Threat Level
Page 28
After only a very few fast crime scene photos, Dawood had been zipped up in a body bag, tossed into an ambulance, and removed from the scene immediately.
“Well,” said Troy, “looks like you won’t get busted down to sergeant first class and end up a platoon sergeant in some straight-leg infantry division.”
“And you won’t get busted to second-class petty officer and end up on the next replenishment ship leaving Norfolk,” said Storey.
“FBI guy told me Rumsfeld’s convoy drove right by while we were shooting,” said Troy.
“I’ll bet the head of the security detail dropped a log right in his pants,” said Storey, chuckling.
“Here comes Timmins,” said Troy.
“He’s going to start off by telling us all the rules we broke,” said Storey. “For a lot of reasons, but mainly because we got here before his FBI boys did. Then he’ll give us a grudging attaboy at the end, so we don’t think we’re getting over on him.”
Timmins stopped in front of them as if he was expecting them to spring to attention and salute. Storey and Troy remained seated.
“Okay,” said Timmins, “let’s sum this up. When the FBI agents you were supporting lost their radios during the vehicle stop, you failed to pick up the slack and maintain communications with us. We didn’t have a clue where you were and what you were doing until people at that school started calling 911. Only then do we get a radio call from you. Then, despite the fact that you’d discharged your firearms, you left that crime scene.” He gestured toward the Cherokee. “You removed evidence from another crime scene before it could be processed. We might have lost a case because of it.”
Timmins stopped for a moment, as if expecting them to either argue or defend themselves. But they had plenty of experience with officers in the military getting all wound up, and were only waiting patiently for him to finish. Troy was thinking: what case? Both the motherfuckers were dead.
“Despite all that questionable judgment,” Timmins continued, “you two saved a lot of lives tonight. You did a good job.”
He said that just as Troy was in the middle of a sip of coffee. He choked on it and had to cough it out. “Sorry, sir, coffee’s too hot.”
“How’s Special Agent Moody, sir?” Storey asked, as if he hadn’t been listening to any of it.
“He’s on a ventilator,” said Timmins. “Critical.”
“You want to talk about good jobs, sir,” said Storey, gigging him again, “every decision Beth Royale made tonight was the real key to the outcome.”
Timmins only nodded at that, so Storey went on. “Anything on our fourth man, sir?”
“Nimri?” said Timmins.
“Yes, sir.”
“There aren’t too many vantage points of this spot,” said Timmins. “Out of range of the potential blast area of this truck, that is.” He pointed to the northwest. “We found a camera on a tripod and a camera bag on a hill in the cemetery. No prints on anything. There was a note in the bag—this is confidential, by the way.”
“We understand, sir,” said Storey.
“The note said ‘next time.’”
“Fucker’s got style,” Troy remarked.
“How’s this going to be handled, sir?” Troy asked.
“Tanker truck driver had a heart attack,” said Timmins. “Two cop killers died in a shootout with FBI agents in Manassas.”
“I see, sir,” said Storey.
“Good job, guys,” said Timmins.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Troy started mimicking him. “Good job, guys. Good job, guys. Better believe it was a good fucking job. Fuck you, if it wasn’t for us a third of Arlington and probably a good piece of Alexandria would still be burning. And the president would be looking for a new boss for us.”
“We were lucky,” said Storey.
“Fuck yes.”
“We only have to be lucky once—you have to be lucky every time.”
“Sounds like a quote to me,” said Troy.
“That’s what the IRA said after they missed blowing up Margaret Thatcher at a Conservative Party Conference in England.”
“Fuckers were right,” said Troy. “That’s the equation. They only have to be lucky once.”
“We certainly can’t expect to be this lucky every time,” said Storey.
30
“Okay, who’s next?” the operator yelled.
“Here you go,” Karen the Spook shouted back. “Right here.”
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” said Beth Royale.
Karen’s smile was dazzling. “Redskins twenty, Patriots seventeen. Time to pay up.”
“You’re such a bitch,” said Beth.
“Did I mention you look simply adorable in your little red cowboy boots?” said Karen. She handed over the red cowboy hat Beth had conveniently forgotten at their table. “Your hat, my dear. A cowgirl isn’t a cowgirl without her hat.”
“A total bitch,” said Beth, jamming the hat onto her head.
“You up or not?” the operator yelled over the noise of the crowd.
Beth shot him a murderous look.
“She’s up,” Karen assured him. “She’s definitely up.” She handed Beth a tequila shooter. “For the pain.”
“An absolute, utter bitch,” said Beth, tossing down the shot. “Aaagh. Where’s my lime?”
“Only men need limes,” Karen informed her.
“Bitch. Okay, let’s get this over with.” Beth stalked out into the padded circle and swung herself onto the mechanical bull.
The bar crowd, whooping it up, gave her a big hand.
Softening somewhat, instead of giving them the finger, Beth tipped her hat. Then she pointed an accusatory forefinger at the bull operator, as if to say: I’ve got my eye on you.
No doubt having seen it all, he responded with his own look of yeah, yeah, whatever. “You ready?”
Beth got a good grip on the loop and nodded.
The mechanism began to whir, and it gave a little jump as it started to move. A smooth buck, and the bull swung around. This wasn’t so bad. Beth felt a little like Debra Winger in Urban Cowboy. Oh, shit. It was bouncing up and down, slamming her into the seat over and over again. Beth locked her thighs in a death grip on the leather seat. Her arm felt as if it were coming out of its socket. Her hat flew off. A roar came up from the crowd. Beth was hanging half off the bull. Then a roll and a snap, and she was in the air, landing face-first on the mats, with her butt sticking up in the air. A round of applause from the audience.
Beth rolled over, and there was an outstretched male hand being offered to her. She looked up, and the hand belonged to Ed Storey.
“Oh my God,” Beth groaned. “If there’s anyone from my office here Karen better be on her way to Mexico right now.”
“Don’t come up shooting,” said Storey. “I don’t see anyone.”
Beth accepted the hand up. Her crotch felt as if it had been beaten with a baton. “Now I know why cowboys walk bowlegged.”
Outside the padded circle Storey handed Beth her hat. Which she never, ever wanted to see again. “Thanks.” Then she turned on him. “How did you get here?”
“Oh, I just stopped in for a beer,” Storey said innocently. “And there you were on the bull.”
Beth detected the evil hand of Karen the Spook. “A likely story.” Her face was a particularly deep shade of scarlet. “My humiliation is now complete.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Storey. “I wasn’t watching the clock, but it had to have been over eight seconds.”
“That’s not really what I meant, Ed.”
Storey took in the boots and jeans, and western snap-button shirt. “You look great,” he said.
“Did I say anything out loud while I was bucking on that thing?”
“Nothing in English,” Storey replied.
“There better not be any video.”
Storey held out his arms in the universal gesture of not me.
Every step Beth took
revealed a new pain in a different part of her lower body. “God, my riding days are definitely over.”
“That’s sad news,” said Storey. “You should probably let me buy you a drink.”
Beth looked up again, and his face was as red as hers. “All right.”
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