As the sergeant started to move Calhoun into the back room, Farrington removed Harris's service pistol and tucked it into his pants, purposefully locking eyes with D'Onofrie as he stepped over Calhoun's frozen body on his way across the room. The sergeant looked relieved to have the last gun taken out of play. Still watching D'Onofrie, the colonel ripped the fax's connection from the wall, and threw the fax machine onto the floor. He stomped on it a few times to make sure it was permanently disabled. The fax machine was the only device capable of communicating beyond the Sanctum and the Pentagon.
The single phone at the communications desk was hardwired directly to Colonel Farrington's desk, which he would deactivate before he left the building. Security patrols through this section were rare, and the patrol wouldn't hear anything through the fireproof metal walls of the Sanctum. The fire alarm would be their most likely way to attract attention, and there was little Farrington could do about this, beyond confiscating any lighters, and making sure they were all incapacitated. He had a few more doses of the neurotoxin for that.
He wanted to be out of the Sanctum in a few minutes, which didn't leave him with much time. He still needed to collect all of the pieces of the Black Flag file and secure it under a new uniform. McKie's blood covered most of his right shoulder, and looking down, he could see some dark spots on his collar around his silver colonel insignia. Although most of the blood would be covered by his uniform jacket, and the night security crew wasn't exactly the Pentagon's "A" team, he didn't want to take any unnecessary chances. In thirty minutes he'd walk straight out of one life, and into another. A life not hampered by bureaucrats and politicians. He would finally be on the path he had chosen when he accepted an appointment to West Point, twenty-one years ago. He'd be a warrior, unhindered.
Wearing a black windbreaker style uniform jacket over a brand new uniform, Colonel Farrington greeted the security guards at the main exit with the blank, zombified expression of someone who worked an excessively long day.
"Late night, Colonel?" commented one of the guards that Farrington recognized well.
"Yeah. We're receiving guests tomorrow. The kind that like to inspect everything, so it's been a long day," he said, feigning a tired smile.
"Pain in the ass for sure, Colonel. I'll be here tomorrow morning. We could pull them aside for the special treatment," the guard said, motioning to one of the private rooms reserved for random, detailed searches.
Farrington faked a laugh and scanned his name badge, "It's tempting, Ray, but I don't think it'll be necessary. Then again, we'll see how the inspection goes. You gonna be here in the late morning?"
All of the guards laughed, especially Ray, who said, "Nah, Colonel. I'm on all night, then off at 10. I could do you a solid when they arrive. Just give us a call."
"I'll keep it in mind," Farrington said, and placed his briefcase on the long inspection table in front of the guards.
"Go ahead, Colonel. You're good," said Ray.
"Thanks, Ray. I'll let you know if I change my mind," he said, and picked up his briefcase.
"I'll be here. Have a good night," he said.
"Yep. Keep the peace," Farrington said, and turned toward the exit.
He kept walking and reached the massive bank of automated doors that led to the South parking lot. The closest door opened, and Farrington felt the warm, humid air pour over him as he stepped out of the Pentagon for the last time. He glanced back through the opening, watching as it closed. He could see the guards searching through another officer's backpack.
In the distance ahead of him, he saw a car pull up. Instinctively, he knew this was his ride. Farrington picked up the pace, nearly jogging through the empty handicapped lot, and arriving at the access road on the other side of the lot. He saw Parker sitting behind the wheel of a Honda Accord, and crossed behind the car to get in the front passenger seat.
"What happened to the Cherokee?" said Farrington, getting in the car.
"Ditched it. We were compromised earlier tonight. Badly. I assume you have the file?" said Parker, driving the car out of the parking lot.
"Strapped to my body. Everything went without a hitch," he said.
"McKie?"
"Dead. I assumed something happened, but the General didn't elaborate."
"Someone sent a Brown River assassination team to kill one of our operatives. They were temporarily tracking me as well," said Parker.
"Had to be CIA. I'm surprised the General didn't want Keller eliminated. Aside from the limited information sent to the FBI, Keller's photographic memory is all that's left," said Farrington.
"We still don't know the motivation behind the Brown River fiasco. They were sent on a specific mission against one of our guys, but in the context of today's events, the reason appears to be unrelated. The General wants to be able to close the loop on this," said Parker, taking the car onto Interstate 395, headed into the heart of D.C.
"Where are we headed next?" asked Farrington, unconsciously touching his chest and the thick stack of papers hidden underneath his jacket.
"First, we need to make a pickup at The Mall. Then, we'll go underground and wait for the next mission," said Parker.
"Any idea what the next mission is?"
"None. I've been flying by the seat of my pants since yesterday. It sounds like Sanderson's plan is mostly intact. The Brown River thing has been the only deviation so far, but they're out of the picture at this point," said Parker, and the car eased left onto Route One north.
"How do we know they're out of the picture?" said Farrington, glancing nervously behind them through the rear windshield.
"Because most of the team is dead, and the rest are in custody," said Parker, scanning the street ahead for Independence Avenue.
"I didn't think we had a team in place here," said the colonel. "It sounded like we would be mostly on our own until the rendezvous."
"We don't have a team here. The only active team available is waiting in Stamford," he said, making the turn onto Independence Avenue.
"Then who took out the hit team?"
Parker's cell phone beeped, and he flipped it open to read the screen. He pushed it back into the center console, and turned left a few seconds later, at an empty green light on Seventh Street Southwest.
"Hold that thought a second," Parker said, and cruised slowly up to intersection of Seventh and Jefferson, just as the light turned yellow.
The car kept moving at an even pace, and cleared the light before Farrington saw any red at the top of the front windshield. The car slowed for a pedestrian walkway as it entered the tree lined Henry Park area of the Mall. The area was poorly lit, the lighting sustained by a single streetlamp set several feet back along the pedestrian path cutting across the street. Though darker than Farrington had expected, the background illumination from the immense Smithsonian buildings cast enough ambient light to feel relatively safe, as evidenced by the large number of people present on the walkway.
Farrington saw Parker flash the left turn signal, then the right signal, sliding the car into a parking spot on the right side of the street. A man wearing a backpack broke off from a small group passing their car along the sidewalk, and opened the back door, sliding into the back seat.
"Colonel Farrington, meet Daniel Petrovich. He managed to single-handedly solve our problem with Brown River tonight," said Parker, putting the car back into gear as soon as the rear door shut.
"What the fuck took you so long? Pleased to meet you, Colonel."
"The General moved up the colonel's timetable significantly. I had to pick the colonel up from the Pentagon immediately. You're not the only one busy here tonight," said Parker.