Edge (8 page)

The agents regarded her blankly.

Maree had longer and straighter hair than her sister's and it was mostly but not completely, or authentically, blond. She wore a full suede skirt and a gossamer floral blouse of yellow and green. Silver jewelry. No wedding ring. I always look, not for availability, of course, but because marital status gives me information about a lifter's options in getting an edge on the principal.

A fancy camera dangled over her shoulder, and I could see in the foyer her luggage. She had a large wheelie, a heavy backpack and a laptop case, as if she were going away for two weeks. Maree picked up a stack of mail on a table near the kitchen door. The pieces had been sent to her but the printed address—in the North West quadrant of the District—had been crossed out and the Kesslers' penned in, forwarded here. Maybe she'd lost her job and been forced to move in with her sister and brother-in-law.

As she flipped through the mail, I noted the woman give a slight wince; she moved her left arm more gingerly than her right. I thought I saw a bandage near the elbow, beneath the thin cloth. She took a jacket from a coat rack, tugged it on and turned to her sister. “This looks like it's shaping up to be a great party but I'm out of here. I'm going to stay in the District tonight.”

“What?” Joanne asked. “You're coming with us.”

“I don't see a lot of fun in that option. I'm choosing door number three.”

“Mar, please . . . You've got to come. Where would you go?”

“I called Andrew. I'm going to stay with him.”

“Called him?” I was concerned she had another mobile. “From the house phone?”

“Yeah.”

This didn't trouble me; while monitoring and tracing mobiles was a piece of cake, tapping into a landline was very difficult, and even if an associate of Loving had done so, Maree couldn't have given away anything crucial to the job.

She was looking around. “I couldn't find my cell. You know where it is?”

“I've got it.” I explained about the risks of tracing.

“Well, I need it.”

She wasn't happy when I told her that she was incommunicado. I didn't have any more cold phones to hand out.

“Well . . . I'm still going downtown.”

Joanne said, “No, you don't want to do that.”

“I—”

I said, “I'm afraid you're going to have to stay with your sister and brother-in-law. And I want to leave now. We've waited too long as it is. I mean, right now.”

Maree waved a hand whose fingernails ended in glittery white crescents, French tipped, I thought they were called, though I could have been wrong. She said to me, nodding at her sister, “I don't want to stay with
her.
My God, she's no fun.” Then laughed. “I'm kidding. . . . But really, I'll be fine.”

“No,” I said firmly. “You're coming with us and—”

“You guys go on. Let me borrow the Honda, you don't mind.” She looked at me. “My car's in the
shop. Do you know what they want for a new fuel pump? . . . Hey, what're you doing?”

Garcia was taking the luggage out to the Armada. He returned to the kitchen and nodded at me, meaning the yard was clear.

To Maree, Freddy said, “You'll have to listen to Corte. You need to leave. Now.”

Maree opened her eyes wide. “Wait, wait . . . I know you.” She regarded me with a frown.

I must have blinked in surprise. Had we met?

The woman added, “You're on that reality show.
The Vacation from Hell.
You're the tour guide.”

“Please, Mar,” Joanne said.

Her sister pouted. “He's mean. He stole my phone.”

At that moment I was looking out the kitchen window again into the backyard, trying to figure out what was different from when I'd looked earlier. There was something visible now that hadn't been a half hour ago, because of the shifting angle of the late morning September sun. I called Ryan over and pointed. “Is that a path?”

A line of trampled grass lay between the Kesslers' house and the one I'd mentioned earlier, kitty-corner to the left. It was Teddy's, I recalled, the man who'd gone out for coffee.

“Yeah, to the Knoxes. They're our, I guess, best friends in the neighborhood. We hang out with them all the time.”

The path had been created over the summer, from trekking back and forth for barbecues, borrowing cooking ingredients and tools, birthday parties.

“What is it?” Joanne asked. “You're making me uneasy.”

“Wow, he
does
look totally intense,” Maree said.

“Corte?” Freddy grunted.

Grimacing, I nodded.

“Shit,” the agent muttered. He sighed and unbuttoned his jacket. “Garcia!”

“Go dark,” I said.

Freddy and Garcia pulled shades and drapes in the den, TV room and kitchen.

Ryan tensed and Joanne, eyes wide, blurted, “What's going on? Tell me.”

I could see the palm of Freddy's hand tap the butt of his Glock. We do this to reorient our muscles and nerves so we know exactly where our weapons are. Like I noted the pressure of the Baby Glock, in the small of my back. I left it in the holster for the moment.

Ryan stepped forward to the window.

“No,” I said firmly. “Get back. Loving's here.” I herded everyone into the windowless hallway between the kitchen and the front foyer.

“How'd he do it?” Freddy asked. “He should still be halfway from West Virginia.”

I didn't answer. There were several possible explanations, though none relevant to our goal at the moment: to keep the principals alive and get out of the area instantly.

“What do you have, sir?” Garcia asked me.

“The house that path leads to? The window closest to here? The blinds were down ten minutes ago. They're about six inches up now. Makes no sense for them to be open only that far, except for surveillance.”

“A spotter?”

“No,” I said. “A spotter would've picked the
house with the best view. That's the one directly behind here, or to the right. Loving's in the left house because he noticed the path and figured the family who lives there'd be good friends with the Kesslers.” I added, “They'd have the best information about you and might know what my SUV was doing in your drive and the sedan parked in front.”

“Teddy and Kath!” Joanne blurted. “You mean he's there with them?”

“You sure, Corte?” Freddy asked. Meaning, we push the button on this, it's going to get expensive and possibly messy.

“I'm sure enough. . . . I want people here now. Fairfax County and your folks, whoever's nearby.”

“Call it in,” Freddy ordered Garcia, who pulled his cell phone out of a holster and hit a speed dial button.

“I'm sorry, this is too weird for me,” Maree said with an edgy laugh. “The tour guide's freaking us out because somebody opened a window? Good luck, guys.” Maree lifted car keys from a dish on a table nearby. “I'm going downtown.” She started for the front door.

“No,” I told her firmly. “And everybody, get—” The rest of my instructions were cut off at the sound of a huge crash from the street.

Joanne screamed, Maree gasped and stood frozen in front of the door.

I strode forward fast, gripped the young woman by the collar of her jacket and yanked her backward and we fell together onto the tile floor, as the bullets began crashing through the front picture window in the living room.

THE NUMBNESS VANISHED
from Joanne's face and she scrabbled forward on her knees, grabbing her sister and sliding her farther into the foyer, away from the windows.

The younger woman had dropped her forwarded mail in a white spill on the floor. Her camera too had fallen and she cried out, reaching desperately for it.

“Leave it!” Joanne muttered, restraining her.

Ryan had his weapon out now and was crouching.

I still didn't draw because there was no target yet and I was busy flinging my computer into my shoulder bag. Besides, as the shepherd, I tend to let people with more tactical experience handle the firepower.

Two or three more shots into the living room. The slugs slammed into a lamp, a picture frame, the wall. The gunshots were soft, the sound of shattering glass loud.

Freddy was on the phone, calling his agents out front but getting no response.

Were they dead?

“Garcia!” I called. The young agent had instinctively gone to the side windows overlooking the trees, covering our flank. “What do you see?”

“Clear,” he shouted. “Only incoming's from the front.”

I gestured everyone farther back into the dim hall and then slipped into a small guest bathroom in the front and glanced through a window. A silver Ford had slammed into the rear of the agents' vehicle, knocking it forward ten feet or so. The men, without their seat belts on, had been thrown back then forward and were slumped in the front seat. I couldn't tell if they were dead or alive.

The Ford was immobilized but the driver, who'd been belted in and protected by the airbag, was firing a pistol at us through the open window. I couldn't see the face clearly. He was hunkered down and taking careful aim. I stepped out of the bathroom to find Ryan Kessler taking a deep breath and then bursting forward, breaking the window next to the front door with his pistol barrel, like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western. He was aiming toward the car.

“No!” I shouted, grabbing him and pulling him back.

“What're you doing?” the cop cried. “I've got a target!”

“Wait,” I replied as calmly as I could. “Garcia, monitor the side yard. Stay on it.”

“Roger that.”

“Freddy, the back?” I called to the senior agent, who was in the kitchen.

“Clear so far.”

Two more shots slammed into the living room.

Maree screamed again.

Ryan said, “Out the back! We can flank him. Why didn't you let me shoot, Corte?”

Maree started crawling toward the back kitchen
door, sobbing, her flippancy turned to raw panic. “I'm scared, Jesus, I'm scared.”

“Get back,” I said to her, grabbing her shoulder to stop her once more.

Joanne had gone catatonic again, staring at the broken glass, saying nothing. Eyes unfocused. I wondered if we'd have to carry her, as sometimes happened.

I said calmly, “Nobody go anywhere.”

Freddy took a call. “Corte! Five minutes ago, somebody called in two shooters at George Mason University. Ten students down. All of Fairfax County Tactical is on the way. I'm trying to get a team here but there's nobody available for us.”

“A school shooting? No, no, it's fake. Loving called it in. . . . Garcia?”

“Clear on the flank still.”

“Okay, we're moving. Out the front.”

“He's out there!” Ryan cried.

“No, he's not,” I said. “The couple behind you, the Knoxes—what do they drive?”

“A Lexus and a Ford.” He glanced out quickly, ducked back. “That's their car! He killed them! Oh, shit.”

“God, no . . . no,” Joanne whispered, clutching her sister, who was sobbing, her own arms around her camera, which she'd retrieved and was cradling like a baby.

“It's Teddy Knox in the car, not Loving,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Ryan asked. “He's a hostage?”

“No, he's the one shooting.”

“Teddy wouldn't do that. Even if Loving forced him to.”

“Loving
is
forcing him. He's threatened his wife, who's back in the house. But Teddy's not supposed to hit anybody. He's just shooting at random, to drive us out the back. That's where Loving's waiting for us. In their house, or maybe the bushes. He'll have a partner. He wouldn't try an open assault alone. We go out the front. Freddy, you and Garcia stay in the house and cover the side yard, the one with the trees, and the back. Ryan, when we go, you cover the field on the other side. Don't shoot unless you see somebody engaging with a weapon. We're going to be getting neighbors on the street any minute. I don't want collateral damage.”

Ryan hesitated, looking toward the front of the house. He was debating: follow my orders or not?

Joanne said, “Do what he says, Ry! Let's do what he says. Please!”

“Go to my SUV fast but not so fast you hurt yourself falling. Okay?”

“Hurt ourselves
falling
?” Ryan blurted, at my bizarre concern.

The delay from a twisted ankle could kill us all.

“What if Loving's in the car, the backseat?” Freddy asked.

“Wouldn't be logical,” I called, then turned to Ryan. “The side yard? Loving could be prone and crawling up. You saw his picture. If you can confirm it's him, try for a nonlethal shot. We need to know who hired him.”

“I can park one in his shoulder or ankle,” Ryan said.

“Good. Better to aim low. Avoid the femoral. I want him stopped but not bled out.”

“Got it.”

I hit the button on the key fob that started and unlocked the Nissan, then opened the front door to the house a few inches, drew a target on the driver of the silver Ford, which was sitting half on the parking strip, half in the street. He was in a baseball cap and sunglasses, tears running down his cheeks. He appeared to be mouthing, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” A black pistol was secured to his hand with duct tape. The slide was back; he'd run out of ammunition.

“Teddy!” Joanne called.

Miserable, the man shook his head. Thinking of his wife, the edge, at home—with Loving holding a gun on her, or so he thought. Loving had likely killed her the moment her husband pulled out of the driveway. The lifter's plan was good. It was what I would've done had I been in Loving's position, limited personnel attempting to snatch a principal who was an armed cop, with several other law enforcers inside, in daylight, no less.