The 4 Phase Man (41 page)

Three Corsicans rushed each of the four buildings, the other four remaining outside. The night exploded in automatic weapons fire—weird flashes in the dark momentarily lighting up the woods, then disappearing. Screams mixed with the gunshots, explosions filled the calm air.

Franco and two others had stormed the command center, instantly killing the three men inside. A door was kicked in, a quick look followed by a fusillade of 9mm fire from inside.

Franco never hesitated.

He threw himself into the room at floor level, firing his .45s with both hands.
“Amici! In bocca al lupo!”

“Crepi il lupo!”
his sidemen screamed out as they followed him in. Two minutes later the room fell silent, the defenders dead or seriously wounded.

With the sounds of the firefight spreading around him, Franco wasted no time going up to the survivor among the defenders. He pulled out his knife, plunging it into the man’s wounded shoulder.

“I bambini
, the children, where are they?” He twisted the knife, and the man’s screams drowned out the nearby shooting.

“Hall! Second and third doors!”

“Grazie,”
Franco said as he pulled out the knife, cutting the man’s throat in the same motion. He spit in the dead man’s face as he kicked his body aside.
“Froccio!”
He checked through the door’s peephole, then opened it and hurried through.

Grimes heard the battle begin. Saw the first explosions from the shelter’s mesh-covered windows. Heard the gunfire from the outer rooms and knew that disaster wore a robe and carried a scythe in a skeletal hand.

And was actively looking for
him!

He jumped as the door exploded inward and the men came for him.

“Another step and you’ll see the girl’s brains!” he
screamed out as he pushed a .38 into Cathy Alvarez’s seven-year-old ear.

Franco pushed down the barrel of his comrade’s gun. A quick look behind to see that the third member of his team had Drake Alvarez safely in the hall, then he turned back to Grimes.

“Disgraziato,”
he snarled at the man.
“Porco!
I give you one chance to let her go and face me like a man.” He handed his gun to his comrade and pulled out his knife. “Come on,
Dolcezza,”
he sneered, “come and play.”

“I’m not fucking kidding! I’ll kill her! I will!” His face was sour-milk white, his hand trembled, his sweat formed pools on the floor, but he managed to thumb back the hammer on the gun.

Franco kissed the air in Grimes’s direction as he rhythmically moved the knife from side to side. Slowly—almost floating—one foot closer each moment.

“Come on,
maschioni
,” tough guy, another kiss, “let’s dance, he whispered seductively.”

Grimes couldn’t take his eyes off the knife and the madman holding it. It wasn’t supposed to be this way! He wasn’t supposed to get dirty! None of them, it was just a game, money for nothing but a few favors. Just a game, dammit!

“Come and play.”

“Wha—”

His words were stopped by a flick of Franco’s wrist and the blade flying into his left eye. At almost the same moment, the Corsican threw himself forward, grabbing the little girl less than a second before Grimes’s gun went off.

“Shit,” he muttered as he looked down at the hole that went through his shoulder. Then he turned to Cathy—keeping his body between her and Grimes—as the other Corsican fired three times into the man’s head. “Are you okay, little one?”

The girl seemed stunned, porcelain-like, a beautiful sculpture about to crack into a million pieces.

“Angelo mio,”
he said with a softened smile, “little angel, would you like to go see your mama?” He kept smiling as his hands searched her for broken bones or blood. He found none.

“Do you know my mommy?” she said in an impossibly weak voice.

Franco smiled as he lifted her into his arms. “We go to her right now, okay?”

“Okay.” She buried her face in his uninjured shoulder as she caught a glimpse of the mutilated men around them.

“Shh,
bella.”
He kissed her tenderly on the top of the head. “Just some stupid men.” He began to sing her a lullaby from his youth as he picked his way among the carnage.

He could either fight or flee. No other options. He knew that Xenos’s plan would be flawless, his men ruthless, and the result inevitable. Although still stunned by how quickly they’d been found, Canvas nevertheless recovered rapidly in the dark and the pain that had become the night.

There were forces spread out around the compound on three sides, so he moved in the one remaining direction. He paused when he heard the gunfire coming from within his command shelter, then shook his head and started off again toward the east fence and safety.

He stopped. A frozen monument of introspection and caution.

The one way remaining.

The only conveniently unguarded route away from the Hell and frenzy of the kill zone. Canvas turned to the east, seeing it all play out before him.

Somewhere ahead, Xenos was waiting for him. In the dark—between this spot and the fence—they would meet. Canvas would take a step, then feel a fire explode within his chest as the hollow-point .44 slug found its home. Maybe he would live long enough to see Xenos’s face as he came forward to deliver the coup de grâce.

For a full minute he considered continuing. Stealthily making his way forward—aware of the danger, but taking precautions. All for the chance to finally take out the man who haunted his dreams. When he
did
sleep.

Then he exhaled deeply, shook his head, and started toward the south.

To fight another day.

Valerie looked toward the sound of gunshots and running men, desperately trying to pierce the dark and see what she knew there was no hope of seeing.

Somewhere out ahead—in the heart of the thick woods—a fierce battle was taking place. No longer centered in the distance, it seemed to move toward her, groping through the black to reach the rear guard of the only way out that night. She fought to keep from running out, meeting it halfway, and ending her thirty minutes, her weeks, of waiting.

Then, without warning, the first of the assault teams appeared. Some were wounded, others bruised, all on the dead run.

None with what she needed.

Forcing back tears, she helped them over the wall, then froze. A thin voice called out from the dark—maybe,
must be
, imagined—and the voice melted all her defenses, her fears, her torment.

“Mom!”

She rushed forward as Drake and she collided in an ecstatic embrace.

“Baby,” my baby! Thank you, God. Thank you, God.
Mi hijo! Gracias Dios por mi hijo,”
she cried. “Oh thank you,” God. She smothered him with kisses. “Oh, Drake, baby… Valerie cut herself off.” Where’s Cathy?

In answer, Drake looked back into the dark, just before he was grabbed by one of the Corsicans and almost thrown over the fence. They urged her to follow, but—satisfied that her son was safe—she turned and began jogging toward the nearest gunfire.

There were muzzle flashes everywhere in the fanged
darkness. The reports filled the air like a typewriter’s clatter. One hundred and fifty meters in, she stopped, not sure which way to go. Then she saw them.

Franco, bent over and running full speed in a randomly zigzagging pattern, his arms wrapped around something clutched tightly to his chest.

With her heart bursting through muscle and bone that could no longer contain it, Valerie realized that the something was her little girl.

“Here!” she screamed above the violence in the air. “Over here!”

Franco looked up, saw her, and immediately altered his course in her direction. As one of the guards rose up behind him—unseen or heard—and pointed an automatic rifle at his back.

The Corsican fell to the ground, cushioning the child as he felt the shot whiz by his right ear. Then heard three shots in automatic-fire succession fly over him. A long moment later he looked behind him, seeing the guard with a neat hole in the middle of his forehead and three evenly spaced wounds stitched across his chest.

Valerie pulled her daughter from his arms, tossing him her gun in exchange.

Franco grinned—an insane sight amid the madness—as he looked at the smoking gun and Valerie’s retreating form. Then, with a satisfied nod of his head, he followed them out of the battle zone.

As the first police cars arrived at the main gate, Xenos dropped out of a tree near the east fence.

He’d already heard that the children were safe and the Corsicans evacuated from the scene. They’d taken some hits—two were dead, three wounded. But the toll was less than he’d expected.

How would they explain the shooting and explosions? he wondered vacantly. Did Canvas have some contingency in place for it? Or would he have to improvise? It was an interesting problem.

And where
was
Canvas?

He hadn’t been hit in the initial attack, hadn’t been seen or heard from since he’d jumped into the woods in the first moments. And he’d obviously turned down Xenos’s complex invitation. So he was still out there.

Somewhere.

As he climbed over the east fence, he put the thought aside.

Time enough to deal with Canvas after the immediate insanity was over.

The time for Apple Blossom, however, was now.

Sitting in a bathrobe, calmly sipping his coffee while watching the morning news reports, DeWitt was the picture of calm and cool. His hand was rock-steady as he poured. His expression placid. His manner aloof.

But Michael had known the man for ten years. Men like him for much longer than that. So he remained cautious, and out of easy reach.

“The media’s been all over it since it broke. They’re camped out in front of the estate like the Simpson trial. The neighbors aren’t talking, but the press is getting nice gory shots each time a body is carried out.”

“How many?” DeWitt asked as he changed to a different channel’s coverage of
Massacre Among the Cotton-woods: Murder in Virginia.

“Press knows about six so far. My sources say the final total will be more than three times that.” He shook his head. “It’s a bloody mess.”

DeWitt looked up and smiled. “You’re developing a sense of humor late in life, Michael.” He returned to the broadcast. “Tony Grimes?”

“Dead.”

“Canvas?”

“Missing.” Michael shook his head. “The police are confused, asking for help from the Virginia Department of
Justice and McLean Homicide Special. Also Quantico behaviorists. They suspect some kind of cult murder/suicide thing. He looked exhausted.” For now, anyway.

“Steingarth?” DeWitt asked as he shut the TV.

“Unaccounted for and unreachable.” He hesitated. “Not connected to it … so far.”

“My name come up?”

Michael sighed. “Not yet, but it’s early.”

The vice president designate nodded simply.

Oddly the destruction and death of the night before—first learned of at three in the morning by a panicked call from Michael—seemed to have quieted and strengthened the man. As if the combined blows of the Senate suspicions and the attack on the command center had loosed him from some bonds he’d been struggling against.

He poured himself some more coffee. “Since the children aren’t there, we have to assume they were rescued and that the reports of the congresswoman’s demise are less than thorough.” He got up and started pacing, calmly. “What we need to do is
act
, get out ahead of all this before more silly accusations start flying.”

Michael appeared less certain. “I think we should wait until we hear from Steingarth or Canvas.”

“Don’t think,” Michael, DeWitt said without rancor. “You’re no good at it.” He opened a window and breathed in the dew-scented air. “We didn’t get this close just because of foreign investment. He lightly tossed a pad over to his aide.” Take this down.

“For immediate release,” he began after five minutes of an intense silence. “Attorney General Jefferson DeWitt is saddened by the death of national treasure and personal friend Anthony Grimes. But not completely surprised by it.”

“In recent weeks,” it has come to the attorney general’s attention that Mr. Grimes was involved with an extremist cult called”—he paused, trying out different names—“the Heisenberg Effect. An organization linked to missing and feared mentally unbalanced Congresswoman Valerie Alvarez.”

Michael looked up. “Linked by who?”

DeWitt shrugged. “Us. Continuing…

“As recently as several days ago, Attorney General DeWitt visited Mr. Grimes at his home to attempt to convince him to abandon this cult which had suicidal and murderous tendencies, along with reactionary political beliefs. The cult—which had been exerting more and more influence on Mr. Grimes in recent months—was suspected by the attorney general of attempting to engage in espionage against Western governments, not unlike the Aum Shoko Ritai in Japan.

“In retrospect,” it appears that Mr. Grimes—who was educated in England—may well be this Apple Blossom whom the Senate Judiciary Committee has asked the attorney general to assist in identifying.

“Attorney General DeWitt prays that he is wrong, but fears he is not.”

Michael looked up from the statement. “I thought he was your friend.”

DeWitt shrugged. “No such thing as a dead friend.”

His aide studied him, then started out of the room. “I’ll try to reach Steingarth again before issuing it.”

“Fuck the Nazi. Canvas too. We don’t need them anymore.”

Michael nodded reluctantly. “I’d still like to try.” “As long as it gets out before the ten o’clock talk shows.” DeWitt started toward his bedroom to dress for the day. “What’s on the schedule … besides damage control?” He chuckled.

“Filling in for the president at the Army-Navy game in Philadelphia this afternoon. Situation briefing at the White House and dinner with the national security staff at 7:30.”

“Fine. Get the statement out, then contact as many of the others in the chain as you can. We’ve got to get them going on this cult idea.” He pulled off his robe, admiring himself in a mirror. “Time they see who’s
really
in charge.”