“How long?” I demand.
“Fifteen minutes or so.”
The radio on my vest crackles to life and I snatch it, waiting for the voice to come over it. Between Remsen’s driving, Boston’s ability to evade capture, and the head honchos constantly checking up on me, I really wish I was back at my little bar with a Jack Daniel’s in front of me. It’s been one of those weeks.
“Bruhte, do you read?” Grimman asks over the radio.
“Yeah, Grimman, I got you. What’s your status?”
“Air One has spotted a gray sedan heading south down I-295 at a high rate of speed. We’re positioned on Livingston, a half a mile south of where it meets Oxon Hill Road. We have spotters at the hotel across the street from where Exit 3B comes off the interstate. It looks like our boy is still heading right at us. Where are you?”
“We just got out of the tunnel and will be on the Southeast Freeway in a matter of seconds. We’re coming at you as fast as we can. What’s going on at the house?”
“Ops just called. There’s still no word from our agents,” he explains after a pause. I’m getting that sinking feeling again. I need to tell him.
“Something’s wrong, Grimman. They should have called in the moment she was in custody.”
“They only went in fifteen minutes ago. There’s no reason to panic.”
“We’re going to head straight there.” If she’s the one who’s been leaking information to the enemy, there’s plenty of reason to panic.
“Negative, Zach. You’re the chase vehicle behind Hollinger. We need to take down him first, then we deal with that.”
“Gina Attison is the key to this whole thing! If she escapes―”
“I’m not having this argument with you again. You have your orders. Our agents can handle themselves. If they can’t, I’m not showing up there without support, and the SWAT Operations Unit is still assembling a team. Until that happens, I need every available agent I have to be focused on apprehending Boston. That includes you.”
Damn these fools and their politics. Under any other circumstances, this would never go down this way. Two agents missing, and possibly down, would result in an all hands on deck response from every part of the bureau. What does it say that this isn’t?
The bureaucrats have put so much emphasis on catching Hollinger that it’s affecting the way Grimman is running this operation. It’s become a media spectacle, and that has in turn morphed into a political one. The more pressure elected representatives and political appointees put on the brass, the more they get involved in operations. When that happens, it almost never goes well.
“Damn it, Grimman, how many times do I have to say it! He’s heading there anyway!” I shout into the radio. “Get some people over there.”
“If he sees cars in front of his house, he’ll keep going and we might never get a shot at catching him. The priority is Hollinger. That directive comes straight from the top. I will not blow the chance to take him down. Do you read me?”
“Roger.” I don’t like it one bit.
“The target vehicle is exiting highway. We’re converging now. Get here as soon as you can.” I slam the radio on the dash, almost breaking it.
“Now what?”
“Stick to our plan. Head straight to his house.”
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~ chapter 76 ~
eric “Maryland” williams
“How do these people stand to live so close to each other?” Louisiana inquires, his head almost pressed up against the window as he watches the small houses zip by. I ignore the comment about the cramped suburban D.C. living scene. I have other things to worry about.
“It’s only another minute or two.”
“If you had a man’s car instead of a Chevy Malibu, we’d already be there.”
“Do you have your bag of goodies ready?” I ask, ignoring his comment and prompting him to check his backpack of death in the backseat.
“It’s ready if we need it.”
“Good. His house is just two turns away―”
A car suddenly pulls out from a side road right into my lane and I steer hard to the left to avoid it. My car violently responds to the maneuver, shifting me hard in the seat and causing my seat belt to immediately lock into place. We jump the curb, taking out fencing and mailboxes as I plow along through the small front yards.
“What the―!”
A blinding light pours in from overhead through the windshield and I fight to shield my eyes. Looking for the brake, I slam down hard on the first petal my foot finds. The car accelerates even faster.
Risking frying my retinas, I force my other hand back on the wheel and jerk it hard to the right. The maneuver has me back on the asphalt in a second, but I over steered. Now we’re heading straight for the houses on the opposite side of the road. I jerk the wheel hard back in the other direction and the rear end breaks loose and starts to send the car into a spin. The rear tire slams into the curb and the sudden resistance at this speed shifts the center of gravity. I try to brace myself as the car flips once, and then twice, before slamming into … something … right side up.
I struggle to open my eyes as a half dozen sedans and SUVs screech to a halt and surround us, the red and blue strobe lights reflecting off the wet asphalt of the road and painting the night in color. Men pour out of the vehicles like the Chinese fire drills we used to do as kids. The only difference is, these guys have weapons drawn and pointed at the car.
“Federal agents! FBI! Don’t move!” they shout as they take up position around what’s left of my vehicle. As if I could move even if I wanted to. I look over at Louisiana. Blood is gushing from a wound on his head and he’s squinting to clear his vision. He is more beat up from the crash than I am.
The car doors are jerked open and men yank both of us out of the car and dump us to the ground. An agent plants a knee in my back and pushes my head into the grit of the wet asphalt, causing me to grunt. I’m not resisting, so what’s the need to be so rough? My arms are violently yanked behind me and handcuffs are slapped on.
Louisiana is dragged over from the passenger side and deposited next to me. Unlike me, he is resisting, and it takes three agents to hold him in place. Another man with a flashlight comes over and shines it into our faces.
“Neither of them are him, sir,” he tells another agent.
“What do you mean?” the second man responds with urgency. “This is the right make, model, and color vehicle. Get their identifications.”
Someone behind us searches our pockets and confiscates our wallets. He checks Louisiana’s first, then grimaces. His expression changes when he sees mine. He shines the light on me to get a better look at my face. Then he finally recognizes me.
“Williams? Where the hell is Hollinger?”
.
~ chapter 77 ~
eugene “BOSTON” hollinger
I pull Steven’s light gray Malibu off the interstate at Exit 3B and make a left onto Oxon Hill Road before coming up on a red light. Two police cars and an ambulance scream down Livingston. That doesn’t look good. When the light turns green, I edge past the road, seeing the lights blocking off the road. Must be a traffic accident. Some drunk driver rolled the dice and tried to make it home.
I take a series of back roads that has me heading in the direction of my house from the east instead of the north. It’s nearly two in the morning and the streets are completely empty in my sleepy little suburban neighborhood. As I cross Livingston Road onto Wentworth, I see what the obstruction is. A wrecked car on the side of the road looks like it pinballed into a parked vehicle.
My fourth turn brings me onto my road, and I pull the sedan up two houses away from mine. I kill the headlights and engine on Steven’s car and scan the street ahead.
Gina’s Audi is sitting on the curb in front of the house. She’s still here, probably fast asleep in the bedroom like we both would be on any normal day. I don’t see any movement in the FBI vehicle. That’s odd.
Careful t
o remember to disable the interior domelight, I open the car and slide out of the driver’s seat in a low crouch. I ease the door closed and sneak up to the dark Crown Vic parked on the curb from behind. As I thought, the vehicle is unoccupied. That’s even stranger, because I notice the house is completely unlit, too. If she’s talking to the FBI agents who are here, I wouldn’t think it would be in blackness. Could they all be lying in wait for me?
The rainstorm subsided, but there’s a misty haze in the air that creates halos around the streetlights lining my road as I duck into the yard on the side of my house. I don’t own a garage. Gina and I have to park on the street in front of the house and use the long sidewalk to the front door. Because of that, nobody uses the back door that leads into the kitchen. Except tonight, that is.
I move with caution around the side of the house to the back, taking care not to expose my silhouette to any of the windows. Hugging the wall, I step up onto my small patio and crouch near the door. Reaching up, I try the knob. It’s locked. Not surprising since we never use this door.
Like most homeowners, we keep a spare close. Unlike most homeowners, it’s not in an obvious spot like under the welcome mat or hidden in a flower pot. I move to the edge of the patio and pry a paving stone loose. I pull out the clear plastic bag that was under it and retrieve the key. I don’t bother replacing the stone.
I slide the key in the lock and open the door. I step into the dark room with my gun drawn. The lights lining my street do nothing to provide illumination back here, and the glow of the LEDs from my appliances don’t generate enough light to pierce the blackness.
The sticky substance under my feet causes an audible squishing sound when I walk. Curious, I stop before tripping on the two hulking men in suits lying on the floor. It has to be the FBI agents. I don’t need to check their pulses to know they are gone, but I do it anyway. Their skin is still warm to the touch and there is no sign of rigor mortis. They weren’t killed long ago.
Gingerly, I step over them and move through the kitchen and small dining area. After a quick glance down the hall, I move swiftly into the living room. I sweep my gun back and forth, but it’s empty.
The house is completely still. She has to be gone by now. I allow myself to relax a little at the thought. I hear the audible click of a hammer of a gun being cocked from the hallway behind me. I realize I just made a huge mistake.
“Your room clearing skills are rusty, Boston. Don’t turn around,” Gina orders from behind me.
I stand erect from my crouch and lower the pistol in my right hand to my side. There’s nothing worse than allowing someone to get the drop on you. That feeling is only magnified by the realization that all my worst thoughts about the truth have just become reality.
“Slowly place the gun on the ground and move farther into the living room,” I hear my fiancée dictate in a voice she uses when I’m informed I need to empty the dishwasher.
I place my weapon on the ground as she asks and move into the center of the dark living room. In a small act of defiance, I turn to face her. There’s no way I’m going to let her shoot me in the back. She clicks on a small, dim light on a table along the wall near the entrance to the hall, providing just enough illumination to see.
Gina’s dressed in all black and has her hair tied in a ponytail. It’s actually a sexy look for her, if I could forget the fact that she’s a traitor who almost had me killed. Not that anything about this situation would cause me to forget. She has a .45-caliber handgun aimed straight at my chest.
.
~ Chapter 78 ~
FBI Agent zach bruhte
“So much for going straight to Boston’s. We’re not getting through this mess,” Remsen observes.
He’s right. The scene is complete chaos. Suburbans and Crown Vics have surrounded a battered gray car and there are agents swarming over the scene. Local police are closing off the road at both ends and an ambulance is already on the scene. I focus on the car. Something is very wrong here.
“Stop the car,” I order Remsen.
I hop out the moment he brings it to a stop and jog the short distance to where the majority of the agents are standing. I look up as I hear the air unit circle the scene above. I recognize the two men on the ground almost instantly as I run up on them. Maryland, and I assume Louisiana, are pinned on the ground twenty feet from their car.
“Grimman! You moron! You got the wrong car!”
“You watch yourself, Agent Bruhte. I will jam you up for insubordin―”
“Where is Hollinger’s car?” I interrupt, not in the mood for a dressing down.
“We’re looking for it now.”
“Did you head to his place?”
“Not yet.”
“What the hell are you waiting for?”
I’m flabbergasted. Two agents could be in distress, a possible mole is on the loose, and the prime suspect still in the wind, and Grimman’s here having a meeting. His phone rings and he dismisses me with a wave of his hand. Needing someone else to take my frustration out on, I head over to where I notice Williams and his friend are being restrained.
“Where’s Hollinger?”
“I don’t know. He’s home by now, probably. He thinks Gina’s the mole, and if she is, he’s going to kill her. We were on the way to get him before you assholes intervened!” Maryland chastises.
“I know. I told you to stay put! This is precisely why I didn’t want you to get involved,” I retaliate.
“And let you morons kill him, I don’t think so.”
“This is Louisiana?” I ask Maryland, pointing at the larger man cuffed on the ground next to him.
“This is the guy who’s gonna kick your ass the moment you take these cuffs off, buttercup,” he mocks.
“Yeah, that’s Louisiana ... and that’s Cajun for he’s pleased to meet you.”
“We’re going to have a long conversation when this is all over,” I lean over and tell him. “Stand them up.”
Maryland and Louisiana are manhandled off the ground by a quartet of agents. They each grunt as they are stood up, the former not challenging our authority. Despite being battered from the accident, the same can’t be said for the latter as he tries to shrug off the agents holding him.
“Hey, jackwagon! Are you deaf? Boston is about to confront Gina and you’re here screwin’ with us.”
He’s right, insofar as tonight goes. Then I remember how he helped Hollinger get away last time. And then there’s still the talk I promised to have with him about my car. I wonder …
“Search the car,” I command, sending two agents over to scour the vehicle.
I stand there in silence and have a staring contest with Louisiana. It only takes that long for an agent to bring me a black bag. He sets it down and opens it. Sifting through the contents, he pulls out a block of C4 plastic explosive.
“Let me guess. This is really Play-Doh.” The sardonic statement is enough to humble him, if only a little.
“Agent Bruhte, why did the FBI ambush us?”
“We were told Boston was driving a gray Chevy Malibu owned by the guy helping him at the sleep center.
“That figures,” Louisiana says with a chuckle.
“Yeah, well, he wasn’t driving this one.”
“No shit,” I retort.
“You’re wasting time, bro,” Louisiana tells me. “If you were headin’ to Boston’s house, then get there. Why the hell are you standing here talking to us?”
“You’re not in a position to be telling me what to do.” It’s a weak defense, but what else can I say?
“Are you for real? You wanna end this or not? ’Cause if you do, you need to grab your balls and get over there.”
I look over at Maryland who is nodding. Louisiana may be a bomb happy thug, but Williams has a good head on his shoulders. It makes no difference that some of his earlier decisions were misguided.
“The clock’s ticking, bro.”
“Get our heroes here some medical attention and l
oad them into a car,” I command before walking away. Grimman is on his cell phone, probably talking to Director Weisz. It’s obvious he’s not in a rush to go anywhere. Remsen comes up alongside me.
“Where are you going, boss? Because we have orders―”
“Grimman can shove his orders. We’re going to find another way around this mess and get to Hollinger’s. I’m going to finish this.”
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~ Chapter 79 ~
gina attison
I pick up his weapon and push the release to eject the magazine. It slides out of the grip of the weapon and clunks onto the hardwood floor. Keeping my own weapon trained on Boston, I take a knee. Using the lip on the heel of my boot to catch the rear sight, I work the action of his gun without taking my eyes or weapon off him. The chambered round ejects and chimes on the floor as it bounces around before coming to a rest. Satisfied his weapon is unloaded, I toss it on the chair next to me.
“Neat trick,” he observes dispassionately.
“I’m not without my skills,” I inform him with a smile.
“The cavalry is coming, Gina. Maryland and Louisiana are right outside. They’ll be barging in any minute.”
“Oh, Boston, you’re such a cliché. Maryland would have insisted on waiting for the FBI, and Louisiana would have come in even before you did. We both know nobody is here but us.”
“I’m willing to let you believe that.”
Boston should be glad he doesn’t play poker. He can’t bluff worth a damn. I reach into my pocket and pull out the dead FBI agent’s cell phone.
“In case you’re thinking the FBI will charge in for your rescue, I’m monitoring them too. Based on the number of calls I’ve gotten, it will be at least another fifteen minutes before they get here. Rest assured, we’ll be done by then, and I will be long gone.”
“I would have figured you left right after taking care of them.”
The Eyes of Others Page 32
