Ethan closed his eyes, refusing to let Sean break him. His heart burned. The man in coveralls had finished packing his rifle—and was about to run.
“Let’s go!” Sean howled at the shooter. At that, the man sprang into action, sprinting toward the door.
Ethan let go of the fear that held him in place and spun around the beam while Sean was distracted. Adrenaline coursed through him, slowing down everything around him. He followed the shooter’s blue and white coveralls as he barreled across the open space. Just above the neckline of his shirt Ethan spotted a black mark. He had no time to analyze it; instead he locked the shooter in his sights and pulled the trigger.
The shot clanged off the wall behind him. He retrained his aim, catching sight of the mark again. In an instant he recalled the video footage from the Daniels murder. It was the same dagger tattoo.
A shot rang out as a bullet nicked his side, sending him reeling back behind the steel column. Ethan clutched his side and groaned in pain. He pulled his hand back, wet with blood.
Damn! He caught sight of the assassin running out into the hallway. He was so close.
“This is Agent Abrams, I have an agent down. I repeat, I have an agent down. I’m taking fire in the CNN Center. Requesting immediate assistance. Agent Shaw is in league with the shooter,” Sean lied over the radio.
What is happening?
He had to get out of here. He raised his pistol, almost kissing it, his eyes closed. Sean took another shot, hitting somewhere past Ethan, then a click, click from an empty magazine.
Okay.
Ethan spun away from the beam’s protection and shot wildly in Sean's direction. Sean ducked, struggling to reload his pistol under fire. Ethan acquired Sean in his sights and fired. Sean wound back as the round grazed the side of his chest.
Ethan rolled to the ground as Sean regained his composure. Abandoning his weapon, Sean lurched toward Ethan, sending his fist square into Ethan’s face. Ethan fell back to the ground, a smashing pain throbbed in his jaw. Another fist landed on his chest, knocking the air out of him. He pushed the shock aside and put his arms up to take the brunt of the beating.
Sean’s barrage lightened for a moment and Ethan took his chance. He drew back his arm and punched with all his strength, connecting with Sean’s jaw, sending him rolling to his back.
Ethan jumped to his feet, his head blazing. He punched Sean square in the nose, knocking his head back onto the hard concrete floor. Ethan could not risk failing to take advantage of Sean’s momentary vulnerability. He spun Abrams around and leaned his weight down on the man’s body. He latched his arms around Sean’s neck and clutched tight.
Sean gagged under his grasp. His eyes pled in panic as air hissed through his constricted windpipe. As he held on, Ethan turned toward Jason. He stared into his friend's lifeless eyes as the blood pooled beneath him. Tears streamed down Ethan’s face. He tightened his stranglehold around Abram’s neck, anger flooding through him. Sean’s movements started to slow. It was almost over. With all his attention focused on keeping himself alive, Ethan had missed the sound of footsteps coming down the hall.
“Freeze! FBI,” an agent shouted. Ethan’s attention snapped to the door, and he found himself staring straight down the barrel of a gun. Four other agents stood with their firearms aimed at Ethan. “Let him go, now!”
“I didn’t do it! He was my friend, for God’s sake!” Ethan yelled back. “Agent Abrams is the mole.” He did not know what else to say.
The men were not convinced. They were Abrams’s men, and they had caught Ethan trying to strangle him. What could he do? He refused to take the fall for the death of his friend, to be known for all time as a domestic terrorist. His mind was on fire with thought. If he let them take him he knew he would end up in some dark prison cell for the rest of his life with no opportunity to prove his innocence. Domestic terrorist, as he was sure to be labeled, rarely got their day in court.
He looked over to Jason’s body. I’m so sorry.
One hand firmly around Sean’s neck, he reached for his gun on the floor behind him. He kept Sean’s body between him and the other agents, daring them to shoot. He knew the chamber was empty, but they did not. Snatching up the pistol, he placed the gun to Sean’s temple and stood up, forcing Sean to get to his feet. He squeezed hard around Sean’s neck as he struggled to get free. He needed to keep up the ruse before Sean’s men caught on.
He walked back toward the side door, holding the gun firmly in place.
“Freeze or we’ll shoot!”
Ethan hoped they were bluffing, that they would not risk hitting Sean. He got to the door and leaned closer to Sean’s ear and whispered, “I will find you.”
Abruptly he shoved Sean forward, aiming his empty pistol at the agents. They flinched just long enough for him to rush through the side door as a shot burst out next to him. He sprinted through the next room and back into the hallway. He had a couple seconds advantage, just enough to reach the staircase door at the end of the hall as another shot cracked into the wall above his head.
As he rushed down the stairs two at a time, he changed the magazine in his Glock. Voices and frantic footsteps echoed in the stairwell above him. He glanced up as he ran, sending two rounds spraying up the flights overhead to slow down his pursuers.
Ethan knew he had to get out of the stairwell. He hit the second floor platform and paused. If he remembered correctly, there was a sky bridge connecting the CNN building with the Omni Hotel on the second floor. He had to take the chance. As if in confirmation, a bullet ricocheted off the railing next to him.
He slammed into the door release and sprinted out into the opening, nearly knocking an elderly man over as his sprang forward. He plowed through a crowd, interrupting a morning tour through the complex. Open offices scattered the floor to his right, and monitors flanked the wall. Behind him, he heard the door slam shut and then open again.
“FBI, get down! Get down!” voices barked from behind him as the agents rushed into the opening.
Shocked by the sudden incursion, most the crowd just looked on in disbelief instead of dropping to the floor. In their momentary torpor, they had unwittingly bought Ethan a few more seconds. The agents were having trouble sifting through the crowd. At the end of the room, Ethan caught sight of a large hallway with a sign reading Hotel Sky Bridge above it.
Thank God!
A sliver of hope sprang through his veins. Ethan pressed harder toward the bridge. Adrenaline flowed through his veins, pushing him forward. A shot rang out behind him, sending a monitor bursting into sparks on the other side of the room. The crowd had made a path and Sean’s men were opening fire. Panic erupted over the floor. Screens exploded as shots peppered the wall. Frightened shrieks echoed around the corridor.
Ethan feared he had made the wrong decision as he reached the sky bridge. There was no cover, nothing to hide behind, just a long open glass expanse between the two buildings. The crowd had thinned out considerably since the first shots which gave his pursuers less reason to pause. He would have to sprint as fast as he could.
Gun in hand, Ethan swung his arms hard as he entered the bridge, pumping his legs as quickly as he could manage. With each swing his side burned, shooting pain up his chest, slowing him down. A shot zinged by, shattering a panel of glass several yards ahead of him. Cold air rushed in, smacking against his skin like an arctic frost.
“Freeze, Ethan!” He knew that gruff voice. It was Abrams.
Ethan estimated the remaining distance to the bend around the corner ahead. Too far. Abrams could easily put a bullet in his back before he made it another five steps. He froze just by the broken window and turned slowly. He kept his pistol down, but ready.
There’s got to be a way out.
“Drop your weapon Shaw!” Abrams shouted with his pistol up and ready.
“I didn’t kill Jason… He was my friend.” Ethan held back the quaking. “I had nothing to do with the Congressman’s death.”
Ethan ple
aded to the group of agents that stood behind Abrams. He knew it was pointless, but it needed to be said. It had to be spoken aloud for everyone to hear.
“Why are you doing this?” Ethan demanded of Abrams.
From the corner of his eye, Ethan caught sight of a flatbed tow truck making its way down the street. That’s it. He kept his eyes trained on Abrams, but kept sight of the truck as it neared.
“Put the gun down, Shaw. It doesn’t have to be like this.” Sean feigned negotiation, his tone more consoling than it had been earlier.
“Yes, it does,” Ethan said as he jumped out the broken window and onto the truck bed as it passed under the bridge. With a painful thud, Ethan’s feet hit the hard metal plating of the tow truck bed. He suppressed a groan as his foot bent awkwardly, rolling him a few feet before coming to a stop.
He clinched his teeth and regained his footing. Pain exploded through his leg. It almost sent him back to his knees. He flinched as a bullet ricocheted off the metal bed with a spark.
Ethan jumped to the side, swearing under his breath. He slung himself off the truck and onto the sidewalk. His injured leg hit with a hard jolt, his body crumpled to the ground. He struggled to shake off the pain as he got back to his feet. Confused onlookers stepped back. Ethan shed his torn and blood-soaked coat and raced forward. He took the next road away from the CNN Center and into a parking lot.
He chanced a look back. There was no one. He had lost them—but for how long?
I have to get out of the city.
Ethan ran through the parking lot from car to car, trying to find one whose owner had made the mistake of leaving their car unlocked. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting someone to come around the corner and open fire at any moment. Finally he found an unlocked door, a late model Nissan. He jumped in and reached below the steering column to hotwire the car.
He refused to die today.
CHAPTER 16
January 29 at 11:00 a.m. EST
Atlanta, Georgia – CNN Center
The frigid wind engulfed Sean. Shattered glass cracked underfoot. He stood by the broken window pane, a shiver escaping down his back. His earpiece was alive with activity.
“Shit!” Sean spat, kicking the glass at his feet as Ethan ran out of sight behind the Omni hotel. Sean reported in over his radio, “The suspect escaped onto Marietta heading north. Does anyone have eyes on him?”
“This is Agent Perez, I’ve got him in sight sir,” a panting voice came over the radio. “In pursuit.”
Sean waited. Ethan could not be permitted to escape—it would threaten everything. The seconds stretched on, trying his patience.
“I lost him, sir,” Agent Perez huffed over the radio, “He got away in a silver sedan. Took off down Marietta.”
“Did you get a tag number?” Sean asked, hopeful.
“Negative, sir.”
“Make of the car?” Sean tried again.
“No, sir,” the agent said, his voice nervous.
“What the hell did you see?” Sean asked angrily under his breath, keeping the comment off the air. He clenched his fists, trying to master his irritation.
How did we lose him so easily?
“Regroup in front of the World Congress Center.” He barked over the radio as he spun around and headed for the stairs. “We’ll grab the license plate from the street camera.”
The heat of the moment gone, pain pulsed through Sean’s body from the bullet wound in his side. Without slowing, he reached down and pressed his hand firmly to the wound. It was warm and wet. He groaned.
His fellow agents followed him out of the building. Sean chided himself silently for failing to eliminate Shaw.
Sean pushed his way through the gathering crowd outside the Congress Center. It was mostly members and observers from the Democratic National Committee meeting, interspersed with a few pedestrians. He walked past a group of women sobbing on the sidewalk, mourning the loss of their dear Congressman.
Pathetic.
The news crews had already begun to gather, questioning bystanders and police in the crowd. Sean worked to maneuver through the horde, away from the media. He kept his hand on his bloodied side, a small pang shooting up with each step. Thankfully, it was growing weaker.
“Sean, are you okay there?” an older black man standing a few feet ahead in the crowd asked, placing a hand on Sean’s shoulder. Agent James Crosby, Sean’s superior, a kind but stern man with a little grey stubble on his chin and a clean bald head.
“I’m fine, sir. It’s just a flesh wound.”
“Are you sure? You still need to get checked out at least,” Crosby insisted.
“Alright, alright.”
Between the mobs of people, Sean spied his handiwork lying prone on the ground, surrounded by yellow police tape. A white sheet draped over the Congressman’s body, edges soaked in red. It would be only a matter of minutes before the nation was inundated with news of Thomas Burr’s assassination. The media would pin the blame on the Georgia Militia, throwing around terms like domestic terrorist and anti-American.
Even though Shaw had escaped, Sean was pleased that at least one thing went right. The Congressman was dead and the pundits and officials would soon take the bait. Now Sean had to tie up the loose end known as Agent Ethan Shaw.
“We checked with the CNN Center to get the security feeds on the fourth floor. It seems the damn cameras haven't been installed yet,” Crosby explained, annoyed by the hitch. “Please tell me you got a good look at the shooter, Sean.”
Sean sat on the back bumper of a black SUV up on the sidewalk and sighed. “I only caught a glance. Shaw and his partner, Phelps, went in first and before I could enter the room Shaw had already shot Phelps. I didn’t have time to get a look at the sniper. I was shocked. It was the last thing I expected to happen,” Sean explained, working out his story, taking care to keep all the details straight.
“We know who Shaw is. Once we locate him, he should be able to lead us to the shooter,” Sean rationalized.
“He came all the way down here just to stall us,” Sean stated bitterly, hoping to convey a sense of disgust at Ethan’s alleged betrayal. “Have we notified police in the neighboring cities and counties that he may be in their jurisdictions yet?”
“Not yet, but I’ll get on that,” Crosby agreed. “You need to take it easy for a while.”
Sean nodded, “Just give me a couple minutes and I’ll be back in the game. He got away on my watch. It’s my responsibility to bring him in.”
Sean could not risk that anyone might listen to Ethan – raising inconvenient questions or prying for answers. Ethan had to die. It was that simple.
CHAPTER 17
January 29 at 11:25 a.m. EST
Norfolk, Virginia – FBI Norfolk Field Office
“Have you seen the news?” Dante asked, careening around the corner.
Gray sat at his desk, his gaze fixed on his computer monitor. He did not move.
“They’re saying Ethan is a terrorist or something. That he took part in the assassination of Congressman Burr,” Dante explained in disbelief.
Gray said nothing, his gaze remained fixed in place.
“Gray? Grayson, you okay?” Dante asked, shaking him gently by the shoulder.
Gray turned slowly in his chair, his lips curved down at the edges. His honey eyes looked confused, glossy almost like he might cry. Without looking at Dante, Gray managed two words, “Jason’s dead.”
“What? Jason? How?” Dante tried to restrain his emotions, the shock and grief avalanched on top of him all at once. He felt his eyes gathering that same gloss he saw in Gray’s eyes. Stepping back, he dropped into a chair a few feet behind him. No. No.
Gray looked down at the floor before he met Dante’s stare, “They’re saying Ethan shot him… Twice through the chest.”
“No! That’s impossible.” As suddenly as the grief had struck him, a fury of disbelief flared through Dante’s heart. “It can’t be. Jason and Ethan were best friend
s! They grew up together.”
“I know, but that’s what they are saying, and the FBI is corroborating the story,” Gray explained, not wanting to believe it himself. Talking at least seemed to help dam up the tears, for the moment. “According to the news, he kept the FBI off the shooter long enough for him to get the shot off, and then killed Jason and attempted to kill another agent.”
Dante kept his eyes low, looking back and forth, searching in the mundane brown carpet for some answer. Nothing.
“How the hell could this happen?” Dante asked. It seemed impossible.
He’s not capable of such an act, Gray thought. Why? Why would he have done it? What could he have possibly gained from it?
“I don’t know,” Gray paused, “but it did.” He searched the news article again, begging to have been wrong, to have imagined it all. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him, maybe he was just tired and had missed something. Nothing changed.
Ethan had gone rogue.
CHAPTER 18
January 29 at 12:00 p.m. EST
Atlanta, GA
The towering skeletons of oaks and maples occupied the shoulder of the road. Patches of tall, wavy grass sat beneath the winter besieged trees. It was quieter here. Only a few homes and gated communities dotted the drive; nature took over the rest.
An hour had passed since Ethan fled from downtown, since his life unraveled. Passing through the calm Atlanta suburbs had eased the onslaught of adrenaline. His heart had finally normalized and a painful throbbing in his chest and face had set in. The blood at his side had clotted. It burned with each movement, each time his side grinded against the center console when the tires bounced from a bump in the road.
The digits on the stolen Maxima’s odometer said he had driven over forty miles, trekking further into the maze of small towns and wooded countryside. Ethan had no idea where he was, but driving further from the city brought a small sense of safety. Yet, even with the distance he had placed between him and downtown he felt uneasy. He periodically glanced in the rear-view mirror, expecting to see one of the FBI’s distinctive black SUVs or an Atlanta PD cruiser following. He was now a wanted man.
They'll Call It Treason Page 8
