From whose unit had the original information supposedly been hacked?
Who, if she hadn’t been beautiful and sexy and smart, would have been at the top of Jay’s check-’em-out list, once he got rolling?
The answers to all the questions were the same.
There was a tendency to separate people into good guys and bad guys, and since Lewis had been on the same side—and gorgeous—that made her ipso facto one of the good guys. But there had always been bad cops, and they were harder to catch because nobody started out looking at them.
Now, there were too many fingers pointing that way for Jay to stay blind any longer.
He came across the entry on Rachel’s father. He turned to that page, began reading. A career Army man, just as she had told him. Died young . . . hmmm.
A sub-index on Sergeant Robert Bridger Lewis turned up the cause of death: suicide.
As Jay read the file, he felt a cold sensation begin gathering in his belly.
Sergeant R.B. Lewis had been court-martialed and convicted of killing a soldier, and had been awaiting sentencing when he shot himself.
Records of the trial told the story: The soldier had allegedly assaulted the then-seventeen-year-old Rachel Lewis, a date rape. Her father had gone to find the young man and had killed him with his side arm.
The cold in his gut turned into a hard and icy lump.
Jay leaned back and stared at the book. That might tend to make for a screwed-up view of the Army, that they prosecuted your father for taking out your rapist. But it wasn’t proof.
Jay thumbed back to the index, and to the medical records section.
There was no record of Rachel Lewis ever having a child. That didn’t mean all that much—could be she had avoided giving her real name. He could strain the records looking for live births about the time it would have happened, and death certificates due to the cause she had told him, a burst aorta. That would take a while. . . .
No, wait, hold on. Here was a sealed record of a medical exam just last year, a routine physical, and a copy of the doctor’s exam notes: “Well-developed, well-nourished sthenic Caucasian female, gravida 0, para 0, appearing to be about the stated age of . . .”
Jay grabbed a medical dictionary and leafed through it.
Gravida and para . . .
Pregnancy and delivery . . .
Whoa.
If, after a physical examination and lab tests and all, a doctor had written down that Captain Lewis had never been pregnant, much less had a baby?
That meant she had lied to Jay about her baby. Why?
Well, if she had been trying to get his sympathy, certainly that had worked. He had wanted to hug her and comfort her when he’d heard that, and if she had designs on him to keep his mind from churning along a certain path—
If? All those sexual images in her scenarios? That fallen towel during that phone call? Her hand in his lap?
She wanted to sleep with him—but not because she thought he was God’s gift to women. It was to put him off her trail!
What a moron he was! Why hadn’t he seen that before?
Jay was certain of it in that moment. Rachel Lewis was behind the attacks on the Army bases. The only question was, how was he going to get enough evidence to prove it?
Maybe Carruth, if they got him alive, would roll over and give her up. But Jay couldn’t depend on that. He had to get what he needed in case Carruth blew himself to pieces when the authorities came to call.
Then again, once you were convinced of something, once you knew it was the truth, finding evidence to back that belief was easier than fumbling around in the dark looking for it in the first place.
Well. He had plenty of material to look at. Everything she had told him needed to be checked. She had been lying to him all along, and somewhere in that mess might be just the thread he needed to unravel it.
Rachel was the bad guy. Damn.
34
Washington, D.C.
The roar of the BMF revolver was a noise to rival Thor’s hammer smashing a mountain of granite, a scream that stunned both the ear and the mind. He wasn’t worried about his hearing or ballistics at this point—it was his ass on the line. They were here, they knew who he was. All bets were off.
He pointed the handgun at the front door, not bothering to aim, and squeezed the trigger again, and the second blast from the firing chamber blew sideways hard enough from the cylinder to blast paint chips off the door frame in the hall where he stood.
If that didn’t make them duck, nothing would.
Even with his ears ringing from the shots, he heard: “Holy shit! He’s got a fucking cannon in there! Get down!”
He assumed they had both the front and back covered, and there was only one way out. He ran to the bedroom and jerked open the door to his closet. He had a moment of regret when he looked at all the stuff he’d have to leave behind, but that’s all he had time for, that brief moment. He could buy new stuff if he got away. If not, he wouldn’t need it anyway. He’d either be dead or on his way up the river for a long damn time.
How had they found him? Only one way he could see—the same way they had known to set a trap at the Army base. Somebody had ratted him out, and there was only one person who could have done it.
Why? Had she gotten spooked over something and wanted to throw him to the wolves so they wouldn’t follow her? Had that business with the terrorist’s brother rattled her? She seemed so cool and so smart, he’d never figured on that. Was she getting greedy now that the payout was getting closer?
And how stupid did she think he was, that he wouldn’t eventually figure it out that she’d given him up?
Unless maybe the reason they had hung back at the base, and weren’t storming in here like gangbusters, was because she’d told them something else? Like maybe he was suicidal? She didn’t want him alive and talking, did she?
Crap. What a screwup this was.
There were D.C. cops, FBI, and at least a couple goddamn Net Force logos out front, all of them armed, some with subguns, some with LTL beanbag guns and tasers. He had to assume there were that many of them in the backyard, too. They wanted him alive, obviously, the way they were waving those beanbaggers and electrical shockers, but once he’d cooked off a few more rounds from the honker, they’d rethink that. If it was him leading the assault and somebody coughed as loud as the BMF at him? The take-him-alive plan would be right out, and it’d be into just shoot the bastard first chance, and game over.
One against eight. Not good odds, even if he’d had the element of surprise—and he sure as hell didn’t have that.
He had one chance, and it wasn’t much. His only hope was that he had rattled them before they had a chance to get everybody into position. If not, he was probably a dead man, because he wasn’t going to just give up.
The trapdoor to the crawl space was in the floor of the closet. He jerked it up, grabbed the flashlight hung on the nail on the back wall, and dropped into the opening. They’d find the door eventually, but it was covered with carpet to match the closet’s floor, and he tugged it back into place. It would take them a few minutes to get into the house and realize he wasn’t there. A few more minutes to find the crawl space, if he was lucky.
After hearing his gun, nobody would want to be the first guy through the door, just in case he was sitting there maybe wanting to go out in a blaze of glory and see how many he could take with him.
The crawl space was just that, less than a meter high, and he dropped prone and started ass and elbows and knees working. He’d done a modification to the house when he’d rented it, built an exit to the side that opened up in the narrow corridor that had once been a dog run. There was even an old doghouse there, and Carruth had taken out one wall of it and shoved it against the side of the house, to cover the trapdoor leading to the yard.