“Yes,” she said, “but this time I didn’t get hit.”
He got very quiet after that.
At the Hoover Building, Rogers turned Kevin Lockwood over to Anne Nichols and Luke Hardesy to interview, advising them to get whatever they could from him about Karma’s suitor.
Before he entered the interview room, Kevin said to Rogers, “Thanks. You saved my life. That’s not something I’ll ever forget. Maybe when things settle down and this is all over, we can have a cup of coffee or a drink or something.”
“I’d like that,” Rogers said, wondering if she’d just made a date with a transvestite.
Nichols ushered Kevin inside to the table, but Hardesy lingered.
“Reeder says Kevin — or is it Virginia...?”
“He’s Kevin right now. Respect that.”
“I will, I will. But Reeder says our witness here has IDed Elmore as DeShawn aka Karma’s john.”
“Tentatively, yes. You need to get everything you can out of Kevin about this gentleman friend. Maybe we can pinpoint some dates they were together.”
Hardesy nodded. “Elmore works out of Ohio, like his boss Benjamin, but they both make plenty of DC trips. That’s something to look at.”
Back in the bullpen, Reeder was sitting next to Miggie, who looked up at her with a grin. “Having Elmore’s name,” he said, “made all the difference.”
She pulled up a chair and joined them. “Good to hear. How so?”
“Remember Barmore Holdings? Company that owned the two buildings that blew up in Charlottesville?”
“Yeah, I vaguely remember the two buildings that blew up in our faces. Why?”
“Turns out, the company moniker derives from the surnames of the primary owners — Lynn Barr and Frank Elmore.”
Rogers frowned. “We know Elmore. Who’s Lynn Barr?”
“She’s Adam Benjamin’s VP of Special Projects,” Reeder said. “I met her briefly at that Holiday Inn Express confab.”
She shook her head. “Are we uncovering a palace coup here? Could the majordomo and this VP be behind the assassination attempt on their own boss?”
“Benjamin runs a pretty tight ship.”
Miggie said, “The boss man’s name isn’t anywhere in anything Barmore is involved in.”
Reeder said, “Jay Akers indicated Benjamin’s security was lousy... and proved the point by getting himself killed.”
Rogers mulled that, then said, “We have explosives possibly in the Capitol basement, and people being snuffed out like a room full of candles. Could this be a conspiracy of real size?”
“The Common Sense Movement itself?” Reeder asked. “That’s a hell of a leap.”
“How about a smaller group,” Rogers said, “working clandestinely within Benjamin’s movement? For their own purposes?”
Reeder’s eyes narrowed. “Seems like we need to ask these questions to somebody besides each other.”
“You mean, like Frank Elmore and Lynn Barr?”
“Yeah,” Reeder said. “Like those two.”
Seventeen
“Bravery is the capacity to perform properly even when scared half to death.”
Evan Carpenter had long since stopped believing in any notion of doing his duty. That, like many of his brothers in arms, died in a jungle hell.
But he still set stock in doing his job. When he signed on for one, he delivered, as he had when his boss was Uncle Whiskers, before Carpenter wised up and realized he had a marketable skill set. Today and yesterday, his employer got the full benefit of his abilities, just as Special Operations Command once had for far less money.
He didn’t fear dying, but like any sane person, he would do his best to avoid it; and he feared no man, or at least not so far. Other than last week, and most of this week, the gig had been a snap — taking out clueless civilians, one at a time, months apart. Sometimes he felt he was damn near stealing his employer’s money.
Tonight, though, the shit would be deep and he’d more than earn his paycheck. Not that he minded a challenge — that shiver up his spine was not fear, no fucking way fear, but excitement, anticipation, expectation.
The men he would face tonight were the real deal, even if they were getting soft guarding Adam Benjamin. Still, Benjamin delaying the announcement of his candidacy had been a godsend — wading through agents of the United States Secret Service might tax even Evan Carpenter’s abilities. Taking out five mercenaries, a little off their game? That was not only possible, it sounded like fun.
Carpenter, in black duster-style coat, black fatigues, and Kevlar vest, sat in his car outside the Holiday Inn Express, weapons ready. Inside, people had no idea they were about to die. He sat back, scrolled mentally through his plan one last time, breathed deep, exhaled fully, did that again, and once more, then smiled slightly as he climbed from the car, wind whipping the duster skirt. But the cold meant nothing in the face of already pumping adrenaline.
Tonight he would impress his employer, always a plus, but his personal agenda would also be served — he’d have the opportunity to clear away the debris left by this recent bad-luck shitstorm.
Just outside the automatic glass doors of the hotel, he pulled on the black balaclava-style ski mask and withdrew the two sound-suppressed .45 automatics from the deep pockets of his duster. The pistols were in his hands as he went into the lobby, almost disappointed to see the four-man guard team in their usual places, as if they were lulled by the piped-in music (Dean Martin, “Winter Wonderland”).
Lazy was just as bad as stupid in Carpenter’s book — men hired to anticipate action, wholly unprepared for direct frontal assault. Unforgivable.
The two on the sofa midlobby were still seated when the head shots exploded through their skulls erupting blood/brains/bone and leaving halos of scarlet mist. They remained on the sofa with a ringside seat on a gunfight they didn’t realize they’d been in.
The dipshit who just never got tired of flirting with that cute brunette desk clerk almost had his .38 out of the sideways hip holster when he gained a third eye in his forehead that would gain him no insight at all.
The blond merc hated, well anyway didn’t love, having to shoot the cutie-pie clerk in her sweet head — these security bozos didn’t deserve mercifully quick deaths, but he was glad she went out light-switch fast, anyway.
All this took enough time to give the guy who always lounged at a table in the breakfast area the chance to get to his feet, and even yank his gun partway out, but Carpenter’s silenced shot caught him midface, opening his nose like a scarlet blossoming flower and spewing bloody matter out the back of his skull.
Nobody but Carpenter had gotten a shot off, and his silenced .45s only made sort of a whuff when he fired them. The only sound was that piped-in music — it always irritated Carpenter, having that old-timey crap continually foisted upon his generation.
As if he were delivering the mail, he went around to each fallen man and delivered a second head shot — overkill, he knew, but he’d seen head-shot men in combat go down and get back up again. Not everybody needed all their brains, it seemed.
Back around the check-in desk, he lingered a few seconds over the dead desk clerk. She really was a pretty young thing, or had been. Still, he’d hit her just perfect, the scarlet dot in her forehead almost like a bindi. The staring eyes and the little lake of red her hair swam in told him he needn’t waste a round.
Five dead in under two minutes. Carpenter shook his head, smiling a half smile under the ski mask. Sometimes it was just too damn easy. He returned the left-hand pistol to its deep duster pocket, having used it only on the desk clerk, and reloaded the .45 in his right. He then headed down the corridor to where he knew Adam Benjamin waited, with only one guard in the room.