From his supine position on the sidewalk, Jake saw the fourth suit, the one who'd played Metro cop, draw a pistol from under his coat, but before he could get the muzzle up, Favreau was on him, grabbing the pistol with one hand and delivering a knifehand chop to the side of the man's neck with the other that put him on the ground, almost eye to eye with Jake, except the man's eyes were closed, like he had suddenly decided to lie down on the concrete and take a nap. Favreau even ended up with the man's gun.
Jake pushed himself up into what was close to a sitting position and scanned the ground for his own pistol. His brain felt like fried jelly. He almost threw up. Then he spotted his gun on the sidewalk not far from Suit Number One. And although Suit Number One was still on the ground and still had blood pulsing from his nose, he was crawling toward Jake's gun, and he was a lot closer to it than Jake.
"Come on," Favreau said in his French accent, somewhere behind Jake. Then Jake felt a pair of strong hands grip him under his arms and jerk him to his feet. His legs wobbled and threatened to collapse. But in the end they held. Then the Frenchman hauled Jake up the street.
Chapter 6
They lurched north on 11th Street, with Favreau pulling Jake along on legs still shaky from the 50,000-volt blast he had taken. They hadn't quite made it to the end of the block when Jake heard the crack of a gunshot behind them. He knew that exact sound, having heard it tens of thousands of times on the firing range during his five months at Quantico: a .40-caliber, 180-grain jacketed hollow point, the FBI's standard duty load. Then he heard another shot. Then another. Someone was shooting at them with Jake's gun.
People around them were screaming and scrambling out of the way. A few with less street smarts, who didn't know the sound of gunfire, stood looking around, waiting to catch a stray bullet. Favreau yanked Jake around the corner onto F Street. Using a passing city bus for cover, they dashed across the street, ran halfway down the block, and ducked into the cover of an alcove in the façade of a building. Jake peeked back the way they had come. None of the men in the dark suits had rounded the corner.
"We have to keep moving," Favreau said.
Jake turned on him. "No, we don't." Then he noticed the pistol in the Frenchman's hand, which Jake's brain automatically catalogued as a Beretta 92F, the standard-issue handgun of the U.S. military. The way Favreau held the pistol, the muzzle was angled down at forty-five degrees, not quite pointed at Jake, but not quite pointed at the ground either. Instinctively, Jake's hand twitched toward his holster until he remembered it was empty and that his FBI service pistol was now in the hands of one of the men who had attacked him in the street. Jake felt his face flush with shame.
"They're going to keep coming," Favreau said.
"Who?" Jake demanded, keeping one eye on the pistol in Favreau's hand. "Who's going to keep coming? Who are they?"
Favreau glanced back down the street. "I'll explain everything later. Right now we have to go."
"Explain now," Jake said. "Explain everything now." Then he heard another pop from the direction of 11th Street and a glass door thirty feet past the alcove shattered. The well-dressed woman stepping out the door screamed and dropped her shopping bag as she scurried back inside the store.
Favreau grabbed Jake's arm and yanked him down the sidewalk. Jake caught a glimpse of two of the suits, the one Jake had head-butted and the one who had played Metro cop, running toward them from 11th Street.
Near the next corner was a Chinese laundry. Favreau pulled Jake through the door. They charged around the counter, past startled customers holding bright blue nylon bags stuffed with dirty clothes. The man behind the counter screeched at them in some dialect of Chinese. Favreau kept running, towing Jake along behind him. They pushed through a curtained doorway and into a warehouse-like space filled with dry-cleaning machines and dozens of wheeled racks of clothes. Everyone stopped work and stared. No one screamed. No one ran. They just stared.
Favreau and Jake burst out the back door of the laundry into an alley, where Jake finally got his feet under him enough to drag Favreau to a stop beside an overflowing Dumpster. Jake shoved the Frenchman against the grimy wall beside the garbage bin. "Give me that," he said and twisted the pistol out of Favreau's hand. Jake took a step back and pulled the Beretta's slide open a quarter-inch, seeing the brass shell of a cartridge resting in the firing chamber. Police sirens wailed all around them. "Tell me what the hell is going on."
"I already told you," Favreau said, "but you weren't listening."
A small Chinese man stuck his head through the door. Jake pointed a finger at him. "FBI. Get back inside." The man disappeared. Jake turned to Favreau. "Who are those men, and why are they shooting at us?"
Favreau took a deep breath. "They work for your government."
"You expect me to believe that government agents tried to kidnap us and are shooting at us in downtown Washington, D.C.?"
Favreau pointed into the air, as if at the sound waves of the approaching sirens. "Do you hear that? They're coming for us. We have to go. Now."
"We're not going anywhere," Jake said. "Not until I say. I'm an FBI agent," he poked the Frenchman in the chest, "and you're under arrest."
"They'll never let you take me in alive."
"Who?" Jake shouted, his frustration boiling over. "Who exactly is it that won't let me take you in?"
The back door to the laundry banged open. The two suits piled out with guns in their hands. Jake's brain shifted into overdrive and his body responded as the hundreds of hours of firearms training kicked in, and he opened fire just a fraction of a second faster than the two suits.
There was no time for the sights. Just point shooting. Jake looking over the top of the gun, both eyes finding the targets fifteen feet away, finger working the trigger again and again as the 9mm shells kicked out, clattering and bouncing off the filthy concrete of the alley. The suits fired back. Jake got off six shots before the two suits tumbled back inside the door. The bad news was that Jake's bullets had chewed up the door and the wall but missed the two men. The good news was that their bullets had missed Jake and the Frenchman.
"Run!" Favreau said.
Jake's heart was about to burst through his chest. His breathing was fast and shallow. He thought about what he'd been taught at Quantico. Combat breathing. In deep, hold, let it out slow. In deep, hold, let it out slow. Favreau waved him on.
They ran.
Through the alley up to G Street. Jake flicked on the Beretta's safety and shoved the pistol into his jacket pocket. As soon as they stepped onto the sidewalk, two Metro police units blew past them, headed east. A third police car screeched to a stop not thirty feet from them. The people on the sidewalks were looking in the direction the other two patrol cars had gone. Favreau, playing the helpful bystander, waved at the police car that had just stopped and pointed east. Jake did the same. The third police car peeled out that way.
Jake followed Favreau in the opposite direction on G Street.
All around them cops were racing in circles.
When they crossed over 11th Street, Jake glanced back and saw the two suits half a block behind and tracking them. "They're still with us," he said.
"I know," Favreau said over his shoulder. "We'll lose them in the subway."
Another block, and they jumped on the long escalator down to the Metro Center station. When they reached the bottom, they found the red line train about to leave the station as the recorded announcement warned passengers to clear the doorways.
Jake saw the two suits halfway down the escalator. The train doors hissed and sprang closed. Jake jammed his arm into the nearest doorway and felt the edges of the twin doors bite into his forearm. The doors hissed again. A red warning light flashed as another recorded announcement, this one in a more urgent tone, warned that the doors were being obstructed. Passengers standing inside the car shouted at him.
"Little help," Jake said over his shoulder.
Favreau dug his fingers between the doors and pried th
em open. He and Jake squeezed through. The doors hissed a final time and snapped shut. Other passengers glared at them. Jake heard someone behind him say, "Impatient motherfuckers." The train rolled. Jake stared out the window at the two suits sprinting across the platform. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his hand around the grip of the Beretta. The two men were just ten feet from the doors when the tunnel swallowed the train car.
The hot stares of resentment from the other passengers had mostly faded by the time the train reached the next stop three minutes later. Everybody had better things to worry about, Jake figured, than a couple guys jumping on the train late.
As the train pulled out of the Chinatown station, Jake said, "We're getting off at the next stop."
"Where are we going?" Favreau asked.
"My office."
Favreau nodded.
Two minutes later, the speakers announced the next stop, Judiciary Square. Jake's hand was still in his pocket holding the pistol. "You get off first," he whispered to Favreau.
"As you wish."
The train ground to a stop. The doors hissed and sprang open. Jake followed Favreau out of the car and up the escalator to 4th Street. "Which way?" Favreau asked.
Jake pointed north. They walked along the sidewalk.
"I was telling you the truth," Favreau said. "I shot President Kennedy in Dallas on November 22, 1963."
"Lee Harvey Oswald shot Kennedy."
"You're right," Favreau said. "Oswald did shoot him. But he didn't kill him. I fired the last shot, the fatal one. From behind a fence on top of a small hill."
"The grassy knoll," Jake said, his voice cutting in its sarcasm. "You shot President Kennedy from the grassy knoll."
"That's what they called it later, yes."
"You're talking about the head shot."
"Yes."
"Why did you do it?" Jake asked. He just had to keep this nutjob talking until he could walk him into the heavily secured, fortress-like FBI Washington Field Office, which spanned the entire next block of 4th Street, between F and G streets.
"I was working for the CIA."
Chapter 7
"I didn't believe him, of course. I thought he was nuts. But I figured that within a few minutes he wasn't going to be my problem anymore. Once we got to the WFO, I was going to lock him in a holding cell and call my supervisor."
***
"Can I see your ID, sir?" the uniformed guard said.
Jake stood behind and to the side of Favreau in the secured foyer on the ground floor of the seven-story FBI Washington Field Office. The guard stood inside a rope line, next to a walk-through magnetometer. A second uniformed guard stood in front of a monitor and the controls for an airport-style scanning device for personal belongings, with a conveyor belt running into its depths.
Jake didn't recognize either of them. He reached for his back pocket to get his credentials. The pocket was flat and empty. He patted his jacket pockets and felt the Beretta 9mm but not his leather credential case. Then he remembered flashing his badge at Suit Number One on the sidewalk outside the diner. Right before the man hit him in the stomach. Jesus, I lost my badge and my gun.
"I, uh, don't have my ID on me," Jake told the guard. "But I work here. In Four Squad. I'm Special Agent Jake Miller."
"I'm sorry, sir," the guard said, "but about a thousand people work here. If you do, in fact, work here, then you know you need proper identification to enter the building."
The second guard walked over.
"I realize that," Jake said, edging in front of Favreau. "But this is...an unusual situation."
The second guard took a hard look at Jake. "What kind of unusual situation, sir?"
"Look," Jake said, "I don't have time to explain everything to you, but I need to get to my office. Right now."
"Sir, if you'll give me your supervisor's name, I'll be happy to call him and verify your identity," the second guard said.
"Don't bother," Jake said. "I'll call him myself." He was reaching for his Blackberry when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Jake turned and saw Favreau staring through the glass outer doors. The two suits who had been chasing them were standing on the sidewalk in front of the building.
Jake pointed. "Those two men, in the suits, do you see them?"
"Yes, sir, I see them," the first guard said. "What about them?"
"Twenty minutes ago they tried to kill me."
"Is that right?" said the second guard. Although neither guard moved.
Looking at the two security guards, Jake felt himself growing angry. "Yes, that's right. I need you to take them into custody. They are armed and dangerous. Call for backup and use extreme caution."
Still, neither guard moved. Jake looked back and forth between the guards and the men outside. "What are you doing?" he asked the guards, his voice rising almost to a shout. "I'm an FBI special agent. I have taken this man into custody." He pointed through the glass doors. "I need you to arrest those two men outside."
The two guards stood their ground. "We can't do that, sir," the second guard said.
Jake felt his jacket move. He reached down but Favreau already had the Beretta out. Both guards reached for their holstered pistols. Favreau aimed the Beretta at them. "I wouldn't do that." The guards stopped reaching.
"Are you nuts?" Jake shouted.
"Move," Favreau told Jake and pointed to the bank of elevators across the lobby.
They backed across the lobby while Favreau kept the Beretta pointed at the security guards. At the elevators, Jake punched the call button. Immediately, an up arrow flashed and a bell dinged. They stepped backwards into the elevator car. Jake pressed the button for the third floor. The doors closed. The car rose.
Seconds later, an alarm sounded in the building.
"Oh, shit," Jake said. Then he snatched the pistol from Favreau's hand. "Give me that. You're a prisoner, try to act like one."
Favreau shrugged.
When the elevator doors opened on the third floor, Jake and Favreau stepped into the deserted lobby. The after-hours lighting was subdued. The alarm was still ringing. "This way," Jake said. He led Favreau down the hall to a door with a sign that read Four Squad. Beside the door was a keypad. Jake shielded the pad with his body so Favreau couldn't see it and punched in his Special Agent ID number. The lock clicked and Jake pushed open the door. He stepped in ahead of Favreau, the pistol still in his hand.
"I'll take that," said a voice behind him. Jake tried to turn toward the voice, but an arm as hard as a steel pipe clamped around his neck and someone yanked the pistol from his hand. Behind him there was a short scuffle that ended when Favreau grunted and something heavy thudded onto the carpeted floor. The clamp tightened around Jake's neck. The light started to bleed out of his vision. As he sank to his knees, the arm stayed across his throat.
"That's enough," said another voice.
The clamp loosened. Jake sucked in a lungful of air. Some of the light returned. "Let him go," the same voice said. It sounded familiar to Jake.
The arm slid off Jake's throat. His head was spinning. He wasn't sure he could stand, so he sat down on the carpet and braced himself with one hand. When he looked up, he saw his boss, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Wendell Donahue. But what was he doing here? Donahue was never in the office past 4:30. A standing joke, at least with the senior agents, was that Donahue was a reverse vampire. If the sun went down before he got home he would burst into flames. And Donahue wasn't alone. With him were four men in dark suits. Jake heard handcuffs being ratcheted tighter. He heard Favreau groan.
Donahue looked down at Jake. "Are you all right, Agent Miller?"
"Yes, sir," Jake said. "But I...What's going on?"
Three of the dark-suited men looked like clones of the ones Jake had run into outside the diner, young, fit, short hair, and clean-shaven. The fourth was older, mid-forties, but just as hard if not harder than the others. He spoke to Donahue. "We need these men separated. Immediately."
Donahue poin
ted to Jake. "He's an FBI agent. He works for me."
"Not right now he doesn't," the older man said. "Right now we're treating him as a potential terrorist."
Jake had the sudden feeling that the floor beneath him had tilted, maybe the entire building. As if something important had come unhinged. The alarm klaxon was still sounding. His head hurt. He looked up at the ASAC. "What's he talking about?"
Donahue glanced down at Jake again but looked away quickly. "It's not my call," the ASAC said. "I'm sorry."
Then two of the suits yanked Jake to his feet. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Favreau facedown on the floor, hands cuffed behind his back.
The two men positioned themselves on either side of Jake and started searching him, beginning with his collar and working their way down. Pulling off his empty holster
"Where's your weapon, Agent Miller?" Donahue asked.
Jake didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.
The suits stripped Jake of his keys, his wallet, and his Blackberry, going all the way down to his ankles and running their fingers through his socks. They were very thorough. Both would have scored well on the "suspect search" block of instruction at the FBI Academy.
"Put him in a room," the older man said when they were finished. Then he turned to Donahue. "Defuse the situation with your security guards downstairs. Tell them these two are undercover agents." He pointed to the ceiling. "And turn off that damned alarm."
The two suits shoved Jake down the hall and dumped him in an empty interview room. They left him alone and closed the door behind them. Jake heard the lock snap into place. He grabbed the knob and tried to turn it, but, of course, it wouldn't budge. He beat on the door a couple of times with his fist. Then he turned around and surveyed his surroundings.
The only furniture in the nine-by-nine room was a metal table and three metal chairs with thin cushions. All gray. Jake had interrogated suspects in this very room, one of four identical interview rooms on this floor. He looked up at the small inverted dome protruding from the ceiling in the corner. It was made of dark shatterproof glass, and behind it was a camera lens. Jake's head still hurt so he sat down.
The Second Shooter Page 3
