“Harper—”
But before Haviland could finish his sentence, Payne disappeared into the dark spiral stairwell.
61
Payne heard the quick, creaking footsteps of Waller and Haviland following behind as he ran down the stairs in the dim light, the small flower-shaped windows letting in what little light was coming from the streetlamps. He hit the lobby on the run, slammed through the front door, and jumped down the steps.
And came face-to-face with Scott Haviland.
How’d he get out here so fast? But in the instant the question popped into his head, it became a moot point as Payne dropped his head and left shoulder and plowed into Haviland’s abdomen with the skill of a running back. Despite his stocky build, the shocked agent was lifted off the ground and sent sprawling backward to the concrete.
Haviland let out an agonizing groan as his back hit the pavement, his Glock flying from his hand and landing a dozen feet away. Payne scooped it up on the run as if it were a fumbled football and headed down George Street, sprinting as fast as possible with a bum leg. His destination was not an end zone, but continued freedom — and another chance to link up with his wife.
As he ran by the National Bank of Fredericksburg, he slowed a bit, half-limping and half-running past a parking lot and a few brick houses. He cut right onto Charles and noticed the iron-gated entrance to the Masonic Cemetery diagonally ahead of him.
With the descending darkness and large-canopied maple and cedar trees blocking the light from the nearby streetlamps, the headstones would provide adequate cover from his pursuers.
He darted out into the street — but heard footsteps approaching from behind. He spun around, the Glock still in his hand, expecting to see Waller.
But in the dark street, he could only glimpse the vague silhouette of a man, a spark issuing from his weapon. In the split second that followed, Payne became aware of a burning sensation as he gulped a mouthful of cold air.
The intense, close-range explosion suddenly registered in his ears, ringing longer than the actual gunshot and continuing until he hit the pavement and lost consciousness.
62
Jonathan Waller had run right by his partner, who was writhing in pain on the sidewalk and simultaneously trying to catch his breath. Waller sprinted up the street and heard the discharge of a handgun in the middle of the intersection of George and Charles Streets, twenty-five yards ahead of him. Boom, boom, boom. Three shots.
And suddenly Waller’s heart was in his throat. There was simply no other way of describing his fear at that instant — a pulsing, choking fullness that prevented him from breathing.
As he came running around the corner onto Charles, his eyes immediately locked on the police officer crouched next to a body that was laid out face up near the Masonic Cemetery’s front entrance. The torso was on the blacktop, the head against the curb.
In the darkness it was difficult for Waller to see. He held out hope that the victim who was sprawled across the road was the leather-jacketed man he had wounded only a short time ago. But if it wasn’t the perp, the alternative was too painful to consider. As he approached, he saw a Glock forty caliber handgun lying in the street.
At that moment, his heart, having appeared to drop down out of his throat, lost its rhythm for a second. A mere flutter in his chest.
Despite the cold air, Waller instantly began to sweat and suddenly became aware of how truly exhausted he was. And as he stood now in front of the fallen man, he heard the officer calling for an ambulance over his two-way.
That’s when he finally gathered the nerve to look at the victim, when he saw the face of Harper Payne.
For the first time in his life, Jonathan Waller was frozen, unable to think, unsure of what to do.
“He had the gun in his hand and he turned toward me with it, it looked like he was bringing it up to fire…”
The cop’s voice was somewhere in the background, in some far-off place, where Jonathan Waller wished he could be.
Away from here. Anywhere but here.
Scott Haviland’s ribs were aching something fierce, and every breath reminded him of the blow he had taken moments before. With his left hand strapped across his torso as if holding his chest would lessen the pain, he came limping up to Charles Street and tried to size up the scene with one quick glance at the dark roadway, which was now illuminated by a quarter moon poking through the thick cloud cover. His eyes darted from one figure to another: perp on the ground, cop barking into his two-way, partner standing over the body.
But something was wrong. Waller’s posture was depressed: his shoulders were drooping and his arms were hanging limply at his sides.
“Jon?” Haviland asked as he puffed toward him.
As Waller turned, Haviland’s first impressions were confirmed: this was not good. It was then that Haviland saw the face of the man lying on the ground. It was then that he again heard the screams of sirens approaching in the distance.
“It’s Harper,” Waller managed.
Haviland crouched down to slap a couple of fingers against Payne’s neck to check for a pulse. Blood was accumulating beneath his head, pooling in a puddle against the curb.
The cop knelt next to Haviland. “I didn’t know the guy was one of us, I’m really sorry.”
Waller bent down and grasped Payne’s hand in his own. “The man says he’s sorry,” Waller said wryly to no one in particular.
63
The ambulance screeched to a stop in front of Colonial General, a hospital similar in size to Virginia Presbyterian, where Harper Payne’s journey had begun only ten days earlier. The nurses, the doctors, the paramedics… everything and everyone moved quickly. To the untrained eye, the activity appeared to be haphazard and random. But in reality it was harmonious, the medics working off each other like the notes of a classical masterpiece.
For obvious reasons, Payne was being afforded the best medical care in the most secure environment possible. Every person in the room was a member of an elite group of specially selected personnel who had been mobilized from Bethesda Naval Hospital as soon as the call had come in from Fredericksburg. Though they wore necklaces with encoded biometric markings, to the general hospital staff with whom they usually worked they appeared to be normal practicing physicians and nurses. When a crisis involving high-ranking federal officials struck, however, they were summoned by secured communications to one of several predetermined and uniquely equipped locations.
Sworn to secrecy about everything they saw and did, their reports and operative notes were never committed to paper. They answered only to the army chief of staff and the national security adviser. Surprisingly, no checks and balances were afforded their work. Their success or failure was never questioned by nonmilitary personnel.
Outside the bulletproof doors of the secured emergency room, two guards stood sentry. Inside, monitors and machines beeped and hissed. A nasotracheal tube was inserted, a portable X-ray unit was brought in, and a defibrillator was charged and ready. Harried movement, notes of a masterpiece.
Finally, Payne’s vitals were deemed stable and he was rushed off to a private elevator down the hall, where Dr. Vance Taylor, a squat, graying man, was accosted by Waller and Douglas Knox, who had just arrived.
“What’s the story?” Knox asked, grabbing Taylor by the arm.
The surgeon attempted to pull his arm free. “I don’t really have time to talk, Director.”