But out of the corner of his eye he caught the shadow of a figure advancing on him. Although it was too dark to make out the man’s face, the tall build and stealthy, catlike movement told him it was Waller.
Payne cut right on Seventh Street and glanced back over his shoulder, but was unable to locate the form he had just seen. In the darkness and the cover of so many trees, he couldn’t be sure that Waller wasn’t only a few feet behind him. Although the thigh wound was still painful, it was tolerable and permitted him to move fairly well as long as he was not running at full stride.
He jogged across Constitution Avenue and headed toward Pennsylvania, a short block away. To his left was the stately National Archives building, to his right the more staid Federal Trade Commission. He didn’t dare look over his shoulder, as he was in a rhythm now, moving quickly toward his goaclass="underline" the brightly lit Metro entrance that was now partially visible up ahead of him.
As he approached, he could make out the vertical sign with the large M at the top, which read ARCHIVES — NAVY MEMORIAL STATION.
Payne crossed Seventh and ran past the Metro elevator, headed for the Navy Memorial plaza, where three escalators descended underground to the mouth of the subway entrance. A Metro guard was talking with a woman, giving her directions. Payne put his head down, stepped onto the moving staircase, and took his first look into the darkness and shadows from where he had just come. He did not see any movement.
Once he hit the bottom of the escalator, he ran past the automated fare-card machines to his right and approached the turnstile at nearly full speed. He glanced at the station manager’s booth to his left, which was empty — and he lunged forward, throwing his torso across the flat surface of the low-lying turnstile. He pulled himself over it and landed on his right leg. He continued on, down the stairs and toward the tracks.
As he moved, he caught sight of security cameras, mounted high on the ceiling, beaming his image into the empty station manager’s booth — and who knew where else. He hoped it would be a moot point: by the time anyone recognized the person on the screen as him, he would be long gone.
In the subway tube, the distant pinpoint of light told him a train was a couple hundred feet away, approaching the station. The muted, greenish, recessed lighting accentuated the cement, honeycomb walls, which arched high above him. Yet the beauty of the architecture failed to elicit a memory of having been here before.
Wait. What was that? Hard footsteps, dress shoes. Running toward him from above.
“Harper!”
Payne pulled his Glock and aimed it up at the voice, which immediately became associated with a silhouetted figure looming above him, on the main floor of the station.
“Stay back, Jon,” Payne called out. The handful of people on the platform scattered, moving for any cover they could find: a bench, a trash can, the side of the escalator.
Payne glanced down the track, the train’s two distant headlights enlarging as they approached. Waller’s left hand was extended out in front of him. “Just put the gun down and we can talk.”
“Where’s Scott?” Payne asked, turning around and craning his neck to check all possible routes of entry into this section of the station.
“Put the gun down, Harper. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
“Everyone’s taken cover, Jon. People do that — they see guns, they tend to hide. But keep talking, it’s your job. You know, buddy up to me, get me to drop the gun so you can take me in without incident.” Payne glanced at the tracks again. The building, rumbling echo in the tunnel indicated the train would be here in a matter of seconds — a fact he knew Waller was aware of as well. “I can’t go with you, Jon, at least not now.”
“Don’t do this. We can still work something out.”
The train pulled to a stop and the doors whooshed open.
Payne glanced at the train, then back up at Waller, who had just stepped onto the escalator.
“That wasn’t smart, Jon,” Payne yelled.
“You’re not gonna shoot me. You’d lose everything — your career, your life. You’d never see Lauren again.”
Just then, a tone sounded and the Metro’s doors began sliding closed. Payne stepped into the train. As the doors clunked shut, he turned to check on Waller — but he was gone.
“Shit.” Payne quickly moved toward the back of the car. A few people, a man in a business suit and a couple of teenagers in jeans, eyed him with fear as he hobbled along, the gun still clutched in his hand. Payne noticed their gazes, slid his firearm into its holster, and removed his credentials. “FBI,” he said in explanation, holding up the open case as he shuffled through the car. Once again, he craned his neck to see through the windows, trying to locate Waller. But there wasn’t any sign of him.
Payne walked through the two doors and into the next, nearly vacant, car. He sat down heavily and buried his tired head in his hands.
Waller was on the train. He could feel it.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Payne opened his eyes and focused on Waller’s frowning face. “Jon. Have a seat.”
Waller’s body was rigid, as if prepared to pounce. When Payne made no effort to flee, Waller seemed to relax a bit. He glanced around, appearing to look for some trap, some reason why his fugitive was not attempting to escape. Apparently satisfied it was safe to sit, he settled into the seat next to Payne. “I don’t get it, Harper. What’s gotten into you?”
Payne looked at him with heavy eyes. “You want to know what’s gotten into me.” He chuckled. “Fair question, I guess.” He let his head fall backward and he stared at the ceiling as the train lurched slightly from side to side. “You won’t understand… you don’t know what I know. Then again, maybe you do.”
Waller shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you’re just on overload. We were working at an extremely aggressive pace. Maybe I was pushing you too hard.” He extended his hand. “I need your weapon.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because you disobeyed orders, Harp, because you held fellow agents at gunpoint and stole my fucking wallet, because you’re acting irrationally. You leaped from a moving vehicle, for Christ’s sake. Those good enough reasons?”
“No, they’re not. Not for me, at least.”
“Direct order from Knox, okay? He wants you to see a shrink, find out what’s gotten under your skin. If everything checks out and he gives you a clean bill, you get it back. Right now, it’s just a precaution.”
Payne looked at Waller’s open hand. “Knox has to protect his star witness.”
Waller nodded. “Can you blame him?”
Payne sighed. “No, I guess not. But I’ll want it back.” He reached inside his suit jacket.
“Two fingers! Take it out with two fingers—”
“If I was going to shoot you, Jon, you wouldn’t have gotten out of Scott’s car alive.” Payne pulled out his weapon, pressed it down into Waller’s palm — then wrapped his fingers around the back of Waller’s hand.
“What the fuck—”
In a lightning fast move, Payne slapped a handcuff on his partner’s left wrist. Waller pulled back — but not before Payne had flicked the other end of the restraint around the metal pole that ran the length of the seat in front of them.
Waller reached for his gun with his free right hand — but Payne’s left was already on the weapon and yanking it out of the holster.
Payne backed away and slipped the forty caliber handgun into his own shoulder harness.
“You’re out of your fucking mind—”
“Am I? Do you really think I’ve lost my mind, Jon?”
“I don’t know what to think—”
“Well, I do. Now, give me your set of cuffs. And the key.”