The President's Assassin (37 page)

It further struck me that Jennie had been right about what was happening here—as she had been right about so many other matters in this convoluted case.

As they are wont to do, the thieves had had a falling-out. The Texans wanted their money now, Jason still frothed for blood, and the odd man found himself out, with a mutiny on his hands. I wondered, though, why the captain of this ship hadn’t been forced to walk the gangplank in the venerable tradition. Why keep this guy alive? The Texans had the money, the killing was over—or nearly over, I reminded myself—and I couldn’t see how Jason was still useful to them.

Then I recalled MaryLou informing me that her cut was about twelve million. Divide fifty million four ways, and it sounded like Jason was still getting his share. Honor among thieves? Why was I having trouble believing that?

MaryLou said to Hank, “C’mon, let’s git packed and ready to split.”

“Okay.”

For the next fifteen minutes I could hear the sounds of Hank and MaryLou opening closets and drawers and throwing clothes into suitcases. Jason sat quietly beside me, breathing easily, apparently bored out of his mind.

Then the front door opened and a guy walked in. He was about my size, dark hair sprinkled with gray, a broad, hard-looking face, thick nose, and mean eyes.

He looked at Jason, then at me, and yelled, “Hey, what the hell we got here? MaryLou, you sneakin’ men in here behind my back?”

From the bedroom, MaryLou yelled, “Damn it, Big Daddy, you took yer damned time.”

“Traffic,” he yelled. “Seems like some crooked people did a bad thing somewheres, and the cops shut down a buncha roads.” He laughed. “Ain’t that some bullshit?”

Dressed in only her panties and bra, MaryLou came traipsing down the hallway, straight toward Clyde, then into his arms. He lifted her off the floor with his hands on her butt and they kissed for a long time. Uh-oh. Maybe she and Clyde were closer than she’d let on.

Clyde said to her, “Well, baby, you’n me are now rich as shit. What’d I tell ya, huh?”

“You said it jus’ right, Big Daddy.”

He laughed. “Tol’ you we should take the deal.”

She leaned away from him and said, “Only we got a big problem we din’t figure on.”

“How’s that?”

She pointed at me and said, “That asshole there. Said the cops got you ID’d already. Said they know all about the weapons we stole.” Shit. I was hearing the sounds of my best-laid plans falling apart. Actually, my only plans.

Clyde asked, “He said that?”

“Yep. Also said a buncha cops are runnin’ ’round Killeen diggin’ up our histories.”

Clyde stared at her a moment. He appeared at first astonished, then his mood shifted and his face turned dark. He looked at me. “Yer sure he wasn’t jus’ bullshittin’ ya? MaryLou—y’know all them lawyers lie.”

She laughed.

He said, “Seriously, baby.”

“It ain’t bullshit, Clyde. He knew
way
too much.”

Clyde crossed the floor. He ended up directly to my front, sort of looking down and studying me. He said to MaryLou, “I don’t like the sound of this, baby. We shoulda learned about that.”

She crossed her arms and said, “You got it. That’s what I’m wonderin’.”

I was really interested in this conversation, and Clyde had his lips open to say something I was sure was going to be really interesting, but before he got a word out, the front door blew right off the hinges with a loud boom. At almost the same instant, the glass doors to the porch exploded inward, showering us with glass.

MaryLou screamed. For a fraction of an instant, she and Clyde stared at each other, mesmerized. Then they came to their senses and immediately spun and dashed for the bedrooms.

Instinctively I tipped my chair sideways and toppled over, ending up on the floor. The room filled with smoke and dust and stunk of cordite. Then, through the smoke I saw a squad of men in dark pants, dark shirts, bulletproof armor, and black helmets rushing from the front door, and more pouring through the now gaping rear porch entrance. Hopefully somebody had remembered to brief the cavalry that we weren’t all Indians in here.

But it looked like somebody with a body heat sensor was directing the traffic, because they ignored me, and they ignored Jason, and they sped right past us, straight for the bedrooms.

In an instant, I heard shots being fired and men yelling. I looked at the front door again, and through the haze and smoke I saw another figure, and after a moment I made out Agent Jennifer Margold, in her blue FBI windbreaker, with her blue FBI ballcap, in the shooter’s crouch, scanning the room, pointing her FBI pistol directly at me. I saw her face, and I saw it tighten, and then the barrel shifted slightly upward and went off.

I heard the first bullet strike tissue, make a soft thudding sound, and even through his gag, Jason Barnes emitted a sort of muffled groan. I tried yelling through my gag and I tried kicking his chair over, but I was too late.
Bang, bang
—Jennie fired two more shots—his chair flew backward, and Barnes ended up on his back.

Jennie kept her arms straight and her pistol up, just as they teach at the FBI Academy, and she rushed toward me. More shots and loud cursing were coming from the back bedrooms, where the Texans were apparently making their last stand.

Jennie tore the black tape off my mouth, then rushed behind me, bent down, and untied the ropes. She asked, “You okay?”

“I’m...yes.”

“We kept turning your tracker off and on. You were still moving. We had to wait till you stopped.”

I was free of the restraints and I stood up and rubbed my wrists, which would be sore for a week. I pointed at Jason’s body. “Why did you do
that
?”

“To keep him from shooting you.”

“The guy was tied up, Jennie.”

Jennie looked down at the body. She studied Jason Barnes for a moment, and then looked at me, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open. “I...oh, Jesus. Sean, I...I had no idea. Through the smoke, I saw you...on the floor...then...and then him. I thought he was...was standing over you, and I thought...”

I regarded Jason’s corpse. One shot had entered his midchest, and two had punched into his forehead and gone straight through, blowing his brains across the room. His eyes were locked open, his pupils rolled upward—as though he had tried to watch the bullets pass through.

From down the hall, by the bedrooms, came a really loud boom—we both recoiled from the shock. Another percussion or stun grenade went off, followed by more yells and more shots. A real battle was going on back there.

“Come on.” Jennie took my arm and pulled me along. I followed, a little dumbstruck. Outside and about fifty yards from the townhouse were parked two armored trucks, and we sprinted down the sidewalk and ended up taking cover behind the nearest one.

We stood for a moment, winded, a little unsteady. Then Jennie reached over and touched my face. Actually, not touched, she wiped. She said, “You’re bleeding a lot.”

Until that moment, I hadn’t realized that glass splinters from the porch door had sprayed me. Blood was streaming into my face from my scalp, and a quick visual inspection revealed a number of cuts on my chest, my arms, even my legs. Now that I realized they were there, they hurt like hell.

An agent dressed in an urban commando getup, a flak vest, and a royally pissed-off expression approached. He walked straight to Jennie, got two inches from her face, and barked, “What in the hell were you doing?”

“Getting my man out.”

“I told you, Agent, nobody enters till the Hostage Rescue Team gives the all-clear.”

“I recall that.”

“This was an outrageous breach of procedures. I could care less if you’re a supervisor. I’m gonna report this.”

Jennie looked at him, not giving an inch. “Go ahead. I told my hostage I’d guarantee his safety. I meant it.”

Mr. Macho saw this was going nowhere, apparently remembered he had a firefight on his hands, and stomped off in a nasty huff.

Did I suddenly feel bad, or what? I said, “You were coming in to get me?”

She did not reply.

I squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

She looked very unhappy, distracted even, and I thought I knew what was going on here.

After a moment, I asked her, “Jason was your first kill. Right?”

“Yeah. My first kill. A man with his hands tied behind his back. I...well, I...” Her eyes became misty.

“It happens, Jennie. You couldn’t know his hands were
tied
behind his back. For all you knew, he had a weapon. Through the smoke and dust, that’s what your eye saw, and what your mind registered. In the heat of action, the eye overrules the mind, and the finger on the trigger doesn’t discriminate.”

She looked at me and said nothing.

CHAPTER THIRTY - ONE

W
ITHIN THREE MINUTES
,
THE
H
OSTAGE
R
ESCUE
T
EAM LEADER MUST
’
VE
radioed out that the deed was done, because everybody suddenly relaxed. Actually that might be overstating it, but a few agents lit up cigarettes, and a few people wandered out into the open from behind the vans.

A forensics team was sent into the townhouse, followed closely by four teams of medical technicians bearing stretchers. Then lots of unmarked sedans filled with Johnny-come-latelies began pouring down the street. On their heels followed the ubiquitous TV news vans, prenotified, I guess, so the public could witness this effervescent moment in FBI history. But I wasn’t being judgmental—the Feds had bled and suffered for this one. What little credit was due, they deserved.

Somebody with bad manners in a gray suit kept ordering me into an ambulance. I insisted I was fine, and swore I could and would swagger out of here on my own two feet. It was all macho posturing from big bad Sean, of course. I get a little weird standing around in public in my undershorts.

Also, Jennie remained very hurt and uptight, staring off into space, absorbed in her own thoughts. I held her hand and I figured—no matter how silly—that I was helping her hold it together.

But the FBI has a lot of rules, and rule number one is follow all the rules. So somebody went and found the commander of the HRT, who approached me and said, “Drummond, right?”

“No. He’s the tall, good-looking guy wearing all his clothes.”

“One of those splinters fly into your brain or something?”

I checked my groin. “Nope.”

He laughed. “I heard you were crazy as hell. Listen, you did a good job. We appreciate it.”

“Aw, any dumbass could’ve done it.”

“My thoughts exactly.” He stopped smiling. “Now, are you getting into that ambulance or do I put your ass in?”

Through the corner of my eye I saw a few TV cameramen taking shots, and one was about ten feet away and just starting a sweep in our direction. Before I made
Five O’Clock Live
in my present condition, I stepped into the back of the ambulance.

I even got a ride in a wheelchair once we arrived at Arlington General and was hustled toward the operating room. A pair of young docs had a field day, digging shards of glass out of my skin and stitching me up. One even offered me the fragments, suggesting they would make a very memorable stained-glass mosaic. Another noted the scars from my old war wounds and remarked upon what a terrifically popular person I must be. They were very funny. Seriously.

I swallowed three aspirins, and one of the docs told me to wait thirty minutes for observation, in the event I had a sudden attack of common sense, unlikely as that might be. I was given a set of genuine surgeon’s scrubs to wear, which was pretty cool. I was assured it would be on my bill of course.

I was allowed to walk on my own out to the waiting room, and I found a chair off in the corner, where, for the first time in two days, I was alone and could think.

Starting from when Jennie picked me up at the George Bush Center for Intelligence, the past forty-eight hours had been like some Hollywood action movie at 78 rpm, a blur of gore, emotional chaos, and frantic confusion. I had seen enough death and misery for a lifetime, and those images were imprinted on my brain. I had set up four people to die, and I had a few misgivings about that. I had a lot to contemplate.

But there happened to be a TV perched on a nearby wall bracket, the evening news was on, and the shootout was the story of the hour, the day, and probably the month. I leaned back into my chair, put my feet up, and started watching, when a voice inside my head screamed, Hey idiot, you haven’t slept in two days.

Then somebody was shaking my shoulder, asking, “Hey—you all right?”

I saw Agent Rita Sanchez, holding two steaming cups of coffee, bless her heart. I had not a clue how long I had slept, nor was there a way to tell. In hospitals there is no day and no night.

Rita fell into the seat beside me. She handed me a cup, and I took a long sip. She informed me, “Jennie said you might need a ride home. She’s real busy right now.”

“I’ll bet.”

“How you doing?”

I could answer that two ways—honestly or not. So I lied. “Fine. Glad it’s over, glad the good guys won...”

She smiled knowingly. “You got postpartem blues. All that adrenaline gets pumped into you, then it just goes, like a petered-out balloon. I see it all the time.”

“You don’t see it this time.”

“I think I do.”

“I think you don’t. The knights slew the dragons, I’m glad.”

“Sure you are.” After a moment she added, “We’re gonna need a statement. You’re the only person who actually spent time with these people.”

“The only one who survived.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not the same thing.”

Rita detected that I was in a queer mood and decided not to press it. Changing the subject, she said, “They put up a hell of a battle at the end. The HRT guys said they fought like wildcats. The woman went down last. She ran out of the bedroom spraying her M16.”

“In fact, I was wondering about that.”

“About what?”

I looked Rita in the eyes. “Correct me if I’m wrong. It was my impression that the proper procedure in hostage rescue situations is to first warn the suspects they are surrounded, then offer to negotiate, and only if that fails...then assault by force.”