Hostile Takeover (23 page)

54

A
ssistant Director Fletcher stares at her for a long beat. Then he looks at me. It's difficult to tell if he's angry or shocked or about to have a stroke. Finally, he grins, the corners of his mouth quivering slightly.

“I'll be filing both of your cases as enemy combatant status. You're both going to burn. But not until we drown you for information first. And this conversation is over.”

“Then you'll burn with us, Fletch,” I say.

And I lock his wrist in the handcuff I just took off of mine.

“What the fuck?” he says, reaching for his gun, which I am now holding.

I hit him upside the head and knock him into his chair. Agents draw their guns but before they can even think about pulling the trigger, I shoot them both in the feet and drop them, guns clattering, screaming in agony. Then I rest the barrel on Fletcher's head.

“Crawl your asses out of here now,” I say to the wounded agents, “or I'll do him. And lock the door behind you. No one comes in!”

They comply, moaning like a couple of pansies the whole way.

“How did you get out of the cuffs?” Alice asks.

“You'd be surprised at all the fun and useful items you can buy from a prison guard. Those guys are like walking convenience stores.”

Fletcher goes for the gun. I elbow him in the face and break his nose. Blood gushes down his shirtfront. Storm troopers are assembling outside the door. No doubt the place is going into lockdown. I wheel my chair over to Alice and point the gun at her face.

“So, this is it?” she says.

“This is most definitely it,” I say.

“You figured we'd go out in a blaze of glory, huh?”

“Something like that,” I say.

“Your Clint Eastwood complex is getting out of hand, John.”

She closes her eyes.

“Okay. Blaze away.”

“On three,” I say.

Together we say, “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

And I lean over and kiss her
.

Our kiss is deep and passionate. It's the kind of kiss that sucks all the air out of the room and if you aren't one of the two people kissing, you are dying to get out of there and catch your breath.

While Fletch looks on in shock, I unlock Alice's handcuff. She throws her good arm around me and practically pulls me off the table.

“I hope you're enjoying yourselves, because you're both dead. Try to find a place to hide. It doesn't exist.”

“We don't really need to hide anymore, Fletch. We brought along a couple of get-out-of-jail-free cards.”

Alice and I quietly pull thin metal cables hidden inside our casts that split them in half and lay both sides open. The insides of Alice's casts contain detonator wires. She pulls the metal bar from her arm cast—a stroke of genius to get her past the prison metal detector—and unscrews the end. Blasting caps slide out of the bar. She attaches them to the wires and I attach all of that to my two casts, which are made of high explosives.

“What the hell is that?” Fletcher says.

“Pretty cool, right?” Alice says to him and to the camera in the room.

I give him the two-cent tour.

“Fletch, you may want to take some notes. My cast is made of a very exotic military-grade explosive, a not-so-garden-variety cocrystal mixture of HMX, aka octogen, and CL-20, aka some shit I can't pronounce.”

“It's used in armor-piercing missile warheads and there's easily enough here to take out everything in this building . . . and everything else in a quarter-mile radius,” Alice adds.

“If you think that's going to get you out of here, you're sadly mistaken,” Fletch warns.

“Oh, but this isn't our only party trick, Fletch.”

“No way,” Alice chimes in. “This is the FBI, right? Quantico. You got to go a lot bigger than this.”

“Huge,” I say.

“I'm calling your bluff,” he says. “Take them out!” he yells at his men outside.

They start to come in and I clap twice, like the old guy on the TV commercial turning a lamp on with the Clapper. A nearby explosion—a sizable one based on the sound—rocks the room like an earthquake.

“What did you do?” Fletcher asks, legitimately shaken by the reality check that just kicked him in the nuts.

He puts his hand up to stop his goons from “taking us out.”

“That was an old storage room where the FBI keeps illegal wiretap records on American citizens. Buh-bye. No one went to G-man heaven yet, but if we blow what's in both of our casts right now—along with all the other devices we've planted—there's enough of this shit to vaporize your entire beloved Quantico and all the fresh-faced recruits in it.”

Fletcher's eyes are darting around. He's trying to think of something, anything.

“I don't know if he's convinced, Alice,” I say.

“Yeah, Fletch, how about another demonstration.”

I raise my hands to clap.

“No!” he says. “I believe you.”

“Good,” I say. “I'm glad we're finally on the same page.”

“I need to tell the duty commanders about this. Otherwise, they'll send the cavalry up here. If they haven't already.”

“We thought of that too,” I say.

“We're very thorough,” Alice says.

“Hey, Sue!” I yell.

Sue appears on the security monitor in the corner of the room. He waves at the camera like a fanboy on
Good Morning America
. He's holding a SIG MPX submachine gun.

“Hi, guys!” he says. “Check it out. I brought some friends with me!”

The entire recruit class of HR, Inc. files in behind him, also holding MPX rigs and also waving like dumbasses.

Fletcher looks at the video screen, incredulous. All of the lobby personnel are zip-tied and gagged on the floor.

“That's your lobby,” Alice says, “and that's your duty commander zip-tied to the potted palm.”

“And those are the illustrious HR recruits,” I say proudly. “While your men and the cops were trying not to get shot by me and running for their mamas when the building blew, they all skipped out, along with our new friends from the Bronx.”

“Honey, you're my hero,” Alice says. “Staying behind to take the heat for all of us.”

“You're worth it, darling,” I say.

“You wanted to get caught,” Fletcher says.

“Of course,” I say. “But I figured if I turned myself in, you might get a little suspicious.”

“And while you and your cronies decided my fate, Alice and Sue worked out the details of sealing yours. Sue, show Fletch what's behind door number two.”

The security monitor switches to a live feed from the main security HQ at Quantico. The entire staff is bound and gagged. An explosive device is positioned next to them. Fletch can't believe what he's seeing.

“Yes, Fletch,” I say, reading his mind, “we got them covered too.”

“How did you gain this kind of access?” Fletcher says, totally bewildered.

“Access is what we do, baby.”

“But what about the cast with the explosives?”

“Again, getting things in and out of prison, not a problem. All of this was waiting for me before I even got here. I just needed to get into a fight, go to the infirmary, have my chop shop doc, who got in there with a Photoshop ID and a smile, put on my special cast . . . It was so easy, it's almost embarrassing.”

“There's a Marine squad assigned to this building,” Fletcher starts. “I need to inform them—”

“We took care of that too,” Alice says. “Show him, Sue.”

Security monitor switches to the Marine squad barracks. The gangbangers from the HR siege have them all facedown on the deck, with zip-tied hands and guns to their heads. They're passing a joint and laughing as they blow smoke in the Marines' faces.

“God, they're cute,” Alice says.

“Knock it off, darling.”

I turn to Fletch and help myself to one of his cigarettes.

“Looks like you've covered everything,” he says.

“Fletch, don't act so surprised. After all, you're the one who created us. This is
your
monster.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” He laughs.

“Let's get past the whole denial thing, shall we? Your decades-
long role as the secret head of HR is well documented in the evidence jacket we provided the FBI director and your colleagues here at Quantico with. After Mr. Zhen was kind enough to reveal your identity, we did the due diligence to back up his claim. I have to admit, we were pretty impressed when we reviewed all the financial files and, you're going to love this, CIA files. Turns out they've had their eye on you for some time.”

“We were even able to trace the money you sent me for the Zhen job,” Alice says proudly. “Face it, Fletch. We have evidence to convict you twice.”

“What you're saying is ludicrous,” he protests, shaking his head.

“I know, right?” I say. “A well-respected, decorated FBI agent, an assistant director no less, running a placement firm for elite assassins who pose as interns? Ludicrous.”

I backhand him to stop his head from shaking.

“Listen, Fletch, this little performance you're putting on for your golf buddies is not only stupid, it's also distracting you from a very important choice you need to make right now.”

“What choice is that?” he says, defeated.

“Either you let us walk out of here or we blow this taco stand with everyone in it. Right, darling?”

“Without question, sweetheart,” Alice says. “And great use of
taco stand
.”

“But just to be clear, this isn't just about an exit strategy. If all we wanted to do was get away, we would have never let you catch us in the first place.”

“I don't follow,” he says.

“You will. See, this is
your
party. And we want everyone to know all about our guest of honor.”

“Think of it like a roast, but with guns,” Alice says.

“For years, you have exploited young people like us and traded our lives for profit. For years, you have been a traitor to the government
that pays your salary. For years, you have been Assistant Director Fletcher. But today, you're the man who started Human Resources, Incorporated. And that's how you'll be known from now on.”

“That's why we're here,” Alice says. “Judgment day.”

Fletcher is pale. The storm troopers standing outside our door are still and silent, undoubtedly gut-punched by what they just heard. Part of me is surprised that they're surprised. Guys like Fletcher have been butt-fucking the American Dream since before the ink on the US Constitution had time to dry. In some ways, the exploitation of the poor by the wealthy power elite
is
the American Dream.

“I love you, John Lago,” Alice says.

“I love you, Alice whatever your name is.”

She kisses me. Our kiss is interrupted by Sue's voice, crackling over the security monitor speaker.

“Tap the keg. We got us a party, kids.”

Sue cycles through all the monitors, showing SWAT and DOD Security Forces surrounding the outside of the building. On the inside of the building, our HR forces have sealed and secured every exit and every member of the internal security detail has been incapacitated. Basically, we've engineered the biggest Mexican standoff in history.

“Clock is ticking,” Alice says to Fletch.

“Tick. Tick. Boom,” I say.

Fletcher watches the monitors intently and then looks back at me.

“I have just one question,” Fletcher says.

“Shoot,” I say.

“You say you know who I am, but
who are you
? Really?”

I lean in closer to him and smile.

“My name is John Lago, motherfucker. And you got five minutes, so make it count.”

55

F
letch looks at me, resignation in his face.

“I'll give you what you want,” he says, nearly choking on the words, “but only to protect this agency.”

“Good. What I want is a 777 commercial jet with a crew, topped off with fuel for its full eight-thousand-mile range, waiting for us at Reagan airport in two hours. And I want a charter bus to take us there in one hour. And that's just for starters.”

“I have to speak to the director to order something like that.”

He rattles his handcuff to make his point.

“We'll have a phone brought to you. In the meantime, Alice and I will be needing our civilian clothes.”

Fletch makes his calls and they bring us our clothing. By the time we're done getting changed, he gets a call.

“This is Fletcher,” he answers. “Yes, sir. I'll tell them.”

He hangs up the phone and looks at us apologetically.

“Fletch, that's not the look of a man who is about to say yes,” I say.

“The director says we need more time for your request.”

I turn to Alice.

“I feel like I was fairly clear about our request, don't you?”

“Yes,” she says, “crystal clear. Maybe they're trying out some new-fangled hostage negotiator technique.”

“The director understands your request. We just need more time.”

“I gave you two hours. A lot can happen in that amount of time.”

“John—”

“Fletch, we don't negotiate here,” I say, echoing his previous admonition.

He makes another call and speaks to the director. Actually, from the looks of it, the director does all the talking. When he hangs up, he looks like he's been beaten with a phone book.

“He said he would try.”

“He better try hard if he doesn't want to lose Quantico and everyone in it.”

“I understand,” Fletch says.

And we wait. Five minutes before my deadline, Fletch's phone rings. Fletch answers.

“Fletcher.”

He says nothing, just listens. Then he hangs up.

“John, I'm sorry—”

“Not as sorry as I am,” I say and clap again, detonating another charge and rocking the building.

“John, stop this! I get it that you want me dead, but there are hundreds of innocent people working here. I find it hard to believe you're going to kill them too.”

“Is that what the director told you to say?” Alice asks.

“Neither of us think—”

I clap and another explosion shakes the room. Dust falls from the ceiling.

“Think what, Fletch?” I ask. “Think I have it in me to kill all those
innocent people
?”

I shove the gun barrel in Fletcher's face.

“In case it slipped your mind, I'm an assassin. I kill people for a living.”

And I shoot him in the head.

“Sue, blow it all!” I yell.

“Roger that!”

A series of explosions starts to shake the room in a violent cadence.

“We should probably go,” Alice says.

We run out of the interrogation room. A few more explosions detonate and it feels like an earthquake that never ends. As we run, no one tries to stop us. It's every man for himself as the human stampede smashes through glass doors and runs people down in a panicked exodus. I know what you're thinking. Would I really kill all those people? Of course not. The explosions are from charges we planted in the twenty-five-odd records warehouses spread out all over Quantico. The only thing we're killing is years of data that has been illegally collected on American citizens since J. Edgar Hoover. No matter what happens after this, at least I can die knowing I did my civic duty.

Alice and I recon with Sue and the recruits near the lobby.

“How are we looking, Sue?” I ask.

“Cops and SWAT have backed off to protect their people. Devices are kicking up so much smoke and debris they've pulled back air support. They're totally blind right now, just waiting for the smoke to clear and the chaos to subside.”

“Perfect. Then I guess it's checkout time.”

We all sprint out the lobby doors and through the wooded portion of the grounds used by the academy for training. We run for two miles until we reach a switching station for the Quantico railway lines. There's a big freight train sitting on the tracks. The engine is firing up. Our gangsta crew runs up and recons with us there. I see the crudely spray-painted graffiti on the side of the train:

BULLSHIT EXPRESS.

Alice and I laugh.

“You like?” Sue asks.

“You've out-Sue'd yourself, Sue.”

Sue opens the freight car doors and we all load in—Alice, Sue,
the recruits, the gangstas, and me. The cars are spartan but Sue has filled them with couches, chairs, food, drinks, and battery-powered LED lights. It's not the
Orient Express
, but it's a nonstop express train all the way to Manhattan and the least likely mode of transportation the feds would expect us to take. Personally, there's no way I'd rather travel.