Robie had really been thinking out loud. But when he saw the look on Vance’s face he wished he had kept these technical observations to himself.
“You know a lot about sniper stuff?” she asked.
“I’m with the DOD. But the Sierra ordnance is also available to the public. Too bad we don’t have the casing.”
“Oh, but we do. The shooter didn’t police his brass. Or at least if he did he wasn’t successful.”
“Where was it? I didn’t see it in the room the sniper was set up in, and I was looking for it.”
“Crack in the baseboard. The casing was ejected, hit the concrete, probably bounced and rolled right into the crack. Completely invisible. The sniper was operating in the dark. No electricity in that building. Even if he tried to look for it before making his getaway he wouldn’t have spotted it. My guys only found it later, when they were on their hands and knees with laser lights.
Robie licked his lips. “Okay, let me ask you something. Maybe you know the answer, maybe you don’t.”
“Okay.”
“Was the casing shiny or dull?”
“I don’t know. They found it after I had already left. But one phone call can answer that.”
“Make the call.”
“It’s important?”
“I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.”
She made the call, asked the question, and received the answer.
“Dull, not shiny. In fact my guy said a little discolored. Do you think it was old ammo?”
Robie finished his coffee.
She tapped her fingernail impatiently against the tabletop. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Robie. I made the call. Got the answer. Now tell me why it’s significant.”
“The military doesn’t use seconds or rejects or old ammo. But manufacturers charge extra to buff up the casing to make it look shiny and pretty. The Army could give a crap about that; it has nothing to do with operational performance. A dull bullet flies as straight and true as a shiny one. And the Army buys millions of rounds, so it saves them a ton of money to go without the extra buffing. Now, the civilian rounds are typically shiny because those folks don’t mind paying extra.”
“So then we’re definitely looking at military-grade ammo?”
“And that makes things more complicated.”
“Is that all you can say?” she said in an incredulous tone.
“What do you want me to say?” he replied evenly.
“If this is a U.S. military hit on a government employee then this is not just complicated. This is a shitstorm. That’s what I want you to say.”
“Okay, this is a potential shitstorm. Satisfied?”
“By the way my boss was royally pissed that you shot your way into that pawnshop. He said he was going to be talking to DCIS.”
“Good. Maybe they’ll pull me from the case.”
“Where the hell are you coming from, Robie? Do you even want to be an investigator?”
“Are we done here?” He started to get up.
She looked up at him. “I don’t know, are we?”
He left.
She followed him outside.
Vance put a hand on his shoulder. “Actually, I’m not done with you.”
Robie grabbed her arm, pulled hard, and they both fell behind some trash cans. An instant later a barrage of bullets shattered the front window of Donnelly’s.
CHAPTER 33
Robie rolled, lifted his gun from its holster, and aimed through a crevice between the toppled trash cans. His target was a black SUV with the rear side window down a crack. The muzzle of an MP-5 submachine gun was visible there and was currently spewing out a hail of bullets.
Right before the shots had started Robie had pushed Vance down and behind him. When she tried to rise up, he slammed her back down.
“Keep down or you’ll lose your damn head.”
The bullets from the MP shredded the trees, outdoor tables and chairs, and big umbrellas and pinged off the building’s brick façade.
People inside Donnelly’s and out on the street screamed, ducked, and ran for cover. Through all the chaos, Robie kept his calm and fired. His shots were dead-on. He hit tire rubber to disable the vehicle, the front and rear passenger windows to knock out the shooter and the driver, and the front-side metal of the SUV to kill the engine.
And nothing happened.
The MP-5 muzzle disappeared, the window slid up, and the SUV roared off.
Robie was up in an instant, slapping in a fresh mag and chasing the SUV down the street, firing at its backside and hitting it squarely in the ass. He nailed the rear tires.
Again, there was nothing.
But then Robie saw the windows of a Honda parked at the curb explode and the branch of a tree fall down, and he stopped firing. The SUV turned the corner and was gone.
Robie looked at the Honda’s shattered glass, the car’s alarm going off. And then he gazed over at the tree branch that had been shot off, probably by his ricochet.
He pulled out his car keys and was about to run to his Audi, which was parked two cars down from the Honda. But when he saw the shot-out tires on his car he put the keys away.
He heard running feet, turned toward them, knelt, and aimed.
“It’s me!” screamed Vance, her gun out but held in a surrender position.
Robie stood, holstered his weapon, and walked toward her.
“What the hell was that?” exclaimed Vance.
“Call it in. We need to get that SUV.”
“I already did. But do you know how many black SUVs are around here? Did you get a plate number?”
“They had it blacked out.”
Sirens had started up. They heard more running feet. Down the block Capitol Hill police officers were rushing their way, guns drawn.
Robie looked back at the restaurant. People were slowly getting to their feet. But not all of them. He saw dark liquid pooling on the street. Inside the restaurant he heard screams and people sobbing.
There were casualties. Many. Bad ones.
“How many?” asked Robie.
She looked where he was. “I’m not sure. Two outside are dead. Three wounded. Maybe more inside. There were a lot of people behind that window. I called for ambulances.”
Vance looked at the screeching Honda. “Did you do that?”
“Ricochet from my weapon,” said Robie.
“Ricochet? Off the SUV? Your rounds should have easily penetrated.”
“I hit it a total of seventeen times,” said Robie. “Tires, windows, body. Ricochets, all of them. The Honda. The tree branch. I’ve probably got slugs all over the place here.”
“But that means—” began a palefaced Vance.
Robie finished for her: “—that the SUV was armored and had run-flat tires.”
She looked at him. “Those sorts of vehicles in D.C. aren’t that plentiful outside certain circles.”
“Mostly our own government’s.”
“So were they aiming to kill you, me, or both of us?” asked Vance.
“Shooter had an MP-5 set on full auto. That tends to be an indiscriminate weapon. Designed to kill everything in the zone.”
She looked at his arm and flinched. “Robie, you’re shot.”
He looked down at the blood on his upper arm. “It didn’t go in. Just a graze.”
“You’re still bleeding. A lot. I’ll call you an ambulance too.”
His voice was hard and fast. “Forget the ambulance, Vance. We need that SUV.”
She said coldly, “I told you, I already called it in. I’ve got my guys and MPD looking for it. It must have some dings on it from your rounds. Maybe that’ll help.”
Robie and Vance jogged back to the restaurant. Ignoring the obvious dead, he went from one wounded to the next, quickly triaging and stopping the bleeding with whatever was handy while Vance assisted. The Capitol Hill police joined in his effort.