by Mel Odom
“Mr. Cashion,” the secretary said over the intercom, “security has been notified, and they’re on their way.”
Cashion gave an oily smile. “I bet you can hold your breath longer than the time it’ll take them to get here.”
“In that case,” Wilson said, “let me be brief.” He reached under his sport coat and dropped a five-by-seven manila envelope on the desktop.
“What’s that?”
“Transcripts on accounting done through a Zurich bank account over the last seven years,” Wilson said. “You might recognize the account number.” He gave it.
Color drained from Cashion’s face as he involuntarily reached for the packet. “Where did you get this?”
“Does it matter?”
A uniformed security guard stepped into the room with his hand on his weapon. Two more men followed him. “Congressman, you reported some trouble?”
Wilson stood his ground and matched Cashion’s icy stare until the congressman looked away.
“It was only a misunderstanding,” Cashion said. “Please close the door on your way out.”
The security people left, and the door was eased shut.
“You’re not gaining any popularity points with the security people,” Wilson said. “They hate false alarms.”
“Where did you get this?”
“From the bank.”
Cashion turned to Vache, who had remained silent throughout their conversation. “What do you know about this?”
“Nothing,” Wilson answered. “This is my deal to you.”
“Vache.”
“I don’t know,” Vache replied. “Let me have a look at it.”
Cashion shoved the packet into his jacket and took a couple deep breaths. “No, just stay out of this.” He looked at Wilson. “What are you going to do?”
“That depends on you.”
“What do you want?”
“Some space. I want this subcommittee off my back for a while so I can finish what we started in Atlanta.”
“You knew organ jackal operations were off-limits,” Cashion said. “You knew that going in. There’s too much political controversy over them.”
“The homeless aren’t recyclable people.”
“Depends on your point of view. The government dole has already proven incapable of taking care of them. They’re dying by the dozens every day of malnutrition, disease, and predators within their own groups.”
“Then something needs to be done to fix the problem. They’re not there to be preyed on or stripped for spare parts.”
“Find a solution, Agent Wilson, and you’ll be hailed as a great man.”
“If I turn those records over to the media people I know, no one will even be able to find the bones of your career.”
“That’s what you say.”
“Tell me different.” Wilson stood his ground.
Reaching out, Cashion tapped the intercom button. “Ms. Travers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Contact the other members of the subcommittee and let them know I’ve decided to postpone the meeting. Let them know I’ll get back with them later for rescheduling.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think we’re at a standoff,” Cashion said. “For a while. You won’t use those records against me because they’ll complicate your investigation of the jackal network now, when you need to move immediately to take it out once and for all at the source. By the time you get started on your investigation in Boston, those records you have won’t even be real anymore. You’ll just have a fistful of worthless paper.”
“I’ve also got your money,” Wilson replied. “Something less than three million and change. Before I came in here, I had it transferred over to another account that you can’t touch. Screw with me and I’ll make sure it evaporates. As long as my group is operational, your money’s safe.”
“You’re lying.”
“Call your bank. But I wouldn’t suggest doing it from here. Calls out of congressional buildings are logged and kept on file.” Wilson turned and led the way out of the room. The burden weighing him down felt lighter, but Boston was going to prove a deadly little game before it was over with. The traffic in the hallway was more dense now as people returned from lunch.
“Slade.” Vache tried to get his attention.
“Yeah.” Wilson kept walking, going over the mental notes he’d made himself last night concerning the unit’s insertion into Boston.
“Did we just blackmail the head of the House subcommittee responsible for our funding?”
“No. I did.”
“But I was in the room.”
“If we get caught, I’ll take the rap. I tried to back you out of it.”
“How long do you think that’s going to work?”
“With any luck, long enough.” Wilson made his way to the front of the building.
Outside the air tasted fresh and clean. There was still a lot of green in the yards and on the trees, but it was only temporary. Winter had already put its mark over the land. From the steps he was able to see the Grant memorial at the foot of the hill at the eastern end of the Mall museums. The giant bronze statue showed the former president seated on a horse.
“How did we blackmail him?”
“A gift from Newkirk,” Wilson said. “He rummaged through Cashion’s financial closet till he came up with that Zurich banking skeleton. He couldn’t find anything on Jarvis. We were hoping to get Cashion to help us leverage Jarvis into backing off. With Cashion chairing the subcommittee, things worked out even better.”
They started down the steps toward the underground parking entrance, knowing it would take less time to clear security from the outside because most House members would be using the inner exits to avoid the media and lobbying groups.
“Who’s paying Cashion off?” Vache asked.
“I don’t know. Newkirk traced some of the funds to Boston banks, but the trail disappeared. I’ve got DiVarco figured for it.”
“DiVarco hasn’t been a big enough dealer for the seven-year period you’re talking about.”
“He could have picked up Cashion’s chit from someone else. DiVarco’s cutting through the local mob circles.”
“That explains DiVarco’s ability to put together a jackal network running up the East Coast.”
Wilson gave his ID a workout at the security counter, then he and Vache were passed through in just under three minutes.
“Where’s Cashion’s money?” Vache asked.
“It was received as a donation to Help the Homeless Foundation in Miami this morning in Cashion’s name, with a note that the donation is to remain unmentioned.”
“That’ll last all of two or three days, then Cashion’s going to know you double-crossed him. He’ll be after you harder than ever.”
Wilson unlocked his Cherokee, climbed in, and unlocked Vache’s door. “That gives us two or three days. By that time I hope to have a handle on DiVarco’s organization. I’ve already got some angles for us to work on. With any luck, when we pull down DiVarco, we’ll take Cashion with him.”
Vache pulled his seat belt tight as Wilson roared out of the underground garage and followed the access roads leading to Constitution Avenue. “And if you don’t?”
“Taking DiVarco and his organization out is our job. If we can’t get it done, we deserve to get busted by Cashion.”
“And to do it, you’d even commit a felony like the one you just pulled off?”
Wilson didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Vache sighed and turned away, sinking into his seat. “You know, Cashion may be right when he says Omega Blue is blurring the lines between cop and crook.”
“That’s not what’s going on here, Earl. The only problem these days is that it’s getting harder to save people from themselves. They still have to make that decision on their own. I’m just trying to make sure DiVarco and guys like him don’t get big enough to take that decision away.”
12
Standing behind Quinn
Valentine, Maggie Scuderi put her hands on his shoulders and straightened them. “Relax,” she advised. “Let the programming do the work. Don’t try to force it. Just accept it.”
Valentine stood in a stall at the indoor shooting range at the FBI Academy. He had a two-handed grip on the Delta Elite and was peering over the sights at the silhouette target downrange.
Guns banged constantly around them as shooting classes obeyed the harsh bark of their instructors.
Scuderi breathed in the harsh scent of cordite, satisfied herself with Valentine’s stance, then released him. She was dressed in cowboy boots, jeans tucked into them, and a yellow oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up over a long-sleeved black sweat shirt.
“This is ridiculous,” Valentine said. “I was a better shot before the operation.” He wore black Dockers with a pumice-colored fashion pullover with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. A white gauze patch covered the incision on the back of his neck where the microsurgery had been done the day before.
“That’s because you’re fighting the programming,” Scuderi said as she adjusted his stance.
“I know how to shoot.”
“You have your way of shooting. The programming has its way. Once you learn to go with the programming, it won’t matter what your stance is, or what kind of position you’re shooting from. The SeekNFire will give you optimal results at all times. Now, shoot.”
Valentine squeezed off all seven rounds, then pushed the button to reel the target in. When it arrived, two of the bullets were out of the black and one of them had missed entirely. The rest were scattered across the torso of the silhouette.
Valentine curse in disgust.
“Just loosen up.”
“I have loosened up.”
“No you haven’t.” Scuderi made her voice hard. She adjusted her amber-colored shooting glasses and stepped forward. Raking another silhouette target from the rack on the stall wall to her left, she pulled the last one down and replaced it.
“I suppose you can do better.”
“I can do better.”
“Then let’s get it on. Show me.”
Scuderi curbed her impatience and anger. She could well remember the frustration Valentine was going through. Letting out a deep breath, she pushed the button that sent the silhouette winging back out to the distance necessary for the exercise.
Valentine reloaded, then released the slide and snapped the first round into place. He stood behind her in the stall.
Whirling suddenly, Scuderi locked her fists in Valentine’s shirt and yanked him toward her. “Shoot the target in the head! Now!”
Valentine tried to aim.
She shifted her weight and yanked him off balance again.
Valentine cursed explosively. “Quit!”
“Shoot!”
“I can’t like this.” Valentine tried to use his free arm to brush her grip away.
Scuderi elbowed him in the ribs hard enough to knock the wind out of him. “Shoot!” He swiped at her again. Head-butting him, she popped his head back.
“Shoot! You either get this today, now, or you’ll be staying here when we leave tomorrow!”
Valentine’s nose trickled blood across his lips. “You’re insane!” He raised his gun arm and pointed.
“Don’t aim, just look. Ignore those sights, look at your target.” Scuderi kept yanking on his clothes, keeping him off balance. “Look at the head. That’s your target. Don’t let me catch you aiming or you’re going to be singing soprano tonight. Now shoot!”
Valentine emptied the clip in a roll of thunder as she kept pushing at him. He was breathing hard when the slide blew back empty.
She released him carefully, all too aware of the ball of resentment Valentine carried around. Wilson had warned her that he might try to retaliate, despite her seniority. Scuderi stepped back. “You okay here?’’
Glaring, Valentine nodded, then swiped at the blood leaking across his lips. It left a crimson smear on his palm.
Without a word, Scuderi punched the target retrieval button and the silhouette jerked forward. A group of cadets and instructors had come to a halt around them and were watching the developments intently. A red-shirted security man started over.
“Beat it,” she told him. “We’re chill here.”
The guy nodded and moved away.
Shots started ringing out with more frequency as everything returned to normal.
Scuderi stripped the silhouette from the hooks and showed it to Valentine. All seven shots were centered in the target’s forehead and could have been covered with a drink coaster.
Valentine cursed again, this time in surprise, and took the target from her. He held it up to let the light shine through the holes. “I did that?”
“You and the SeekNFire system.” Scuderi took her purse from the shelf built into the stall, rummaged inside, and came up with a package of tissues. She handed a couple to Valentine.
He took them and wiped his face, then tossed them into the trash can outside the stall. “So all I have to do whenever I need to use my gun is think about how irritated I was at you. Terrific.”
“No. What you need to do is trust the programming.” Scuderi stored her ear protectors on the shelf and walked away.
Valentine caught up with her. His pistol was tucked inside his belt. “So where are we going? We can’t be through.”
“In here we are. You’re too conscious of the target range.” Scuderi passed through the doors into the bright afternoon sunshine. She took the path leading down to the outside shooting areas flanking the Hogan’s Alley setup. The absence of gunfire made it seem as though her ears were packed with cotton.
“What is it with you people?” Valentine demanded. “Wilson reamed me the first time I met him, and I haven’t heard a peep from him since. Nobody else has even talked to me. And you use me for a punching bag when you’re supposed to be teaching me to use this new system.”
“I am teaching you.”
The trail petered out at a clearing set up for a rifle range. Tall trees ringed the area.
“I know teaching. That wasn’t teaching. Teaching is something that’s done in a more relaxed environment.” He wiped at his nose. The flow had already stopped.
Scuderi stopped and gazed at Valentine. “You don’t have a relaxed job.” She paused. “Nobody wants to like you right now. Besides having an abrasive and hostile nature all on your own, you’re a neophyte to this unit. Your life expectancy isn’t worth considering. In the history of this unit, four people never made it out of the probationary stages. They were people who had a lot more experience behind them than you do. Nobody wants to buddy up to you because you could be gone tomorrow. If your macho attitude doesn’t get you killed, your lack of training could. You understand?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“That’s the kind of attitude I’m talkin about. Nobody can just take care of themselves in this group. You’ve got to take care of everybody else, and know when to let someone take care of you. You’ll get somebody else killed while you’re trying to take care of yourself.”
For once, Valentine didn’t have anything to say. “Get your weapon ready,” Scuderi ordered.
Valentine readied the 10mm.
Opening her hand, Scuderi showed him the seven quarters she’d taken from the roll in her purse. “I’m going to throw these into the air. You try to shoot them before they fall.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. If you let your reflexes go to the programming, you’ll be able to do it.” Without giving him any warning, Scuderi threw the coins into the air in front of them. They glittered and spun.
Valentine’s pistol emptied in a steady drumroll.
“Oh for seven,” Scuderi said when she picked up the fallen quarters. “Reload.”
Taking rounds from the hip pouch he’d been given inside the gun range, Valentine reloaded. On his second attempt he got two of the coins. It took him ninety-eight rounds to shoot away the ro
ll of forty quarters. On his last attempt he’d shot the last five quarters with six rounds.
“You’re coming along,” Scuderi said as the sounds of the last gunshots faded away. And it was true. Wilson would be glad to know that Valentine was actually integrating with the SeekNFire programming more quickly than was usually expected. But she couldn’t tell Valentine that because of the guy’s cocky attitude.
“Wait,” Valentine said.
Scuderi turned to face him.
He smiled cruelly. “I’ve heard a lot of crap about how good this system is. You’ve been cramming it down my throat all morning long. How about you give me a demonstration?”
Scuderi folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t demonstrate anything.”
“Then how about a wager? You pop all seven coins, I buy dinner. You miss even one, you buy dinner. You’re so sure of yourself, this should be an easy dinner, right?”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. I just want to see if you can back up what you say.”
Scuderi pulled her pistol out of her purse. “Go for it.”
“And they’re dimes, not quarters.” Valentine smiled and opened his hand to show her.
“That’s fine.” Scuderi reached behind her jaw and triggered the SeekNFire circuitry. It juiced her system in heartbeats.
Valentine stood beside her, then made a show of tossing the coins into the air.
Scuderi watched them sail up, glittering and spinning, arcing across the blue sky. Her gun came up, then she felt Valentine smash into her from the side. Pain racked her and she went with the force of the blow, falling and rolling, the Delta Elite extended in her hand. The SeekNFire circuitry pinged as target acquisition was achieved. Two of the dimes disappeared with the pair of shots she managed as she cushioned her fall. Another winked out as she rolled on her stomach. Two more followed as she continued her roll. The sixth sparked away when she was pushing herself to her feet.
She was standing again when she saw the seventh dime at almost shoulder level. She squeezed the trigger again and the last coin skipped out of sight. As she turned around, she reloaded the 10mm. “Dinner’s on you.”
A smirk twisted Valentine’s face. “Either way it was a bet I couldn’t lose. I’m hoping you’ll prove a more talkative dinner companion than teacher.”
