by M. K. Gilroy
The media and police will be all over this. But the list of suspects will extend as far as anyone who has ever known him. He’s ruined more than a few lives.
There are ways to keep the spotlight off of me. Who can question my alibi? It’s foolproof.
He was listening to “Adagio for Strings” by Samuel Barber. The melancholy strains fit his mood and the moment perfectly. Reluctantly, he changed the tuner to a 24/7 news station, anxious to hear first reports of Jack Durham’s grisly murder.
4
OUR SQUAD LEADER is first out and unleashes a violent side-kick to the entry door. I wince to myself when the door doesn’t budge. That had to hurt. Probably reinforced metal. He’s unfazed and quickly reaches into a belt pocket and pulls out three MCBs—Micro Concussion Bombs—that he slaps on the door surrounding the handle. All four of us are out of the truck, crouched with faces to the wall and hands over ears as he wheels from the doorway and positions himself next to me. I think all three MCBs explode at once as I hear front and back doors splinter at the same time our side door implodes. I race after my team through the jagged smoking entrance, my head on a swivel, weapon up and ready to fire.
The architectural drawing of the house indicated a split-level home with the main level including an enclosed kitchen featuring a shuttered picture window looking into a small dining room, and swinging doors that lead into the living room. All three attack teams will be entering on this floor. Three tiny bedrooms and one bathroom are up a half staircase on the opposite side of the house. A den or rec room, probably the laundry room, and another full or half bath are underneath the bedrooms a half-flight below our entry point. The team coming through the front door is responsible for the upstairs. The team coming through the back door is responsible for the half basement. We are responsible for kitchen, dining room, and living room. My job is to slam through the swinging doors, do a half tumble, and come up firing at anything that doesn’t have its hands straight up in the air with a white flag waving. I am then to wait for audio instructions so that I don’t get shot by or shoot a team member.
As I emerge through the smoke, ready to turn left and into the living room, I half-trip as my foot hits the heel of my team leader, who I’m following closely. I hear Special Agent Ted Cane shout an obscenity as he falls against the service island in the kitchen. I hit the side of a cabinet fairly hard with my right shoulder and feel a mild shot of pain course upwards, but I instantly regain my balance. I pause and think about checking on Cane, but remember protocol—he’s not my problem—and smash through the swinging doors into the living room.
5
“MARÍA, MADRE DE JESÚS,” Detective Antonio Martinez said, crossing himself. “I thought we had seen it all, mi amigo.”
Detective Don Squires looked at the body of Jack Durham and whistled.
“If we ever get comfortable seeing this it’s probably time to resign and find new line of work,” Squires said to his partner.
“I guess I got a few more years to give the CPD,” Martinez answered, “because I’m about to be sick.”
“Whoever did this had a deep hatred for Jack Durham,” Squires said. “You can’t batter a man like that if you aren’t angry. At least the murderer had the decency to be sickened by his work. I’m assuming that’s who threw up everywhere.”
“That’s why we love the boys and girls from the Medical Examiner’s office so much. We gotta look but they gotta to clean it up.”
Squires looked at Martinez who was deathly pale.
“You going to get sick?”
“Give me a second and I’ll be okay.”
“Let’s get out of here just in case. We can’t have you contaminating the scene.”
“I’m with you on that, mi amigo. We’ll come in with the ME techies.”
Squires stopped and pointed. “You see what I see?” he asked.
Martinez nodded and answered, “I think we got our murder weapon.”
Squires whistled again and muttered, “Who the heck beats someone to death with a hammer?”
6
I ALMOST FEEL the sound in every fiber of my body as a thunderous roar explodes from behind me. Someone was waiting. I don’t know how he missed me; he had me at point-blank range.
I improvise on the fly, extending my body into a full dive and front roll. As I summersault upward to a crouch, I push myself to the side into a half roll to bring my Sig back into firing position. Even as I execute a beautiful sequence of moves, I hear a voice screaming in my brain. A terrified voice. My voice. Even if I can’t articulate it in real time, I see my target in my peripheral vision. He is in an upright firing position and has a large bore double-barrel shotgun pressed to his shoulder, one eye gleaming through the simple notched site. One barrel spent—but one fully loaded. Even as the voice continues to scream for me to move faster, I know my target isn’t going to miss me with his second shot no matter what I do. He’s too close.
As I torque into a crouch, my head is craned as far to the side as it will go as I pray for one shot. Just one shot. My target looks relaxed and in charge. Our eyes lock. My arm is swinging forward in the slowest slow motion I have ever experienced in my life. In that nanosecond I feel like I have time to recite Marc Antony’s complete speech to the Plebeians at the funeral of Caesar and maybe a clever limerick about a postman named Chuck that I wrote my first year in middle school and never got a chance to say in front of the class. I see my target’s eyes narrow and then a streak of blue flame blaze from the end of the barrel and almost simultaneously I am knocked backward with a violent jolt.
I look upward, knowing that even with the best polyethylene fabric money can buy—it really is bullet-resistant, not bullet-proof—I am going to bleed to death.
I should have told Mom I love her.
7
ROBERT DURHAM, SR., picked up the phone next to his nightstand and mumbled a hello.
“This is Richard Doyle.”
That woke Durham up. The mayor of Chicago was calling him in the middle of the night. When you contributed to the mayor’s campaigns and special causes like he did, you got special access. But not usually after midnight.
“Robert, my friend, I wanted you to get this call from me.”
“What’s happened, Richard?” he asked as quietly as he could, hoping not to awaken his wife.
“There’s no good way to give you this news.”
The mayor was never at a loss for words. What happened?
“It’s your son, Robert.”
Dear God.
“Has something happened to Robert, Jr?” he asked, standing.
“No. But you’ll want to reach him. Maybe get him over to your house before he hears the news elsewhere. It’s Jack.”
“What’s happened to Jack?”
“He’s been murdered.”
Durham sank back onto the bed. His wife was fully awake now and was looking at him, fear in her eyes.
“You are sure it’s murder?”
“No question. I’ve got men on their way to your place to give details and answer questions you have.”
Durham covered the mouthpiece and turned to his wife and said, “Something’s happened to Jackie.”
“Is he . . .”
Durham nodded yes. She let out a whimper and began to sob.
“Thank you for calling, Richard. I won’t forget your kindness. I need to take care of Marjorie. I’ll look for your men and call you back tomorrow.”
He reached for his wife but she flinched at the touch and turned from him, wrapping her arms tightly around her body as she sobbed.
“Marjorie . . .” he said gently, reaching for her.
“Don’t you dare touch me, Robert. Don’t touch me.”
“We can get through this together, Marjorie.”
“No we can’t. Not together.”
“Marjorie . . .”
“Don’t Marjorie me . . . it’s you who killed him! I hate you! You killed my beautiful little Jackie!”
8
“YOU CAN STOP being dead now,” Reynolds says to me. He is standing over me with a half-smirk on his face.
I sit up and rub my sternum. When the FBI puts together a terrorist take-down simulation, they go all out. One part mobile PlayStation technology for creating lifelike backdrops; one part movie production with plenty of swarthy villains from the actors guild; one part demolition team to blow the heck out of condemned real estate properties; and one part departmental paintball tournament with ammo heavy enough to leave a black and blue reminder that you got killed, unless you are skilled and lucky enough to beat the best of the best to the shot. The ammo isn’t live but it still doesn’t mean you won’t end up with a major purplish-red contusion in this game.
I can’t decide if having a small chest is an advantage or disadvantage at this moment. Maybe a bruised sternum beats the alternative.
In my short time in Northern Virginia, it’s become obvious to me that Reynolds is a rising star in the FBI. It doesn’t hurt that Robert Willingham, Deputy Director in charge of operations and a rock star in law enforcement, treats him like a son. That means they can fight all week and go fishing together on the weekend. They’re flying up somewhere in northern Maine this coming Friday afternoon. Millinocket, I think he said.
Everybody treats Reynolds with respect. He doesn’t seem to have a singular job description. One day he lives in front of a computer screen with the analysts. Then he’s training field agents at the FBI’s National Training Center—385 wooded acres hidden within a Marine base, complete with dorms, meeting rooms, state of the art workout and rehab center, a mock town, and a whole lot more. Then Reynolds is meeting with congressional aids on Capitol Hill. The real reason I know he’s a rising star is that he seems able to get whatever money he wants to do whatever he wants. Like buying a condemned house in a burned-out deserted neighborhood in a blighted area of D.C., and basically blowing it to smithereens a couple weeks later in a tactical assault simulation.
“How’s the knee feel? You holding up okay?” he asks.
I’m massaging my surgically repaired right knee with both hands. My right wrist was recently operated on as well but has healed fast. I stretch my lower back and jump to my feet to show him that I am fully operational.
“Not bad at all,” I answer. “I’m actually surprised. My doctor might be most surprised of all.”
My orthopedic surgeon told me to expect at least two months of rehab before I could do even medium paced running and not to expect being able to go as hard as I used to—ever.
“Your doctor obviously doesn’t know you very well—and he’s probably not aware of our physical therapy staff and facilities in Quantico. We’ve got the best.”
“My doctor is a woman,” I say. “Even if she guessed what wonders of science and kinesiology you have at your fingertips, she would never assume I have the pull to get into your country club. I’m just a humble and lowly detective for the CPD. We have lots of weights, treadmills, and rowers in our precinct workout rooms, but nothing fancy like elliptical machines. Sometimes we even get hot water for the shower. But we do have to bring our own towel.”
“I do believe you’re rubbing off on me the wrong way,” Austin answers. “I used to be so politically correct. Here I am assuming that only boys can be doctors. I’m ashamed of myself.”
“You better work on that if you want that next promotion.”
“Coming from such a savvy politician as yourself, I will take that under serious consideration.”
“So you are working on your next move to the top? Probably doesn’t hurt to go fishing with the boss.”
He gives me a dirty look and answers, “being close to Willingham actually cuts both ways. He’s made a lot of enemies in his career. Easy to do when you’re as successful as he’s been.”
“People really think that way?”
“You bet they do. No one wants to feel inferior. He can make you feel that way even when he’s not trying to—and sometimes he tries.”
“Really?”
“Really!” he answers with a laugh. “You’ve never seen it because you haven’t been around him that much and because he does like pretty girls.”
“Major, you really are going to lose that promotion. I don’t think you’re allowed to refer to me as a girl.” I make a face at him and add, “I still don’t think it’s going to hurt your career to be linked so closely with a Deputy Director.”
“Maybe, maybe not. The bigger issue is whether I stay in the Bureau. If I do, then yes, I’ll work on a promotion. If I ever decide to take my economics degree to Wall Street or try to parlay my law degree into a corporate gig, it doesn’t matter who I know here.”
I’m not politically savvy, but even I know enough to know that his connections in the FBI would open a lot of doors for him.
“You’d consider leaving the FBI?” I ask.
“I’m not actively thinking about it, but sure, who wouldn’t consider a move if the right opportunity presented itself? Change is good for you, you know. Keeps you fresh.”
“So I’ve heard,” I deadpan back to him.
“On the other thing you said a minute ago,” he continues, “about you being a humble servant of the CPD.”
He pauses, looks to the side, and then looks me directly in the eyes with his head tilted down and his eyebrows bowed up on the sides for effect. I’m supposed to ask him to continue. He really is a good-looking man but I’m not going to even let myself think that way, much less go there after what happened between us when we were working a case together in Chicago. I’m supposed to ask him to continue and I oblige.
“You going to finish what you’re saying?” I ask, almost smiling.
“Since you never make things easy, I better try and say this just right.”
“Are you saying I’m difficult?” I ask innocently.
“Yes, I am,” he answers, “but don’t change the subject and don’t mess up my train of thought. I know that I told you this was just a temporary assignment for you. Willingham specifically asked for you and since he gets what he wants that was easy to work out with Chicago. But you need to know, if you want in, you’re in. I’m authorized to offer you a field agent’s job. If you give me even the slightest indication you’ll say yes or consider it, I’m going to put the offer packet on the table tomorrow morning. I know your current salary and benefits. I doubt you’re going to argue about the compensation. You might even be able to afford a new car, not that your Miata isn’t a classic.”
“What’s wrong with my car?” I ask, a little ruffled by the news that he knows my salary with the CPD.
He doesn’t answer. He knows I’m stalling. And I admit, this is a shock. Almost as big a shock as a terrorist blowing me away in a simulation event. I’m suddenly having a little trouble catching my breath. Thoughts fly through my mind. Would I move away from Chicago where I’ve lived my entire life? Away from Mom? Away from my sisters, Klarissa and Kaylen? Especially Klarissa.
Mom drives me crazy. She drives all of us crazy, even my angelic older sister, Kaylen, who is a pastor’s wife and the nicest person in the world. But so what if Mom drives us crazy? We’re still crazy about her. We love her. Could I exist without her Sunday afternoon lunch sermons? Kaylen’s husband, Jimmy, may be the preacher, but Mom makes sure we know what’s right from wrong.
I’m actually dying to get home tomorrow night to see everyone. Even if my mom hit redial a hundred times while I was on assignment.
I realize Austin is watching me closely and waiting for a response. I don’t think his look of amusement is going to last much longer. But I’m not ready to answer. I need to change the subject for at least a minute.
“So did we get the bad guys just now?”
Not a particularly smooth segue but apparently successful.
“We did,” he says with a beam.
That was an inspired change of direction; he really is proud of his work and this was his baby all the way so he wants to talk about it.
“How many did we lose?” I ask.
“Just one.”
“Dang. You mean I’m the only one that got blown away.” I try to correct how that sounded by adding, “Not that I want any of my teammates to have got wasted, even if it was a game.”
“You’re not quite right on that,” he says. “We only lost one but it wasn’t you.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Cool.”
I did it again. That doesn’t sound right.
“Yep, I took a quick peek at the event post mortem and you’re on your way to the emergency room right now for a couple nights’ stay—longer if the sternum is cracked. We’ll find out later. You got shot with a tungsten tipped can opener—if he had loaded his shotgun with traditional shells he wouldn’t have missed you coming through the door and you’d be dead. But even though he got you with a body shot, the jacket saved your life. Cane, however, is dead.”
“Lieutenant Cane? My group leader? How in the heck did they get him? He’s the best.”
“That he is. Army Rangers tend to be. He took out three bad guys, including the one trying to push the button to blow up the entire house and half the neighborhood. This group wasn’t going to allow themselves to be interrogated at Guantanamo and were ready for the shortcut to heaven.”
“Is Allah’s Fatwa a real group?”
“Not in name, but in makeup, disposition, and tactics, yes. It, and a hundred just like it, are real.”
“So what happened to Lieutenant Cane? Was it the turned ankle?”
“Nah. Ted would never let a little sprain slow him down. He did his job, then heard what was happening in the living room. He came in with a smoke grenade and gun blazing. Your target pulled out his Colt 45 and shot him cold dead. No one shoots better with a handgun than a shotgun, but in this little game your target did.”
“So I got him killed?”
“Can’t look at it that way. But Cane did get blown away trying to save your life.”
