He looked down and saw the black polyester belt Fradkov had been wearing around his stomach. Bent down and retrieved it with the Russian still on his back.
“Boss, you okay?” Suarez asked.
“Fine. Get him in the car.”
“Fucker is covered with piss and shit.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Mancini leaned into the wheel, driving at full speed, headlights out. Suarez in the passenger seat looked back to see if they were being followed. Akil on one of the 345cc four-stroke Bullet Electras zoomed up behind them, on their right rear bumper.
On the backseat Crocker brightened at the growl of the single-cylinder engine as he set the Russian’s injured leg. Reminded him of his own bikes over the years and the feeling of freedom, wind in your face, tearing down country roads.
He watched the rise and fall of Fradkov’s chest and on his thigh saw a splotch of dark red reflected in the moonlight. Reaching for his med bag on the floor, he opened it with his right hand and ripped the plastic off a blowout patch with his teeth.
“Romeo, anyone following?” he asked into his head mike.
“Nothing but road, Deadwood. All fucking clear.”
“Watch your language.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He smiled, fixed the patch over the wound to Fradkov’s thigh, and saw the sneaky look in the Russian’s eyes. He was reaching for the belt, which Crocker had tossed on the floor.
“Mine,” the Russian groaned.
“Not anymore.” Crocker snatched it away from him and unzipped one of the pockets, which was stuffed with money. Brand spanking new hundred-dollar bills.
“Give me!” the Russian grunted.
Crocker pushed his hand away. “Keep quiet.”
Chapter Two
It is not easy to find happiness in ourselves, and it is not possible to find it elsewhere.
– Agnes Repplier
It was already 1013 and Crocker was running late, which he didn’t like. But the DC Beltway was jammed and the 395 not much better, and he was in a lousy mood despite the fact that “Tumbling Dice” by the Stones was pouring out of the stereo.
For the past several days he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about next week’s pretrial hearing on the breaking-and-entering and aggravated-assault charges that had been filed against him in Fairfax County, Virginia. Like the court was tossing the ivories with his fate.
Epic BS.
He assumed the meeting he was now rushing to concerned that. News of it had been texted to him last night by an aide at ST-6 headquarters. Simply: “Presence required. 1711 17th Street. 1030hrs.” Since returning from the Ukraine, he’d been feeling anxious, trying to settle into his new apartment and get his life together.
It didn’t help his current state of mind that his wife had left him after his previous very difficult deployment to Syria and Turkey.
The sky hung milky gray over the glass-and-steel towers along the K Street corridor-very un-April-like for DC. Crazy city had been built over a swamp-actually “wetland with trees,” according to a recent article in the Washington Post.
As he turned up 17th Street, he told himself that there was no way he would serve time in jail if convicted and he would appeal if he received something even as light as a three-month sentence. In his head he was already planning his escape to Patagonia or New Zealand-two raw, sparsely populated locales where he imagined an individual could still carve out his own destiny without interference from corrupt cops and narrow-minded public officials.
Not that he really wanted to. He loved the United States and what it stood for.
Crocker gripped the steering wheel so hard the muscles in his back and neck tensed. He was getting himself worked up, just like ST-6 psychiatrist Dr. Petrovian had warned him not to do. According to the doc, repeated trauma had produced symptoms of PTSD, including erosion of his faith in God, justice, and predictability. His psyche needed time to process and integrate some of the shocking shit he’d experienced. Some of it haunted him day and night-the human degradation and destruction in Syria, the surprise attack on his teammates, the Dear John letter from Holly when he returned home.
The only people he trusted these days were his Black Cell teammates, who had suffered through some of the same shit he had, minus the rejection from his spouse. But they weren’t here now and couldn’t help him with this-a personal, judicial matter. An unjust stupidity.
Pigeons looped in front of the windshield as he spotted the address on a brick office building on his left and turned his pickup into the entrance to the underground parking lot. Screeched to a stop at the barrier, maybe a little too abruptly, so that a second later an armed African American man emerged from the booth looking alarmed.
“ID, sir?” the guard barked.
Crocker lowered the stereo and understood why the big dude in the blue blazer might be concerned. Based on his appearance-the beat-up fifteen-year-old pickup, his head-to-toe casual black attire (jeans, tee, pullover, boots), and unshaved face-he could easily be mistaken for some angry wacko with a beef against the federal government. DC was full of them-anti-gay marriage protestors on Capitol Hill, antiabortion advocates across from the White House, free speech activists in front of the Supreme Court, angry veterans demanding better and more timely medical attention.
He showed the guy his Virginia license, and the guard frowned.
“Sir, this is a federal building. Do you have an appointment?” he asked, placing his right hand on the holstered pistol at his side.
“Yeah, but I don’t know who with. Maybe an attorney.”
“Which agency?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sir, this is a government facility. Entry requires a government ID or prior appointment. If you don’t have one of them, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Crocker reached into his wallet and produced the laminated card that identified him as a Tier One U.S. military operator with a TS (top secret) SCI (sensitive compartmented information) Rainbow 9 clearance.
The guard nodded. “That’s better, sir. Thank you.”
He felt unprepared as the guard scanned a list attached to a clipboard.
What the hell am I gonna say? That I didn’t know I was breaking the law when I broke into that lady’s window?
“Sir, proceed to Level B. Park anywhere you find an empty space, then take elevator one to the fourth floor.”
“Thanks.”
He descended into the dark garage, still not knowing what this meeting was about. Thinking ahead to the pretrial hearing, he decided he couldn’t trust his attorney-a sharply dressed recent grad from Georgetown Law School. Nice kid, but maybe a tad too sure of himself. He had tried to convince Crocker that the charges would be reduced to a misdemeanor and he would escape with a slap on the wrist.
What if he was wrong? Overconfidence didn’t sit too well with Crocker. Besides, the circumstances of the case were so absurd he shouldn’t have been charged in the first place. Sure, it had been wrong to break into a woman’s apartment, but how could the court ignore the fact that she had been ripping off his seventy-six-year-old father, and that Crocker had caught her smoking crystal meth with a Fairfax County cop-the same one who had filed the charges?
His blood pressure rising, he stood near the back wall of the elevator, staring at the perfectly pressed uniforms of the two officers-one female, one male and Hispanic-standing in front of him whispering to each other about the long-term value of investment property on the Eastern Shore. He had a vacation house there as well, which he had used so many times with Holly. It had been their refuge. She had been his safe place. His harbor in the storm.
People, even military officials with desk jobs like the two riding with him now, didn’t understand the perils the United States faced around the globe, and the stakes. He didn’t blame them: How could they be expected to if they hadn’t seen the horror, violence, and human misery he had? How could they appreciate the razor-thin line between civilization and chaos, good and evil, free society and forced obedience that men like him fought to protect?