“We can’t wait them out,” Miggie said, from his nearby computer post. “Sooner or later they’ll probably canvass the neighborhood, and even if they don’t, and just pack up and go at some point, we’re kept out of the game, till then.”
“And,” Rogers said, “we can’t afford that.”
Reeder said, “So we get in the game now.”
All eyes were on him.
He said, “All of our personal vehicles are out. Fisk has the makes and licenses and so, almost certainly, does the Alliance. So let’s discuss alternate transportation. Sooner we change rides the better. Thoughts?”
Wade said, “I can get a car for Hardesy and me. I’ve got a friend out of government I can trust.”
Miggie said, “I’ve got a vato owes me a favor. He’ll get me a ride.”
Rogers clamped eyes with Reeder. “You have somebody in mind for us?”
Reeder shrugged. “What about Pete Woods? He’s a cop, with no love for feds, and he seemed trustworthy enough when we worked with him last year.”
“Yeah, well, we’re feds, remember?”
“He likes you.”
“I have a guy.”
“But not a ride. I’ll get you the number. Also, we need to protect Morris in case Alliance guns are out there — they’d probably kill him on sight. So we disguise him a little. No glasses.”
“That’s not enough,” Rogers said.
Wade grinned. “How about I shave his head Hardesy-style?”
“What?” came a voice from the kitchenette.
That gave everybody a needed laugh.
“We can’t use the side stairway,” Reeder said. “Too exposed. We take the rear stairwell to the back of the tailor shop and out into the alley. We need to stagger the times. Don’t want all three vehicles back there at once, and Lucas, you and Wade will have to transfer Miggie’s gear.”
“This is when I wish I were hourly,” Hardesy said, “not salaried. Think of the overtime.”
“And,” Wade said, “the lack of anybody tryin’ to kill us.”
Reeder took Rogers’ phone, punched in Woods’ number, and handed it back. She stepped away. Meanwhile Wade went over and started unwrapping their prisoner, who was moaning and groaning about the new hairstyle awaiting him.
After three rings came: “Woods.”
“Pete, Patti Rogers. Remember me?”
“I remember you and your charming partner. Is this call because I gave that Bureau guy crap at that hit-and-run at Arlington?”
“No. Your instincts were correct.”
“Yeah?”
“Joe and I need a ride. We’ve got the Bureau on our tails, because we’re looking into a government scandal, and dodging assorted bad guys who want us dead.”
“... Sounds dangerous.”
“It is. Wouldn’t blame you saying no. If you say yes, bring your umbrella, ’cause it’s a shit storm.”
“... My helping you would really rub the Bureau raw?”
“It would,” she admitted.
“Count me in,” Woods said. “Where and when?”
She told him where, then clicked off. Wade was hauling Morris toward the bathroom, the man’s hands still duct-taped together. Morris was swearing at Wade, whose laughter echoed.
Turning back to the rest of her team, she said, “Our ride will be meeting Joe and me in one hour, three blocks over. Mig, arrange for your ride to pick you up at Eleventh and M, just a block away, which gives you less exposure with our buddy Lawrence. Call your friends and see if they can pick you up in that same one-hour window. Lucas, you and Reggie have your ride pick you up right out back, so you can transfer Mig’s stuff.”
Hardesy said, “It’s Reggie’s guy. I’ll go interrupt his barber-college lesson so he can make the call.”
Hardesy did that, and Mig made his call, too. Within ten minutes both confirmed their rides were set. Within twenty minutes, Wade was hauling out a bald-headed Morris, who looked near tears, some shaving-cream splotches here and there, like the last of melting snow. Now everybody’s laughter echoed.
Except Morris.
Who was given Washington Wizards sweats from the DeMarcus Collection, and some Air Jordans that required several extra pairs of socks to make fit. With his newly shaved noggin and no wire-frames, he looked nothing like the Men’s Wearhouse — wearing accountant.
While they waited, Reeder, Rogers, and her team helped themselves to extra nine millimeters and handfuls of magazines. The laughter generated by Morris had faded, as everyone knew that these weapons could very well have to be used against others like themselves — government agents on the side of the angels, or anyway Uncle Sam.
Wade and Reggie went first, out the back way. When no sounds came of gunshots or struggle, Miggie, Nichols, and the Daddy Warbucks-ish Lawrence Morris went out that same way. Again, no sound of trouble followed. Five minutes later, Reeder and Rogers took the side stairs and left the Batcave behind.
She fell into step next to him as they took off toward L Street at a fast walk, hugging the buildings and avoiding the glow of the streetlights. At Tenth and L, they turned east and Rogers glanced over her shoulder. A male figure stepped out from under a tree in the block between Ninth and Tenth.
“Bogie on our six,” she said, “block back.”
“Could just be out for smokes or snacks,” Reeder said. “Bodega across the block.”
“We could stop and ask him.”
Reeder picked up the pace a little. “Or not.”
Behind them, a male voice called, “Hey!”
Like he’d seen a friend or maybe needed directions. Reeder whispered, “Just keep going. Don’t look back.”
She obeyed, but building footfalls behind them said their new friend was running now.
“Hey!” he called again. Then, abandoning pretense, he yelled, “Halt! Federal agent!”
“Go!” Reeder said, and they went, running, with him just a step ahead.
“Stop or I’ll fire!”
Shoes pounding the sidewalk, the eyes of the homeless on them from the recessions of doorways, they hurtled along. Up ahead an unmarked white van had paused at the mouth of a parking lot — were they being herded toward their own capture?
Twelfth Street lay fifty yards ahead, and she didn’t know if they could even make it to the corner. Behind them, and the agent pursuing them, a car engine’s throaty purr built to a roar. Now a vehicle was in pursuit, too!
They reached the white van, Reeder running with a hand on the nine mil in his waistband while she fumbled with her hip holster to get at her own weapon.
But no one jumped out of the van.
Still twenty-five yards from Twelfth, the two fled the agent whose approaching footsteps were small punctuation marks in the throbbing of the car engine that still built and built...
That was when an uneven patch in the pavement sent her down, and she hit her right knee on the sidewalk, as if she’d stopped to pray, which might not have been a bad idea; then she pitched forward and her hands burned, skidding and skinned by the rough concrete.
Reeder went back for her, helping her up. As he did, their eyes met and for once she could read him as well as he could her: they were screwed.
As Reeder pulled her to her feet, Rogers finally saw the car that went with the engine roar: a dark green Dodge. No outrunning that.
But the vehicle veered, forcing the pursuing agent to dive out of the way, slamming him into the rear of the white van, his pistol flying and hitting the cement somewhere, bouncing clunkily away.