The Face of Death

by Cody McFadyen

  I hear a clicking metallic sound that I can’t place. I want to dismiss it but something starts shouting inside my head and tells me I’d better not, better not, better not—

  I turn, alarmed, and my eyes find a grim-looking, hard-faced Hispanic man standing just inside the lobby. He looks at me, I’m sure he sees me, he turns away—

  “Tommy,” I murmur, my hand going toward my gun.

  No questions, Tommy’s way, he just follows my line of sight and his hand moves toward the inside of his jacket.

  What’s that?

  The hard-faced man throws his hands out before him, and they open, and two things tumble through the air. They are arcing, two perfect lobs—

  “Fuck!” Tommy screams.

  Tommy is pushing me back, shoving me away, and I’m falling backward, and I realize what’s happening in a flash like a rifle-crack.

  “Grenades!” I scream, too late.

  The explosion inside the lobby area is huge and deafening. I feel a shock wave and heat and something grazes my face and then the air is sucked away, just for a moment, and I’m falling, feeling my head crack against the marble floor and everything goes very, very gray…

  The puffy clouds in my head are replaced by the smell of smoke and the sound of gunfire.

  Automatic weapon, I think, fuzzy.

  I come back to myself in a flash, instantly alert. I’m lying on my back. I struggle to a sitting position, and then scrabble to the left, frantic, as something whines off the marble next to me.

  God, my head hurts.

  My ears are ringing. I look around, see Callie behind a marble pillar, her face smudged and grim as she fires her weapon. I see James struggling to get up, blood running down his face. Alan starts yelling at him.

  “Stay down, you moron!”

  The automatic keeps firing, not letting up, spraying the lobby with bullets.

  The hard-faced man means business, yes indeed, I think, and almost giggle, except that I don’t because that’d just be crazy.

  Gotta clear my head…

  I hear the return roar of handguns and pull my own, wobblybobbly, operating on instinct.

  My gun slips into my palm and whispers to me in tones of hushed joy, ready.

  I’m in the hallway where Tommy pushed me, and then I remember and then (Oh God Oh Shit Oh Fuck) terror thrills through me and I search for him, look for the bloody body that I’m sure, that I’m afraid, that I don’t want—

  “Over here,” Tommy whispers.

  I whip around. Somehow, someway (Thank God Thank God Thank God) he’s behind me. He’s sitting with his back to the wall. His face is gray. He’s bleeding from the shoulder.

  “You’re hit,” I cry.

  “No kidding,” he mutters, trying to smile. “Hurts too. But I’m good. Shrapnel in the shoulder, no vital organs hit. Bleeding’s under control.”

  I stare at him, trying to take this in.

  “I’m okay, Smoky. Go kill that idiot, will you?”

  Yes, let’s, my gun whispers, and this time I snarl back, filled with a clarity of purpose.

  I just need to see him. If I can see him, I won’t miss.

  I move forward, staying down, my weapon at the ready. The gunfire from the auto continues, an insanity of lead and steel. I can smell the metal, and it cracks and whines and ricochets off every surface.

  “Callie!” I yell.

  She looks over at me and I point at my eyes.

  How many?

  She holds up a single finger.

  One.

  I nod and indicate that I want her and Alan to provide covering fire.

  She nods back and I watch as she conveys the plan to Alan. James has managed to move behind the pillar where Callie is. Blood flows from a cut on his forehead. He looks dazed and out of it.

  Callie gives me a thumbs-up.

  I glance back at Tommy once. I grip my gun and crouch, waiting for the lull that has to come.

  Everybody has to reload sometime.

  The automatic weapon fire seems to go on forever. I know that this is an illusion; time elongates in battle, or becomes meaningless altogether. Sweat pours down my forehead. My head is throbbing, and the cordite in the air is starting to give me a metallic taste in my mouth.

  The silence is shocking when it comes. Its absence, after all that roaring, is almost a sound of its own.

  I see Callie whip around the pillar, gun ready, and I’m rising as well, looking across the lobby now, searching for the hard-faced man—

  I stop. My gun screeches in rage.

  The front of the lobby is empty.

  50

  I RUN TOWARD THE ENTRANCE, FLY THROUGH THE METAL DETECTORS, they squeal in protest. I register the unmoving body of a security guard. I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead.

  I hit the doors with my shoulder and burst out onto the steps, breathing too hard, my gun in a two-handed grip.

  Nothing!

  I race down the steps and out into the parking lot. I whip my head left and right, trying to spot him. I hear the doors open and Callie arrives next to me, followed not long after by Alan.

  “Where is he?” Callie snarls. “He just left!”

  We hear the growl of a powerful car engine and the squeal of tires and I run toward the sound. I see a black Mustang racing away, lift my gun to fire…and then I realize: I can’t be sure it’s actually him.

  “Fuck!” I scream.

  “You got that right,” Alan mutters.

  I bolt back up the steps, taking them three at a time, through the doors again. Callie and Alan are on my heels.

  The lobby is a picture of carnage. I see three bodies down and being attended to by other agents. At least four others have their guns out, while Mitch, the head of security, is talking on his walkie, his face grim.

  I wipe the sweat off my forehead with a trembling hand, and try to still my internal stress-and-battle voice. I’m still thinking in flashes. I need to move fast, but slow down inside.

  “Check on James,” I tell Callie.

  I go over to Tommy. He looks a little better. His face isn’t as white, though he’s obviously in a lot of pain. I crouch down next to him, grip his hand with one of mine.

  “You saved my life,” I say, my voice shaky. “Stupid, heroic dingle-berry.”

  “I—” He winces. “I bet you say that to all the guys who push you away from flying grenades.”

  I look for my own witty comeback and find that I can’t speak for a moment. I don’t love Tommy, not yet, but he matters more than any other man in my life since Matt. We’re together.

  “Jesus, Tommy,” I whisper. “I thought you were d-d-dead.” My tongue feels Novocain-numb and my stomach is fluttery and queasy.

  He stops trying to smile. He pins me with his eyes. “Well, I’m not. Okay?”

  I don’t trust my voice right now. I manage a nod.

  “James is fine,” Callie calls over, startling me, “but he’ll need some stitches.”

  I look at Tommy. He smiles.

  “I’m fine. Go.”

  I squeeze his hand a last time and stand on legs that I’m grateful to find steady. The elevator doors open up and AD Jones strides out, his weapon at the ready, a phalanx of armed agents at his back.

  “What the fuck happened?” he barks, a near-yell.

  “An intruder came in and tossed two grenades into the lobby,” I say. “Then he opened up with an automatic weapon. He escaped out the front.”

  “Casualties?” he asks.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Do we know who the intruder was?”

  “No, sir.”

  He turns to one of the agents who had come down with him on the elevator.

  “I want agents guarding the front door. No one in or out other than medical personnel unless I personally authorize it. Get paramedics here fast, and in the meantime, triage the wounded. I want the agents that are most confident about their first-aid skills to get cracking.”

  “Yes, si
r,” the agent replies, and gets into action.

  AD Jones watches as the agents begin to move, as chaos starts to resolve under the dual dictates of training and command.

  “You okay?” he asks me, giving me a critical eye. “You look a little gray.”

  “Stress,” I reply. I reach back and feel my head where it had hit the marble floor. I’m relieved to feel just a bump and not blood. My headache is lessening, so I’m not worried about a concussion.

  “We need to find out who this was, and what just happened,” he mutters.

  “Yes, sir,” I reply.

  He sighs in frustration and fury. “You saw the guy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was he Middle Eastern?”

  “No, sir. Hispanic. Late thirties, early forties, maybe.”

  AD Jones curses at this.

  “How the fuck did he get past security?”

  “He didn’t. He came through the front doors, lobbed some grenades, opened fire, and left.”

  He shakes his head. “How am I supposed to protect my people from that kind of threat?”

  I don’t reply. He’s not really speaking to me.

  “What do you want us to do, sir? Me and my team?”

  He runs a hand through his hair, surveys the scene.

  “Give me Alan,” he decides. “Take Callie and follow the line on the subpoena.”

  In light of the moment, I’m dumbfounded.

  “But, sir…” I wipe my forehead again. “Look, if you need us here, we’re here.”

  “No. We’re not stopping what we do because of this. Screw that. We’ll have video of the perp from the security cameras in the next half hour. Between the agents in the building and the team Quantico’s sure to be sending, manpower is going to be the least of my worries.”

  I don’t reply. He scowls at me.

  “I’m not asking, Smoky.”

  I sigh. He’s right, he’s the boss, and he’s pissed, an unbeatable trio.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get to it.”

  I move to Callie. James is standing now, but his gaze is unfocused.

  He’s holding a handkerchief to the wound on his head. Blood has run down his face and neck and soaked his shirt.

  “It looks like someone buried a hatchet in your skull,” I say to him.

  He smiles, a real smile, and now I know that he’s out of it.

  “Just a scalp laceration,” he says, still smiling. His voice has a floaty sound to it. “They bleed a lot.”

  I look at Callie, my eyebrows raised. She shrugs.

  “I tried to get him to stay seated.” She gives James a critical look. “I have to say, I like him much better this way.”

  “You know what, Red?” James says, overloud, teetering a little as he leans into Callie. “I need you like…like…I need a hole in my head.” He cackles at this and then weaves on his feet, unsteady. Callie and I each grab an arm.

  “Hey, you know what?” he says in that floaty voice, looking at me now.

  “What?” I say.

  “I don’t feel so good.”

  His legs turn into noodles and Callie and I struggle to lower him to a sitting position. He doesn’t try to get back up again. His face is pale and greasy with sweat.

  “He needs a doc,” I say, concerned. “I’m guessing a bad concussion.”

  On cue, the doors open, and the paramedics come rushing in, flanked by agents with their weapons out.

  “Ask and ye shall receive,” Callie remarks. She leans down, pats James on the arm. “They’re coming to take you away, honey-love.”

  He looks up at her, bleary-eyed. He seems more there, now, more focused. He swallows and winces.

  “Good” is all he says, and he sits so that he can put his head between his knees.

  “So what’s the plan?” Alan asks, coming up next to us.

  I give him a once-over. He appears to be uninjured. There’s blood on his hands, though, up to the wrists. He notices me looking.

  “Young kid,” he says, his voice toneless. “He was bleeding out from an open stomach wound. I had to reach in and pinch off the bleeder with my hands. He died.” Silence. “So again, what’s the plan?”

  I find my voice. “You’re staying here at the request of AD Jones. Callie and I are going to take the subpoena and go see Gibbs.”

  “Okay.”

  Alan’s voice sounds dull, but I realize, looking into his eyes, that he’s anything but numb.

  “You know,” he says, rubbing his bloody hands on his shirt, “I can handle what we do. It’s tough sometimes, especially when the victims are kids, but I can generally handle it.” He surveys the lobby, shaking his head. “What I can’t handle is this random shit.”

  I touch his arm, a brief touch.

  “Go,” he says. He looks down at James. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  He doesn’t want to talk anymore right now. I understand.

  I turn away, looking, as he had, over the destruction in the lobby. It’s become a beehive of activity. I realize in surprise that I’m still holding my gun. I glance at a clock on the wall, hanging cockeyed now but still running.

  Nine minutes have passed since we exited the elevator doors.

  I holster my gun. One last look toward Tommy, who’s being administered to by the paramedics.

  “Let’s go,” I say to Callie.

  I call Elaina first, as we rocket down the freeway. I know that what happened will be on the news soon; I’d seen the vans and choppers moving in as Callie and I drove off.

  “Alan’s fine, I’m fine, Callie’s fine, and James is fine,” I finish. “Maybe a little bruised, but we’re fine.”

  She lets her breath out, a sound of relief.

  “Thank God,” she says. “Do you want me to tell Bonnie?”

  “Please.”

  “Thank you for calling me, Smoky. If I’d seen it on the TV and hadn’t heard from you first…well, that’s why you called, I guess.”

  “I knew Alan would be caught up in what’s happening there. I didn’t want you to worry. Thanks for telling Bonnie. Now I need to talk to Kirby.”

  A moment later my killer for hire is on the phone. “What’s up, boss?” she says.

  I explain.

  “I want you to move them, Kirby. Get them away from Elaina’s. Do you have a safe place you can put them?”

  “Sure thing. I have some spots set aside for rainy days. Are we expecting rain?”

  “I don’t think so. Just being careful.”

  “I’ll call you when we’re there.”

  She hangs up. No questions, right into action. Tommy was right: Kirby was a good choice.

  I have no reason to think that what just happened in the lobby is related to Sarah or The Stranger, no reason at all. But I have no reason not to think it, and these days, my terror tells me, that’s a reason all its own.

  Callie is silent, watching the road with an unsettling intensity. Her right cheek is smudged. I see what looks like a spot of dried blood on her neck.

  “It feels strange,” she says, as though she feels me watching her. “To be leaving while everyone else is back there.”

  “I know. They have it covered, though. We need to be doing what we’re doing.”

  “It still bothers me.”

  “Me too,” I admit.

  We make very good time getting to Moorpark, and not long after exiting the freeway, we walk into Gibbs’s office. His eyes widen and his mouth falls open.

  “What the hell happened to you two?” he asks.

  “You’ll see it on the news,” I say, and hold out the subpoena. “Here you go.”

  His eyes linger on us for a moment. He opens up the writ and reviews it.

  “This only compels identity,” he notes.

  “That’s all we need.”

  “Well, that’s good,” he says. He seems relieved.

  He opens up a desk drawer and pulls out a thin file. He drops it on the desk.

  “It’s a
copy of the signed contract between us and a copy of his driver’s license.” He smiles. “You got good legal advice. I would have fought you on the trust, but identity?” He shrugs. “It’s been ruled on too many times.”

  My smile back is perfunctory. I drag the file over and open it. The first page is a contract, typed. It details fees and services, agreements to pay, liability. I skim this, going to the bottom to find what I really want.

  “Gustavo Cabrera,” I say out loud.

  A name, finally, to put to The Stranger?

  Maybe.

  I flip the page over. What I see shocks me and yet doesn’t—an unsettling combination. Gooseflesh runs across my body.

  “Smoky?”

  I point to it. Callie looks. Her eyes narrow.

  The color photocopy of Cabrera’s driver’s license is clear and sharp and we recognize him right away.

  The hard-faced man from the lobby.

  “Son of a bitch,” I murmur.

  Are you really that surprised?

  No. No, not really.

  I fight the urge to leave the office at a dead run. Everything in me screams for motion, but the conversation between James and me comes to me now.

  This is the most dangerous part, I realize. We’ve arrived, he knows we’ve arrived, and he wanted us here. If we take the steps he’s expecting us to take, what are the consequences? He’s made his intent clear already, with bullets and grenades. His desire means a conflagration, an Armageddon he plans to grin and groan through.

  How do we keep from giving it to him?

  And what about the other? The thing that’s been trying to swim up through my subconscious, the thing that nagged at James as well?

  “Thanks,” I say to Gibbs. “We have to go.”

  “You’ll let me know?” he says. “In case the outcome affects the trust?”

  “We will.”

  “Who is he?” I’m on the phone with Barry.

  “Gustavo Cabrera. Thirty-eight years old. Came to the US from Central America in 1991. Naturalized citizen as of 1997. That’s all pretty uninteresting. What is interesting is that he’s got himself a huge house on a lot of property with no evidence of holding a steady job, and there’s some unsubstantiated chatter about him stockpiling weapons.”