Quantico Rules

by Gene Riehl

  I reached for the Smith-10 in my belt-holster, pulled the silencer from my jacket pocket, and screwed the noise-suppressor on the end of the barrel. I held the weapon in my hand, nodded at Lisa. She’d already pulled hers. Despite the darkness, I could see her face drawn tight, her dark eyes ready.

  A sudden sweep of illumination from a flashlight cut through the windows. We leaped for cover behind the nearest of the leather recliners. A pounding fresh rainstorm battered the roof, a tattoo of noise that made it hard to think. I crept up close to the windows again, peered outside at the downpour exploding against the flagstone terrace. The red team was both tough and professional. Under normal conditions they’d be impossible to beat. But these conditions were no longer normal. In the startling commotion of the storm they were getting less and less normal by the second. No matter how elite the troops outside, no one endures that kind of weather without turning away from it. They wouldn’t leave their posts, but they’d be a tick less efficient. If I could come up with one more distraction, we might just have a chance.

  I reached for the phone on a small table Lisa was crouched next to, punched 911.

  “Police emergency,” the operator said.

  “This is FBI Assistant Director Kevin Finnerty” I said, then gave the address. “There are strange noises in my yard. I think I see someone out there prowling the house.”

  I heard the operator issue radio commands to nearby patrol units.

  “Responding now, sir,” she told me a moment later. “Should only be a couple of minutes. Stay inside and wait for the officers.”

  I hung up and listened for the reaction. It came even faster than I’d thought. It was astonishing the weight Finnerty carried in this town.

  Red leader, red four.

  Go, red four.

  Locals headed your way, red leader. Bunch of them. Patrol cars, no sirens.

  Roger. Stand by.

  An instant later a new voice. One I recognized.

  Red six from Foxtrot. Foxtrot calling red six.

  Red six, go Foxtrot.

  Proceed with insertion. Repeat. You will proceed with insertion immediately. Deadly force authority granted.

  Shit. Here they come.

  Finnerty was nowhere near the house, I was certain, but he knew better than to wait for the police, knew that once the cops showed up it was all over for him. In the cold aftermath of a local police investigation, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

  I sprinted to the entryway, Lisa on my heels, then knelt close to one of the narrow windows on either side of the door, exposing just enough of my head to see out.

  The visibility was terrible, the storm relentless. Out of the darkness I saw the first of the patrol cars slide to a stop at the end of the circular driveway. Then another one. Then two more. I grabbed the bureau radio from Lisa’s hands and raised it to my lips.

  “The garage!” I shouted to the red team outside. “The garage! They’re on the roof!”

  I looked through the window and saw what I’d caused.

  Confronted by armed men in ninja suits running around the front of the house toward the garage, the local cops were responding exactly as they’d been trained. The noise of the storm was overwhelmed by a roar from the police bullhorn. “POLICE OFFICERS! STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”

  The ninjas froze. The cops froze. For a long moment the front yard was a tableau, and exactly what we needed.

  We raced back to the French doors in the TV room, but I stopped Lisa before we kept going. I grabbed my credentials with the imbedded gold badge, hooked them over the pocket of my jacket, motioned for Lisa to do the same. Maybe they’d think we were there with them, looking for the same burglars. Wasn’t likely we’d fool anybody, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. There had to be red team people watching the back yard. Maybe they’d be confused at the sight of our badges. All we’d need was a few seconds, just enough to get over the wall behind the property.

  “Don’t run!” I told Lisa. “Not until I tell you to!”

  We stepped through the French doors. Despite my words to Lisa, the urge to run was overpowering. We didn’t. Running away was the surest way to draw fire.

  We forced ourselves to walk, guns in hand, just another couple of agents working with the SWAT team, trying to cover the backyard against a possible escape attempt. The back of my head buzzed with the feeling that someone was aiming a weapon at us as we moved toward the chest-high wall at the rear of the back yard. The urge to run grew stronger the closer we got. I kept my hand on Lisa to make sure she didn’t.

  Ten feet from the wall, a ninja jumped out from behind a tree, aimed an automatic rifle at us.

  “Up front!” I shouted at him. “Be careful! Cops everywhere!”

  The ninja turned to stare toward the front of the property, took a couple of tentative steps, then turned back to us.

  “What the hell? Who are you people?”

  “WMFO!” I yelled. “Get your ass back to the house!”

  He was a good soldier, knew a command voice when he heard one. He started to run, then stopped again. He shook his head and started back to us.

  But in the instant he’d taken to do it, we raced to the wall and vaulted over it into the gravel alley.

  We turned to cross the alley into the woods beyond, but there was a big gray Ford van directly in our way. Next to the driver’s-side door, Vincent Wax stood waiting for us.

  The gun in his hand looked even bigger than he did.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  He shot me first.

  The bullet’s impact into my Kevlar vest hurled me backward into the wall.

  Before I could get my own gun up, Lisa shot him.

  Vincent Wax stared at her for an instant, then down at his shoulder. She fired again, this time I did, too, but we must have hit his own body armor, because Wax showed no reaction at all before leaping into his van. The engine roared, the tires spitting gravel as he raced away.

  We started to chase him, but stopped after a few steps. We stared at the van as it approached the end of the alley. I turned to Lisa. I couldn’t see her face in the dark, but it had to be filled with the same helpless look, her mind with the same unspoken thought.

  We had no car. Wax was getting away and there was no way we could stop him.

  I pulled her along with me up the alley toward the street where the van had now disappeared. “C’mon!” I urged. “We still have to get the hell out of here!”

  Before we’d taken a step, a second van came skidding around the corner and up the alley toward us. A brown van this time. Our drain-cleaning truck, its back door swinging open as it slid to a halt next to us.

  “Yes!” I hollered. “God damn it, yes!”

  A moment later we were inside. Gerard was behind the wheel.

  I shoved him into the passenger seat. “I’ll drive!” I turned to Lisa. “Get in the back and buckle up!”

  Seconds later we were out of the alley and racing up the street toward Wax. Cars slowed as we passed, the drivers’ eyes wide as we swerved to avoid them.

  A block and a half later we caught up with Wax.

  “Sorry about this, Gerard,” I said, then shoved my foot to the floor and rammed the son of a bitch.

  The force of the impact drove me back in my seat, then hurled me toward the steering wheel. Thank God there were no air bags.

  Up ahead, Vincent Wax slowed for a moment, then accelerated again. The back of his van was bashed in, but it just kept going.

  So I smashed him again.

  This time he pulled straight sideways and my momentum took us past him. I slowed, stared in the rearview mirror and saw him wobble back into place, behind us now. I could see his empty eyes and his deformed nose as he moved up close, then eased up against my bumper and began to accelerate. What the bell? He was pushing us! I looked through my windshield and saw what he was trying to do.

  Dead ahead was a crowded intersection.

  The light was red. Traffic roared by in both directi
ons.

  He would push us through the light, directly into that traffic.

  I hit the brake pedal with both feet but it was no good. Our lighter van was no match for the power of his overbuilt engine. In another few seconds we’d be at the mercy of drivers who had no way of knowing we were coming, who had no way to stop in time.

  I did the only thing I could.

  Instead of trying to stop Wax with my brakes, I floored the accelerator. Our van leaped toward the intersection. I wasn’t about to let Wax take control. At least this way we’d have a chance.

  Seconds later we were in the middle of it.

  Two cars and a pickup truck shot past us, horns yelping, voices shouting. From my left a black SUV with huge wheels tipped forward, tires screaming as the astonished driver fought to stop. I stomped the accelerator, trying desperately to outrun him. The SUV skidded sideways as it slid toward us. I threw my weight forward, as though the motion itself could carry us through to the other side. The SUV slewed wildly, grazed our rear bumper as it hurtled past.

  A moment later we were on the other side.

  I wanted to stop, but in my rearview mirror I could already see Wax making a U-turn and heading the other way. Now trying to get away.

  Fuck that, I told myself.

  I made my own U-turn just as the light turned green and we went after him.

  I floored it again. Our van was wobbling now, from the damage to the front end from bashing Wax, but I caught him at the end of the next block. He accelerated harder but I managed to get up next to him. I swung the van into his door, knocked him toward the curb to his right. He came back at me.

  “Hold on, Lisa!” I shouted an instant before he struck.

  The impact threw Wax’s van back a dozen feet. I caught the reflection of a streetlight off the barrel of the gun he stuck out the window. I hit the brakes. We dropped back as his gun flashed … once … then a second time. Sparks exploded from the short hood of our van.

  “One more time!” Gerard yelled, a long-barreled automatic in his hand. “Get up next to him! Pull your head back and give me a shot!”

  I pulled alongside the van. Again Wax’s gun jutted from his window. I ducked. From this range Wax couldn’t miss. And I wasn’t about to wait for Gerard to send a bullet past my nose.

  So I lifted the Smith-10 from my lap and killed Wax myself.

  Five shots directly into his face.

  His weapon tumbled from his hand. He slumped over his steering wheel.

  But he didn’t die.

  I stared at the van but it didn’t even waver. I blinked in disbelief.

  I couldn’t have missed! Not from this range!

  Who the hell is this guy?

  I mashed the gas pedal, ready to do it again, but before I could get there Wax swerved to the left, directly into our path. I wrenched the wheel to keep away from him, but he careered back the other way this time. His van seemed to accelerate before it struck the curb and flew almost straight upward, then headlong into the high brick wall surrounding one of the estates that dominated the street. A moment later it burst with a tremendous explosion into flames.

  My head swiveled to watch as we passed, before I slowed down and managed to bring my own wreck to a stop. I sat for a moment with my head hanging, my body shivering, then turned to Gerard. His face was the same khaki color as the upholstery.

  I looked around for Lisa. She stood in the passageway into the back.

  “Everyone okay?” I asked.

  They nodded.

  I started driving again, nursed the van to the next intersection, saw a liquor store on the nearest corner, and pulled off the street into the parking lot. Three college student types came out of the store, looked the van over as they passed, laughing and pointing at the damage.

  “We did it,” Lisa said after a moment. Her voice was barely audible. “My God, we actually did it.”

  I shook my head. “Not yet, Lisa. Not quite yet.”

  “But we have the evidence. We have the audio of Finnerty’s meeting with the judge … We have audio of his order to Vincent Wax to kill us … We heard Wax kill Brodsky, for Christ’s sake! We have all the evidence we’ll ever need.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “How could I not be?”

  “Look at it Finnerty’s way. His raiding party will testify they caught us together in his house. Finnerty will swear to a jury we resisted arrest when Vincent Wax caught us trying to get away. Then he’ll use Wax’s death to charge us with murdering a federal officer in the course of a getaway.” I stared at her. “That’s what the jury will hear. That Special Agent Vincent Wax died in a heroic effort to capture us.”

  I paused, my throat tightening at the thought of Edward Brodsky.

  “And the sheriff?” I said. “There won’t be any evidence linking Wax to his murder … just what we say about it. And we’re the bad guys. After we’re arrested, nobody will believe anything we say.”

  She nodded. “The only bullets recovered from that burned-up van will be yours and Gerard’s.” She looked at Ziff. “Yours will conveniently disappear. Monk’s will turn into evidence at our trial.”

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “What about Gerard’s testimony? The video of Finnerty’s extortion of Senator Randall. He’s got enough to …”

  She stopped when she saw us staring at her. She looked away, shook her head slowly, then turned back.

  “I’m a fool even to bring that up, aren’t I? The French government won’t be any part of this, will they?”

  Gerard didn’t bother to answer.

  “Damn it,” she said. “I know you said we wouldn’t get anything admissible in court out of all this, but you didn’t tell me we’d end up with nothing at all.”

  I reached out and touched the back of her hand.

  “We don’t have much, but it’s a lot more than nothing.” I paused long enough to hope that I was telling her the truth. “A hell of a lot more than nothing.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  I didn’t waste a second guessing about where to find Finnerty.

  The ADIC was a Hoover man, first, last, and always. Faced with an attack, Finnerty would do just what the Old Man would have done. J. Edgar had set up his fortress long before the Hoover Building came into existence, at the FBI’s headquarters in the Department of Justice Building. Kevin Finnerty had built his own fortress at WMFO, and he’d stay there until we were safely in custody … or dead.

  And he’d never see us coming.

  Finnerty was an egomaniac in a world over which he had complete control. He couldn’t even comprehend being attacked by his own agents, employees he’d long ago stopped thinking of as equals.

  The office was never empty, of course, but it would be damned close to that tonight. Every available agent would be out looking for us. Nobody left but a skeleton crew to handle emergencies, plus the normal support staff working the night shift. Nothing resembling a SWAT team … or a red team. They’d be elsewhere, as well, waiting for us to be found.

  The rain had turned to a light snowfall as I steered the Caprice down the ramp and into the basement garage at WMFO. We’d given the drain-cleaning van back to Gerard when we left him out in Kalorama Heights. It was ten-thirty-seven when I parked the bucar. I saw Finnerty’s black Marquis in its usual spot next to the elevator doors.

  Lisa and I sat for a moment and went through the plan for a final time. Her role was critical, I reminded her again. We’d fail if she didn’t play her part to perfection.

  “I know, Puller,” she told me, her eyes exasperated with my insistence on repeating the same thing over and over again. “Do I need to remind you what I used to do for a living? I know exactly how to do this. I’ve bullied confessions out of animals who’d rather die than take orders from a woman. Finnerty will cave. I’ll make damned sure he does.”

  I looked at her but didn’t say anything. He’d cave all right, but I wasn’t about to leave it entire
ly to her. We would talk all about it afterward, I was sure of that. She was going to have a lot to say afterward.

  Upstairs, we came out of the elevator on the top floor and saw that the corridor was deserted. I wasn’t surprised, but I knew better than to relax. Just because we couldn’t see them didn’t mean there weren’t people hidden away, ready to respond to Finnerty’s call in an instant.

  My hand was on the big grip of the Smith-10 on my belt, as we moved into the ADIC’s suite of offices at the end of the corridor. I kept my hand on it as we opened his office door and went through.

  Kevin Finnerty sat behind his desk.

  His eyes came up and widened. His hands lay in the middle of his green blotter, a couple of files to his right, a small stack of paperwork next to them. I watched his hands as he broke the silence.

  “You’re under arrest,” he said. His voice was steady, calm, confident. “Both of you. You will turn over your weapons, credentials, and badges to me immediately. My SWAT team is on its way back here to take you to jail. I won’t bother advising you of your rights, you both know them as well as—”

  “Shut up, Finnerty!” Lisa shouted. “You will not speak again until I give you permission. You will keep both hands where I can see them.”

  Finnerty’s eyes bulged, his mouth twisted, but he said nothing.

  I stared at his hands as Lisa moved to the television set built into the bookcase to the left of Finnerty’s desk, a VCR atop the set. From her purse she pulled two videotapes, copies that Gerard had made in the van on the way to Finnerty’s house. She inserted the first tape into the VCR, pushed a couple of buttons, and the TV came to life. On the screen, the image of Finnerty pulling his vault door open and disappearing into it couldn’t have been more clear.

  Finnerty’s head jerked from the screen to me. His mouth opened and closed, but he said nothing. I continued to watch his hands.

  Then Lisa played twenty seconds of the Senator Randall tape from the French collection, followed by pictures of the ADIC getting into Judge Brenda Thompson’s car and a few moments of the audio of his extortion that Gerard’s technician had transferred to videotape to make it easier for us.