“Oh, my God!” Irene breathed. “What have you done?”
Frankel tried to look outraged; like he’d never heard anything so outrageous in his life. But the fear showed through, anyway. “I refuse to listen to any more of this.” He stood one more time.
This time when Jake rose to meet him, Frankel was ready, leveraging the edge of the table and using it to shove Jake backward over his chair. “Stay out of my way,” he growled as he prepared to launch a lethal kick to Jake’s head.
“Stop it!” Irene commanded. She lunged across the table to intervene, but a stunning backhand sent her staggering.
“You incompetent bitch…”
Eddie Bartholomew materialized at the doorway, his weapon drawn. “Everybody freeze!” he yelled. “I said no violence, and I meant it! Now, Mr. Frankel, you just back off.”
Frankel stood in place, his chest heaving, his face red. “You gonna shoot the next director of the FBI, Eddie? Wouldn’t be good for business.”
Eddie ignored the bait. “Bullshit. This place’d become a tourist attraction. I can charge double to eat on the spot where you fell.”
Frankel laughed. That was a good one, all right. His eyes darted from side to side like a cornered animal, and everyone in the room knew instinctively to stay away from him. “No one will believe your lies,” he said, and suddenly his eyelids glistened with tears.
“You okay, Jake?” Eddie asked.
Jake raised himself to a sitting position and nodded, exploring a damaged rib with his fingertip.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Agent Rivers? Senator Albricht?”
Clayton helped Irene back onto her feet as she rubbed the swollen spot on her cheek.
“I’ll live,” Irene said. She sounded more embarrassed than injured.
“That’s good,” Eddie said. “Now, all of you, get out of here.”
“Yeah, Frankel,” Jake seconded. “Get out of here. You try running for a while, you weaselly little shit.”
Frankel was speechless. He scanned the faces in the room, then sneered, “This is far from over.”
As he turned to make his exit, Frankel raked his gaze from Eddie’s eyes down to the muzzle of his gun. “Put that thing down,” he said. A final command before the end of his reign.
Eddie hesitated but ultimately complied, letting the muzzle rotate in a slow arc down to his side, until the barrel pointed harmlessly at the floor.
That’s when Frankel struck, with amazing speed. Before Eddie could react, his hand was bent at an impossible angle behind his back, and the pistol was free from his grasp. An instant later, Eddie felt the press of steel against the base of his skull, and then his brains were all over the expensive Oriental rug.
Waiting was the single element of police work that Paul Boersky had never gotten used to. In his early days, back in Minneapolis, all he ever seemed to do was wait. And in a part of the world that has only two seasons-shovel and swat-every wait was as physically uncomfortable as it was mentally exhausting.
At least there was purpose to it all back then. Maybe a bad guy was going to move from one point to another, or an as-yet-unidentified suspect was about to take some bait. Here, today, in the chilly streets of Washington, D.C., Paul wasn’t at all sure why he even came along on the trip. This was between Irene and the senator-she could not have been any clearer on that point. As for his role, well, he really didn’t have one.
Nonetheless, they’d come a long way together over the years, and together, they had a long way to go on this particular case. Whatever transpired, he felt a need to be there with his partner. God knew that no one else would get within fifty feet of her. This screwup was that enormous.
So he waited. For going on a half hour now. He wondered if maybe he shouldn’t just peek inside and see what was going on. Thus far, no one else had arrived, and certainly, no one had left. Even with his partially obstructed view of the door he could see that.
He climbed out of the car at 4:37, according to the digital clock on the dash. Years of surveillance assignments had taught him always to mark the time. His back screamed from all the sitting, and a long stretch felt good. The autumn air felt good, too. What he missed most about living in the Deep South was the change of seasons. Sure, the leaves turned in the fall, but without the cold air to go along with it, the colors somehow meant less. Of course, come February, when the rest of the world was buried under a foot of snow, he’d feel damned smug about his southern digs.
He was in the middle of a huge yawn when he heard the first gunshot. His mind processed the sound in an instant, evaluating and rejecting a hundred alternatives. That was no bursting balloon or backfire or firecracker. And it was coming from inside the building!
He drew his weapon and charged up the front steps three at a time. Once on the stoop, he turned the knob and pushed. Nothing moved. He pounded on the heavy door with his fist.
“Federal officer!” he yelled. “Open up!”
He heard a second shot, and then a third right away.
Holy shit! Why hadn’t they informed the Washington office? At least then, they’d have had an official vehicle and a radio channel. Shit! He rammed his shoulder into the heavy wood panels, but the door wouldn’t budge.
He heard yelling from the inside now. And another shot.
“Shit!” He yelled it aloud this time. Stepping off to the hinge side of the door, he took aim at the lock.
Jake yelled at the sudden explosion of Eddie Bartholomew’s head. An instant later he saw the gun in Frankel’s hand, and the heat of the man’s anger filled the room as he swung the weapon up to finish what he’d started.
Jake’s body reacted before his brain could tell him to stop. Even as Irene and the senator dove for cover, he charged at Frankel and hit him with all his driving force, propelling him backward toward Eddie’s lectern. Despite the impact, Frankel wouldn’t go down. He backpedaled quickly, little staccato steps that kept him from losing his balance, as Jake focused every ounce of his strength on the attacker’s gun hand. For just an instant, the muzzle crossed in front of his face, but Frankel missed his opportunity for a sure kill.
Jake shoved his adversary hard into the corner molding of the archway to the dining room, and the impact triggered a grunt. He thought for sure that he heard something break in Frankel’s back, but the man still stayed on his feet. The gun discharged just inches from Jake’s face; a deafening blast that punched a hole in the plaster ceiling. Half a second later it went off again, disintegrating a crystal globe on the chandelier. Jake winced as grains of burning gunpowder bit into the flesh of his cheeks.
He had both hands on the gun now, struggling to loosen Frankel’s grip, and as he reached across the other man’s face, he howled in pain as Frankel’s teeth burrowed into the flesh of his upper arm. The pain was unspeakable as an incisor found a nerve, but he still hung on. To let go now was to die.
In his peripheral vision, Jake thought he saw Irene dash past. She’s running away! he thought. Then he knew better. The gun drawers!
Irene knew she needed to do something. Jake was losing his fight, but she worried that if she interfered, Frankel might somehow work his hand free. If that happened, they were all dead. If only she had her weapon!
Leaving the senator to fend for himself, she dashed through the dining room and out into the hallway, praying the whole time that Eddie hadn’t locked the drawers. There were eight of them altogether, and she pulled on the one she thought housed her black S amp;W. Sure enough, the drawer opened, and there it was.
Snatching the weapon into both hands, she drew down on the second most powerful man in American law enforcement. “I got him, Jake!” she yelled. “Break away!”
Frankel was a vampire! Once he got his teeth locked onto Jake’s arm, he just wouldn’t let go. The pain was exquisite, shooting lightning bolts into Jake’s fingertips. As he lost the feeling in his hand, his grip started to slip.