Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  The ear-shattering burst thumped his tympanic membrane like a punch to the nose: numbness at first, followed by the sequelae of pain and muffled hearing.

  He gathered himself up from the floor, fine soot and shit coating his tongue and face—and looked around for his partner. “Santa,” he shouted. He thought he shouted it—the strain on his throat felt like it—though he was not sure. “Santa!”

  He got to his feet and saw DeSantos a few yards to his left, slowly getting up.

  “You okay?”

  DeSantos staggered, then caught himself. “I’ve just been knocked into a wall by a fucking bomb. No, I’m not okay. You?”

  “I’m in one piece and I can kinda sort hear. All things considered, I feel great.”

  The wall behind them was partially missing, smoky daylight filtering through. Off in the distance, multiple car alarms wailed, followed seconds later by sirens. They stumbled through the rubble and emerged in the parking lot, where chunks of displaced asphalt littered the road. Piles of pulverized tempered glass covered the ground as if a dump truck had spilled a load of sparkling diamonds.

  “Jesus,” DeSantos said as they walked, leaning against one another for support.

  “What do you want to bet the target was Rusch?”

  “Better he’s the target than the victim.”

  A physician in a white lab coat came rushing toward them. “You two okay?”

  Uzi waved him off. “Fine. Shaken, not stirred.”

  DeSantos play-slapped his shoulder. “Shaken, not stirred? If I didn’t know you better, I’d think the explosion caused some brain damage.”

  Uzi smirked. “Let’s go check on Rusch.”

  SLOWLY, AS THEIR BALANCE WAS still lacking, they took the stairs—which were littered with concrete fragments and glass shards. The fire door was twisted, but they were able to pry it open enough to squeeze through.

  As they headed down the hall, Uzi’s phone rang. “Phone works.”

  “That’s a good sign,” DeSantos said.

  “Except that it’s my boss. That’s not a good sign.” He brought the handset to his ear.

  “Uzi,” Shepard said, “get over to the military hospital, get over there right now.”

  Uzi thumbed the volume switch and maxed it out. “Let me guess. There’s been another explosion.”

  “You already know?” Shepard asked. “Who called you?”

  “DeSantos and I were onsite. Pretty fucking intense. Almost took us out— Too close for my taste. We’re on our way to Rusch’s room.”

  “A team will be there in five minutes. Keep me posted.”

  “DeSantos and I are fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.” Uzi disconnected the call and shoved the Nokia into his pocket.

  The two Secret Service agents guarding the door pulled their handguns as Uzi and DeSantos approached. “Get down. Get down now!”

  Uzi glanced at his credentials case—but it was no longer attached to his jacket. “We’re on the job,” Uzi said, raising his hands above his head. “FBI. JTTF. SSA Uziel and DeSantos, DOD.” I hope these guys know their government acronyms.

  “Creds?” the agent said, voice strong and urgent. Still amped up.

  “Musta been knocked off during the explosion.”

  “Got mine,” DeSantos said. He held up his right hand and said, “Gonna reach into my jacket pocket. Slowly, okay?” He pulled it out and tossed it to the man’s feet.

  The agent examined it a moment, then pressed an index finger to his ear and read the information to the guy on the radio. A long moment later, he waved them through.

  They took folded paper gowns and masks from an adjacent stainless steel cart, put them on, and pushed through the door.

  Glendon Rusch was lying in bed, a phone pressed against his ear. “Yes, Mr. President. Thank you for the call. I appreciate that. I will.”

  The agent by his side took the handset and hung it up.

  Rusch turned his head toward Uzi and DeSantos.

  “Hector DeSantos. DOD.” He started to extend a hand, then withdrew it, no doubt realizing that Rusch’s upper limbs were completely bandaged.

  “Are you okay?” Uzi asked.

  “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

  Uzi had forgotten how raspy Rusch’s voice was. Between that and his muffled hearing, he had to concentrate to make out what the man was saying.

  “If you mean the explosion, I’m fine. My window’s bulletproof glass. Woke me from a nightmare is all. Any casualties?”

  “Don’t know yet, sir. We came to check on you first.”

  “I’ve got several agents who are glued to my side. I don’t need another two on my case.”

  Actually, you’ve got about five hundred on your case. “You asked to see me. Something you remembered about the helicopter.”

  “Remembered?” Rusch asked. “What on earth are you talking about? I already told you everything I know.”

  Uzi pulled his phone and checked the call history. It appeared to be a Bureau number, from the Washington Field Office.

  “I’m sorry we bothered you,” Uzi said. He gave DeSantos a jerk of his head and they left Rusch’s room.

  “WHAT THE HELL was that about?” DeSantos asked.

  “First thoughts... We were lured here.”

  “Yeah, no shit. You think this—this attack was about us?”

  After dumping their gowns and masks, Uzi led the way back down the littered staircase to the ground floor, all the while working it through his head. “I still think Rusch was the target—but whoever’s behind this wanted us to either witness it firsthand, or—”

  “They figured they could take out three for the price of one.”

  Uzi found his creds amongst the dusty rubble in the lobby, then force-yawned a couple of times. “I think my hearing’s coming back.”

  “We were lucky. Close enough to have a blast but not too close to have gotten blasted into a million pieces.”

  “If it was about us,” Uzi said, “who’d have motive? Only one I can think of.”

  “ARM,” DeSantos said. “They either followed us here, or—”

  “Made the phone call that brought us here.”

  DeSantos shook his head. “I don’t know. What’s the number in your call history?”

  “Someone from inside WFO. But caller IDs can be cloned if you know what you’re doing,” Uzi said as they stepped out into the parking lot.

  The swirling red lights of emergency and law enforcement vehicles whipped across the remaining first-floor windows of Building 10. Uniformed workers rushed about, some gathering toolkits to begin documenting the scene, others already on hands and knees collecting evidence.

  It was a sight Uzi was all too familiar with, having lived through the bloody, suicide-bomb-laden Palestinian uprisings in Israel. The scene brought back memories.

  “You okay?” DeSantos asked. “You don’t look too good.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look all pale and clammy—”

  “Really—I’m fine.”

  They moved further into the carnage, taking care not to disturb the scene. Uzi knelt beside the first forensic technician they passed. “Any thoughts?”

  The man glanced down at Uzi’s creds. “My experience with scenes like this, given the blast pattern, says a car bomb.”

  A loud whistle came from an area closest to the building. “Over here.”

  Uzi and DeSantos followed a contingent of agents to the area of interest. A twisted and hollowed-out black Hyundai sedan rested against the hospital’s façade.

  Uzi contorted his torso to peer into the warped metal hulk. “This the source?”

  “Looks like it,” the technician said. “But for the moment, that’s only a working theory. We’re just getting started here.”

  “Anyone bite it?” DeSantos asked.

  “Two on the first floor, I think. And someone in the lobby.”

  Uzi gestured at the car. “Car bomb means you put the explosive wher
e, trunk?”

  The technician shrugged. “Could be multiple places, depending on what you want to accomplish. For this, trunk would be a good place to start.” They moved toward the back of the vehicle. He peered in and examined the damage to the surrounding metal, which sported sharp and angry flanges that curled outward. “If I had to guess, C-4. Packed right here, supplemented with some other type of explosive.” He swiveled, took in the immediate area. “Took out part of the street, some windows and part of the building, but...”

  “But what?” Uzi asked.

  “If their target was the vice president, either they didn’t know where he was, or they just plain used the wrong explosive.”

  “Good point,” DeSantos said. “If they used AMFO— ammonium nitrate-fuel oil mixture— the ingredients are easy to get and it’d give them a large explosion capable of causing vertical damage to a building.”

  “That’s what McVeigh used,” Uzi said.

  “More importantly, C-4 is high order and does a good job of blowing things around. AMFO’s low order and brings things down.”

  Uzi took another look at the extent of the damage. “So if Rusch was the target, they used the wrong tool for the job. Unless we were the job.”

  “Could also be that this was related to Rusch and they used the C-4 because that’s what they had available and it’s what they’re familiar with. They may not be sophisticated bomb makers.”

  “Or the people responsible are in big trouble because they didn’t get the job done the first time when they took down Marine Two.” The voice came from behind them.

  Uzi turned. It was Leila.

  “Leila. This is Hector DeSantos. Hector, Leila Harel.”

  “Hector.” Leila tilted her head back. “You’re the wingman.”

  “The— What?”

  “Nothing,” Uzi said, shaking his head at Leila, fighting back a smile.

  “I’ve gotta go check on...something,” DeSantos said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Meet up with me at the car.”

  Uzi settled his gaze on the bombed-out vehicle twenty feet away. “I had a good time last night.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Uzi faced her. “Did you?”

  She let a thin smile spread her lips. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Uzi squared his shoulders. “What are you doing for lunch?”

  “Today?”

  Uzi consulted his watch. “As in right now.”

  Leila looked around, as if thinking of a reason to decline. “I just got here. I haven’t had time to evaluate the crime scene.”

  “I can brief you over lunch.”

  “How about we do dinner tomorrow night, and then I can stay here and look around, and I won’t feel like I’ve shirked my responsibilities.”

  “I admire your work ethic. Dinner it is. Any place in particular?”

  “There’s a Mediterranean place I know off Constitution in Fairfax. Amir’s. Not as fancy as that farmer’s place, but it’s my type of food.”

  Uzi was so focused on the beauty of her face that he was hardly listening to what she was saying. “Okay. When and where?”

  Leila’s eyes narrowed. “That place I was just talking about. Amir’s. In Fairfax.”

  “Right.”

  She smiled knowingly. “Say tomorrow, seven PM.”

  “Okay. ‘Tomorrow, seven PM.’” He grinned. They both laughed.

  “See you then.”

  As he watched her stride away, DeSantos’s approaching voice grabbed his attention. “Are we all squared away? Did you exchange any information with her, or just lots of hormones?”

  “Hormones,” Uzi said. “No info.” They turned and headed for his car. “We’re having dinner tomorrow. Some Mediterranean place in Fairfax.”

  “Amir’s,” DeSantos said. “Great food. You’ll like it.”

  Uzi pulled out his keys and winked at his partner. “I’m not going there for the food.”

  6:16 PM

  139 hours 44 minutes remaining

  The chilled evening descended quickly. While Uzi spent the afternoon hours going through emailed reports his task force agents had submitted, the hours melted into a clearing sunset. He was making steady progress when his phone line began blinking. He’d turned off the ringer hours earlier and his secretary had already gone home. He picked up the receiver, but no one was there.

  Uzi set it down and turned his attention to another intra-office email. Ten minutes later, a message from Agent Hoshi Koh caught his eye: “I might have something. Call me ASAP.”

  Uzi lifted the handset, but before he could dial, Hoshi was standing in his doorway, her hand poised to knock.

  “I was just about to call you,” he said as he set the phone back in its cradle.

  “I tried your line twice, and then your cell. But you didn’t answer.”

  “I turned off the ringers. What’s up?”

  Hoshi took a seat on his guest chair and reclined. “You really wanna know?”

  Uzi tilted his head. “Hoshi, it’s late, I’m tired, and my brain is about to close up shop for the night. So if you’ve got something, speak up or hold it till tomorrow.”

  “I thought you saved the grouch for everyone else and your charming side for me.”

  “Sorry. I really am exhausted.” Uzi leaned back in his large leather office chair and rubbed his right eye with the knuckle of his fist. “So...you found something?”

  “Yeah, a guy who used to work with Ellison until a month ago, when he was transferred to Pax River, a different branch of HMX. Lieutenant Brad Wheeler. From what I’ve been able to gather, Wheeler hated Ellison’s guts. They had more than one knock-down drag-out off base. Had something to do with Wheeler’s transfer.”

  “Wonder why Vasquez didn’t tell us about that.” He noted Hoshi’s crumpled brow. “The Aircraft Maintenance Officer at HMX. He had every chance to tell us about Wheeler’s beef— Shit, he probably had a hand in the transfer.”

  “You want me to follow up?”

  “I’ll have Hector do it. He and Vasquez go back aways.” Uzi thought a moment. “His sheet?”

  “Clean.”

  “Figured. Wouldn’t be at HMX if he had any marks. But you like this guy for Ellison.”

  “He’s got to be looked at.”

  “I agree. So where’s the problem?”

  Hoshi shifted in her seat. “A buddy of Ellison’s at Quantico told us Wheeler recently purchased a forty-five.”

  “Same caliber used on Ellison and his sister.”

  “Could be coincidence and mean nothing, but—”

  “Anyone talk to this guy?”

  “I did. Alibi is weak. Says he was in bed, sick. I checked with Pax River, and he did call in sick. But no doctor’s visit before or after. No script, but a bunch of over-the-counter meds. Showed me a credit card receipt from CVS the day before the murder. I spoke with the store, and the receipt was for meds. But buying cold medicine and calling in sick doesn’t mean jack.” She received a nod from Uzi. “Other than that, I didn’t get much from him. Too damn disciplined.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s a Marine.” Uzi rocked a bit in his chair, thinking. Then: “Gun records?”

  Hoshi folded her arms across her chest and smiled wanly. “I knew you’d get to that sooner or later. In this case, later.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “The director won’t allow us to access the NICS,” she said, referring to the National Instant Criminal Background Check System, the federal audit log utilized by gun dealers to conduct background checks on gun purchasers. “So the gun records might tell us a nice story, except that I can’t get at them.”

  Uzi squinted. “That makes no sense. We need those records. What’s his problem?”

  “You really want to know?”

  Uzi rose from his chair and stretched. “Hoshi, do you realize that every time I ask for your opinion, you answer me with a question?”

  “Do I?” She caught herself and laughed. “
Sorry.” She glanced over her right shoulder, then lowered her voice. “I’ve had my eye on Knox for a long time. I just don’t trust the guy. I’ve always felt he’s had his hands in the NFA’s coffers.”

  At the mention of the National Firearms Alliance, Uzi’s ears perked up. “Like how?”

  “To the tune of four-hundred thousand for his last senatorial reelection bid before he became director.”

  Uzi whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “That’s a lot of influence,” Hoshi said.

  Uzi’s eyes were roaming the room, but he was seeing nothing. He was thinking, putting this latest puzzle piece together with the others he’d inherited in the Rusch investigation. “Okay,” he finally said. “So I need to get with Shepard on this, see if he can chat up the attorney general, get him to talk some sense into our esteemed director. I mean, we’re all on the same side, right?” He shook his head. “Kind of strange for the head of the top law enforcement agency in the world to prevent his own agents from doing their jobs.”

  “I just came from Shepard’s. He’s still here, if you want to talk to him.”

  “Let’s do that.” He moved out from behind his desk and strolled through the doorway. “Anything come up on Gene Harmon?”

  “How so?”

  “Being chair of the House Select Committee on Intelligence, I figure the guy could’ve rattled a cage or two. See if he was involved in any unusually sensitive or controversial decisions the past couple of years.”

  “May be tough to get that kind of info. Closed-door congressional stuff.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way.” He received a reluctant nod from Hoshi, then continued: “Put some people on his life. Known acquaintances, relatives, friends—especially ambassadors, foreign heads of state, that sort of thing.”

  “Already being done.”

  “And follow up on this Wheeler dude. Talk to his buddies, see what else we can dig up on the guy.”

  “Speaking of digging up...” She handed him a message slip with a name and phone number scrawled across it. “A source of mine, works for a group that keeps tabs on gun-control issues. Gun Violence Center. He’s got some info for you.”