The Second Shooter

by Chuck Hustmyre

  With two pairs of hands pulling the wheel in opposite directions, the Nissan broke into a sliding turn. Favreau stomped the brakes. The front wheels locked up and the back end of the lightweight Sentra spun around until the car screeched to a stop in the middle of the intersection. All around them horns blared and drivers shouted and flipped them off.

  "Now it is you who is acting crazy," Favreau said.

  "We're going back to the WFO.," Jake said. "There has to be a logical explanation...for everything."

  Favreau kept his foot on the brake and both hands on the steering wheel. "There is a logical explanation," he said. "But you refuse to believe it. The truth is that I killed President Kennedy on orders from the CIA, and the men who are chasing us have orders to kill me."

  "They want to kill you now," Jake said, "after fifty years?"

  Favreau nodded.

  Outside the horns kept blowing and the angry drivers kept shouting.

  "Why now?" Jake asked.

  "Because they know I'm going to tell truth about what really happened in Dallas."

  A DC Metro police car slewed to a stop thirty feet behind them, its flashing red and blue strobes lighting up the interior of the Nissan. Jake felt a surge of relief as he glanced through the back windshield at the police car. The cavalry had arrived. "We'll be safe now."

  "No, we won't," Favreau said, his voice unnaturally calm. "They're going to kill us."

  "Jesus Christ," Jake said. "Will you just stop for a minute and listen to yourself?" He pointed to the flashing red and blue lights. "Those people back there are police officers. Regular cops. They're not involved in your crazy conspir—"

  The back windshield exploded. As he ducked behind his seat, Jake saw the surreal strobe-lit image of two uniformed D.C. Metro cops crouched behind the front doors of the police car firing pistols at them. Bullets zinged through the Sentra's passenger compartment and punched through the front windshield.

  "Go! Go! Go!" Jake shouted.

  Favreau, scrunched down in the driver's seat, jammed the gas to the floor and the little Nissan accelerated away as a bullet blew apart the rearview mirror.

  "Now do you believe me?" Favreau said.

  "No."

  "Then do you want me to stop?"

  Jake poked his head up just enough to catch a glimpse of the right sideview mirror, the only mirror left, and in the reflection he saw both policemen piling back into their cruiser. "No," he said. "Keep driving."

  Chapter 11

  Donahue led Blackstone into his office inside the WFO and slammed the door so hard that the photographs hanging on the ASAC's personal wall of glory shook in their cheap plastic frames. The movement caught Blackstone's eye. He looked at the framed photographs and saw images of Donahue taken over the course of his career, posing with other mostly unknown and unremarkable government officials.

  The one exception, the centerpiece of the collection, was a photograph of Wendell Donahue standing beside Bill Clinton. In the picture, Donahue looked surprised, his lips forming an almost perfect circle. Perhaps his surprise was just at his own good fortune to be standing next to the president. Meanwhile, Clinton's expression was a cross between a smirk and a mischievous grin. Like a kid caught doing something wrong but not really caring that he'd been caught. And it made Blackstone wonder if President Clinton, well-known pervert that he was, had slipped his finger up the FBI man's ass just before the photographer snapped the picture. Probably not, Blackstone thought, because Donahue's ass was so tight that a wet fart would have trouble finding its way out.

  "This is a disaster," Donahue said.

  "No," Blackstone said, turning away from the photo collection. "It's not a disaster. It's not ideal. I'll grant you that. But it's not a disaster. Not yet."

  The FBI agent stared at him, his face growing red with rage. "Not ideal? Is that what you think it is? Not ideal? Because I think it's way beyond not ideal. I think it's a goddamn clusterfuck."

  "We need to contain it."

  "No," Donahue said, picking up the telephone on his desk. "We need to end it."

  "Who are you calling?"

  "The SAC."

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

  Donahue started jabbing buttons. "I don't give a shit what you would do."

  "You had an international terrorist and a rogue FBI agent in custody," Blackstone said. "And you let them escape."

  "That's bullshit," Donahue said, but he stopped punching buttons. "I didn't let them escape. I didn't let them do anything. Those idiots you've got working for you were supposed to guard your so-called terrorist. My orders were simply to allow you to use our office as a temporary holding facility and to assist you in handling Special Agent Miller."

  "And yet they both escaped."

  "From your men."

  "From your secure facility."

  "That's not my fault," Donahue said. "Two of your men got knocked out by an unarmed senior citizen in handcuffs and the other two got their legs shot out from under them."

  Blackstone nodded. "An unfortunate turn of events, I admit."

  Donahue squeezed the telephone until his knuckles turned white. "When the press gets hold of this..."

  "Your career will be over."

  "I was following orders."

  "That's what they said at Nuremberg."

  Donahue put the phone down.

  Blackstone smiled. "Fortunately, I have a plan."

  "I'm listening," Donahue said, with the look of a drowning man who has just been thrown a life jacket.

  "You need to cut Agent Miller off," Blackstone said. "Completely."

  Donahue nodded.

  ***

  The stolen Nissan Sentra barreled down a four lane boulevard divided by a narrow grass-covered median. Two Metro Police cruisers clung to the Sentra's bumper. Jake glanced over his shoulder. Through the glare of the flashing police lights, he saw the two officers in the first cruiser silhouetted in the lights of the second. When he turned around he saw more police lights ahead of them. "They're going to cut us off."

  "I know," Favreau said as he wrestled the steering wheel.

  "So what are you going to do?"

  "This..." Favreau jerked the wheel hard left and sliced through a gap in the median so fast that before Jake could even draw a breath to protest, they were plowing across the oncoming lanes and he was seeing twin sets of headlights bearing down on top of them. The headlights were so close Jake felt like he could reach out and touch them. Then the car in the outside lane, a Mercury judging by its hood ornament, clipped their back bumper and threatened to send them into another spin, but Favreau counter-steered and managed to maintain the tight arc of the turn. An instant later they were across the boulevard and bursting onto a narrow side street.

  Jake twisted in his seat. The first police car tried to follow them but couldn't make the turn. It slammed across the median and blew two tires. The second cruiser raced past the first and headed for the next cut in the median to make a U-turn. For a moment, as they screamed down the side street at sixty miles an hour, they were alone.

  "You would have done pretty good on the skid pan at the Academy," Jake said.

  Favreau shot him a smile. "This isn't the first time I've had to run from the police."

  "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

  Favreau killed the headlights and whipped the wheel over again to send them careening down an alley barely wide enough for the car.

  "How do you know the streets here?" Jake asked.

  They rocketed past a Dumpster that was pushed out into the alley just a little too far and clipped off the right sideview mirror, the car's last. Favreau didn't seem to notice. "I've been in DC for more than a week."

  "Doing what?"

  "Mostly following you," Favreau said. "But also studying maps of the city. I have a photographic memory."

  "You've been following me for a week?" Jake said, stunned but also greatly concerned that even after all his training he hadn't picked up the tail. What
did that say about his abilities as an FBI agent?

  At the end of the alley, where it dumped onto the next street, Favreau jammed on the brakes and skidded the Nissan to a stop. "I haven't been following you the entire time," he said. "I did some sightseeing too. I haven't been to Washington in years." He checked left and right. No police cars.

  "You've been following me and sightseeing?"

  Favreau smiled. "Yes."

  "We have to get rid of this car," Jake said. "Then we need to have a talk. A serious talk."

  Favreau nodded. Then he switched on the Nissan's headlights and eased into traffic.

  ***

  Bill Blackstone sat on the leather sofa across from ASAC Wendell Donahue's desk as the FBI man hung up his telephone. "He's cut off," Donahue said. "I've canceled his government credit card and ordered alerts on his personal cards and bank account. And we already have his cellphone, credentials, and service weapon. So he doesn't have a lot of resources."

  "He's got the Frenchman."

  "They're not going to get far."

  "That's exactly what I thought when my guys had him at that diner."

  "Your men are Neanderthals."

  Blackstone ignored that. "What's the cover story for the press?"

  "Officially, there is no story," Donahue said. "Unofficially, assuming the media will find out anyway, the Bureau's director of public information will leak that we have an agent who may have been compromised. We're investigating but have no comment."

  "What about the people you just spoke to?"

  "This is the FBI," Donahue said. "National security is what we do. It's why we exist. We chase spies, terrorists, and mobsters for a living. Our support personnel," he pointed to the telephone, "like the ones in HR, understand and appreciate the concept of need to know."

  "And the bullet holes in your lobby?" Blackstone asked. "What kind of weenie wrapper are you putting on that?"

  "Random gunfire," Donahue said. "This is Washington, DC, and DC stands for dangerous city."

  Blackstone nodded. He would have preferred it if Donahue had handled everything himself and not involved FBI Headquarters, particularly the paper shufflers in personnel. But apparently there were significant limitations to what an ASAC could do on his own.

  Not that it mattered much, Blackstone thought, because the cover story wouldn't have to hold up for long. He was confident the plan he had just put into motion would have Favreau and Miller back in custody very soon, and this time he would make sure to drop them into some deep, dark hole from which there was no escape. He smiled at Donahue. "You did a good job."

  Chapter 12

  At a small house on the outskirts of Miami, Florida, Max Garcia sat in bed reading a book, his back propped on a couple of pillows wedged against the headboard. His wife made little snoring sounds next to him.

  The telephone on the nightstand rang.

  Garcia looked at the digital clock beside the phone. It was almost ten o'clock. Who the hell calls this late? His wife stirred. He grabbed the phone before the second ring. "Hello."

  A man's voice on the other end of the line said, "This is the Communications Center. Is this Max Garcia?"

  "Unfortunately."

  "Your old friend from Marseilles is visiting and just slipped his leash."

  Garcia glanced at his wife. She was a hard sleeper. Years of practice ensured that it took more than one ring to wake her. "Where?" Garcia said.

  "DC," answered the voice. "He came in through Montreal ten days ago. A contract team has been watching him."

  "Apparently not a very good team since they couldn't maintain surveillance on a seventy-year-old."

  "Yes, sir."

  "When did it happen?"

  "About three hours ago," said the voice. "At last contact, he was meeting with an FBI agent. He and the agent were briefly taken into custody. But they escaped."

  "Shit."

  "The deputy director is requesting your presence."

  "I'm retired."

  "He's aware of that, sir."

  "For fifteen years."

  The man on the other end of the line didn't say anything.

  Garcia pulled off his reading glasses. "How soon?"

  "A plane will meet you at Kendall in two hours."

  Garcia sighed. "I'm on my way."

  The line clicked dead.

  Garcia looked at his wife. They were supposed to go to a garden show tomorrow. Since his retirement they had both become certified master gardeners. It was something they could enjoy together. He hated to disappoint her. Especially after all the years he had spent disappointing her. They'd been married for forty years, and for most of those years, he'd traveled the world spying for the CIA. Sometimes months passed without them so much as being able to speak on the phone.

  Now all that was behind him. Now it was her time. She liked gardening, long walks on the beach, and dinners at quiet restaurants. She was certainly going to be unhappy with him flying off to DC in the middle of the night. But she would be even more unhappy, Garcia thought, if he let this lingering problem fester and it ended up sending him to prison for the rest of his life. So he set his book on the nightstand and quietly climbed out of bed.

  ***

  "I need to make a phone call," Jake said.

  They were driving somewhere in Northwest, above DuPont Circle. Favreau pulled the Nissan over at the next corner, beside a package liquor store. Jake glanced up at the street sign: U Street and 17th. "Why are you stopping here?"

  "You said you had to make a call," Favreau answered, pointing to a beat-up, graffiti-tagged payphone clinging to the painted brick wall of the liquor store.

  The payphone's handset hung by its spring metal cord, and the slot beneath the phone, where Jake assumed a directory might have once fit, was stuffed full of trash.

  "That's what we used before mobile phones," Favreau said.

  "I've never actually used one," Jake said, being dead serious. He'd grown up with a cellphone and could not remember using a payphone even once in his life.

  Favreau shook his head. "Do you know how?"

  "I've seen people use them in movies." Jake patted his empty front pockets. "How much does it cost?"

  "Twenty-five cents, I think."

  "Your friends didn't leave me anything," Jake said.

  Favreau spotted some change in the ashtray and fished out a quarter. Jake took it and climbed out of the car. He left the door open.

  "Close the door," Favreau said. "I have something to do."

  Jake turned around. "What?"

  "Dump this car."

  "How are we going to get around?"

  "We'll find a way." Favreau motioned with his hand. "Come on, close the door."

  Jake pushed the passenger door shut and walked to the payphone. Favreau drove the Nissan west on U Street.

  The telephone handset smelled like liquor and vomit, but maybe that was just Jake's imagination. He hoped so. A broken wooden match was jammed in the coin slot, and he had to dig it out before he could deposit his quarter. After a three-second pause he heard a dial tone and punched in Chris's cellphone number. The call took a long time to connect, and when it finally did, the ring sounded old fashioned, like a mechanical bell.

  Jake glanced at his watch. It was ten o'clock. Kickoff had been at seven, so the game was in the fourth quarter.

  Chris answered on the third ring. "Hello."

  His voice sounded oddly cautious, and Jake wasn't sure why. Chris usually answered with a cocky "My time, your money" or "You got Chris." Sometimes he announced himself as "the Chris-i-nator." Then Jake realized that Chris would not have recognized the number he was calling from. But did payphones even show up on caller ID? "Chris, it's me," he said.

  "Holy shit, Jake."

  There was no football game noise in the background. "Where are you?" Jake asked.

  After a few seconds of hesitation, Chris said, "In a cab. With Stacy."

  That last bit was like a knife in Jake's guts. "Why are yo
u in a cab? The game's not over."

  "What's going on, Jake?"

  Chris's voice still sounded strange. "What have you heard?"

  "The office texted us," Chris said. "Both of us. Looks like they texted everybody in the WFO. Maybe the whole Bureau."

  "What did the message say?"

  "It was crazy," Chris said. "I thought it was a joke, like maybe you were trying to—"

  "What did it say?"

  "That you helped a terrorist escape FBI custody."

  "That's not true!" Jake said. Then he heard a rustling sound over the phone. He wasn't sure if Chris was still on the line. "Chris, are you there?"

  "Jake!" It was Stacy's voice on the phone now.

  Chapter 13

  "Stacy," Jake said, somehow feeling better just hearing her voice.

  "Jake, what's happening?" she said. "We heard some pretty weird stuff from the WFO."

  "It's...It's not what they said."

  "Then what is it?" Stacy asked, almost pleading. "What's really going on?"

  "Someone tried to kill me."

  "What?" Stacy said. "Who? Who tried to kill you?"

  A beat-up van with smoke-tinted windows rumbled down 17th Street and stopped in front of the liquor store. Jake laid a hand on the Glock tucked into the front of his pants. Then the driver's window rolled down and he saw Favreau behind the wheel.

  "Where did you get that thing?" Jake called out.

  "Get what?" Stacy said in his ear.

  "No. No. Not you," Jake said into the phone. "I was..."

  "Who were you talking to?" Stacy said. "Who are you with?"

  Favreau waved to Jake. "Come on."

  Jake signaled him to wait, then spoke into the phone again. "Stacy, it's nothing like what you've heard."