and said angrily, “The guy’s dead. You killed him.”
“Let me have the box, Jack.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“That really doesn’t matter, does it?” Collin flipped open a compartment on his belt and pulled out a suppressor that he quickly twirled onto the barrel of his gun.
Jack eyed the hardware pointed at his chest. He thought of the gurneys wheeling out Lord and the woman. His turn would come in tomorrow’s paper. Jack Graham and a homeless man. Twin gurneys. Of course they’d work it so Jack would be blamed for having done in the poor, wretched street person. Jack Graham, from partner at Patton, Shaw to deceased mass murderer.
“It matters to me.”
“So?” Collin moved forward, placed both hands on the butt of his weapon.
“Fuck you, take it!” Jack flung the box at Collin’s head right as the muffled explosion occurred. A bullet tore through the edge of the box and imbedded itself in the concrete wall. In the same instant, Jack hurled himself forward and made impact. Collin was solid bone and muscle but so was Jack. And they were about the same size. Jack felt the man’s breath driven completely from his body as Jack’s shoulder connected right at the diaphragm. Instinctively, long-ago wrestling moves came flowing back to his limbs and Jack picked up and then body-slammed the agent into the unwelcoming arms of the brick floor. By the time Collin managed to stagger to his feet, Jack had already turned the corner.
Collin grabbed his gun and then the box. He stopped for an instant as sickness enveloped him. His head hurt from having struck the hard floor. He knelt down, fighting to regain his equilibrium. Jack was long gone, but at least he had it. Finally had it. Collins’s fingers closed around the box.
Jack flew past the kiosk, hurdled the turnstiles, raced down the escalator and across the train platform. He was vaguely aware of people staring. His hood had fallen off his head. His face was clearly exposed. There was a shout behind him. The kiosk guy. But Jack kept running and exited the station on the 17th Street side. He didn’t think the man had been alone. And the last thing he needed was someone tailing him. But he doubted if they had both exits covered. They probably figured he wouldn’t be leaving the station under his own power. His shoulder ached from his collision and his breath came in difficult gulps as the cold air burned his lungs. He was two blocks away before he stopped running. He wrapped his coat around himself tightly. And then he remembered. He looked down at his empty hands. The box! He had left the goddamned box behind. He slumped against the front glass of a darkened McDonald’s.
A car’s lights came down the road. Jack looked away from them and quickly moved around the corner. In a few minutes he hopped a bus. To where he wasn’t sure.
The car turned off L street and onto 19th. Seth Frank made his way up to Eye Street and then turned toward 18th. He parked on the corner across from the Metro station, got out of his car and went down the escalator.
Across the street, hidden behind a collection of trash cans, debris and metal fencing, the products of a massive demolition project, Bill Burton watched. Swearing under his breath, Burton put out his cigarette, checked the street, and made his way quickly across to the escalator.
As he got off the escalator, Frank looked around and checked the time. He wasn’t as early as he thought he would be. His eyes fell upon a collection of junk that lay against one wall. Then his gaze drifted over to the unmanned kiosk. There was no one else around. It was quiet. Too quiet. Frank’s danger radar instantly lit up. With an automatic motion he pulled his gun. His ears had pricked up at a sound that came from his right. He moved quickly down the corridor away from the turnstiles. There a darkened corridor awaited him. He peered around and at first saw nothing. Then as his eyes adjusted to the diminished light he saw two things. One was moving, one wasn’t.
Frank stared as the man slowly rose to his feet. It wasn’t Jack. The guy was in a uniform, a gun in one hand, a box in the other. Frank’s fingers tightened on his own weapon, his eyes locked on the other man’s weapon. Frank stealthily moved forward. He hadn’t done this in a long time. The image of his wife and three daughters veered across his mind until he pushed it back out. He needed to concentrate.
He was finally close enough. He prayed his accelerated breathing would not betray him. He leveled his pistol at the broad back.
“Freeze! I’m a police officer.”
The man did indeed stop all motion.
“Lay the gun down, butt first. I don’t want to see your finger anywhere near the trigger or I’m gonna put a hole right in the back of your head. Do it. Now!”
The gun slowly went toward the floor. Frank watched its progression, inch by inch. Then his vision became blurry. Frank’s head pounded, he staggered and then he slumped to the floor.
At the sound, Collin slowly looked around to see Bill Burton standing there, holding his pistol by the barrel. He looked down at Frank.
“Let’s go, Tim.”
Collin shakily got to his feet, looked at the fallen officer and put his gun to Frank’s head. Burton’s massive hand stopped him.
“He’s a cop. We don’t kill cops. We’re not killing any body else, Tim.” Burton stared down at his colleague. Discomforting thoughts flickered in and out of Burton’s head at the calm and accepting manner in which the younger man had stepped into the role of conscienceless assassin.
Collin shrugged, put his gun away.
Burton took the box, looked down at the detective and then over at the other crumpled mass of humanity. He shook his head disdainfully and looked reproachfully at his partner.
Several minutes after they were gone, Seth Frank let out a loud groan, tried to rise and then floated back into unconsciousness.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Kate lay in bed but was as far from sleep as she could possibly be. The ceiling of her bedroom had been replaced with a torrent of images, each one more terrifying than its predecessor. She looked across at the small clock on the nightstand. Three o’clock in the morning. Her window shade was open enough to reveal the pitch-black darkness outside. She could hear the raindrops on the windowpane. Normally comforting, now they simply added to the relentless pounding in her head.
When the phone rang, at first, she didn’t move. Her limbs seemed too heavy for her to even attempt to budge, as if each had simultaneously lost all circulation. For one terrible moment she thought she had suffered a stroke. Finally, on the fifth ring she managed to lift the receiver.