A male voice echoed down a stairwelclass="underline" “What’s with Clayton and Simpson? Should’ve been here ten minutes ago!”
From a nearby room, another male voice said, “Maybe he’s getting carryout for a change!”
“If so,” the stairwell voice said, “cheap-ass probably won’t bring us any!”
Downstairs said, “Why, you want to spend another half hour babysitting?”
“... Ten minutes, you call him.”
“Ten minutes, I call him.”
The kitchen took a left and emptied out into a dining area that opened onto a living room where a ginger-haired agent in his shirtsleeves lounged in a comfy chair with his feet on an ottoman. His back was mostly to them as he sat watching an old Bruce Willis movie on TCM, a can of Diet Coke on an end table between him and a couch.
Also on that table was a Glock.
Off to the left, just opposite the front door and entry area, an unenclosed stairway rose.
The openness of the room allowed Rogers to come around behind the agent and grab away the weapon before the guy knew up from down. He straightened, startled, looking toward where his gun had disappeared, and then on the other side of him another gun did appear, its snout touching his temple.
Reeder, whose weapon it was, whispered, “Clayton and Simpson are here. Tell him.”
The agent swallowed, nodded, and called, “Hey, they’re here!”
Which was true in a couple of ways.
“About damn time!” the stairwell voice said.
Rogers was already over at the bottom of the stairs, crouched down alongside where she couldn’t be seen. When the upstairs agent’s feet tromped down to meet the downstairs, she jack-in-the-boxed up and showed him the gun. Wearing a rumpled-looking, end-of-shift suit, he had a pale, doughy baby-face and tiny dark raisin eyes that opened comically wide. He had a gun, too, but Rogers yanked it from his waistband before his mind had started to work.
She used his cuffs to secure his hands behind him.
“Take a seat,” she said, and nodded toward the couch.
He went there and sat, his cuffed hands behind him clearly uncomfortable. On the TV, Bruce Willis was smirking.
Reeder was perched on the ottoman now with his nine mil trained on the ginger agent, who was sitting up, hands in the air.
Rogers came over and said to their hosts, “Just you two?”
Both captives nodded. Nothing forced about it. Still...
She found the upstairs empty until she got to the bedroom at the end of the hall, the door open.
In dark slacks and light blue blouse but no shoes, the tall, slender, model-lovely African American woman was on the bed, on top of the covers, pillows propped behind her. She had her hands cuffed in her lap and her ankles were bound with white cloth possibly torn from a sheet, which might have been the source for the white blindfold and gag, as well.
“Anne, Annie, it’s okay,” Rogers said, moving quickly across the room, holstering her weapon. “We’re here.”
Gently Rogers removed the blindfold, revealing a small gash in the center of a purplish lump near the woman’s left temple. This was the only overt sign of violence’s aftermath, and had probably occurred when Nichols was taken captive.
“You’re safe,” Rogers said, undoing the gag.
Her voice a hoarse whisper, Nichols said, “I screwed up, Patti. I really screwed up.”
“Course you didn’t. Let’s get you out of here.”
Rogers peeled off her suit jacket and snugged it around Nichols’ shoulders as the agent slipped off the bed and got unsteadily onto her feet.
Reeder appeared in the doorway.
“Our two friends are cuffed and quiet,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “How is she?”
Rogers was drunk-walking Nichols across the room.
“Bad knock in the noggin. Annie, you need an ambulance?”
“No. No, no. Let’s just go.”
“Okay,” Reeder said. “I’ll check in with Miggie, though.”
He got Altuve right away and reported that they’d be back soon. “Tell Reggie to be ready with a first-aid kit. Have you heard from Ivanek?”
As he listened to Miggie’s response, Reeder looked up at Rogers and then shook his head.
No Ivanek yet.
Reeder asked the phone, “What about Bohannon?”
He listened and then his face went hard, then soft.
“Be back as soon as we can,” he said, then clicked off.
“What?” she asked, she and Nichols at the door now.
“Agent Jerry Bohannon,” Reeder said.
“What about him?”
“Dead.”
“The time is near at hand which must determine whether Americans are to be free men or slaves.”
Fifteen
Reeder said, “Bohannon was executed. No attempt to make it look like anything else this time.”
Her arm still around and supporting Anne Nichols, Rogers gaped at him, horrified. “What?”
“A mob-style double tap. Your people looking into any mob-related activity lately?”
“A few things, but...”
“So maybe I’m wrong, and this is somebody’s half-assed idea of covering up their latest kill.”
Rogers looked stricken. “Where was he...?”
“Still sitting surveillance outside Ivanek’s place.”
Nichols was quietly crying now. Rogers was shaking her head, saying, “I thought Jerry was on his way back to the Hoover Building.”
“So did I. For now, we have to stick a pin it, and get the hell out of here. See if you can find what they did with Anne’s shoes and get her into them. I’ll tidy up downstairs.”
“You’re not going to kill anybody are you?”
“I’ll try to restrain myself.”
It went quickly. The IDs of the captured minders were all Homeland. From the two downstairs, their hands already cuffed behind them, Reeder collected cell phones, and escorted them to the front closet and shut them in. The pair was too professional to squawk.
Shortly in the garage, Reeder was surveying the still unconscious Clayton and Simpson when Rogers and Nichols joined him.
Rogers helped him haul and dump the two Homeland agents into the trunk of their Ford, then the two women waited while Reeder fetched the rental vehicle from one street over. When he’d pulled into the driveway, Rogers ushered Nichols out and helped her into the back, then shut the garage door with an electric-eye opener she’d liberated from the Ford.
Reeder held the driver’s side door open for Rogers, who paused and said, “Those four kidnapped Anne. We just leave them behind for their people to pick up?”
“When somebody notices they haven’t checked in, yes. With luck that may be next shift change, but it’s more likely they have periodic call-ins.”
Her face was as clenched as a fist. “Clayton mentioned the Alliance. Probable that all four of them are part of that. They need to be arrested, Joe.”
“Who by? Us? The people who assaulted four federal agents?”
She blanched.
He said, “Who do we trust enough with that call? I’ve now tangled with both Homeland and Secret Service, and we know somebody in the CIA betrayed five of their own. Only thing we can do is get out of here.”