I realized that I was not adding Church to my list. If he was a bad guy, then we were all totally fucked. I’m pretty dangerous, but he scares me. He scares everyone. You simply cannot imagine him losing a fight, and I doubt he ever has. He’s brilliant, cold, vicious, detail oriented, and largely a mystery. If it came down to a fight between us, I didn’t like my odds.
I flipped open my phone and called him. He picked up on the third ring. I told him everything Toys had said.
Church listened without comment and the silence continued after I was done.
Finally, he said, “What’s your ETA?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Talk to no one about this,” he said. “No one.”
I began to ask him a question, but Church hung up on me.
I settled back against the wall, my jacket open and the butt of my Beretta within easy reach, and stared into the middle distance all the way to Brooklyn.
Chapter Sixty-one
The Hangar
Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn
December 19, 7:57 P.M. EST
Mr. Church’s phone rang as he entered his office. He looked at the screen display. He frowned and let it ring twice more before he flipped it open.
“Deacon? You there?” said the gruff voice. “You got a minute?”
“Half a minute, Hugo. What do you need?”
“I’ve been hearing some scary stuff. Is Circe okay?”
“You heard about Starbucks? Yes, she wasn’t hurt.”
“Did I hear right that she popped someone?”
“Yes.”
“Her first time. Poor kid. I was kind of hoping she’d skip that milestone.”
“Life’s hard for a lot of people, Hugo.”
“I know … . I heard about Marty, too.”
Church said nothing.
“He deserved better than getting gunned down like a dog,” Vox continued. “Ledger’s a lucky bastard.”
“He might disagree. People keep trying to kill him.”
“He keeps not getting killed, though, Deac’. From what I heard about Starbucks, he’s the luckiest son of a bitch on two legs.”
Church said nothing.
“Did Ledger get any useful intel from the surviving shooter?”
“No,” said Church. “The man is critically wounded and we don’t expect him to recover. It’s unlikely we’ll get anything out of him.”
There was a pause at the other end. “Really? I heard that he was talking and—”
“You’ve been misinformed, Hugo. We’re getting nowhere with this. Now, I hate to break this off, but I have a meeting. I’ll be in touch when I have something fresh.”
Mr. Church disconnected and placed his phone on the desk. He walked around and sat in the leather chair. There was an open pack of vanilla wafers in the top drawer. He removed them, selected a cookie, and ate it slowly while staring at the silent phone.
Chapter Sixty-two
The Hangar
Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn
December 19, 8:19 P.M. EST
We came in low past the Gil Hodges Bridge and landed in a fenced-off compound near the Rockaway Inlet, just outside of Hangar Row in Floyd Bennett Field. There were six black unmarked DMS choppers lined up. Two AH-64D Apache Longbows, a monster of a Chinook like the one we were in, and three UH-60 Black Hawks. There were rows of Humvees and TacVs. Everywhere we looked there were armed guards. Everyone looked tense.
DeeDee and John Smith hadn’t arrived with Black Bess, but knowing the way DeeDee drove, they wouldn’t be far behind.
Sgt. Gus Dietrich met us on the helipad. He held out a hand. “Glad to see you boys in one piece. Well, mostly. Sorry to hear about Rudy taking a hit.”
“Could have been worse,” said Bunny.
“It could always be worse,” agreed Dietrich.
Nurses and orderlies arrived with two-wheeled gurneys. Circe O’Tree took charge of the wounded as if it was her right, and the nurses did not argue the point. I found that odd but didn’t comment on it.
The prisoner was hustled off with a pair of armed agents flanking his gurney. If he thought his day had been crappy so far, he was on his way to see Mr. Church, so it wasn’t like things were going to be sunshine and puppies.
Dietrich led Echo Team and me through the main entrance.
This was the first time I had visited the headquarters of the Department of Military Sciences. It was at least twice the size of the Baltimore Warehouse, which was pretty big in its own right, and even bigger than Department Zero, the massive office in L.A. It housed over six hundred scientists, soldiers, and support staff.
“Mr. Church landed ten minutes ago,” Dietrich said as he punched the code to open a side door. “Top, why don’t you take your team in for some chow? Ask anyone and they’ll show you where it is.”
Top nodded and peeled off with the others to follow the gurneys. Dietrich turned back to me. “The Big Guy’s expecting you.”
Dietrich led me into the Hangar’s operations command center. Ghost trotted along at my heels, eyes wide, nose and ears gathering data. The massive main room was circled with glass-enclosed labs and workrooms, and overhead was a latticework of steel walkways. There were more armed guards inside and a lot of people moving like busy ants in a nest. There were tiers of stainless-steel catwalks and elevated computer stations. Metal gleamed; colored lights flashed. It was Christmas in Bill Gates’s head.
“Wow,” I said. “Nice to see my tax dollars at work.”
I saw Church, his head bowed in conversation with a short black woman with a round face, granny glasses halfway down her nose, and long dreadlocks. The person he was talking too made me do a double take. I tapped Dietrich on the shoulder.
“Okay … why is Whoopi Goldberg here and why is she talking with Mr. Church?”
Dietrich laughed and didn’t reply. I felt like I was going crazy. The woman looked exactly like the actress. She wore a blouse with an orange Sudanese print, a necklace of chunky colored stones, and rings on every finger except her trigger finger. She smiled as we approached, but there was no trace of humor in the polished black ice of her eyes.
Church beckoned us closer.
“Captain Ledger,” he said, “I want you to meet the DMS Chief of Operations—Aunt Sallie.”
I was convinced that this was some kind of bizarre practical joke. “Um … hello?” I said, but as I extended my hand the woman spoke and the illusion was shattered as if she’d struck glass with a hammer.
“Feel free to wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, Captain,” she said in an accent that was pure back-alley Brooklyn. “I’m not her, so let’s just bury that nonsense right now.”
I am seldom at a loss for words, but the best I could manage was a mumbled, “Ma’am,” as I took her hand. She had a grip like a vise and she gave me one hard pump while she looked me up and down. Her gaze had the same invasive and impersonal precision as an X-ray.
Ghost sniffed her and then quickly backed up several paces and lay down.
Aunt Sallie studied me. “So, you’re the hotshot shooter from Baltimore.”
“I’ll have to put that on my business card.”
“The one who let Marty Hanler get killed.”
I did a slow three-count before I trusted my voice to reply.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”
“Are we going to have to make sure you have full-squad backup every time something gets a little rough?”