Collateral Damage (21 page)

Winters frowned but did as he was told.

Daniel Winters wasn’t a good-looking man. He wasn’t ugly or homely, either. He was just ordinary, with the bad combover that so many Washington men favored. He wore glasses that did nothing for his appearance. He was weak-jawed, thin, but not in any way athletic. His complexion was ruddy, his nose pink.
A drinker,
Pearl thought to herself. He was dressed in a charcoal-colored suit, power tie, and gleaming white shirt. His clothing wasn’t custom-made. Nor was it of designer quality, but he still looked put together. His wing tips were spit shined. She was reminded again of how ordinary-looking he was despite being so power-hungry. Everyone in the District knew about the man’s ambitions.

Pearl watched Daniel Winters’s manicured nails as he poured his own juice and snapped his fingers for coffee. She smiled inwardly. The staff, well-known for anticipating its guests’ needs, did not respond well to snapped fingers. Pearl knew she would be done with her coffee before Winters even got close to getting his. She could do this. She would do it. She owed Myra and the others her very life, so she would do what she had to do.

Since she was the one who’d issued the invitation, it was up to her to initiate the conversation and pick up the check. She didn’t bother clearing her throat or thinking twice. Instead she reached into her handbag and withdrew a folded envelope that held a single piece of paper inside. “I received this in my mailbox yesterday. At first I thought it was a trick of some kind or just a random…thing. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was probably real because of my friendship with Myra Rutledge and Anna de Silva even though we haven’t seen each other in over twenty-five years.” Pearl wondered when she’d become such an accomplished liar.

“Whoever sent this…this letter must be under the impression I am in contact with those women. Now, what do you want me to do? The letter specifically says they will contact me promptly at seven o’clock. That’s eight minutes from now. I have no idea how they would know my private cell phone number, since it was issued to me by the Court, and I can count on one hand the number of people who have the number.”

The dapper man sitting across from Pearl withdrew the letter from the envelope and read it slowly.

Pearl watched as Winters read the letter. She came to the conclusion he must be a poker player because there was no expression on his face as he read slowly, line by line, as though he was committing to memory the letter signed by the vigilantes.

Winters folded the letter with one hand and picked up his coffee cup with his other hand. When he saw the cup was still empty, his expression changed, reflecting his anger. He snapped his fingers, then snapped them a second time. None of the waitstaff paid him the slightest attention.

“And how did you come by this…this…letter?”

“It was in my mailbox,” Pearl said. “I told you that.”

“Why?” Winters asked. He looked down at his coffee cup again and saw that it was still empty. This time he turned around and shouted. “I’d like some coffee here.”

Pearl decided the man was rattled. The first thing a lawyer learns in law school is you never ask a question if you don’t know the answer. Winters was a lawyer and should have known better.

“I asked myself the same question aside from the obvious. I was just the means to be sure this letter was hand-delivered. I did that. Now, I’m to wait for a phone call. I think you’re the one who should be answering questions, not me. You’re the president’s chief of staff, Baron Russell is the GOP’s top fund-raiser. Why do the vigilantes want to meet with you two men? It goes without saying you’re free to leave if you don’t want to stay for the phone call.” Pearl finished the coffee in her cup. An attentive waiter refilled her cup immediately.

The waiter was about to move off when Winters reached up and grabbed his arm. “I’ve been sitting here for ten Goddamn minutes. I’d like some coffee, please.”

The waiter raised his eyebrows and pointed to the pot in his hand. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to get a fresh pot.”

Pearl took a deep breath so she wouldn’t burst out laughing at the expression on Winters’s face.

“Well?” Pearl asked.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss presidential business with you, Justice Barnes.”

Somehow or other Pearl managed to act surprised. “Are you saying the vigilantes are
presidential
business?”

Winters looked confused for a second. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. Yes, it sounded like that, but what I meant was I cannot discuss anything pertaining to the White House. I work there. Anything I do or say reflects on the White House.”

“That’s political speak, Mr. Winters. Why did you even bother to take my phone call and agree to meet me if this has nothing to do with you or your…employers? You could have just told me to go paddle my canoe in some other lake. You’re here.” She leaned back and sipped at her delicious coffee. She risked a glance at her watch. Not enough time had gone by. How much longer could she keep this up? Maybe her watch was running slow. Or else this was the longest eight minutes of her life.

Winters’s mind raced. He felt a small flurry of panic as he, too, waited for the phone call to come through. How did those stupid women know he was the one who wanted to hire them? Maybe they weren’t that stupid after all. He never should have agreed to this meeting. When he got hold of Cummings, he was personally going to strangle him—very slowly. Everyone in the damn town knew the FBI leaked like a sieve. Now he had a bad feeling. He was about to get up to leave when Justice Barnes’s phone chirped. Pearl looked at it, and so did Winters. It looked to her like Winters was going to snatch it, but she beat him to it. She picked it up, flipped it open, and said, “Pearl Barnes.”

The voice on the other end was clipped and professional sounding. “If you would be so kind, Justice Barnes, please put your guest on the phone.” It was Nikki Quinn, she recognized her voice. Pearl handed over the phone to her breakfast companion.

Winters looked like the phone was a snake poised to strike, but he reached for it and brought it to his ear. Even though the heat was on in the restaurant, Winters shivered when the voice on the other end of the line spoke. “Do you have the pardons in hand, Mr. Winters? That was really a foolish question on my part. But, I did want to give you the benefit of the doubt, knowing you were lying all along. There was no donor identity theft. We both know that. What am I going to do with you, Mr. Winters?” the voice asked playfully.

“What’s this all about? You’re fugitives, and I shouldn’t even be talking to you. In fact, I’m going to call the FBI right now. They’ll be able to trace this call.”

“You think?” the voice teased.

Winters’s blood ran cold. He forced himself to say, “Yes, I think they can.”

The playful voice erupted in laughter. “It’s not nice to fool with the vigilantes, Mr. Winters. We have long memories, and we have a…history. Shame on you!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Winters saw a tall man bearing down on his table. He looked up, stunned to see Elias Cummings. Cummings, a phone to his own ear got as close to Winters as he could, and whispered, “Keep her talking, we have a fix on the location.”

The relief on Winters’s face was just short of comical as he blustered on about not knowing what Nikki was talking about.

Pearl thought it might be a good time to take a trip to the ladies’ room. After all, she’d had two cups of coffee and obviously was not adding anything to the situation. On her way to the restroom she passed a handsome man she recognized—Baron Russell. She smiled to herself.

“End of the road, gentlemen,” she said, as the door to the restroom closed behind her. She knew that when she returned to the table, all three men would be gone. Within a matter of hours Winters and Russell would be in the vigilantes’ clutches.

O
utside the Hound and Hare, Cummings ushered Winters and Russell to a dark sedan double-parked at the curb. Winters looked at the sedan, then at Cummings. “What? I can’t go with you. I have to get back to the White House. Take Russell with you. I told you, Cummings, I can’t be implicated. What part of that didn’t you understand?”

“The part where the vigilantes told you to be there. There’s someone close by, I can guarantee it, who is watching us right this minute. If you don’t get in this damn car right now, you’ll never make it to the White House. Make up your mind.”

Winters looked around, his breathing ragged. “Where are your people?”

“You don’t need to know that. We’re covered. You said you wanted to be in at the kill. The only way that’s going to happen is if you get in the car. Being as important as you are at the White House, I’m sure you can delegate what has to be done for the day. This will get global coverage. Your picture will be seen around the world. Who knows what the future holds for you once that happens. The same thing goes for Mr. Russell here. We’re wasting time, gentlemen.”

The RNC fund-raiser and Winters looked at each other. Russell glared at Winters and whipped out a copy of the
Post
he’d been carrying under his arm. He shook it open and said, “Read it and weep. Get in the car, Daniel. You promised me a rose garden, and I damn well want to pick a few blooms. Even I can see there are no options here,” he declared, pointing to the paper in his hands.

“But…POTUS…” Winters said, referring to the president of the United States.

The immaculately pressed and creased Russell fought to protect his blow-dried hair as the icy November wind whipped across the street. Around his ankles, he could feel warm air seeping out from the open car door. The bone-chilling cold was almost as lethal as his voice when he said, “Screw POTUS.” To prove his point, he gave Winters a shove, and the chief of staff sprawled facedown across the backseat. Russell slammed the door and climbed into the front seat next to Cummings.

Elias Cummings looked into the rearview mirror and liked what he saw, the frightened face of the disheveled chief of staff, who was struggling to get his cell phone out of his pocket, skim the morning paper, and straighten his tie all at once. He hadn’t even buckled up.

As the FBI sedan roared down Connecticut Avenue, Winters finally managed to get his seat belt fastened and talk to someone on the other end of the line at the same time. None of it sounded important to Cummings. The presidential pardon for a turkey, a group of seniors who were protesting something concerning Medicare that had already been settled and just wanted a photo op with POTUS. He listened as Winters mumbled something about an energy file that had gone missing and to get the damn fax machine fixed. Just another important day in the White House. Cummings smirked to himself as he raced out of the city.

“Where the hell are we going, Elias? What time will we be back? I have a dinner engagement with some very important people. I cannot cancel it, the president is expecting me to be there.”

“In that case you better call in your regrets now. There’s no way you’re going to be back in time.”
In fact, you pipsqueak, you’re not coming back at all
. “But to answer your question, we’re going to Dismal Swamp in North Carolina. Six hours going, six hours for the return, if we’re lucky, and my foot holds out, plus time for whatever happens in between: traffic, bottle-necks, a little road rage, photo ops, interviews, the whole ball of wax. It’s what you told me to do, Daniel. I’m doing it, so shut up and enjoy the ride. That goes for you, too, Russell. I drive better without conversation.”

“Dismal Swamp! North Carolina!” Winters sputtered. “Why the hell are we going to a swamp in North Carolina?”

“You are a dipshit, Daniel. The vigilantes are in North Carolina. But then so is Harvey Point. It’s near Elizabeth City. You know, the CIA uses The Point these days as an advanced training center for its operatives. Don’t tell me you expected those women to come up to you at the Hound and Hare and beg you to arrest them. They want to see you and me sweat. I’m sweating, and you’re a damn fool if you aren’t drenched in your own juice right now.”

“Wait just a Goddamn minute, Elias. The deal was your agents were going to swoop in and make the arrest. I’m just on the sidelines.”

Cummings thought about Winters’s words for a few minutes. He sounded like he was discussing the menu at a less-than-upscale restaurant when he spoke. “I suppose it could turn out that way. Unlikely, but a possibility. I’m thinking those women want something more…up close and personal where you and Russell are concerned.”

Russell finally opened his mouth. “I don’t think I like the way this all sounds. Dismal Swamp? I know I’ve heard of it. The CIA? The vigilantes! Something isn’t working for me right now.”

Cummings was enjoying himself. “Let me guess, you thought the way Winters thought—that this was going to be a walk in the park. It’s not. We’re dealing with seven very, very savvy women who have a hate on for you like no other. They don’t like me much, either, but that’s beside the point right now. You’re their focus. I’m just here to round them up and cart them off to a federal prison.”

“How…how many agents do you have assigned to this takedown?” Russell demanded. His voice sounded so jittery it was all Cummings could do not to laugh out loud.

“Twelve,” Cummings said succinctly.

“Twelve? You need a hundred and twelve to take on those women. Twelve! How stupid is that?”

Cummings tilted his head to the side. “So, okay, I make thirteen. I know that’s an unlucky number, but you go with what you’ve got. If you don’t like that number, go with fifteen and include yourselves. You might have to get down and dirty. Your call, gentlemen. Remember now, this whole mess was your idea to begin with. You made a promise to those women, and you done them dirty. Now, both of you shut up and let me pay attention to the road.”

Two hours later, Cummings spoke. “I think we’ve picked up a tail. Don’t be so damn obvious and stare. Just trust me. I told you this would happen. Those women have their eyes on us and have been watching us since we were all at the Hound and Hare.”

“Well, then, do something for Chrissakes,” Winters sputtered. “Stop the car, pull them over, and arrest them.”

“On what charge? This isn’t a game, Winters. They’re driving on a road, so are we. For all I know they could be headed for the same place we are and end up claiming to be lookie-loos. There’s no probable cause here.”

“You just said a car was following us,” Russell squealed as he envisioned a shoot-out on I-95 and his dead body going back to the District in a black body bag with a zipper down the front. His face was ashen.

“What I said, Mr. Russell, was, I thought we picked up a tail. Do I know that for a fact? No, I do not, and I’m not going to risk a possible lawsuit to make you two happy. Just sit there and be quiet, and the first one who turns around to look at the car behind us is going to get tossed into the swamp when we get there. Are we clear on what I just said?”

Both men looked like they were rooted to their seats, prompting Cummings to mumble something about being spared from people whose brains were in their asses.

Two cars behind the FBI sedan, a black Chevy Suburban kept pace. Bert Navarro, Jack Emery, and Harry Wong were dressed in camouflage outfits. Their footwear was referred to as swamp boots.

“Who the hell thinks up this crap?” Harry asked, referring to the boots that adorned his normally sandaled feet.

“Some stupid advertising agency, for big bucks,” Bert volunteered.

“You’re both whining,” Jack said. “I’m not feeling any love here. We need warm and fuzzy before we go into battle.”

“Screw you, Jack,” Harry shot back. “I don’t like swamps. I hate the slimy things that live in them. What the hell are they thinking?” he asked, referring to the Sisters. “We’re going right into the CIA’s nest. That’s making me a tad nervous.”

It was making Jack nervous, too, but he wouldn’t admit it. Bert just looked openly worried. He wished he could think of something witty to say, but nothing came to mind. He concentrated on watching the road.

“A sing-along might be good right now,” Bert chimed in.

“Is that what you FBI guys do when crunch time comes?” Harry snorted to show what he thought about
that.

Bert Navarro had excelled at the FBI Academy in the endurance and defensive driving course. He was driving the black SUV with the blackened windows that Charles had somehow commandeered from the Secret Service. What that meant was it was not your normal SUV—more horsepower, bulletproof, with special weapons built into the sides of the doors. Harry had turned white when he saw the rocket launcher in the back cargo hold. Even Bert and Jack had a bad moment. It was Bert who had the temerity to ask if any of them knew how to work it. He’d shrugged and climbed into the driver’s seat. Grenades—now those with pins intact, would have given him a problem.

“What the hell are we waiting for?” Jack asked an hour later.

“For a break in traffic,” Bert said. “I thought I was calling the shots on this one.”

“You are. You are. We’re still two hours out. We need to make our move. Traffic is steady. I don’t see it lightening up anytime soon.”

Fifteen minutes later, Bert spotted a wide shoulder. He slowed the SUV and told Jack to call Cummings. “Get your face gear on. Remember now, no English. Jack, just Spanish if you can remember it. Harry, only Japanese, and I’m pretty damn good in Arabic. Even if we screw it up, they aren’t going to know the difference.”

Jack punched in Cummings’s number. “Drive one mile and pull over to the shoulder of the road. But first, confiscate Russell and Winters’s cell phones.” Jack grinned as he slipped his own phone into his pocket. He knew all of about thirty words in Spanish. He wondered if either one of the jerks in the car would notice if he kept saying them over and over. Probably not, he decided, and if they did, who cared? They were never going back to the District.

“Showtime!” Bert grinned when he pulled the SUV behind the FBI sedan.

“What? What’s going on?” Russell bellowed as he watched the three camouflaged men striding toward their car. “Jesus H. Christ, will you call 911? Where’s your damn gun? Get it the hell out, Cummings. I don’t like this.”

“Look, just do what they say and let me handle it. I think it would be a good idea for both of you to keep your mouths shut,” Cummings said.

“Up to now you haven’t done a fucking thing,” Winters said. “Good Christ, they look like mercenaries. Fuck you, Cummings! Will you fucking do something already?”

“I detest profanity. You need soap in your mouth. Do not ever speak that way again in my presence.”

“Fuck you,” Winters squealed. “Oh, Jesus, they’re opening the door! Will you fucking call 911?”

Cummings reached over the seat and with the butt of his gun cracked Winters alongside his jaw. “I told you no more profanity. I never say anything I don’t mean. In case you don’t realize it yet, we’re being kidnapped. You always play along and hope you get out alive. Now shut up!”

Bert Navarro swung open the passenger-side door and pushed Russell to the floor as he jabbered a mile a minute. Jack and Harry were busy pulling Winters out of the backseat and had him on the ground, leaving the door open so no one in the passing vehicles would see what was going on. Harry rattled off an impressive stream of Japanese that Jack couldn’t hope to duplicate with his limited Spanish, so he kept his mouth shut.

Winters, even though he was on the ground, was proving to have more guts than his friend Russell as he shouted to him that the big guy was speaking Arabic and he knew it was Arabic because he’d sat in on hundreds of Arabic translations. “You can’t trust those sneaky bastards.”

Director Cummings opened the door and slid out the driver’s side, but not before he slid his gun and the three cell phones across the seat. Jack jammed them into a black mesh bag that hung from his utility belt as he waited for the head of the FBI to walk around to the side of the car. Jack spoke a few halting words in Spanish to Bert and waited. A long string of guttural words ensued.

Cummings translated for his two passengers. “Mr. Russell and Mr. Winters, you are to go with these men. If I understand what this big man is telling me, he is saying he doesn’t want me because I am with the FBI, and he wants no trouble with my people. He just wants you two. I’d do what he says if I were you.”

“Well, you aren’t me, you asshole,” Winters tried to snarl, but it came out as a whimpering whine.

Harry clamped one of his swamp boots down on the man’s back. Russell remained cowering on the floor with his eyes closed.

Bert let loose with another string of words.

Cummings rolled his eyes as he attempted to translate. Finally, he gave up and said in English, “Either you get up, get your asses in that black SUV, or they’re going to shoot your dicks off.”

Russell and Winters hustled.

Director Cummings climbed back in his car and waited a moment until Jack tossed in the mesh bag. “Drive carefully, Director. Don’t lose those cell phones. They’re going to be worth their weight in gold when this shit goes down tomorrow. By the way, good job.”

Cummings laughed. “What was your language of choice?”

“Pure Bronx, with about thirty words of Pidgin Spanish.”

“Good thing you didn’t say much, then.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what I thought. See ya.”

“No, you won’t. I’m taking early retirement starting next week. By the way, what are those things on your feet?”

“Swamp boots. I’ll send you a pair for Christmas, Director.”

Jack could hear the director laughing as he clipped his strobe light to the top of his car, hit the siren, crossed the median, and drove back the way he’d come.

Back in the SUV, Jack slipped into the passenger side and ripped off his knit face mask. He tossed it on the floor. He turned around to see Harry doing the same thing. He was sitting between the two men but he’d handcuffed each of them to a door handle with stout FlexiCuffs.