“Just the smiling faces of HUD and Interior for the networks to see, I gather.”
“You gather correctly,” Bud confirmed. Earl Casey was pushing hard to craft this as a domestically centered campaign, leaving the NSA’s domain somewhat in the shadows. But a campaign was just that. Reality dictated the true importance of Bud DiContino’s expertise.
“Sure. Sounds like a plan. Who’s bringing the beer?”
“I’ll provide refreshments,” Coventry answered with a chuckle. “Oh, and Gordy’s inviting one of his agents who’s in town. You’ll remember him: Jefferson.”
“Art Jefferson? Yeah. A good man. He filled in a lot of the pieces after the assassination. I met him once. What’s he doing here?”
“Working with the D.C. Bureau people tracking down those militants.”
“What time?” Bud asked.
“Anytime before nine.”
“Sounds like a good time,” Bud observed.
“We can make it so.”
Congressman Richard Vorhees rounded the corner at a fast clip, splitting a pair of walkers coming at him on the sidewalk. “Evening.”
“Evening.”
Vorhees looked briefly over his shoulder as he moved away, his eyes admiring the women’s backsides. Both were easily over forty, but it had never been proven that a woman lost her can at that age. At least not to him it hadn’t. He looked forward again with an added bounce in his step and pushed himself along the final mile of his walk, realizing this was the only exercise he’d have for two days. His card was full for the following evening, as it was for anybody who was any—
“Freeze, fucker!”
Vorhees stutter-stopped, the rubber soles of his shoes actually skidding as the dark figure jumped from the shrubs on the right and blocked his path.
“Get ‘em up, dickweed!”
“Easy, easy,” Vorhees said, his eyes fixed on the kid’s hands. Those were the most dangerous parts of a man. These held a revolver that was pointed at his crotch.
“Get ‘em UP!”
Vorhees showed the kid his hands. Male black, five-four, maybe five-five. Dark clothing.
“Give me your money!” One hand came free of the gun and reached out. “Now!”
“I don’t have any,” Vorhees said, trying to commit more details about his assailant to memory before a fear-induced adrenaline rush made such an effort fruitless. Dark bandanna drawn across his face, maybe dark blue, and —
“Your watch! Now!”
The gun waved as Vorhees pulled his watch off. He saw that the hammer was cocked, and the punk had his finger on the trigger. It would only take a twitch. “Here.”
The thief shoved the watch in a pocket and took a half-step back, slowly, without any haste at all. That seemed strange to Vorhees, but more so were the eyes. They glowed in the harsh reflection of approaching headlights, and he could see them travel down his body, past the obvious aim point of the gun, and to his leg. The gun followed the eyes the final distance.
“You ain’t chasin’ me, fuckhead,” the thief said.
I’m going to be shot. The realization hit Vorhees before the punk even spoke. The eyes, the gun, the movement. A switch was reflexively thrown. Combat. Unarmed versus Armed. Move quick. Disarm. Eliminate. He was an 82nd Airborne trooper again, moving toward the enemy, hands in motion, one going for the gun, the other for the upper body for a control hold. There was an abundance of clothing to grab. Moving. Reaching. Almost…
BANG.
Vorhees saw the flash, sensed it even on the skin of his left hand, and felt his weight shift awkwardly. It threw the aim of his right hand off, and by now that claw of fingers set to grab had become a fist prepared to strike. It made contact with something hard, with a soft top layer, but he did not see what. He was falling left and back, one arm reaching now to break his fall. His mind searched for pain. Where was he hit? Where was…
There? He realized where just as his butt hit the sidewalk. My God, how lucky could I be?
Moises Griggs was through the shrubs and across the field of short, brown grass beyond less than thirty seconds after the shot was fired. He jumped through the open door of the waiting Volvo. The door closed on its own as Darian sped away, heading quickly for the Leesburg Pike.
“Did you get him?”
“Yeah,” Moises said. He pulled the black knit cap off and wrapped it around the .357, tossing both into the backseat.
“In the leg?” Darian pressed, his eyes darting to the rearview. No flashing lights. Whew!
“Yeah. Yeah.” Moises pulled the bandanna down to hang around his neck, then put a hand to his forehead. “Man, the motherfucker hit me.”
Darian looked right. “Shit, you’re bleeding.”
Moises rubbed above his left eye and felt the wetness. It stung at the touch. “Shit”
Darian drove with one hand and pulled his young comrade’s head over for a closer look with the other. “He gouged you.”
“Huh?”
“A big ol’ hunk of skin is gone, Brother Moises.” Darian let his head go. “It’s gonna be a scar. A good one.”
Moises took the bandanna from around his neck and pressed it to the wound. It stung, but it didn’t hurt. It did not hurt. “Fuck it.”
That’s the attitude, Darian thought. As he did the first police cars, light bars flashing, passed left to right behind them.
“Where are you hit?” the police officer asked as he knelt down. Two civilians had already come to the victim’s aid.
“The leg,” Vorhees answered, laughing nervously. He saw the cop looking at him and thinking “shock.” “It’s a prosthesis.”
The police officer watched as the victim pulled the left leg of his sweatpants up. He held the beam of his flashlight on the sight. “Unbelievable.”
Vorhees heard more sirens approaching as he stuck three fingers into the gaping hole halfway between his knee and the artificial ankle. He moved them around, making a clinking metal sound. “Blew the hell out of it.”
“Better it than you,” the police officer said. He ran his light over the rest of the victim. “What’s that?”
Vorhees noticed the blood on his hand for the first time. “It’s the punk’s. I laid one on him.”
The police officer examined the bloodied hand. There was a large class-type ring on the third finger, some pieces of torn skin jammed between it and the finger, and — he looked closer — yes, even some short hairs still embedded in the skin. “Don’t touch anything with this. I want to get this in an evidence bag. The leg, too, I’m afraid.”
“It’s no good to me anymore,” Vorhees said.
“But how…”
“Don’t worry.” Vorhees laughed a bit, silently likening himself to a car. “I have a spare. An old one, but it’s got a few miles left in it.”
TWENTY NINE
Trojan Horse
John Barrish stepped from the house near Fulks Run for the last time and gazed eastward over the trees. The morning sky glowed with a jaundiced hue that filtered through sheer fingers of clouds flowing northeast, the cold nip of winter stinging his cheeks. It was a beautiful morning. It would be a glorious day.
“John.”
He turned just his head toward the voice, then looked away from his wife’s face.
Louise Barrish came from the house, wearing the closest thing she had to a winter coat. It did little to stave off the sharp chill. “John, Toby is leaving soon.” She said this to his back. Silence followed. “How long will he be gone?”
“A while.”