“Who are you!” the voice demanded again.
DeSantos suddenly became aware of the man kneeling on the ground a few feet from Archer’s fallen body, the barrel of his weapon aimed squarely at his chest.
“I’m a federal agent,” DeSantos answered in a low, breathless voice.
“ID,” the man shouted back.
DeSantos reached into his back pocket.
“Slowly! Toss it over here.”
“That’s my partner,” DeSantos said. “I need to help—”
“Ambulance is on its way,” the man said as he flipped open the credentials case. “Department of Defense? What the hell? We weren’t briefed—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you were briefed on,” DeSantos said as he knelt beside Archer. He lifted his partner’s jacket and unhooked the protective vest. The rounds had penetrated the Kevlar. “Holy fuck.”
“That… bad.” Archer’s voice was weak, and his eyes were still closed.
“Stay with me, bro. Just… stay with me. Hang in there. Ambulance is on its way.”
But try as he did to make his voice strong and convincing, DeSantos knew in his heart Brian Archer was not going to survive. DeSantos had seen the wound. He’d seen many wounds over the years, and this was just not the kind you recovered from. “Think of Trish — of Presley. They need you, Brian. They need you.”
It was a plea to God as much as it was to his friend. His eyes began to water and he brushed against them with his forearm, trying to keep his vision clear. He grabbed his partner’s hand and squeezed. “Stay with me.”
“Take… care. Of… my girls…”
“I will, man, I will. I promise.”
“Zebra…” Before he could finish his thought, Archer’s hand went limp. But his partner understood the reference.
“No!” DeSantos screamed at the top of his lungs, a deep, agonizing scream that seemed to echo into infinity.
“No!”
“No!”
“No!”
Jonathan Waller watched the DOD man whose credentials identified him as Enrique Ramirez. Waller had once seen a partner of his die, many years ago. The memories were still fresh. The way he’d cradled his friend’s body, how lifeless it was. Waller had sobbed right then and there, in front of the whole homicide division, the first time he had cried in nearly a decade. It was his first assignment in the unit, one that he would never be able to forget. He later decided that his partner had died because Waller had followed the rules, and the rules said stay — when his instincts told him he should have gone. That was the last time Waller would do what the rule book said unless in his heart it was what he felt should be done.
He knelt beside DeSantos and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m Waller, FBI.”
“I know who you are.”
“Sorry about your partner. If there’s anything I can do—”
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” DeSantos said, shrugging off Waller’s hand and rising to his feet.
“Who?”
“Anthony Scarponi. Which way was he headed?”
“Scarponi?” Waller looked confused. “We were here for Payne.”
“There were four perps in leather jackets.”
“I hit one of them, but he got away.”
“Was it Scarponi?” DeSantos asked.
“I don’t think so, I didn’t get a good look—”
“Which way did the other three go?”
“Look,” Waller said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re all worked up—”
DeSantos grabbed Waller by the collar of his jacket and pulled him close. “I don’t care what you think! Which way?”
Waller nodded in the direction of George Street. DeSantos released his grip, then ran off, leaving his dead partner behind.
“He’s a fool,” Haviland said, coming up behind Waller.
Waller shook his head, still watching as DeSantos’s body disappeared into the darkness. “It’s exactly what I would do.”
“No word yet from Fredericksburg PD on our wounded foot soldier,” Haviland said, bringing his partner’s attention back to the matter at hand.
Waller grasped his lapel mike and held it in front of his lips. “This is Waller. I hit one of the perps; there’s some blood on the sidewalk but my guess is he’s pretty mobile.”
“Copy that, already passed on to FPD,” the voice replied.
Waller ground his teeth and looked at his partner. He felt strangely agitated and didn’t know how to deal with it. Focus, he told himself. Focus. Get back on track. He spun around, his eyes first taking in the carnage, then roaming the street and surrounding buildings.
Haviland kicked at a rock. “All that and we didn’t even get Harper.”
Waller turned to face his partner, his features suddenly relaxing. “Yes, we did,” he said matter-of-factly, exuding the confidence of someone in complete control. “He’s in the bell tower of the church to your left, across the street.”
60
Nick Bradley made a quick survey of the area, then walked briskly down the street as three law enforcement personnel — by the looks of them, FBI agents — were hovering over the fallen men. With the shooting having ceased, people were slowly emerging from their shops, attempting to get a glimpse of what all the commotion had been about.
As he walked, Bradley kept his right hand on the SIG beneath his coat, just in case it was needed. When plans get broken, when promises aren’t kept, anything can happen.
“I can’t believe this,” Bradley muttered, his eyes roaming the area, trying to catch a glimpse of Lauren. He continued on down the street, circled back, and made another pass.
Where the hell is she?
He stood there on the street corner, rubbing the knuckles of his left hand against the stubble on his cheek. Nothing was simple anymore, it seemed. As the days had passed, Bradley had found that he’d committed the ultimate sin: he had grown attached to Lauren. His goals were still the same, but the methods by which he had to go about accomplishing them had changed. He knew firsthand that relationships introduced unwanted and unnecessary complications. He cursed himself for becoming involved with her. For allowing himself to care.
He took a few moments to prioritize his needs, then headed for the antiques shop down the street.
Harper Payne was frozen. Not so much by the cold, but by what he had just witnessed. Moments ago, he had watched Lauren as she walked down the street, headed for their meeting place. His heart had seemed to rise in his chest, and he found it difficult to breathe. He knew her walk, the blue jacket she was wearing. He remembered.
Now, he looked down at Waller and Haviland, who were standing over the body of the man he had paid $25—with the promise of 25 more — to meet with Lauren and give her a message, a message designed to have her get back in her car and drive another few blocks to a different meeting area. It was an extra step, a security measure to make sure she wasn’t being followed by one of Knox’s men.
His decoy, dressed in a baseball hat and blue windbreaker, had waited in the doorway of a music store down the block. Payne had caught the man’s gaze and waved a white handkerchief in front of the window. His contact then nodded, acknowledging the signal, and headed off toward Lauren. The rest ended in disaster.
As Payne’s gaze remained transfixed on the street below, he thought of Lauren. He had come so close, and yet he had nothing to show for it. He had watched, helplessly, as the three men had made their way down George Street. The glimpse of a blue jacket bobbing up and down amongst them could have been his imagination — it was getting dark and it was difficult to see, let alone make out colors — but it could also have been Lauren. Now, he could only hope that she was somewhere safe.