“Massive explosion? Hell, girl, that was a little one.”
“Is he serious?” she asks me before turning back to him. “You think what happened on my street was little?”
“Oh, hell yeah. That was nothing.”
Tara contemplates that for a moment. She looks at me again, but I have nothing to add. If he says it’s little, it means some of his have been much bigger. Louisiana isn’t prone to exaggeration.
“You’re completely off your rocker. I’d hate to see how you get rid of someone you really don’t like.”
“Easy. First you bury two devices in the road … about a car length apart. Then you put a third between them on a short delay and a fourth off to the side.”
“I don’t think she was looking for a real explanation,” I say, taking up a prone position on the couch. I’m spent, and all I really want to do is close my eyes.
“Then she shouldn’t have asked.”
“I regret it already.”
“Anyway, the first two bombs send the car in the air, only two or three feet off the ground. The force of the third explosion, since it’s delayed, catches the edge of the car and flips it,” Louisiana animates with his hand for Tara.
“Three explosions sound a little tame for you,” Tara goads.
“Aw, hold on now, honey. That’s where the fourth explosion comes in. Ya see, that one’s special. On top of the explosive is barbed wire, or nuts, bolts, screws, and things like that.
“Barbed wire?”
“Hell yeah! It’s my favorite because it’s cheap and you’re expected to buy a lot of it for, you know, fencing and stuff. It doesn’t raise red flags.”
“So … why the barbed wire?” She’s going to really regret asking that.
“Because, girl, the explosion tears the barbed wire into thousands of tiny pieces that cut through the car, the passenger compartment of said unfortunate car, and anyone who happens to be sittin’ in the passenger compartment of said unfortunate car.”
“What happens to the occupants?”
“It tears them to pieces,” I tell her, figuring whatever I say will be less graphic than Louisiana’s choice of verbiage.
“That’s horrible! I don’t know how you could do that to someone,” Tara refutes. Louisiana is forgetting she hates violence. Considering all we’ve been through tonight, I’m surprised she didn’t take Maryland up on his offer.
“You can when you hate them enough.”
Louisiana is right. When I catch the mole, there is no telling what unspeakable things I will want to do to him. Love and hate may be opposites, but they share one common trait. They both make you do things you probably shouldn’t do.
“Not me. I could never do that,” Tara refutes.
“Never?”
“Never.”
“You can’t be that naïve, doc. Are you tellin’ me that, push comin’ to ever lovin’ shove, you couldn’t press the button?”
“No, never. I believe an eye for an eye leaves everyone blind.” Louisiana shakes his head with disappointment.
“Have you ever been in that position before?”
“No. Why does it matter?”
“Because when you are, the world is a much different place. You lose the idealism and realize that sometimes justice only comes from the barrel of a gun. Trust me, Doc, if you ever find yourself in that situation, you may be surprised what you can do.”
“I hate to break this lovely chat up, but we have some bigger problems to work through. I need to get to the bottom of these dreams. I have to cut through the fog and really see and understand what I’m looking at. We can’t wait years for these lucid dreaming techniques to work. Time is running out.”
“I don’t know what to―”
“What the dream master over there is really asking is if there’s some chemical help you can provide,” Louisiana clarifies. I give her a nod when she looks over at me.
“I don’t have anything, but I know some people who specialize in that. I can give one of them a call. He owes me a favor, so I’ll see if I can cash it in.” Tara disappears into the kitchen, presumably to use her friend’s phone.
“I’m surprised she’s still helping after what you pulled tonight.”
“I’m not,” Louisiana deadpans. Does he know something that I don’t?
“Why would you say that? I’ve turned out to be nothing but trouble for her the moment I stepped foot through her door.”
“Well, that’s true,” Louisiana muses, “but she didn’t leave when we were in the ghetto, or when we met your fiancée at the mall, or even a few minutes ago when Maryland stomped off to go sulk in a corner somewhere. She’s strugglin’ with what’s happenin’, but she’s stickin’ around. There’s only one reason I can think of for that.”
“She told me it was because she finds what’s happening to me fascinating.” The comment causes Louisiana to laugh out loud.
I’m not sure what the hell is so damn funny. Considering Tara’s initial reaction to me at our first session, the explanation made sense. Or at least it did at the time. A lot has happened since then, and I’m still nagged by the question of why she’s still hanging around. Most other people wouldn’t be.
“Yeah, I’m sure she’s riskin’ incarceration to further her career,” Louisiana manages to conclude as his laughter ebbs.
“Okay, genius, since you’re so in tune with her, why do you think she’s still here with us,” I demand. He scoots to the edge of the couch and leans forward.
“Simple. She likes you, bro. The heart is the only one reason why any chick would suffer through this shit.”
.
~ CHAPTER 42 ~
gina attison
I get nothing but strange looks when I walk into our suite at the Russell Senate Office Building. The normally cordial staff is greeting me with a degree of animosity that makes the hairs on my neck stand upright. Something isn’t right.
It’s rapidly approaching eight in the morning. It was a long night and I’m wondering if their reaction is more to my appearance than anything. I went home, showered, and dressed in my usual professional pantsuit after meeting Boston in the mall parking lot. I was applying makeup to hide the bags under my eyes when the D.C. police knocked on the door.
I drop my stuff on one of the chairs in my office and check my compact to make sure I don’t have something on my face that would cause the reaction I got from the staff. There isn’t, but I do look like hell. No amount of cover-up will help my appearance this morning.
“Good morning, Gina. The senator would like to have a word with you in his office,” the chief of staff announces from the doorway.
“I’ll be right in.”
That certainly explains the looks. It is the rarest of days that the senator beats any of his staff into the office, much less me. The unwritten rule on Capitol Hill is never let the top dog beat you into the office. Today, he did.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” I ask after I knock on the door to his inner office.
“Yes, please come in, Gina.”
I do as asked and am offered a seat in the chair directly in front of the senator’s desk. The fact that we are not sitting on the sofa is telling. The sofa and chairs represent an informal discussion. This is going to be anything but.
“I’m assuming you’ve heard about the allegations regarding your fiancé’s actions last night?” he asks without preamble.
“Yes, sir. The police stopped by a couple of hours ago and I have already told them everything I know.” Or more accurately, everything I think they should know.
“You understand that this puts me in a rather precarious position.”
“I don’t see how, sir,” I tell him, playing dumb.
“I brought you in here to provide guidance to me on the happenings in the intelligence committee. Now your fiancé and his friends are accused of blowing up a vehicle in a Washington neighborhood―”
“He was under surveillance. Illegal surveillance without a warrant�
�”
“I don’t give a damn if they tagged him like some wild animal,” the senator remarks, returning the interruption. “What he did is not something an innocent man does. As a result, the FBI is naming him as the prime person of interest in the leak at the DIA.”
“What? All of that is unfounded, sir, and none of it has anything to do with me!”
“I wish that were true, Gina. Unfortunately, I disagree. You’re his fiancée. What he does reflects on you, and as you are an employee of mine, reflects on me. You know how this town works. I cannot be associated with his actions in any way. Under the circumstances, I think it is in both of our best interests for you to take some time off. It will be a paid leave of absence until this gets sorted out.”
The senator’s reaction isn’t unexpected, but it’s no less welcome. I have worked hard in my time in Capitol Hill. It’s taken a lot of long hours to make him a success in chairing the committee through all of this. Casting me aside now is … disloyal. Despite my rational desire to walk away, I can’t. I’m tired of being rational about the things that happen on this hill.
“Both of our interests, or just yours, Senator?”
“Excuse me?” he asks in a voice that could only be characterized as stunned. Like most of the arrogant politicians leading this country, he isn’t used to being spoken to like that.
“You’re only worried about appearances. You don’t give a damn why Boston did what he did. I tell you that someone was violating his constitutional rights and you respond by shutting me up and telling me I’m no longer welcome here.”
“His constitutional rights? The authorities are this close to calling it a terrorist attack,” the senator informs me, showing me a half-inch gap between his index finger and thumb for effect. “Do you have any idea how many laws were broken last night in that stunt they pulled? Now he and his coconspirators are fleeing from the police and I’m not entirely convinced you’re not helping them.”
“Coconspirators? Are you so eager to pin this leak on someone that you’ll settle for any name they give you? How about we channel our energies into actually finding the mole getting people killed overseas? Or are you more concerned about making sure you don’t look bad because of the leak too?”
He slams his hand down on the desk. Now he’s as angry as I am. At least he’s showing some passion about something. That’s another rarity in this office. Or for politicians in general around here unless they are posturing for a camera and their constituents back home.
“I resent the implication that I am playing politics with this. There’s nothing I want more than―”
“Why did Colby Washington want to speak with you?” I interrupt.
“What?” My question had the desired effect. I put him on the defensive.
“Colby Washington. He called me early this morning asking me to remind you to call him. Why would he do that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Really? That’s strange because Colby’s the one who ordered the illegal surveillance on Boston. The same surveillance that he took measures to ditch last night.”
“By ditch you mean blowing up a car and endangering the lives of―”
“Spare me, Senator. The only lives that were in danger were his and his friends’ when the man in the car started firing his gun at them in the street. It seems to me everyone is forgetting that part. The police this morning didn’t mention it and you haven’t either. You have to admit that opening fire in a residential area against an unarmed target fleeing the scene is a ballsy move considering the surveillance was never authorized by a warrant. Unless someone can produce one.”
“I had no knowledge of your fiancé being under surveillance.”
“Yet the man who ordered it was so desperate to contact you that he called me. Now I’m being placed on a leave of absence just a few hours later. Imagine that.”
“Look, I don’t know whether your fiancé is a mole or not, but there’s no denying he’s a fugitive in the eyes of the law and is wanted for questioning on charges of espionage. Instead of convincing him to turn himself in and set the record straight, you’re sitting there trying to justify his actions to me. That’s what this whole conversation is about,” he argues, trying to change the conversation into something that restores his moral superiority.
“This conversation should be about trying to find the man leaking classified information to our enemies. It has always been about that. Everything else is just a distraction, including this. By indulging it, you’re enabling a cover-up of the death of the vice-president’s son and countless Americans.”
“Gina, I think you need some perspective.”
“And you need to get your priorities straight.”
“If that’s how you feel, I don’t think I can trust you anymore. I was hoping some time away would have been sufficient, but it’s clear it won’t be. Your services are not required here as a member of my staff any longer.”
“I don’t think you deserve them,” I say, rising out of my chair to leave. “I thought you might have been different than the rest, but you aren’t.”
“Good day, Gina,” the senator dismisses, turning his attention to papers on his desk.
I leave and head to my office and pick up my purse I’d dropped on the chair. The paperwork can stay. Ludwick’s chief of staff meets me at the door and accompanies me out of the inner office in front of the staff who watches me leave in silence.
I don’t bother saying good-bye to any of them. In the six months I have been here, I haven’t formed any bonds that require a tearful departure. Instead, I head right for the door.
“We’ll mail you your personal effects,” he informs me dryly when we reach the hallway.
“Gee, thanks,” I tell him as I brush by.
“Just one more thing, Gina. Don’t even think about going to the media with this.”
The chief of staff’s demand causes me to turn. I’m already seeing red. It takes every ounce of willpower not to punch his lights out. He has a lot of nerve to demand anything of me.
“You know, of the many things you and the senator have in common, one is more important right now. I don’t work for either of you anymore. You aren’t telling me what to do and not to do.”
I give him a quick look of disgust and head down the hall before I do something I’ll regret later. Making my way down to the foyer, I traipse out the doors of the Russell Senate Office Building for probably the last time. Once on the sidewalk, I unlock my phone and select the Snapchat application.
The application allows users to send photos, videos, and texts to a controlled list of recipients. These “snaps” are assigned a time limit for how long recipients can view them and, once the limit is reached, they will be hidden from the recipient’s device and deleted from servers forever. It’s a great means by which to communicate with little concern about a paper trail.
I select the user and type a message, rereading it quickly: 911 - I’ve been fired. We need to meet. ASAP. Content, I pocket my phone and head to my car. I may no longer have a job, but I definitely have work to do.
.
~ chapter 43 ~
FBI agent zach bruhte
My watch reads half past eight in the morning. It was already a long night, and the coming day doesn’t look like it will be any shorter. I turn my attention back to the police and FBI agents poring over the little red SUV with the shattered back window.
They picked a good part of town to dump this car in. A few more hours in this spot and the locals would have stripped it to the frame. I would have found it myself earlier had my cell phone I was using to monitor the trackers I placed on Hollinger’s and the doctor’s cars survived last night’s conflagration. It didn’t, and with no way to locate the tracker without it, we had to hope for a break. It was just dumb luck that a squad car happened past here on a domestic violence call and spotted it.
A cherry red Ford Mustang convertible pulls up down the street and I watch as Garrett climbs out from the
driver’s side. I see him nod so I meander over there to get away from the crush of feds and cops combing through Tara Winter’s SUV. Garrett pulls out a pack of cigarettes, selects one and lights it when I get to him.
“Nice midlife crisis car,” I josh him, admiring the lines of the beautiful piece of American automotive engineering.
“Any news on our fugitives?” he asks, ignoring my compliment.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I was on my way there when you called. Now answer the question.”
“No, no news on them. They dumped the car here, that’s all we know.”
“Did they steal one as a replacement?” Garrett asks, all businesslike.
“Probably. We have uniforms canvassing the area residences, but as you might imagine, people in this part of town aren’t what you’d call cooperative. The locals also sent a couple of units over to the area Metro stations in case they chose a mass transit option. Either way, they’re gone for now.”
“Find them,” he commands.
“I will, but you didn’t drive over here to tell me that. What do you want?”
“Someone is going to try to order you to stop looking for Hollinger. I need you to tell me that you won’t.”
“It depends on who’s giving the order. Why would someone give it in the first place?”
“Because Colby Washington is pissed that he lost his job and will do everything he can to undermine me. He’s going to find a way to call off the search to save face and make me look bad in the process.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know the man. I know his methods.”
I don’t really give a damn about the internal politics at the DIA. Garrett Turner is not some guardian angel swooping in to save the day, and I’m willing to bet Colby Washington is no better. I’m going to find Eugene Hollinger, but I’m going to do it for my own reasons.
“I won’t stop. I’ll find him.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Garrett says, taking a long drag on his smoke. I guess he isn’t worried about COPD or cancer.
The Eyes of Others Page 19
