by Tom Clancy
“You’re making a mistake,” Carruth said.
“Turn around, put your hands on the wall, walk your feet back, and spread ’em,” Beefy said. “We’ll apologize if we’re wrong.”
Oh, shit! If they found his revolver, he was gonna be in a world of trouble. Illegally concealed weapons were a big no-no in D.C., and at the very least, they could confiscate his BMF and put him in the local slammer until a lawyer could bust him loose.
That would not do. Lewis would have a conniption. And he didn’t want to lose his gun, no way.
“Okay, okay, no problem, take it easy.” Carruth started to turn to his right. When his hand was covered by his body, he snapped it down and grabbed for his revolver—
The two cops started yelling, clawing for their own side arms, but Carruth had the jump on them. He cleared leather, cocked the hammer as he drew, shoved the big revolver toward Beefy, who was all of two meters away, and pulled the trigger—
Even knowing how loud it was, the sound and vibration almost paralyzed Carruth. It was a big bomb going off in your face; the shock of it blasted your skin like a hot wind, and shooting one-handed, the recoil damned near jerked the gun out of his hand.
The protective Kevlar vest didn’t do the man any good. It was a center-punch shot, and even if it didn’t penetrate, it would be like being hit in the chest with a cannonball—the impact would break his sternum and ribs and concuss the heart like a sledgehammer.
Moustache cursed and brought his Glock up, but it went off while it was still pointed at the sidewalk. The jacketed slug ricocheted off the concrete and spanged into the wall behind Carruth as he dragged his revolver down from where it pointed at the sky. He grabbed it with his other hand, moving like a turtle, slow, oh, so slowly. . . .
Moustache’s Glock fired again, this time almost lined up, but the bullet went wide, to Carruth’s left, and he got his muzzle pointed and fired the second chamber—
Moustache collapsed, another center-of-mass hit the vest wouldn’t protect against, to join Beefy supine on the sidewalk.
Holy shit!
It was like the wrath of God. Two up, two down. He had most likely just killed a pair of Metro cops.
It was way past time to leave.
He looked around. Nobody else on the street close enough to ID him, not that he could see. But this place would be thick with police in five minutes and he needed to be gone!
Carruth holstered his weapon. He bent down, pulled a pair of surgical gloves from Beefy’s back pocket, put them on as he ran to the cruiser’s front door, and climbed into the vehicle. He hit the siren and light-bar controls and screeched away from the curb.
He had to get as far away as fast as he could.
This was bad. Very bad.
9
Washington, D.C.
Lewis was on her way home, driving the politically correct Japanese hybrid car she’d picked up second-hand a year past. At this stage of the game, she didn’t want to do anything that might call attention to her, and the little automobile, which she privately thought of as a “Priapus,” was as innocuous as they came. Even so, it still used a certain amount of gasoline to augment the electric motors, and the tank was nearly empty. She pulled over to a self-serve station a couple miles away from her house, got out, pushed her credit card into the reader, and started to pump fuel into the little car. A year or two from now, she’d be able to send her butler to buy her gas, if she felt like it. . . .
An ambulance pulled into the lot and parked next to the mini-market. The EMT riding shotgun alighted and went inside.
Of a moment, Lewis found herself riding a quick surge of memory. Like the best VR, it was almost reality—sights, smells, the feel of the air. . . .
The night her father died, Lewis had been in the hospital with her father’s mother. Granny had, after Grampa passed away, slipped slowly and quietly into senility. One day, she seemed fine; the next, she was talking about men coming out of the walls of her house to chase her around the bedroom. It was sad—Granny had been a strong, smart woman who had raised two sons and a daughter, while working as an accountant, and run her household like a drill sergeant, which Grampa had been, but had given up when he’d retired.
Her doctor wanted to do tests to confirm what everybody already knew, that she had Alzheimer’s and she had been successfully hiding it from her family. Nobody was happy about it.
The room had been unbearably hot. It had been August, in Richmond, the summer days almost tropical and the nights cloyingly warm and muggy, but even so, Granny had been cold, and they had cranked the heat up so that it was eighty-five degrees in the private room. The family had been taking turns going to sit with her—her mother, Rachel, two of her cousins—and on that night, it had been Rachel’s turn.
The room was hot. Granny was in and out of reality. One moment, able to talk about what she’d read in the newspaper and comment on it intelligently, the next moment, wondering how a cat had gotten into the room and onto her bed.
Lewis, just turned eighteen, was herself something of a wreck. Her father’s court-martial had gone as expected—he was guilty, never any question of whether he had taken his side arm and shot Private Benjamin Thomas Little in the head with it, killing him instantly. Her father was waiting for his sentence, and everybody knew it was going to be life or something just short of it, depending on how much the judges sympathized with Sergeant Lewis because two of them also had daughters.
Benny, the bastard. He had been her boyfriend, from the base, doing his first tour, a private. Tall, handsome, funny, and she had thought she loved him. Two, three more dates, she would have given him what he wanted.
But he couldn’t wait. He had refused to take no for an answer when they’d been kissing in the backseat of his car, and had held her down and forced himself into her.
When she’d gotten home, her shirt torn and her face streaked with tears, her father had taken one look, grabbed his gun, driven to the barracks, and shot Benny dead.
So there she was, cooking in a hospital room with the heat turned up in the middle of a hot August night, listening to her poor old grandmother ramble on about a cat that wasn’t there, and feeling like shit because it was her fault that her father was going to spend the rest of his life in a federal prison. Things didn’t seem as if they could get any worse.
Until her mother showed up at Granny’s room with the news.
Rachel’s father had just killed himself. A different pistol, but the same results as Benny . . .
The hurried slamming of the ambulance door brought Lewis back to the present. The driver lit the lights and the vehicle squealed out of the mini-mart’s parking lot, the siren kicking in as it reached the street.
Lewis topped off the tank of her car, feeling disconnected from the act. She had blamed herself for her father’s death for a long time, but as the years went by, she had shifted much of that blame to the Army. Benny had been a soldier—why hadn’t he been taught that forcing himself on a woman was wrong? Why hadn’t the Army looked at what her father had done as something any father would have done? Made allowances for a man who was only dealing justice to a criminal? Had she gone to the MPs, they would have thrown Benny into the stockade, and in a just world, it would have been Benny who went to prison young and came out an old man.
Yes, she had gone into the Army—her father’s suicide note had specified that she still should, as they had always planned—but eventually, she had realized that the Army needed to pay for what had happened to her father. And since they weren’t going to do that voluntarily, she would make them pay.
She climbed into her car, dropped the gas receipt on the seat, and started the machine’s anemic little engine. It had taken years to get into a position where she had enough power to hit the Army hard enough to cause it pain. It would never be as bad as what she had felt, the Army was too big to deal that kind of blow, but it would sting. It would be embarrassing, it would cost them in time and effort and money, and they would neve
r know who had done it, or why. Maybe she would leave a time capsule somewhere, to be opened after she died, explaining it all. Or maybe she wouldn’t.
She pulled out onto the street. It had taken a long time to set it up, but it was coming to pass, just as she had planned. If vengeance was a dish best served cold, then hers was certainly that. But she expected that it would taste perfect when it was done.
The Fretboard
Washington, D.C.
Jennifer Hart said, “How are your fingertips?”
It was nearly nine P.M. Given his job, it was hard for Kent to take off in the middle of the day for guitar lessons, but Jen was willing to meet him here at eight. The shop was closed, but she had a key, and they didn’t seem to mind her teaching whenever she wanted.
The first time he’d showed up, he’d apologized for cutting into her evenings.
She’d laughed. Most evenings, her social life consisted of sitting in an overstuffed chair trying to read a book with her cat curled in her lap, she’d said.
Kent said, “Fine.” In truth, the fingers on his left hand were all sore—the ends felt blistered, and his thumb ached from pressing too hard into the back of the guitar’s neck. He figured it would pass as he developed calluses and more specific strength in the hand. No point in making a big deal out of it.
She grinned at him, and he enjoyed watching the smile lines form around her eyes and mouth. “Uh huh. Going to be stoic, huh?”
He smiled in return. “Too late to change now,” he said.
She took a black silk cloth and began to wipe the fretboard and body of her guitar. He had a similar scrap of cloth in his case, and he did the same for his instrument. Even with clean hands, there was a certain amount of natural oil and grit that worked their way into the strings, causing, she had said, corrosion. A quick wipe with a cloth after playing helped slow that down.
Kent had learned about strings, tuners, humidifiers, all manner of esoterica connected to maintaining a classical guitar in some semblance of form, and he had no problem doing what was necessary. His grandfather had taught him how to sharpen a knife and keep it oiled when he’d been a boy; the old man had never had any patience for a man who didn’t take care of his tools.
“You’re coming along pretty well,” Jen said.
“It’s a lot harder than you make it look,” he said.
She finished wiping her instrument, and tucked it into the case, then latched it shut. “Of course. Anybody with a little skill in anything makes it look easier to somebody just trying to learn.”
“So, am I ever going to learn enough to justify owning this beast?” He held the guitar up in one hand, then lowered it into his case.
“Truth? You probably aren’t ever going to sit on a concert stage and make people want to go home and toss out their Segovia recordings. But if you practice and keep learning, three or four years from now you’ll be able to play some very nice things that people will enjoy hearing—and you won’t have to worry that your instrument is holding you back.”
He nodded. “Good enough. Though that’s hard to see after a fumbling rendition of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,’ or ‘Scales on an E-string.’ ”
She laughed. “Everybody’s got to start somewhere. A few lessons ago, you didn’t know the names of the strings. Now, you can tune the guitar, and pick out simple melodies, plus you know a few basic chords. Most of what people play on acoustic rhythm guitar these days can be done with what they call ‘cowboy chords,’ maybe ten or fifteen or so.”
“Odd name,” he said.
“Think of those old cowboy movies you probably watched as a kid on late-night TV—Gene or Roy or whoever and his buddies sitting around the campfire, somebody with a guitar, somebody with a harmonica—I think that’s where the name came from.”
Kent nodded. He could see it.
“For a lot of blues,” she went on, “you can get by with three or four, and for most rock and roll you only really need half a dozen. You don’t have to be a world-class player to enjoy making music.”
She stood. “Same time, Tuesday?”
“Works for me. Walk you to your car?”
“Think I can’t make it there on my own?”
“I’m parked close to you,” he said. “In case I fall down, you can help me up.”
She laughed again. He liked making her do that.
“You used to be married, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. She passed away a while ago.”
“I was married once myself. But my husband was more interested in work than me. Twenty years ago, he took off and went out to conquer the music world.”
“Did he? Conquer the music world, I mean?”
“He did, actually. His instrument is the cello. He can sit on the same stage and keep up with Yo-Yo Ma. Played first cello with a couple of major European orchestras, formed his own chamber group that puts out a recording now and then, usually goes pretty high up on the classical charts. Married three more times since we split. I believe his current wife is a twenty-six-year-old daughter of some German baron. Beautiful woman, and if I had to guess, probably can’t keep time in a waterproof basket—Armand prefers to be the only musician in a marriage.”
Kent heard just a trace of bitterness, and a hint of ugly history, but then she laughed again, and that seemed real enough. “Lotta water under that bridge,” she said. She turned and headed for the shop’s exit. “No reason to go back there and fall in.”
He didn’t speak to that, only followed her to the door. Maybe he would check on-line and see what he could find about this “Armand” character. Might be interesting to know what kind of man would leave a woman like Jennifer Hart. The more he was around her, the more relaxed he felt. That was interesting, too. . . .
10
Bramblett’s Cafe
White Hope, Virginia
Carruth knew he should get rid of his handgun. They’d recover the slugs, and ballistics would cook him if they ever got hold of the revolver. There probably weren’t that many fifty-caliber handguns kicking around, and fewer still of the custom-made Reeders. But the gun had cost almost three grand, and he liked it. And now there was certainly no doubt that it was effective. It had dropped the cops fast enough, even with vests.
So the trick was to make sure the police didn’t get the gun until he could afford to buy a new one to replace it.
The bored waitress, a skinny twenty-something with short hair, nine earrings in each ear, a nose stud, plus an eyebrow- and a lip-piercing, refilled his cup of bad coffee. She didn’t smile at him.
Must be a lesbian, he figured. Or a doper. Or both.
It had been a freak accident, the cops coming on him that way. What were the chances that would happen? What were the chances it would happen twice?
Yeah, he’d left the rental car, but even while he was on the boogie in the police cruiser, he had called one of his men and had him haul butt there to fetch the rental before the cops had time to shut the whole neighborhood down, so no grief from that. The car had been leased under a shell-company name anyhow. He had never been to that neighborhood before, and God knew he was never going back there again.
A first-class snafu, but he was clear.
So, yeah, the gun would have to go away, eventually, but it ought to be safe enough for a while.
He was rationalizing, he knew that, but he liked the piece a whole lot.
It wasn’t as though he’d never shot anybody before. He’d knocked over a few “insurgents” as they called themselves—aka “terrorists” to the rest of the world—on his second tour, but never a civilian, and certainly not a cop. That was bad business. Cops pulled out all the stops to catch guys who took out one of their own, but even with their fire lit, they had to have some place to start, someone to focus all their righteous anger on, and they didn’t know to come looking for him.
The big thing was, Lewis couldn’t know anything about any of this. Nada. She was twitchy enough as it was. If she had any idea
he was the guy who had cooled two of D.C.’s finest and made the front page of the papers and the Six O’Clock News on every local channel, he’d be in a world of trouble. She couldn’t turn him over to the law, he knew too much about her and their mutual business, but she wouldn’t want him risking the project. And she would really have a heaving fit if she knew he hadn’t ditched the gun he’d used. . . .
The cops, that had been a one-in-a-million thing, not his fault, there was no way you could have planned on it. It would never happen again. No point in worrying about it.
He looked up and saw Lewis come in. This was another crappy mall cafe thirty miles away from the last place. She was careful—and he didn’t really mind that. No three-on-a-match business for her. You didn’t want to be working with somebody who wasn’t careful when it was your ass on the line. Carruth didn’t mind cowboys, as long as they didn’t shut off their brains when they went rodeo-romping.
Lewis sat down. If the waitress were true to form, it would be ten minutes before she noticed enough to bring Lewis any of the crappy coffee. That’s how long he’d sat there waiting. Easy enough to see why the place was empty except for him and Lewis and an old guy sitting at the counter. Probably all the old guy’s taste buds were dead.
“You look nervous,” Lewis said.
“Nah, just tired. I worked out this morning, maybe pushed the weights a little hard.” That was actually true. Whenever he got himself into trouble, he’d hit the gym and try to burn out the tension. Sometimes it worked. Not this time, though. “What’s up?”
“Our buyer wants a little more convincing. We need to fetch something that will make him drool.”
“Yeah? What?”
“I know just what will do the trick.”
