End Game (5 page)

“Before you get out,” he said, “do me a favor and pull the black square out of the center console.”

“The what?”

“You’ll see it. And be careful when you handle it.”

Venice looked and then rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

Jonathan reached out his hand and wiggled his fingers. She handed him his Ruger LCP .380, already tucked into its pocket holster. He slid it into the front pocket of his tuxedo pants.

Jonathan craned his neck to get his bearings. The parking lot was massive, more typical of a shopping mall than an entertainment venue, and B2 was quite a hike from where they stood. With all the departing traffic, driving was not practical, so they decided to walk.

“Is that really Wolverine’s handwriting?” Venice asked.

Jonathan shrugged. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her handwriting. It’s always phone and e-mails.”

Jonathan’s relationship with Irene Rivers went way back, to the days when he was still in the Army, and she was a special agent working out of Alexandria, Virginia. He’d helped her with a problem, and that had started a history of off-the-record assignments that needed the special skills of a man with Jonathan’s training, but could never carry Uncle Sam’s fingerprints. When they first met, neither could have foreseen her ascendancy to the big chair at headquarters. Then again, no one could have anticipated the events that launched her into Bureau superstardom.

“Did you notice that there’s no space number?” Venice said. She kept studying the card, as if searching for a secret message.

“I did notice that,” Jonathan said. Parking garages were inherently creepy places, which probably explained why they were so often featured in scary movies. The weight of the LCP in his pocket—all eleven ounces of it—reassured him. Far from his preferred weapon in a gunfight, it was better than being left with fingernails and fists if the shit hit the fan.

Fifteen seconds later, he realized that he wouldn’t need to know the space. A standard government-issue heavy metal POS Chevy flashed its lights.

Jonathan stopped walking, and Venice pulled up short with him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Never overcommit,” Jonathan said. “Let them come to us. Anyone can use someone else’s business card. It’s not real until I see a face.” He waited as a stream of departing patrons drove past them. After ten or fifteen seconds, the sedan’s door opened, and Special Agent Maryanne Rhoades rose from the driver’s seat to reveal herself.

It didn’t take her long to get the point that he wasn’t walking over to join her, so she came to him.

“Is Wolverine in the car?” Jonathan asked as she strolled his way.

Maryanne shook her head. “I left her card to reinforce the fact that I am here on her authorization.”

“You misrepresented yourself,” Venice said. “That’s not a good way to start a relationship.”

“Venice Alexander,” Maryanne said. She pronounced the name correctly. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Director Rivers told me to tell you that the offer to join the Bureau is still open. We can always use skills like yours.”

Venice more snarled than smiled. She shared Jonathan’s distrust of federal agents, but she had a special distrust for those who looked beautiful in an evening gown.

“Ven’s got a point,” Jonathan said. “My cards are on the table. I know every detail or I don’t play.”

Maryanne made a point of looking over both shoulders to survey the garage. “Clearly this is not the place. Might I suggest that we pay Mr. Van de Muelebroeke a visit? I believe he lives close to here.”

The man she referred to was Brian Van de Muelebroeke, Jonathan’s friend and cohort from forever. Most people knew him as Boxers, and those who did generally knew better than to surprise him with a late-night visit. He wasn’t always the most cheerful fellow, and at just south of seven feet tall and considerably north of three hundred pounds an angry Boxers could be ugly.

Jonathan grinned. “Sure,” he said. “That should be fun. You know the address?”

“I found your car, didn’t I?”

There was the Fibbie hubris that Jonathan had come to depend on, the self-aggrandizing nonanswer answer. “See you there in half an hour.”

Graham pretended to sleep in the shotgun seat of the Mercedes sedan they’d taken from the doctor. It was every bit as comfortable as it was hot looking. Best of all, it was quiet.

So many numbers. Too many numbers. They swam in Graham’s head like the schools of fish you see in documentaries, where great clouds of them swarmed and shifted directions and blocked out the view of anything else.

That’s what life was like when you lived with a memory that recorded everything, all the time. He’d told his therapist once—Doctor Harper—that it was like eating a Thanksgiving feast every day, maybe twice a day. You get progressively more stuffed, but you keep cramming more in. That was an imperfect comparison, though, because you could always puke up a meal to make more room. His head just got progressively more full. Doctor Harper had assured him that his brain would not rupture from the pressure. He’d also promised that one day, Graham would learn to live with his ability—to
tame
it—and that he’d come to see it as more a gift than a curse.

But that’s what parents and doctors always said. They marginalized everything with phrases like
one day
or
you’re too young to understand
or
I’d give anything to be like you.
Somehow, they all forgot what it was like to be a freshman in high school, where all those other assholes lived
today
at
the age they were
in a world where being smart was punished by sack-taps in the hallway and bags of dog shit slipped into your backpack when you weren’t looking. The fact that he’d be envied when he was thirty didn’t mean a whole hell of a lot when he wasn’t yet half that age.

He’d tried playing dumb, intentionally missing questions on tests, and spending five minutes figuring out math problems that he’d already solved at a glance, but that brought on a whole new breed of derision and animosity. Who knew that pretending to be stupid was insulting to people who really
were
stupid? Rather than waiting for him to
tame
what came naturally, how about somebody step up and tame the herd of assholes that swarmed the halls between classes?

Names and dates were one thing when they flooded his head. They got pushed into their own files, ready to be recalled when he needed them, but otherwise never to be thought of again. It was the number sequences that cost him sleep, that
obsessed
him. While words made sense in and of themselves—people arranged letters into words, and then words into sentences that had clear meanings—numbers were meaningless outside of a known pattern. Three digits plus three digits plus four digits was probably a phone number, but other less obvious number sequences appeared random, yet rarely were because someone had arranged them with a purpose. He could spend hours trying to decode such sequences. More often than not, he’d be able to add meaning, but he’d rarely know for sure if the solution he’d identified had any relation to the true intent of the sequence’s author.

Graham liked to imagine that he had a kind of curator living inside his head—he even had a name. Linus never slept. Instead, he catalogued every phone number, address, locker combination, and historical fact that flowed through his brain. When Graham needed the information, whatever it was, Linus would produce the correct folder, and everyone would think that Graham was brilliant.

If sticking a coat hanger in his ear would kill Linus, Graham would have done it ages ago.

Right now, as Jolaine drove through the jet-black countryside, on their way north, the number sequence that bothered him most had nothing to do with the cipher on the bloody scrap of paper. At least not directly.

Follow the protocol.

The protocol was a telephone number. If anything bad ever happened to the family, or if he were ever threatened with harm, he was to call the number and follow instructions. Easy-peasy.

But there’d been no mention of codes. And there’d for sure been no mention of murder.

Even during the ridiculous evacuation drills that his dad had insisted on, where Dad would start yelling in the middle of the night and use a stopwatch to time how long it would take to get to the garage, there’d been no talk of codes or murder. There hadn’t even been any guns.

The shit that was going down tonight was all brand new—and it had nothing to do with the
protocol.
That was just a trouble number to call when he was told to call it, a meaningless exercise that had never risen even to the level of 911 in the hierarchy of memorized phone numbers.

None of this was right. None of it made any freaking sense.

The smear of Mom’s blood on his chest had begun to itch.

Why is this happening?

“We need to stop,” Graham said without opening his eyes. “I need to make a phone call.”

“Not tonight,” Jolaine said. “It can wait till morning.”

“But Mom said—”

“I know what she said. I was there. But not tonight. We’re both exhausted and neither one of us is thinking straight.”

“But the protocol—”

“It can wait,” Jolaine snapped. “Look, Graham. The world is coming apart tonight. I have no idea what direction is up anymore. Until something makes sense—at least one thing—I don’t want you calling anyone. I don’t want you
talking
to anyone. Promise me.”

She was glaring at him when she should have been watching the road. “But the protocol—”

“Promise me,” she pressed.

Graham accepted that Jolaine was in charge. He didn’t like it—he wasn’t even sure he respected it—but he accepted it. She was right that nothing made sense, and there was no denying that bad people were gunning for them, literally and figuratively. Maybe a few hours really wouldn’t make that much of a difference.

“Okay,” he said. “I promise.”

B
oxers lived on Swann Street, in a part of the city that had only recently begun to recover from the devastation of the 1968 riots. He’d bought his Federal-style townhouse—DC’s answer to the New York City brownstone—ten years ago for a song, back when the street was a haven for drug dealers and muggers. Since then, gentrification had begun to take root, and in some stretches of the street, home values had more than quadrupled. Secretly, Jonathan had always wondered if the mere sight of Boxers entering and leaving his house hadn’t convinced the miscreants on his block to take their business elsewhere.

No one wanted to mug Sasquatch.

“Are you going to call him first?” Venice asked.

Jonathan chuckled. “Not a chance. But I think it’s probably important that mine be the first face he sees.” He glanced at the dashboard clock. Twelve-fifteen. “Oh, yeah. I
definitely
need to be the first face he sees.”

With the lateness of the hour came the challenge of finding street parking. Rather than rolling the dice on something closer, Jonathan took the first space he found, thus committing them to a four-block walk, three of them past places where gentrification had not yet begun. As they climbed out of the car, Venice said, “Clearly, you’ve never worn high heels.”

“Only because you’d think less of me if I had,” Jonathan replied.

Never much for the late-night party circuit himself, Jonathan was surprised by the number of revelers on the sidewalks up ahead. The fact that they were all headed
toward
the bars at the end of the street, as opposed to
away
from them, surprised him even more. From the way most of them walked, and the volume of their voices, he guessed that these bars were not the first ones they’d visited.

“Don’t look so horrified,” Venice teased. “There’s a whole world outside of Fisherman’s Cove.”

“Oh, I know. I’ve blown up a lot of it, remember?” Jonathan got out of the car and walked around the Venice’s side. He didn’t want to let on, but his danger radar was pinging. He also didn’t want to mention that they were still a block away from a house where a man had been murdered in his sleep, and whose killing remained unsolved. “Be careful on the brick sidewalks,” he said as he opened her door and offered his hand to help her out.

As they walked away from the car, Venice’s posture stiffened and she sidled closer to Jonathan. “This isn’t a very safe neighborhood, is it?” she asked.

Jonathan didn’t answer, though he wished he’d thought this through a little better. In Upper Northwest sections of the city, a hundred-thousand-dollar car drew a casual glance, but in this stretch, it was truly a traffic-stopper. It was bad-guy bait, too, and it wasn’t until they’d begun their walk down the street that Jonathan noticed the scrawny predator tucked away into the alley just behind their parking spot. As they walked, the skinny fell in behind them.

Jonathan draped his right arm around Venice and pulled her closer still. “In a few seconds,” he said, “I might ask you to take a step off to the side. If I do that, please don’t ask for details.”

“What’s happening?”

“You’re asking for details,” he said. “Maybe nothing.”

But when a second skinny stepped out from under the stairs two houses down, Jonathan knew that it was going to be something.

“Well, look at you two,” said the skinny in front. “Aren’t you pretty?”

Jonathan nudged Venice, and she retreated to the opening of a stairwell that led to what Jonathan believed was called an English Basement. Translation: a subterranean space for which the landlord could charge an obscene rent.

“I know that she’s pretty,” Jonathan said. “But I’ve always thought of myself as average.” He test-drove a smile, but it didn’t take. “Are we about to have a problem here?”

“Depends on how much money you’ve got in your wallet,” Front Skinny said.

Jonathan heard the staccato beat of running footsteps behind him, and without looking, he knew that Back Skinny was charging him from behind. Jonathan whirled and smashed the heel of his hand into the space between the charging man’s ear and his temple. The guy’s head spun nearly 180 degrees, and the rest of his body followed in a floppy horizontal pirouette that landed him faceup on the brick sidewalk. Jonathan thought he was still alive, but he didn’t much care.

With the six o’clock threat neutralized, Jonathan faced off again with Front Skinny. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”

With quite the flourish, Front Skinny flopped open the locking blade of a tactical knife, the kind that is designed to cut deep and inflict mortal damage. “You’re gonna die, white boy,” he said.

Jonathan shook his head. “Actually, I’m not. And you don’t have to, either, if you just walk away.”

“Dig,” Venice moaned from his right. It was a plaintive sound. It was one thing to hang around on the outskirts of violence, but it was something entirely different to be in the middle of it.

Jonathan ignored her. As of this instant, Skinny Front’s future lay entirely in his own hands. “Think it through, son,” he said. “There’s still time to walk away.”

“You hurt Jamal,” he said.

“Only because he was trying to hurt me,” Jonathan said. He took care to keep all emotion out of his voice. “And did you see how well I took care of him? He was unconscious before he knew he’d been hit. I gotta tell you, I’m pretty good at this beating-up-people shit.” As he stated that last sentence, he realized it was a step too far. He’d forced Skinny Front’s hand with a challenge. Maybe it was just as well.

The skinny made his move. He lunged at Jonathan, leading with the knife, coming in with an underhand slashing motion that worked in every action movie, but rarely worked in real life. Jonathan clenched the knife-hand wrist in his left fist, and fired a piston punch to the skinny’s liver with his right, dropping him to his knees. Even as the kid sagged, Jonathan drove his right elbow into the kid’s brachial plexus—the Mr. Spock place between the neck and the shoulder that served as the conduit for all the wiring to the skinny’s arm. The kid yelled as he dropped his knife, and started to fall face-first. Jonathan stepped over the kid, never letting go of his wrist as he collapsed. Skinny Front had nearly faced-out on the brick walkway when Jonathan planted a foot between the kid’s shoulder blades, pulling up as he twisted the wrist. A soft double pop—the sound of two twigs breaking in the woods—followed by a howl of pain told him than he’d snapped both of the bones in his attacker’s forearm. The way it flopped to the sidewalk when he let go underscored the anatomical damage.

Having nearly broken a sweat, Jonathan turned back to Venice and offered his hand. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I think it’s safe now.”

Venice didn’t move. Her eyes were huge, her mouth slightly agape as she stared at him.

“It’s really okay,” he said.

“Oh, my God,” Venice said.

For a second, Jonathan didn’t get it. Then he threw a glance to the kids on the ground. One of them moaned for help, and one of them had no idea that he was of the Earth. “You’re worried about them?” That was beyond his comprehension. “You know he was trying to kill me, right?”

It took her a moment to gather the words. “That was so . . .
easy.
”

Jonathan smiled. “A few years ago, it was easy,” he said. “But trust me. I’ll be sore tomorrow.” He pointed up the street with the crown of his head. “We should get moving. On our way back, I’ll bring the car to you, in case these guys have friends.” They started walking.

“You should call the police,” Venice said.

“Um, no. The situation is stable now.”

“At least an ambulance.”

“If they need help, they’ll call for it. Not our problem.” Jonathan’s glance was drawn to Venice’s stare. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’ve never seen that before,” she said. “I’ve always known what you do, but I’ve never actually seen it.”

Jonathan scowled. “I can’t tell if you’re impressed or appalled.”

“A little of both, I guess. Why would they come at us like that?”

“Easy money. They saw a guy in a penguin suit with a beautiful lady and they read us as weak.”

Venice looked over her shoulder, back toward the spot of the scuffle.

“They won’t follow,” Jonathan said.

“I just hope they get home okay,” Venice said.

Jonathan laughed. “Oh, good God.”

By the time they got to Boxers’ door, Maryanne’s Chevy was already double-parked out front. One of the bennies of government plates was immunity from parking violations. In DC, where predatory parking enforcement was a major source of revenue, a parking pass was more valuable than gold.

Maryanne opened her door as they approached and met them at the curb. “Is he expecting us?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Jonathan said. He winked at Venice. “Follow me.”

He opened the decorative wrought-iron gate and climbed up to the stoop. He pushed the doorbell. Over and over and over again. He heard Venice say, “Oh, my God, Digger,” and then he heard movement from inside. He kept pressing the button.

“It had better be an emergency,” Boxers roared from somewhere beyond the door, “or there’s by God going to be a corpse on the sidewalk!” Not everyone who said stuff like that meant it literally. Boxers was an exception.

Jonathan saw Big Guy’s shadow approaching from beyond the mottled glass and noted that he was moving . . . with purpose. Even as the door tore open to reveal Boxers’ towering form, Jonathan continued to press the button.

“God
dammit!
” Big Guy roared. “This had better—” Recognition came immediately. “Dig? What the hell?” He looked past Jonathan’s shoulder to see Venice and Maryanne. “Am I throwing a party I didn’t know about?”

“Can we come in?”

Boxers hesitated. Uncharacteristically self-conscious, he looked down at himself. Clearly roused from bed, he wore a pair of—wait for it—boxers and a T-shirt.

“Don’t worry,” Jonathan said. “You’re fine. We’re the ones who are overdressed.”

Big Guy pivoted out of the way to allow them to pass. Jonathan beckoned for the others, and thirty seconds later, they were inside and standing in the foyer.

“I didn’t know you liked antiques,” Venice said.

Because of his size and his penchant for violence, many people underestimated Boxers’ intellect and sensitivity. The artifacts in the room were more than mere antiques. Many of them were collectibles worthy of museums. To Jonathan, all of it was either a vase or a statue.

“I think I’ll go put some pants on,” Big Guy said. The ancient stairs creaked as he climbed to the second floor.

“I heard that he was a large man,” Maryanne said. “But I don’t think I understood the scale of it.”

“Definitely better to have him on your side than the other,” Jonathan said. “Let’s have a seat.” He led the way to the right of the foyer into the living room, which was dominated by a shallow fireplace. Typical of the nineteenth century, when fireplaces were a main source of heat, the lack of depth often made twenty-first-century citizens nervous about having a fire so close to their living space. Jonathan happened to know that Boxers had spent a small fortune getting that fireplace certified to modern fire codes, and that he routinely kept it stocked and burning during the winter months. The antique theme carried into the living room, but with a modern flair that allowed for comfortable, oversized cushions.

“Look at all the books,” Venice said, taking in the floor-to-ceiling shelves that flanked the fireplace. “I had no idea.”

“Box is an interesting guy,” Jonathan said. He winked. “Don’t let on to others that he knows how to read. It’ll ruin everything.”

Jonathan helped himself to the end of a love seat closest to the foyer, while Venice took the opposite end.

Maryanne shifted her gaze back and forth from the two leather chairs that flanked the fireplace. “Which one?” she asked.

Jonathan pointed to the one on the left. “That one has the bigger butt print,” he said. “I’d take the one on the right.”

She sat.

Boxers was back down in three minutes. “Okay, Dig. What gives, and who’s this?” He pointed to Maryanne.

Jonathan brought him up to speed with what they knew so far. “Now, given Agent Rhoades’s persistence, I’m guessing that we’re about to hear the details that she previously didn’t want to share.” He looked at Maryanne. “Am I correct?”

Maryanne sat forward in her chair. “You can never repeat what I’m about to tell you.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes.
Oh, please.

Maryanne caught it. “Bear with me,” she said. “Back in the late eighties, when people on our side of the Iron Curtain were drunk with our defeat of the Soviet Union, the apparatchiks on the other side were running for their lives, both literally and figuratively. Glasnost and Perestroika brought with them a world of insecurity for a lot of once-important and now irrelevant people.

“Power grabs became the way of their world, and there were a hell of a lot more groups to worry about. The Czech Republic, Georgia, the ’Stans, and God knows how many other former Soviet republics were all claiming their independence politically. That posed a huge problem in terms of strategic weapons.”

“The nukes were spread all over the place,” Jonathan said, jumping ahead in her story.

“Exactly. The Politburo, God love them, were the scaredest of the lot, presumably because they knew what disaster could be wrought by the loss of central command authority. They also knew that they couldn’t account for every warhead. While that detail didn’t become clear until later, the US had long suspected such.”

Jonathan exchanged a look with Boxers but said nothing. Back in their Unit days, the two of them had crawled through the weeds in that part of the world to help determine that very fact.

Maryanne continued, “NATO forces initiated Operation Gardenia, funded mostly by our federal government, to locate and reconsolidate all the scattered nukes under central Russian control.”

Venice reared back in her seat and raised her hand. “Wait a minute. You’re telling me that we actually
helped
our scariest enemy reacquire nuclear warheads?”