Red Right Hand

by Chris Holm

  “Funny. I was gonna say the same of you, but I don’t know if you’re crooked now or just a patsy.”

  “Fuck you, Mike. After what you did to my men—”

  “Relax. Given proper medical attention, they’ll recover. I don’t kill without good reason. As far as I’m concerned, you guys aren’t my enemies—you’re just soldiers following orders.”

  “And what are you?”

  “I’m the guy who’s gonna leave with Frank Segreti. What’d Yancey tell you about him?”

  “Just that he’s a person of interest in the bridge attack. Until now, I didn’t even know his last name.”

  “Segreti had nothing to do with what happened at the bridge.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Then how about you put the guns down and we can sort this whole thing out?”

  “I wish I could, but I don’t know if I can trust you. Get on your knees. Put your hands behind your head.”

  “C’mon, Hendricks—don’t do this.”

  Hendricks circled him, and put Pappas’s .45 to Reyes’s head.

  “Don’t make me ask again.”

  Finally, with obvious reluctance, Reyes did as Hendricks asked.

  “For what it’s worth,” Hendricks said, “I’m sorry our reunion has to end this way.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t find that terribly comforting,” Reyes replied. Then he closed his eyes and waited for the gunshot that would end his life.

  Hendricks wrapped his left arm around Reyes’s neck and locked his right elbow around his left wrist. Reyes struggled as Hendricks tightened his chokehold, then slackened.

  Hendricks lowered Reyes’s unconscious form to the ground and searched his pockets. When he found what he was looking for, he smiled.

  “Bigelow? Stahelski? Goddamn it, somebody report!”

  The only reply Yancey received was static. Seven minutes had passed since they’d lost contact with the team outside. In the house, he and his men grew more anxious by the second. Even Segreti seemed to feel the strain because he was uncharacteristically quiet, his mouth a grim straight line. Then again, he might’ve been grieving. While Yancey’s men glanced nervously from curtained window to curtained window, Segreti’s gaze never left the body on the floor.

  “You want us to go check out the situation?” Swinson offered.

  “No,” Yancey replied. “The prisoner’s our first priority. Call for backup. We’ll sit tight until they arrive.”

  He did as Yancey ordered. Yancey crossed the living room, parted the curtains slightly, and peeked outside.

  “You got eyes on ’em, boss?” This from Lutz.

  “Nope. I can’t see shit through all this fog.” But as he said it, he realized that wasn’t quite true. Something big and dark was moving out there, too far away for him to make out the details.

  Then its headlights lit up and its engine roared, and he realized what he was looking at.

  It was one of the Humvees they’d left parked out front—and it was coming right at him.

  “Look out!” Yancey shouted.

  He staggered backward, releasing the curtain. The room darkened as it swung closed. Yancey’s calves connected with the coffee table and he toppled over, the table splintering beneath his weight. Lutz and Weddle moved to help him, but he waved them off and rolled frantically to his left.

  Then the front wall imploded as five thousand pounds of diesel-powered steel crashed into the house.

  The rat-a-tat of automatic fire pierced the night as the Bellum men unloaded on the Humvee. As strategies went, it wasn’t the smartest. For one thing, the vehicle was bulletproof. For another, Hendricks wasn’t in it.

  After he’d popped the hatchback and maneuvered it into position, Hendricks wedged one of the assault rifles he’d confiscated between the gas pedal and driver’s seat. The engine screamed, but the Humvee, still in neutral, stayed put. When he reached through the open driver’s-side door and dropped it into gear, the vehicle leaped forward like an animal released, damn near taking off his arm in the process.

  It roared up the Broussards’ walkway, snapped the porch supports like matchsticks, and buried itself to its rear tires inside the house before it stalled. Hendricks sprinted after it. Once the Bellum men stopped shooting, he climbed through the open hatchback and entered the living room via the Humvee’s back left door.

  The Humvee’d made a wreck of the beautiful old house. A portion of the ceiling had collapsed, half burying the vehicle in rubble and pinning its right passenger-side doors closed. One Bellum man was pinned between the Humvee and an interior wall. He was alive but screaming, and it looked as if his pelvis was crushed. Hendricks swore. He’d hoped the headlights would serve as fair warning.

  Another had taken a ricochet to the knee when he’d opened fire on the Humvee. He was on the floor at Hendricks’s feet, one hand pressed tight to the pulsing wound, the other trying to free his sidearm from its holster. Hendricks kicked him in the face and his eyes rolled up in his head.

  A click behind Hendricks alerted him to the fact that someone outside his line of sight had just reloaded. He dove further into the ruined living room as the floor behind him was pocked with bullet holes, rolling as he landed and then putting three rounds into his would-be killer’s chest. The man went down writhing in pain and pawing at the edges of his tactical vest.

  The vest had kept him alive, as Hendricks knew it would, dispersing the energy of the bullets before they could punch through. Still, the force of impact was enough to squeeze the air out of his lungs and break his ribs. It’d be fifteen, twenty seconds before his body remembered how to breathe, and even then it’d be an agony.

  Hendricks looked around. Saw the woman from the photo Cameron had intercepted lying dead on the floor, a gunshot wound in her chest. Then, on the other side of the Humvee, a handgun boomed, and the couch beside Hendricks coughed batting.

  The shot had come from Yancey’s gun. He was cut off from the living room by the vehicle, so he’d pushed aside enough of the rubble atop it to take aim.

  Hendricks returned fire. He didn’t expect to hit Yancey, but he wanted to make him think twice before he took another shot. Then he crawled behind the couch for cover and came face to face with Frank Segreti.

  Segreti lay flat on his back, bound. His face was bruised and swollen. Fresh blood oozed from his nose. The man was a born survivor; it looked to Hendricks like he’d launched himself over the couch when the shooting started.

  Hendricks fished the X-Acto knife from his cargo pocket, uncapped it with his teeth, and used it to cut Segreti’s bonds. “C’mon,” he said. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Segreti asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  The couch shuddered as Yancey fired again.

  “No,” Segreti said. “I guess it doesn’t.”

  Hendricks shot off a few more rounds in Yancey’s direction. Then he and Segreti cut through the kitchen to the back door, Yancey cursing loudly behind them.

  When Hendricks yanked the door open, he heard sirens in the distance. But as he stepped into the night, Segreti grabbed him by the shirt.

  “What?” Hendricks said. “We’re kind of in a hurry here!”

  Segreti snatched something off the countertop and slapped it into Hendricks’s hand. Hendricks looked at it and broke into a grin.

  It was a key fob for the Jaguar in the driveway.

  They sprinted toward the car, a sleek two-seat coupe with the exterior of a 1960s race car and the interior of a fighter cockpit. It unlocked automatically as they approached. Somewhere behind them, glass tinkled. Hendricks climbed into the car, but Segreti struggled to figure out the recessed door handle. A bullet thunked into the pavement at his feet.

  Yancey, unable to follow them, had headed upstairs and was shooting at them from a window on the second floor.

  Hendricks leaned across the passenger seat and opened Segreti’s door from t
he inside. Then he pressed the Jaguar’s start button and the engine roared to life, 550 horses strong.

  A bullet shattered the rear window. Another punched through the roof and buried itself in the dash, passing an inch from Segreti’s head along the way.

  The car lurched forward, tires squealing. Four Bellum Humvees pulled up in front of the house. One rocked to a halt at the end of the driveway, cutting off Hendricks and Segreti. Hendricks jerked the wheel and stomped on the gas. The Jaguar fishtailed when its tires hit the lawn. Then it took off like a rocket through the fog.

  Hendricks killed the headlights and drove blind, instinct guiding him. They roared through gardens, down footpaths, and over curbs, no destination but away. Two of the Humvees gave chase, but they were too wide to slip through narrow gaps and no match for the Jaguar’s speed.

  Eventually, Hendricks and Segreti were alone save for the engine’s roar and the endless wail of sirens in the distance.

  34.

  SO, CHARLIE, YOU want to explain to me just what the hell is going on?”

  They were in O’Brien’s office. The door was closed. O’Brien had dragged Thompson there by the arm as soon as the picture found its way into her hands.

  A few minutes ago, CNN had interrupted their interview with that asshole senator Trip Wentworth—the one who’d raked Thompson over the coals after the Pendleton’s Casino disaster—with breaking news of further violence in San Francisco. At first, the other agents in the conference room barely glanced at the television. CNN had already reported many spurious claims of follow-up attacks today: A federal building in LA evacuated for what turned out to be a gas leak. An active-shooter threat at a Seattle high school called in by a student unprepared for a test. A backpack in San Francisco detonated by the bomb squad that turned out to contain nothing more than roadside-emergency supplies.

  But Thompson knew in her gut this one was different. She’d been waiting for an update from Hendricks ever since that torturous conference call with Yancey. Hell, she’d half expected Hendricks to strike while she and O’Brien were still on the line, and the longer Thompson went without hearing a word, the more she began to worry he hadn’t gotten to Segreti in time.

  Her fellow agents started to take note when CNN spoke via phone to several Presidio residents who reported shots fired near the Main Post. One claimed to’ve seen an explosion light up the night sky. Another swore vehicles in a high-speed chase had cut through her backyard. Details were scant, though. Thanks to the fog, news helicopters were grounded, and officials on the scene weren’t talking to the press.

  Then Bellum Industries issued an urgent memo to the FBI and Homeland Security. It claimed they’d been pursuing a lead when their operatives were ambushed. Seven men were injured in the attack, two critically, and a civilian woman was dead. The memo included a still image of the perpetrator, isolated from body-cam footage.

  When O’Brien saw it, she recognized Michael Hendricks instantly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Thompson lied. Her tone was indignant, unequivocal, but her head was spinning, and her insides roiled.

  “You mean to tell me it’s a coincidence that Michael Hendricks just waltzed smack into the middle of our investigation?”

  “Must be,” Thompson said.

  “Must be?” O’Brien parroted snidely. “You’re kidding, right? You’re lucky there aren’t a lot of people in this world who know his face. But the director does, and you’d best believe I’m going to get a phone call the second he sees that photo. I’m wondering how much I can protect you without lying.”

  “What do you want me to say, Kate?”

  “I want you to tell me you haven’t been in contact with a criminal. That you didn’t hire him to protect a man you believe to be a long-dead federal witness. That you’re not complicit in a fucking shootout that resulted in the death of an innocent civilian and the hospitalization of half a dozen government contractors. And I want it to be the truth.”

  “I did not hire Michael Hendricks,” Thompson replied.

  “That’s a strangely specific denial.”

  “It’s true. You can testify to that fact if need be, and so can I.”

  “That’s not fucking good enough, Charlie! This is me you’re talking to, not some random higher-up. We share a bed, for God’s sake. We share a life. I want you to tell me exactly what is going on.”

  “No, you don’t. Your career—”

  “If you gave a shit about my career—or yours—we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You want to convince me otherwise, you’re going to need to tell me everything—now.”

  “Fine. You want the truth? Here it is. I put Hendricks onto Segreti. I had to. The Council was going to kill him if I didn’t.”

  O’Brien’s face showed disgust. She shook her head in disbelief. When she spoke, it was barely audible, every syllable sagging under the weight of her hurt and disappointment. “How long have the two of you been in touch?”

  “We haven’t been! Not until last night.”

  “But you knew how to get in touch with him, and you withheld that information, despite the fact that it’s your fucking job to catch him.”

  “I didn’t know how to get in touch with him—not specifically. But I had a hunch that Evelyn Walker might have a way to reach him, and I was right.”

  “You could have laid a trap. Brought him in. A win like that would have made your career.”

  “That’s funny,” Thompson spat, “I was told by my superior that now wasn’t the time for side projects. That our efforts were required elsewhere.”

  “Don’t you dare put this on me. You’re the one who fucked up here.”

  “You know as well as I do that Evelyn Walker would never have given me his contact information if I’d had any intention of using it against him, so bringing him in wasn’t an option. And besides, none of this matters, because when I met with him and explained the situation, he turned me down.”

  “It sure as hell doesn’t look like he turned you down.”

  “What do you want me to say? He told me he didn’t want to get involved. Until he—” Thompson stopped herself abruptly.

  “Until he what?” O’Brien asked. Then her expression shifted. “The phone call you ducked out to take. It wasn’t Jess, was it? It was Hendricks. You knew he planned to make some kind of move.”

  “I had no idea what he intended to do.”

  “Oh, I think you could’ve guessed. He’s a hired gun, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Look, I didn’t think—”

  “You’re goddamn right you didn’t think. They’ll have your badge for this, you know. You’ll be lucky if you don’t wind up in prison.”

  “If they find out,” Thompson said carefully.

  “Oh, so you’re asking me to cover for you now? To lie to the Bureau and risk a career it’s taken me a lifetime to build? How could you do this to me, Charlie? How could you do this to us?”

  “How could I? How could you refuse to even broach the topic of picking up Segreti when you were on the phone with the director? How could you deny my request to go track him down myself when you knew how much this case meant to me? I’m talking about nothing less than shattering the largest criminal organization in U.S. history, one so far-reaching and shadowy, most people don’t even realize it exists. So don’t go lecturing me about shirking my responsibilities, not when you’re the one who turned a blind eye to the opportunity Segreti presented us just so you could avoid making a few waves.”

  “Oh, I see. First you stab me in the back, and now you call me a coward?”

  “If I stabbed you in the back, it was with the same knife you buried in mine.”

  O’Brien’s jaw clenched. She shook with rage. “Get out of my sight. As of now, you’re relieved.”

  “Now? You can’t be serious.”

  “Yes, now. I don’t trust you anymore, which means you’re of no use to me.”

  “So, what—you want me to just go home and sit
on my hands in the middle of an investigation?”

  “No,” O’Brien replied, tears brimming. “I want you to go home and pack.”

  “You’re kicking me out?”

  “I…I don’t know. But what I do know is, I need some space, because right now, I can’t even look at you.”

  “Kate, c’mon. You know me. You know I didn’t mean for this to happen—or for any of it to blow back on you.”

  “I thought I did,” O’Brien said. “It turns out, I don’t know you at all.”

  35.

  WHEN A BLEATING horn pierced the quiet, Hendricks went, by instinct, for his gun. Then he realized the sound was coming from his burner phone. Cameron—ever the technological smartass—must have set his ringer to the James Bond theme when she was mucking with it on the plane. He hadn’t heard it before because the phone had been silenced. Now the brassy music echoed shrilly through the cavernous space. He couldn’t help but think that Lester would’ve approved.

  He and Segreti were holed up in a warehouse at the water’s edge. It was used to clean and store boats. The interior reeked of mildew and toluene. Water lapped against the nearby pilings. Amber light spilled through the filthy windows from the streetlights outside.

  All around them were yachts of various sizes, shrink-wrapped in white plastic and propped up with rusted stands that looked like camera tripods. The warehouse doors—front, back, and enormous overhead garage-style—were sealed with police tape (which parted easily when sliced with an X-Acto knife and cut so cleanly that when the door was closed, it still appeared unbroken from a distance), and an official notice stuck to each declared the building cleared. The cops had searched it and moved on, which made it the perfect place to hide.

  They never would’ve made it out of the Presidio if it hadn’t been for the fog, which only grew denser as the night wore on. Though the neighborhood surrounding the Broussard house was soon crawling with patrols, and the park’s perimeter was on high alert, no one could see more than ten feet in any direction. The toughest challenge in eluding them was not wrapping the Jaguar around a tree.