Last Man Standing

by David Baldacci

  mouth. “There have been reports that you didn’t actually fire your weapon, that the gunfire stopped on its own somehow and that you were actually never in any danger. How do you respond to that?”

  The questions kept coming as the bodies pressed closer. “Is it true that when you were at the Washington Field Office you were put on probation for a shooting infraction that resulted in the wounding of a suspect?”

  Web said, “What the hell does that—”

  Another woman elbowed him from the side. “I have it on good authority that the boy you ‘allegedly’ saved was actually an accomplice to this whole thing.”

  Web stared at her. “An accomplice to what? To who?”

  The woman gave him a penetrating look. “I was hoping you could answer that.”

  Web slammed the door, raced to the kitchen, grabbed the keys for the Suburban and headed back out. He pushed through the crowd and looked at his fellow agents for help. They came forward, yanked and pulled on a few people, yet to Web it seemed their hearts clearly were not in it, and they refused to meet his gaze. So that’s how it’s going to be, Web thought.

  The crowd suddenly surged closer, sealing off the path to his truck.

  “Get out of my way,” Web yelled. He looked around. The entire neighborhood was out watching this. Men, women and children who were his friends or at least his acquaintances were staring at this spectacle with wide eyes, open mouths.

  “Are you going to respond to Mrs. Patterson’s charges?”

  Web stopped and looked at this questioner. It was the same reporter from the memorial service.

  “Are you?” the man said grimly.

  “I didn’t know Julie Patterson had the authority to bring charges,” said Web.

  “She made it abundantly clear that you either acted with cowardice or were somehow involved. Paid off.”

  “She didn’t know what she was saying. She’s just lost her husband and unborn child.”

  “So you’re saying the charges are false?” the man persisted and pushed the microphone closer. Somebody jostled him from behind and his arm jerked forward and the microphone hit Web in the mouth, drawing blood. Before he knew it, Web’s fist had shot out and the man was lying on the ground holding his nose. He didn’t appear to be all that upset. In fact, he was screaming to his camera unit, “Did you get that? Did you get that?”

  They all pressed forward more, and Web, being in the middle of this circle, was pushed around by the sheer weight of the crowd. Cameras were snapping in his face, blinding him. Fat video machines were feeding away, dozens of voices were jabbering at once. As the knot of people and machines jostled him around, Web’s feet got tangled in a cable and he went down. The crowd moved in, but he pushed his way back up. This was far past being out of control. Web felt a bony fist hit him in the back. When he turned, he recognized the attacker as a man who lived down the street and who had never cared much for Web as a neighbor or human being. Before Web could defend himself, the man ran off. As Web looked around, it was clear that the crowd was not filled just with reporters ravenous for a Pulitzer. This was a mob.

  “Get the hell away from me,” Web screamed. He yelled at the two agents, “Are you guys going to help or not?”

  “Somebody call the cops,” said the perfumed blonde, pointing at Web. “He just assaulted that poor man, we all saw it.” She bent down to help up her fellow reporter while a slew of cell phones appeared from out of pockets.

  Web looked around at a level of chaos he had never before experienced, and he had seen more than most. But he had had enough of this. Web pulled his pistol. The FBI agents saw this and were suddenly interested once more. Web pointed the pistol straight up and fired four shots into the air. On all sides of him the mob now was in full retreat. Some dropped to the ground, crying out, pleading for him not to shoot them, that they were just doing their job, miserable though it might be. The perfumed blonde let her dear reporter friend drop back to the muddy earth and turned and ran for her life. Her heels sank in the soft grass and she ran right out of them. Her fleshy bottom made a nice target if Web had been so inclined. The reporter with the bloody nose was crawling on his belly shouting, “Are you getting this? Damn it, Seymour, are you getting this?” Neighbors swooped up their kids and fled to their homes. Web put his pistol away and walked to his Suburban. When the federal agents moved toward him, all he said was, “Don’t even think about it.” He climbed in the truck and started it up. He rolled down the window. “Thanks for the assist,” he told the two men, and then drove off.

  15

  Are you out of your mind?” Buck Winters stared over at Web, who stood by the door of the small conference room at the Washington Field Office. Percy Bates was next to Web. “Pulling and firing your gun, in front of a bunch of reporters, no less, and them taping the whole damned thing. Have you lost your mind?” he said again.

  “Maybe!” Web shot back. “I want to know who leaked information to Julie Patterson. I thought the Charlie Team inquiry was supposed to be confidential. How the hell did she know what I said to the investigators?”

  Winters looked at Bates in disgust. “Bates, you were this guy’s mentor. How the hell did you foul it up so bad?” He looked back at Web. “There are a bunch of different guys looking into this thing. Don’t act like a virgin and be surprised when something slips, particularly to a wife who wants to know what the hell happened to her husband. You lost your head, Web, and you screwed up, and it’s not like it’s the first time.”

  “Look, I walk out my door and get mobbed, and my own guys not lifting a hand to help me. People were punching me, screaming accusations in my face. I did what anybody would’ve done.”

  “Show him what he’s done, Bates.” Bates quietly went over to a TV sitting in the corner. He picked up the remote and punched some buttons. “Compliments of the media department,” Winters added. The tape started to run and Web was looking at the inside of the church during the memorial service. Specifically, he was watching Julie Patterson rubbing her childless belly, screaming at him, spitting in his face, slapping him with all her strength. And him just standing there silently taking it. His statement about having done all he could was mysteriously absent, or at least couldn’t be heard. On the tape all he said to Julie was, “I’m sorry.” It made Web look like he had pulled the trigger on Lou Patterson himself.

  “And that’s not the best part,” said Winters, who rose and snatched the remote from Bates. He hit the device and Web watched as the scene outside his house ran across the TV. It had been craftily edited such that the atmosphere of the mob scene was gone, the edges of the camera shots crisp and narrow. The individual reporters were depicted as being tough—pushy, even—but polite, professional in every way. The one fellow Web had slugged looked particularly heroic, not even bothering to hide his bloodied nose but going on about his business of introducing the madness the viewer was about to see. And then there was Web looking like a rabid animal. He was screaming, cursing and then he raised his gun. The film speed made him almost appear to pull the gun in slow motion so that it seemed deliberate, controlled and not a man fighting for his life. There were some chilling cinematographic moments too of neighbors running with their children, escaping from this mad fiend. And then there was Web standing alone. Cold, hard, as he put the gun away and walked calmly from the chaos he had caused.

  Web had never seen anything so slick outside a Hollywood movie. He looked sadistic, evil, the man with the Frankenstein face. The camera had gotten several close-ups of the damaged skin, yet with no mention of how he had come by such injuries.

  Web shook his head and looked at Winters and said, “Damn it, that’s not how it happened. I’m not Charlie Manson.”

  Winters bristled. “Who cares if it’s the truth or not! Perception is everything. Now that’s running on every TV station in town. And it’s hit the national pipe too. Congratulations, you’re a breaking news story. The director flew back from a high-level meeting in Denver when he was briefe

d on this. Your ass is in the fire, London, in the fire.”

  Web slumped in a chair and said nothing. Bates sat across from him and tapped a pen against the table.

  Winters stood in front of him, his hands clasped behind his back. To Web, it seemed the guy was really enjoying this.

  “Now, you know that the Bureau’s SOP in responding to something like this is to do nothing. We’ve followed the ostrich-head-in-the-sand before. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t, but the higher-ups like the passive tactic. The less said, the better.”

  “Bully for them. I’m not asking the Bureau to do jack-shit on my behalf, Buck.”

  Bates picked up the conversation. “No, Web, we’re not taking this lying down. Not this time.” Bates ticked the points off on his fingers. “First, the media relations guys are putting together a highlight film of our own. The world right now thinks you’re some sort of psycho. They’re going to find out you’re one of the most decorated agents we have. We’re issuing press releases detailing all of that. Second, although he wants to strangle you right now, Buck here is holding a televised press conference at noon tomorrow to clearly state what an outstanding agent you are, and we’re going to run our highlight film in all its glory. And we’re going to release some details of what happened in that alley that will damn sure demonstrate that you didn’t turn and run but managed single-handedly to take out enough fire-power to wipe out an Army battalion.”

  Web said, “You can’t do that while the investigation is still going on. You could blow some leads.”

  “We’re willing to take the risk.”

  Web looked over at Winters. “I don’t give a damn what these people say about me! I know what I did. And what I don’t want is to do anything to jeopardize finding who wiped out my team!”

  Winters placed his face a couple of inches from Web’s. “If I had my way, your ass would already be gone. But to some in the Bureau you’re kind of a hero, and the decision has been made that we’re going to bat for you. Believe me, I argued against it, because from a PR point of view it doesn’t really help the Bureau, it’s just to make you look good.” He glanced at Bates. “But your friend here won that battle.”

  Web looked in surprise at Bates.

  Winters continued, “But not the war. And I’m not looking to make you some damn martyr.” Winters glanced at Web’s damaged face. “A disfigured martyr. Now Perce is going to take you through the Bureau’s little dog-and-pony show that we’re doing to clean up your mess. I’m not going to stay for that, because it would make me nauseous. But listen up, London, and you listen really good. You’re hanging by a thread right now, and I’d love nothing better than to cut that string. I’ll be watching you so close I’ll be able to count every one of your breaths. And when you screw up, and you will, then the hammer comes down and you are gone for good, and I’ll smoke me the biggest damn cigar I can find. Is that clear?”

  “Yeah, a lot clearer than your orders at Waco were.”

  Winters straightened up and the two men stared intently at each other.

  Web said, “I always wondered, Buck, how come you were the only one in the chain of command—excuse me, the chain of chaos—that didn’t get his career path cut off for that mess. You know, while I was sitting out there on sniper duty a couple of times I actually thought you were working for the Branch Davidians because of all the dumb-shit decisions you made.”

  Bates said sharply, “Web, shut your damn mouth.” He looked anxiously at Winters. “I’ve got it from here, Buck.”

  Winters stared at Web for several more seconds and then headed to the door, but he looked back. “If I had my way, there wouldn’t be an HRT, and I’m going to have my way yet. And guess who’ll be the first son of a bitch to go? How’s that for chain of command!”

  Winters shut the door and Web let out a big breath he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding. And then Bates got right in his face. “I put my neck out for you, called in every chit I’ve ever earned at the Bureau and you almost screwed it up, taking on Winters like that. Are you really that big a damn idiot?”

  “I guess I must be,” Web answered defiantly. “But I didn’t ask for any of this. The press can strip me clean, but nothing, nothing is going to mess up the investigation.”

  “You’re going to give me a coronary, you really are.” Bates finally calmed down. “Okay, here are your marching orders. You’re going to lay low for a while. Don’t go home. We’ll get you a car from the motor pool. Head out somewhere and stay there awhile. The Bureau will foot the bills. We’ll communicate via your secure cell phone. Check in regularly. As bad as you looked on the tube right now, you’ll look just as good when we tell our side. And if I find you anywhere near Buck Winters during the next thirty years, I will personally shoot you myself. Now get out of here!” Bates went to the door, but Web remained sitting.

  “Perce, why are you doing all this? You’re taking a big risk standing up for me.”

  Bates studied the floor for a few moments. “This is gonna sound sappy, and maybe it should, but anyway it’s the truth. I’m doing this because the Web London I know has risked his life for this agency more times than I can remember. Because I’ve watched you lying in a hospital room for three months not sure if you were going to make it. You could’ve retired then with full pay, gone out on top. Gone fishing or whatever the hell it is retired FBI do. But you came back and got in the line of fire again. I don’t know many guys that have ever done that.” He drew a long breath. “And because I know what you did in that alley even if the rest of the world doesn’t. But they’re going to damn sure know it, Web. There aren’t many heroes left anymore. But you’re one of them. That’s all I’m going to say about it. And don’t you ever, ever ask me again.”

  The man walked out and left Web to contemplate another side of Percy Bates.

  It was almost midnight and Web was on the move. He was climbing over fences and sneaking through neighbors’ yards. The goal tonight was a simple if absurd one. He had to break into his own home through a rear window because the media were still moored out front waiting to board him. And then sink him. Two uniformed Bureau security officers were there too, backed up by a Virginia state police cruiser, its blue waggle lights slicing through the darkness. Web hoped there would be no more mobs, no more riots. So long as no one spotted him climbing in his own bathroom window, that is. Then all bets were off.

  Web quietly packed a duffel in the dark, threw in some extra rounds of ammo, some other pieces of equipment that he thought might come in handy, then crawled back out. He cleared the fence and slipped back into his neighbor’s yard and then stopped. He opened the duffel, pulled out a battery-operated ambient light monocular that made the dark look as clear as day, albeit with a greenish tint, and looked through it. He surveyed the army camped outside his house and focused the magnifier for a better look. All those people whose sole purpose in life right now was to get any possible dirt and damn the truth made Web decide that paybacks, however small, should be taken when the opportunity arose. And right now he could use a generous fix. Web pulled out a flare gun, loaded in a cartridge, aimed the weapon to the sky at a spot right over the top of this fine group of people and fired. The flare sailed upward, exploded and lit the heavens a brilliant yellow. Web watched through his monocular as the pack of fine, exemplary people looked up with fearful eyes and then ran screaming for their lives. It truly was the little things that made life so sweet: long walks, rain showers, puppies, scaring the crap out of a bunch of sanctimonious reporters.

  He jogged back to the Crown Vic that Bates had arranged for him and drove off. Web stayed that night at a dump motel off Route One in south Alexandria where he could pay in cash, no one bothered him and the only room service was the McDonald’s bag you brought with you or the soda and snack machine chained to a graffiti-stained support column outside his room. He watched TV and ate his cheeseburger and fries. The he pulled out from his duffel his bottle of pills and swallowed two of them. He fell into a deep sleep and for once nightmares didn’t rouse him from it.

  16

  Early on a Saturday morning, Scott Wingo navigated his wheelchair up the ramp and unlocked the door to a four-story nineteenth-century brick building that housed his law office. Divorced, with grown children, Wingo had a thriving criminal defense practice in Richmond, the city of his birth, where he had remained his whole life. Saturdays were a time for him to go into the office and not be bothered by pealing phones, clacking keyboards, harassed associates and demanding clients. Those pleasantries were left for during the week. He went inside, made a pot of coffee, spiked it with his favorite Gentleman Jim bourbon and rolled his way to his office. Scott Wingo and Associates, Counselors at Law, had been a Richmond institution for almost thirty years. During that time Wingo had gone from being a sole practitioner working out of an office the size of a closet, basically defending anyone with enough cash to pay him, to head of a firm with six associates, a full-time PI and a support staff of eight. As the sole shareholder of the firm Wingo pulled down seven figures in a good year, and even mid-six money in bad times. His clients had also grown more substantial. For years he had resisted taking on the drug people, but the cash flow was undeniable and Wingo had wearied of seeing far inferior attorneys drawing down those dollars. He comforted himself with the knowledge that anyone, regardless of what heinous thing he had done, deserved a competent—even inspired—defense.

  Wingo had considerable skills as a courtroom lawyer, and his presence before a jury had not been diminished one iota by his confinement two years ago to a wheelchair because of ongoing diabetes and kidney and liver ailments. In some ways, he felt his ability to reach out to a jury had been enhanced by his physical predicament. And many a member of the state bar envied Wingo’s string of victories. He was also loathed by those who felt he was simply a means for rich criminals to avoid the rightful consequences of their terrible misdeeds. Wingo naturally didn’t see it that way, but he had long ago stopped trying to win that argument because it was one of the very few issues he had ever come upon that didn’t seem worth arguing about.

  He lived in a substantial home in Windsor Farms, a very affluent and coveted area of Richmond; drove a specially configured Jag sedan to accommodate his disability; took luxurious trips overseas when he wanted to; was good to his children and generous and on good terms with his ex-wife, who still lived in their old home. But mostly he worked. At age fifty-nine Wingo had outlived many predictions of his premature death. Those had come either because of his various medical conditions or because of threats from disgruntled clients or folks on the other side of a crime who felt justice had not been served largely through Wingo doing what he did best, which was finding reasonable doubt in twelve peers of the defendant. Yet he knew that his time was running out. He could feel it in his tired organs, in his poor circulation, his general fatigue. He figured he would work until he died; it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.

  -->