“Before it happens.”
“Preferably, yes.”
“Doesn’t this remind you of Zebra Fifty-nine?” DeSantos was referring to the disastrous operation of nearly eight years ago when he’d taken a bullet from a Russian mobster who was attempting to establish ties with a syndicate operating out of the D. C. area. Their mission ops plan was much like the one for their current assignment — more than one federal agency engaged in clandestine maneuvers, with none of them briefed on what the other was doing, or going to be doing. The result was confusion… and a trip to the ICU for DeSantos. Afterward, Archer went on a private manhunt, eventually catching the Mafiya member and instituting a little outlaw justice of his own with the help of a few Special Ops buddies. The mobster, while marginally recognizable after they were done with him, just didn’t have the head for intelligence anymore.
“Honestly,” Archer said, “no. Zebra Fifty-nine was a different time, different place.”
“But there are parallels, you do see that.”
Archer nodded. “I see it. But there’s no time to change the op.”
DeSantos knew his partner was right. It was go forward now or don’t go at all. “Besides, with all the plainclothes around, someone’s bound to see him,” Archer said as he pulled a stick of Juicy Fruit from his pocket. “I would think they’ve all been briefed on the possibility Scarponi will show up here.”
“No one else knows about the planted message Knox sent. As far as they’re concerned, it’s the remotest of possibilities. For that matter, we can’t even be sure Scarponi got it.”
“Then this should be a cakewalk.” Archer winked and folded the gum into his mouth.
DeSantos patted his partner’s arm and said, “May the force be with you.”
Archer smiled and started to reach for his door handle when suddenly he grabbed his groin. “Ah!”
“What?” DeSantos shouted, moving for his gun.
Archer slid aside his coat and looked at his phone’s display. “Trish. She’s in labor.”
“You sure?”
Archer showed him the screen. “Her water broke and contractions are five minutes apart.”
“Hate to be rude, bro, but tell me quick — what do you want to do?”
Archer shifted his coat back into place. “We’ve got a neighbor, we’re covered.”
DeSantos’s eye caught the clock on the dashboard. “Then let’s do it.”
“Scarponi better surrender,” Archer said, then popped open his door. “I’ll never forgive him if he makes me miss the birth of my daughter.”
DeSantos tried to smile. “I’ll be sure to tell him that. Right after I yell ‘Freeze.”’
Their doors clicked shut and they headed off in opposite directions.
From a distance, Lauren watched as a man resembling her husband first passed a pottery store and then walked by a man wearing a Redskins knit cap. Her heart began racing again — Michael was only thirty feet away now.
Waller glanced up from his newspaper and watched as a forest green Dodge Neon pulled over to the curb in front of the Princess Anne Building. He tucked his chin down toward his lapel mike and spoke.
“I’ve got a green Dodge stopping in front of Target A. Four men are getting out. I’m on it.”
Nick Bradley peered through the small binoculars he had trained on Lauren’s face. The sun had set and dusk was descending on the town. A couple of small antique streetlamps provided a muted, yellow hue. Despite the dim illumination, he was able to make out a smile spread across Lauren’s lips; she had obviously just caught sight of her husband. But just then, her face hardened.
She was talking to Michael, so what could be wrong?
Suddenly, a man wearing a leather bomber jacket and holding a newspaper stood up, obscuring his vision. Who the hell is that? Bradley dropped the binoculars down from his eyes and tried to orient himself. Four other men in dark coats were moving in on Lauren, encircling her and Michael. The man in the bomber jacket was moving in as well.
“No!”
Bradley was unsure if he had actually screamed the warning or if he had merely thought it. But before he could get completely out of the car, a barrage of suppressed gunshots spit forth — and amidst a forest of legs, he saw Michael Chambers crumple to the pavement.
Lauren was screaming and
someone was trying to get a hand across her mouth and
Brian Archer was bringing his gun up, trying to make out the
faces, so many faces, and
a gun was shoved into his chest against his Kevlar vest and
multiple rounds exploded
into him.
Cough cough cough
the suppressor thumped-thumped in his ears and
it was then,
it was then that he realized he’d been hit
and it was then that Zebra 59 flashed in his mind
and it was then that he realized he was falling to the ground.
And it was then
that he thought of
Trish.
Bradley’s fingers tightened around the nine-millimeter SIG in his pocket. Where was Lauren? His eyes scanned the street, trying to sift through the crowd of leather jackets. He tried to track the escaping men as they approached the corner of Princess Anne and George Streets.
More gunfire exploded as bodies fell. One of the men attempted to get up, but stumbled — then righted himself and ran off. He’d been hit all right — but by whom?
“Converge, converge!” Waller shouted into his lapel mike. Haviland was already in full stride and passing him, turning left onto George as a black Chrysler peeled away from the curb. Waller also hung a left, hoping to catch a glimpse of the injured man who had run off, disappearing somewhere amongst the stores and shops.
Haviland called off the license plate and location of the vehicle into his two-way and turned back to confer with Waller, who had yielded the task of canvassing the area on foot to the cops of the town of Fredericksburg. As Haviland waited for an affirmative response over his radio, he ran toward Waller, who was examining one of the two bodies that were sprawled across the pavement in front of the Princess Anne Building, thirty feet apart.
“Please tell me that’s not Harper lying there dead—”
Waller shook his head. “It’s not.”
“Then who is it?”
Waller removed the wallet and consulted the driver’s license. “Sean McCracken.”
Haviland shook his head. “Who the hell is Sean McCracken?”
Waller stood up and scanned the street. “How the hell should I know?” He pulled the mike on his collar toward his mouth. “Anything?”
He pressed the receiving plug deeper into his ear. “Stand by. We’re in pursuit,” came the response. Waller stood and moved toward the other body lying face up in the street. “This one’s alive — call an ambulance!” As he knelt down beside him, a man came rounding the corner, gun in hand. Waller did a shoulder roll and brought his weapon to bear. “Hold it! FBI!”
The man stopped immediately, but he appeared not even to see Waller. His attention was focused on the downed man. “No…” he said in a low moan.
“Who are you?”
DeSantos heard the voice somewhere off in the distance, tinny and muffled. After all, this was just a dream, wasn’t it?