As they walked closer to the first pair of cops, Emma said, “Got another favor to ask: Do you mind holding my hand? Ever since I was a kid and got in a bit of trouble, cops freak me out.”
“Your hand?”
Emma grabbed his hand impatiently. “Yes. It would reassure me.”
Will was frowning, trying to figure her out.
But she pulled him closer. “I’m just a scared girl, okay?”
As they walked nearer to the cops, looking every bit a couple who were visiting or returning to D.C., Will whispered, “You know who I am.”
Emma’s heart was now racing, though externally she hoped she looked calm. “Some stuff I read. But I also know you like fruit, dream in another accent, and don’t have anyone to look after you anymore. That’s more interesting to me.”
The first two policemen were now looking at Will. “I can’t let you do this. It’s too dangerous.”
“I don’t think you’re a danger to me.” She pulled him even closer and put on a fake smile. “Just act like you love me.”
Urgently, Will replied, “I’m no danger to you, but what could happen next may well be.”
Keeping her grin fixed on her face, she muttered, “Use your U.S. accent. Your face looks a bit thinner than in the photo the press is showing, and the clothes help make you look different. We’re visiting my folks. You’re my new boyfriend and I’m showing you off for the first time. I’m a charity worker, based in NYC. Surname Jones. We met two weeks ago at Huckleberry Bar in Brooklyn. Still getting to know each other. I haven’t been to your home yet, because I’m a Bible Belt gal who ain’t hopping into bed for any guy until he pops the question. What do you do for a living?”
As they got closer to the police, Will felt respect for Emma’s quick thinking, courage, and commitment, but was increasingly worried for her at the same time. “Therapist with my own practice in New York. I counsel trauma victims, particularly war veterans.”
“Clever. Cops will like that.”
Barely moving his lips, Will responded, “Clever things don’t always work out in real life. If anything bad happens, fall to the ground, lie flat with your hands over your head, and after I’m dead tell them that I had a gun pointed at your gut.” The police were now staring directly at them. “Why are you doing this?”
Emma squeezed his hand. “Seems to me, someone’s got to look after you.”
Will used his eye contact in the way he’d been trained to do when operating in hostile environments without wishing to be conspicuous — never keep your head down to avoid looking at anyone, because it looks odd, or fix your gaze on someone, because it may unsettle them and cause a confrontation. Instead, act normal by briefly glancing at people before respectfully looking away. That’s what he did with the cops as he and Emma walked past them.
The police, by contrast, made no attempt to hide the fact they were scrutinizing everyone, while their hands rested over their sidearm holsters. They continued staring at the couple as they moved farther along the concourse toward the other two cops who were forty yards ahead.
The first group of police said nothing to Will and Emma, and they were now behind them.
Emma was mightily relieved.
Will wasn’t, because he’d known they wouldn’t be challenged by the first group of officers; they were the spotters, in place to signal to the second group if they had a possible sighting. And between the two sets of cops was the takedown zone.
Or kill zone.
One of the cops ahead was looking at him; no, looking just slightly to his left, at the officers behind him. Was he receiving a silent signal from one of his colleagues, saying that the man walking between the two sets of cops was Will Cochrane?
He kept walking, and Emma maintained pace and retained her smile.
The two men ahead changed position, not much but enough so that they had good angles of fire should they need them.
Coincidence?
Will breathed in deeply while unslinging the backpack and rubbing his shoulder as if it were aching from the straps. “Emma.”
“Yeah.”
“You really a Bible Belt girl?”
“Perhaps you’d like to find out.”
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“I’m truly sorry that I’ll never get the chance to find out, and I’m sorry if I accidentally hurt you.”
“Hurt me?”
“Yes.”
Will slammed the backpack on the floor so that it acted as a cushion, pushed Emma over it, pulled out his handgun and fired two shots in under one second, saw both cops in front of him drop to the floor as his bullets struck their Kevlar jackets, then spun around and fired again so that the two cops behind him were writhing on the concourse as if they’d been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. He bolted while men and women around him screamed at the sight of a psychopath who’d gunned down four law enforcement officers with brutal precision and speed.
But Will wasn’t a psychopath. He’d aimed at the cops’ body armor, knowing his pistol rounds would not reach the officers’ bodies, but nevertheless would incapacitate them for a vital few seconds.
Will was almost out of sight as the first cop managed to get to his feet, his face screwed up in agony from the impact to his upper body, which would remain bruised for weeks, his feet unsteady, his mind disoriented but praising the Lord and Kevlar for saving his life. He tried to move, but his legs nearly buckled. One by one, his colleagues got upright, three of them removing their bulletproof vests and examining the gunshot hole that was dead center in the jacket, the fourth speaking in a near hysterical voice on his radio mic that they needed assistance and mobile patrols to scour Union Station’s surroundings.
All around them was chaos, noise, panic, and the acrid smell of discharged rounds.
Emma’s ears were in pain from the sound of Will’s pistol; she’d never known gunshots were that loud in reality.
But, despite her body shaking from fear and adrenaline and the needlelike pain in her head, she kept her eyes on Will Cochrane until he disappeared from view.
She knew they wouldn’t get him.
Not today.
Anyone who could nonlethally immobilize four law enforcement officers in that fraction of time was too good to be caught fleeing this place.
Emma smiled as she imagined her mom inevitably asking her if she had a man in her life. This time she’d be able to respond with words that would finally stop her interference. Something like, “Yeah, lovely guy. I was hoping to introduce him to you, but turned out he was a spy, and we decided to end things after he shot four cops.”
Her smile faded when she realized she’d never see Will again.
Just her luck to finally meet a guy who she could sleep next to with a feeling of utter contentment and safety, only for that moment to be snatched away from her.
Still, it gave her some consolation to know that during her visit to her parents he might be nearby this weekend.
In Washington, D.C.
PART IV
TWENTY-EIGHT
Though she loved the city, there were two things that Marsha Gage didn’t like about Washington: it had far too many politicians for her liking, and early-morning traffic could be horrendous, particularly when rain was pouring out of the black clouds above the city. Thankfully, her car was tailgating Pete Duggan’s SUV as its siren and flashing lights forced a path toward Union Station. Duggan’s HRT colleagues weren’t in the vehicle because Marsha didn’t need them right now; instead she’d told Pete to come with her so that she could draw upon his expertise.
Twenty-three minutes earlier she’d received a call from Commander Bret Oppenheimer of the Metropolitan Police Department of the District of Columbia telling her what had happened at the station, that all police leave had been canceled, that he was increasing the police presence in D.C., and that Will Cochrane had vanished. And while she’d been grabbing her car keys and Pete Duggan, she’d gotten another call from the chief of Washington’s Metro Transit Police Department saying that this morning he’d be unofficially telling every cop who worked for his department that none of them would be reprimanded if they spotted Cochrane at another transportation hub and shot him dead without issuing a warning. The chief had sounded furious, and Marsha didn’t blame him because it was his men who’d been shot.