But as Uzi swung his S&W toward Hakim, she ducked behind closing elevator doors. He got to his feet and saw her colleague crawling toward the stairwell. Uzi kicked away the assault rifle, sending it clattering across the slick floor. He shoved the barrel of his handgun against the back of the man’s head. “Give me a reason to send you where you sent my friend.”
Uzi made his point, because his prisoner did not even twitch a muscle. Uzi rooted out a self-locking flexcuff, then yanked his prisoner’s hands behind his back. As he ratcheted the restraint down tight, the man jerked back in pain, and a silver pocket watch fell out of his pocket. Uzi shoved it back into the man’s pants, and then moved past Aksel’s prone body. The director general was still alive—Uzi felt it more than knew it—but he had to get to Hakim. He couldn’t let her get away.
“Rodman,” Uzi called out. “You okay?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Fine.” Uzi glanced up at the elevator. The indicator light above the doors showed it heading toward the fourth floor. “Coming around. Hold your fire.”
Uzi moved toward the staircase. Rodman was leaning against the wall, an MP-5 clasped in his left hand, tracking Uzi as he appeared around the bend. Uzi immediately noted a blood-soaked tourniquet twisted about the operative’s thigh.
“Go get her,” Rodman said.
“Get Aksel out of here, bomb’s going off in—”
“Goddamn it, Uzi— Go get her!”
Uzi turned and sprinted up the stairs.
UZI WAS MAKING EXCEPTIONAL TIME, but tired as he hit the sixth-floor landing. He slipped on the slick gunmetal gray slate steps and thought about stopping and going back down and getting out of the building before it exploded. Hakim had nowhere to go but up—yet he had no way of knowing if she’d gotten out on one of the floors or if she’d taken the elevator to the roof.
Doubting he would be able to find her before the building came down, he questioned the wisdom of continuing. But his promise to Rudnick smacked him across the face. He had to go on.
His instincts told him Hakim would avoid the lobby because there would be armed agents there on the lookout for her. If she had gotten off at one of the floors, there was no way out of the hotel. But if she made it to the roof, she might be able to cross to the adjacent building.
Knowing Hakim, alternate escape routes would have been plotted out ahead of time.
Gotta be the roof.
Grabbing the black wrought iron staircase railing for leverage, he rounded the eighth floor landing and headed up toward the metal fire door.
Sweat blanketing his torso and face, his breathing labored, he burst forward onto the rooftop. The cold wind burned his dry throat.
Weapon out in front of him, he stepped onto the long, rectangular patio, which extended thirty feet ahead to his right and was bounded by the same iron railing that ran the length of the staircase.
Ahead of him: 16th Street, Lafayette Park, the White House. The Explosives Ordinance Disposal truck was no doubt parked below on 16th, alongside scores of Metro PD and Federal Protective Service cruisers.
She wouldn’t be at this end of the building—no fire escapes or adjacent buildings.
Uzi jogged right, past a doorway that led to the elevator, then slowed and swept his weapon from side to side, expecting the building to start shaking and collapsing beneath his feet.
Movement— Off to his right. Hakim—by the edge, facing away from him, on a graveled area of the roof. He swiveled his S&W toward her—and realized he had no idea how many rounds he’d fired in the basement. Were there any left in the magazine? Was there even one left in the chamber? So much commotion, so many bullets flying, it was all a jumble. As he inched toward her, he had to accept that he had no way of knowing what he had left—without ejecting the clip, which he was not about to do.
Hakim must have heard the crunch of his heel against the hard surface, because she spun, settling the red laser targeting beam of her assault rifle dead square on Uzi’s chest. Between them stood only a two-foot-high wrought-iron fence.
“So it’s come down to this,” she said with the confidence of someone who knew she was in complete control.
“You’ve killed three people that were very dear to me, Hakim. As well as countless others.”
“Countless? I know exactly how many I’ve killed in my lifetime.”
“That can’t go unpunished.”
“An eye for an eye, Uzi?”
He shook his head slowly. “You’re going to stand trial for your crimes.” He realized that with the laser burning a hole where his heart lay, and wearing no Kevlar vest, he was talking tough without the power to back it up. And with the building due to explode, she wouldn’t waste any more time with him. She wasn’t going to chance the possibility that he would—again—survive the blast.
Her right arm moved suddenly—and Uzi dove and rolled, and came up firing. But his round struck a vertical bar of the intervening fence.
Uzi squeezed the trigger again—and dry-fired an empty chamber.
Fuck.
He tossed the spent S&W aside.
Hakim squared her shoulders and smiled. She brought the rifle up to her face slowly, savoring the kill. The red beam once again settled on his chest.
Uzi turned and ran a zigzag route away from her while pulling his Tanto from its sheath. Like a driving rainstorm, bullets pricked the cement all around him. But in one motion, he spun and whipped the Tanto through the thick DC air.
It found its mark in her chest, slicing through breast and muscle below the fourth rib. Her body went rigid and she dropped the assault rifle. Her eyes bugged out. And the breath seeped from her lung.
Struggling for air, Hakim stumbled backwards, her hands feeling the front of her chest for the handle of the knife. Her left heel hit the low cement curb and she fell over the edge, disappearing from view.
Uzi sprinted for the adjacent rooftop. He hit full speed and leaped over the edge of the hotel, bicycling through the air across the twelve-foot gap before landing hard one story below, atop the United States Chamber of Commerce. Pain shot through his ankles and knees. He rolled and scrambled to his feet, then found the staircase that led to the street.
A moment later, Uzi headed up H Street, running toward the barrier where he had left his car. Behind him, the Hay-Adams was still standing, a glance at his watch telling him it was a few minutes past two. Either EOD had defused the bomb or his timing had been off. Or there hadn’t been a bomb at all.
He pulled his cell and noticed that the battery had been jarred loose. He reseated it and powered up the phone. He tried reaching DeSantos—and got through.
“Hakim’s history,” Uzi said. “She went packing and had an awful trip.”
“I noticed. She’s sprawled out about ten feet away from me. You want your knife back?”
“Evidence now. Make sure it gets bagged and tagged.”
“Hell with that. I think you deserve to keep it. Another tchotchke to put on your bookshelf, next to the canteen with the bullet hole.”
Uzi didn’t know how to respond to that. “How’s Rodman?”
“Medic thinks he’ll need surgery on his leg, but he’s a tough fucker. Speaking of which, he got Aksel out. Old guy’s pretty banged up. Nasty GSWs to the hip and arm, but he’ll make it.”
“What about the bomb?”
“There were two. The dogs sniffed ’em out. EOD defused them with six seconds to spare.”
Uzi closed his eyes. Six seconds.
“Where are you? Knox is gonna want to debrief you.”
“Headed back to my car. Debrief will have to wait. What about an ID on our masked avenger? Hakim’s accomplice?”
“Guy’s a freaking looney tune. Refuses to say anything, other than name, rank, and serial number. Says he’s some kind of ‘sovereign citizen,’ exempt from federal and state laws.”
“Classic militia claim.”
“Get this,” DeSantos said with a chuckle. “Guy claimed his name is General
Grant.”
Uzi stopped in midstride. “General Grant?”
“That mean something to you?”
“Maybe nothing,” Uzi said as he approached his car. “Maybe everything.”
2:08 PM
Before hanging up, Uzi told DeSantos to bring Knox to the warehouse where he had left Quentin Larchmont ninety minutes earlier. On the drive over, Uzi continued ruminating. He had secured vital pieces to the puzzle, but key parts were still missing.
Lewiston Grant in bed with Batula Hakim— How did that fit in with Quentin Larchmont and the NFA? With Knox? Was the Skiles Rathbone-Douglas Knox connection a dead end, or was it suddenly thrust to the forefront in view of the discovery of Larchmont’s involvement? If someone that high in the administration could be a conspirator, why not the attorney general and FBI director? Then there was Secret Service Agent Benedict, one of Whitehall’s security detail, a highly prestigious post—
Uzi forced himself to slow down; jumping to conclusions and accepting such a far-reaching conspiracy theory that involved the two highest law enforcement figures in the United States—and possibly even the president—might blind him to what was really going on. He needed to keep an open mind, to put things in play and see where they led.
And right now, with Knox and DeSantos on the way over to where Larchmont was being held, he would have two key figures in one place. He called his office and asked Madeline to have Shepard meet them at the warehouse immediately. He still held out hope that, should Knox be wrapped up in this, Shepard would be the one to stand witness and support him in what needed to be done.
He hung up—and Tim Meadows immediately called through.
“Uzi, I heard about the hotel. This ain’t your day, is it?”
“Hard to say, Tim. I’m still alive, I may be close to breaking this thing wide open—and I killed the terrorist who murdered my family.”
“I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but...”
“Bad news?”
“I found something else. I really think you should come by. We shouldn’t talk about this over an unsecured line.”
Never a fan of delayed gratification, Uzi said, “You got something important, now would be a really good time to tell me.”
Meadows hesitated a moment, then continued: “I did that check you asked me to do, on the digital files of all the federal—”
“Still kinda short on time, Tim. Get to the point.” Uzi pulled into the alley adjacent to the warehouse. The crimson blood spatter, though dry now, was still visible on the charcoal asphalt.
“My worm found some irregularities in another file,” Meadows said. “And this is where it gets hairy—”
Uzi pulled to a stop and waited for Meadows to continue. When he didn’t, Uzi asked, “Where what gets hairy? Tim?”
He checked the handset, then tossed it aside in disgust. The battery had finally died. He sat there for a second, wondering what digital file had been altered. Realizing that Knox and Shepard would be arriving soon, he got out of the car and headed into the warehouse.
He pulled out his Puma and moved carefully, as the building had not been secured while he was gone. After deciding it was safe, he searched the bodies of Larchmont’s dead guards. He found another S&W, a spare magazine and...a cell phone.
As he neared the Suburban, he called Meadows. While it rang, Uzi looked in on Larchmont, whose eyes were wide with fear, no doubt wondering why Uzi had returned—holding a gun—and with no one else in sight.
Meadows answered. “Damn it, Uzi, I hit the climax of my amazing discovery, something that could get me the Presidential Medal of Freedom, and I find out I’m talking to a dead line.”
“Battery went out on me. I told you, you talk too much.”
“Okay, then I’ll get to the point. Are you sitting?”
“Tim—”
“You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve checked it five times. The altered digital file belongs to none other than Glendon Rusch.”
2:23 PM
Uzi squinted in disbelief. “What?”
“Yessir, that’s right. Our president-elect is not who he appears to be. Now you know why I wanted to tell you in person.”
Uzi looked at Larchmont through the glass. He thanked Meadows and told him to keep at it in case there were other surprises. He then walked around to the passenger door and climbed inside. Larchmont turned his restrained body toward Uzi. His dark eyes were puffy, his face ashen.
Uzi held up the handgun. “I’m going to remove your gag and we’re gonna have a chat. You cooperate and I’ll let you go. It’ll all be our little secret. You fuck with me, and I’ll have to kill you. And I’m not shitting you, Mr. Larchmont. I used to kill people for a living.”
Uzi detected a hint of fear glaze over the man’s eyes, then removed the tie and pulled the sock out of the man’s mouth. Larchmont smacked his lips repeatedly.
“Leaves it a bit dry, doesn’t it?” Uzi grinned knowingly. “Okay now. Here’s the deal. I tell you what I know, and then you tell me what you know. Honesty is the only correct answer. For each incorrect answer, I will put a bullet in your leg. Those are the rules. Pretty simple, really.”
Uzi maintained eye contact, waited a beat for Larchmont to read the intensity in his face, and then continued. “The man lying in the hospital pretending to be Glendon Rusch is not Glendon Rusch. Who is he really?”
Larchmont looked away. “I— I don’t know.”
Uzi lowered the handgun and shot Larchmont in the right foot. The blast inside the closed SUV was deafening.
“Ahh! Oh my god, you fucking son of a bitch—”
Uzi grabbed Larchmont’s hair with his left hand and yanked back. “I explained the rules to you,” he said with restrained fury. “Don’t lie to me again. Now, who’s in Glendon Rusch’s hospital bed?”
“Bryce Upshaw.”
Uzi released his grip. “The ARM member who told the Post that Rusch would be sorry if he didn’t change his position on gun control?”
Larchmont nodded. “He was picked from their membership. They went through over ten thousand applications. ARM started collecting vital stats on their members—height, weight, skin color, blood type. He had them email photos of their faces from all angles.”
“Militia members are super paranoid. Why would they agree to that?”
“They were told it was for security, to prevent government informants from infiltrating their compound.” He grimaced and looked down at his foot. “Didn’t work, though, did it?”
Another piece to the puzzle. “They found out about Agent Adams.”
“You were supposed to take the rap for his death. They changed the digitized ballistics profile on your gun, the one that’s stored in the Academy’s database.”
“Who did? They’d have to be on the inside, have access to secure government servers.”
“I don’t know.”
Uzi moved the gun toward Larchmont’s right leg.
“I swear, I don’t know their name!”
Larchmont maintained eye contact, leading Uzi to believe he was telling the truth. “What did Grant do with all this info he collected on the membership?”
“He ran the photos through a sophisticated 3D facial recognition program, then used medical prosthetic Computer-Aided Design software they adapted to evaluate facial configuration. They found someone with fairly close bone structure to Glendon Rusch. With some plastic surgery and a few months’ work with a personal trainer to reshape his body and a half-inch heel lift, Bryce Upshaw was almost a dead ringer. Even his blood type matched.”
That’s why Upshaw disappeared six months ago, after making his statement to the Post.
“They started training him. He watched tapes of Rusch, practiced copying his mannerisms, intonations. I tutored him on his political career and family life. Everything. His upbringing, his closest friends, bitter enemies, gambling losses, women he dated before he got married. The one he had an affair with ten years ago.”
&
nbsp; “So Glendon Rusch died on that chopper.”
“His body was switched immediately after impact. His real body—what was left of it—was cremated.”
Uzi nodded slowly. It explained a lot. The extensive burns, for one. “Upshaw was willing to burn his face, hands, and throat, go through intense pain, multiple surgeries, live life disfigured—”
“All to be president of the United States. The most powerful man in the world. To further a cause he believed in with all his heart. Yes, he was.”
“And Winston Coulter? Director Knox?”
“What about them?”
“What were their roles?”
Larchmont squinted but maintained eye contact. “They don’t have anything to do with it.”
This was important. Uzi had to know the truth. He shoved the gun against Larchmont’s thigh. “I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t shoot! I’m telling you the truth. I swear. They’re not involved.”
“And President Whitehall?”
“Not involved.”
Uzi withdrew the gun. “And who made the changes in the IAFIS database?”
“All I know is we’ve got someone at CJIS in Clarksburg. I don’t know who.”
Uzi thought about this. It made sense that the fingerprint repository at the Criminal Justice Information Services Division was involved. “But why? Why go through all this trouble?”
Larchmont winced, looked again at his foot. “It’s throbbing. I need to get to an emergency room, get some painkillers.”
Uzi knew a gunshot wound to the foot was painful. But he had used this method of interrogation in the past, and in his experience, with all the adrenaline in Larchmont’s system, it would be awhile before he’d feel the injury’s full effects.
“We don’t have a lot of time. Not if you want me to let you go before my buddies start arriving. And they won’t be so anxious to cut you any deals. Now answer my question. Why go through all this trouble?”
Larchmont’s face crunched into a pained expression. He looked into his lap. “Power and money. What else is there in Washington, Agent Uziel? It all comes down to power and money.”
“Spare me the philosophical discussion.”
Hard Target Page 46
