“No, but the people there are mine, totally trustworthy. Leet knows most of them.”
“Good enough. I’ll stop by your office after I’m done, see how your boys are getting along.”
“That’s probably not—”
Tired of Ben’s bullshit, Max ended the call.
“Well, that was rather abrupt,” Leet said with a laugh.
“Well, Ben’s got some explaining to do.”
“Don’t take it personally, Max. He’s a good guy, and you’ve known him longer than I have. And you also know that surprises are part of the game.”
“Yeah, I learned to expect them from my bosses, not from my friends.”
“On the job he’s nobody’s friend. You forget that, and you need to get over it. The more you pressure him the slower he’ll move.”
The fuck he will. Max let it drop, from conversation anyway. She’s right, but damned if I’m going to forget this. And he’d best have all of his resources focused on finding Swift.
He tried to put it out of his mind as he continued north through Richmond, encountering heavier traffic the closer they came to DC. Things weren’t all that bad. Otto had made a good catch. Thanks to his girlfriend, Daniel looked almost human again, though still quite pale from blood loss. A huge breakfast and showers all around had done much to lift their flagging spirits and help them regain a modicum of focus. Otto even supplied Max with .45 ammo and 5.56 rounds for the Saint.
I hope Otto knows what he stepped into. For all Max knew, he might be shooting it out with agents even now. Or not. Maybe we finally lost them. Whatever the case, Otto’s involvement only added to his sense of foreboding.
The boy continued to worry him as well. Shai hadn’t eaten or drank much since the ordeal started, though he seemed to be holding up okay, definitely putting on a brave face. But his lack of emotion toward the rigors they’d endured troubled Max. Having seen more than a child his age should ever witness, the kid could very well be in shock.
After exiting from I-95, Leet began relaying directions to the safehouse. They entered a rundown neighborhood in northern Virginia, about fifteen minutes from DC, with small unkempt houses, cracked sidewalks, battered vehicles parked on potholed streets.
“That’s our street,” Leet said. “Hang a right at that corner store.”
Max turned onto the dead-end street, pausing a moment as boys playing a game of street basketball slowly parted to let him through.
“Last house on the left,” she instructed.
Max turned around in the weedy driveway, then parked before a spacious, dilapidated home much larger than the others on the block, two stories and an attic, painted sky blue with darker shutters. It looked older than the others too, perhaps an original residence to the block, built back when the area was still rural. An ancient black man wearing a misshapen fedora above a bush of white whiskers sat in a rocking chair on the sagging porch reading a newspaper, a blanket covering his lap. A busted toilet, an old mechanic’s tool cabinet on wheels, bald tires, a broken bassinet, and other miscellaneous junk littered the porch to either side of him.
Leet cracked a smile. “I see Dawson’s on the door.”
“Hope he’s younger than he looks.”
She laughed. “Considerably.”
They exited the SUV and headed for the house, Leet holding Shai’s hand and carrying the briefcase. Max helped Daniel, who was almost capable of moving on his own.
“We don’t need no encyclopedias, lady,” said the door guard, Dawson, when they reached the porch. Even up close his disguise might have fooled Max, the only giveaway a vague outline of a sawed-off tactical shotgun secreted beneath the blanket on his lap.
Leet smiled at him. “Do they still sell those door-to-door?”
“They try.” He didn’t look up from his paper. “A salesman came by yesterday. He’s workin’ the wrong neighborhood.”
Max couldn’t think of a right neighborhood in which to sell encyclopedias. These days, who the hell needs them?
“Well, sir, I’ll take it up with the lady of the house,” Leet said.
Dawson shrugged, pretended to read. Max noticed a spy hole cut in his newspaper. “Suit yourself… Margie.” He smiled but didn’t look up.
Leet opened the door to usher them inside. “You know I hate that nickname.”
“’Bout damn time,” rasped an older white woman sitting on the living room couch.
The relatively new furniture within belied the house’s ghetto appearance from outside. But the wasted-looking woman in the guise of a disheveled drug addict did not. She would fit in perfectly out on the street. The FBI had done a fine job of masking the safehouse as a halfway house. Brilliant. Suits coming and going won’t be noticed. The neighbors would peg them as lawyers or drug counselors for the home’s derelict occupants.
“Don’t hate me for having a job, Parkinson,” Leet said to her, good-naturedly. “Some of us were getting shot at while you sat here on your ass.”
“No thanks, I like my job better.”
“There she is,” said a cheery young agent who entered the living room from the kitchen beyond. “Thought you’d never make it.” He wore a simpler disguise: filthy jeans, black wifebeater, wallet on a heavy chain, and a phony tribal facial tattoo. When he turned slightly, Max saw a pistol butt swelling his wifebeater at the small of his back.
“You should have known better,” said Leet. “Where’s the boss?”
“Upstairs in the office, forging signatures on our welfare checks,” laughed the tattoo-faced agent.
“Don’t lose track of these two, or you will be on welfare. And you’ll sure as hell have to deal with me.”
“Rough trip, I take it?” He pointed at Daniel’s shoulder.
“You have no idea the shit we’ve gone through, Williams.”
“Sorry about Don,” said Parkinson.
Max stood by during the brief commiseration. Then Leet introduced him and Farbers to the agents. A bit of small talk ensued. Max wanted no part of it. Swift awaited him somewhere. Nevertheless, he played off as sociable. They didn’t seem too interested in him or what they’d been through, focused solely on their own jobs here and now. You might have your hands full. Leet would have to brief them. He needed to go.
“Let me get these two upstairs,” Williams said.
“Max, I thank you for all your help,” Daniel said, shaking his hand weakly.
“You’re a tough man. Most people wouldn’t have made it this far, with or without my help.” He turned his attention downward to Shai. “That goes for you too, partner. You’re more of a man than most men.”
When they shook hands, Shai confirming Max’s words with an abnormally strong grip. “Thank you, Max. I hope you find who you’re looking for.”
“I will. Have your father look me up in Vegas when this is all over. We’ll do some cowboy stuff, go horseback riding at Red Rock. What do you say?”
“All right!”
“Good man.” He slapped Shai on the back as Williams led them upstairs to see the boss, whoever that was.
Max turned and found himself in Leet’s embrace. She squeezed him hard, didn’t let go, and said into his ear, “You crazy son of a bitch.” He detected a sob. “We’d be dead without you.”
“I don’t think so… Margie.”
She pulled back, laughing. “Don’t be surprised if I look you up too. I owe you one, maybe a couple.” She leaned closer to whisper, “I’ll be searching for Carter too. Don’t tell Ben.”
“Not a problem. And thanks. You did a damn fine job out there.”
“I learned a lot.”
“Yes, you did. One day you might be running the whole show.”
“Ugh, that’s the last thing I want.” She paused. “You be safe out there.”
“You too.”
Leet turned and hurried upstairs, not looking back. As he watched her go, Max considered other ways she might reimburse him someday, t
hen dismissed them just as fast. Let her go. You’d only get her killed somehow. The mere fact that she’d survived working a mission with him was sufficient consolation, one less actor in his nightmares.
Max departed after bidding curt farewells to Parkinson and Dawson, grateful to be returning the Suburban Otto had rented in pristine condition. The basketball game was over, its youthful participants now throwing a football in a front yard. He reached the end of the block, waited for traffic to clear so he could turn left.
As he sat there, a black Honda compact modified into a ground-hugging lowrider made a left, passing right in front of him. The driver, a young man with a cropped black beard, was visible above the tinted, half-lowered driver’s window. He didn’t know the driver’s identity, and yet he knew him. They’d last met behind a diner south of Las Vegas.
“Shit!” Max muttered as the man passed, bound for the safehouse.
Traffic had cleared, so Max turned left, pulled a screeching 180 in front of the corner store, and swung the Suburban back toward the safehouse.
CHAPTER 14
Despite his desire to eliminate the bearded man, obviously one of several moles in the Bureau, Max had to carefully consider how best to do it. Pulling to a screeching halt before the safehouse might well alarm Dawson into firing upon him. He doesn’t know the guy is dirty. Somehow, Max had to inform Dawson and take the guy down. And he had only seconds to formulate a plan.
He approached the end of the block. The bearded agent had parked in the driveway and now strode to the front door. The guy looked cleaner than the agents in the house, assuming more of a gangbanger look—heavy gold chain over his t-shirt, backward Sixers cap, lug-soled boots. No bum yet not likely to raise any local eyebrows. He was packing, of course, the outline of a pistol butt visible beneath his shirt at the small of his back.
Here we go… Max pulled to a gentle halt, blocking the driveway behind the Honda. Dawson looked perplexed at his arrival. Max waved to him, opened the door. Beard man had turned to regard Max as well, the expression on his face flat, betraying nothing.
“You forget somethin’?” Dawson called, not sounding quite so friendly now.
“Don’t let him in, Dawson; he’s a traitor,” Max said while watching the mole. He then drew his pistol and leveled it at him. No body armor. All the better.
“What the fuck, asshole?” asked the mole, trying to sound indignant. “I ain’t never seen you before in my life.”
“Save it, kid.” Max advanced a couple of steps, pleased to see Dawson in the corner of his eye point the concealed shotgun at the mole. “We met in Vegas. This time you go down.”
“Hands where I can see ’em, Green,” Dawson barked at the mole. “Don’t even reach for that gun.”
Green did not comply. “Yo, Dawson, I don’t know who this motherfucker is!”
“Doesn’t matter, we’re taking you in.” He stood, keeping the blanket over the shotgun.
“A’ight, whatever…” Green raised his arms.
Max took a couple more steps. “Be thankful it’s prison and not the morgue.”
Green spat at him. “Fuck you, King Kong! We’ll see about that.”
Max went to disarm Green, confident that Dawson had his back.
A barely audible female scream came from the house. Two rapid gunshots followed an instant later.
They’re all fucking dirty! Max knew it even before he spied Dawson turning his shotgun on him. He turned and fired; the shot wide but enough to throw off Dawson’s aim. Dirt and dust showered Max when buckshot struck the earth near his feet. Max fired again, shattered the tank on the broken toilet as Dawson dove for cover behind it.
Free for the moment from Dawson’s fire, Max rounded on Green, expecting to see a pistol pointed at him. Yet he saw only the rippling tail of his t-shirt as Green cut around a hedge and disappeared around the side of the house.
Max turned back to the porch, ever mindful of his exposed position in the center of the front yard. More shots popped from within the house. The shotgun and half of a white-whiskered face appeared from behind the tool cabinet, followed by a roar of powder and pellets that flew past Max’s back as he ran toward the side of the house. He was chasing Green but hopefully his path of pursuit might also allow him to flank Dawson’s position. He assumed a quick, crouching walk that kept his head beneath the hedge, obscuring Dawson’s view. The door guard’s next shot trimmed the hedge above his head, forced him flat onto his belly as shrub leaves and splinters from the shattered porch railing fluttered to earth. But unless Dawson broke cover and came to the edge of the porch, Max would remain out of his sights.
He crawled a few feet, trying to puzzle out Dawson’s next move as he peered around the hedge, gun pointed after his fleeing nemesis.
Green had disappeared.
Fucker could be anywhere! Most likely circling the house to take him from behind.
Max formed a plan in nanoseconds. Dawson was playing it cautious. Assault through! He came to his knees, fired twice through the hedge at the tool cabinet to cover his move. Then he sprang to his feet and kept firing as he took two quick steps that brought him around the porch, flanking the cabinet. Forced to remain in cover, Dawson didn’t see him coming and reacted too late. Max kept up his fire, saw Dawson’s ass, and shot at it as the dirty agent scrambled for better cover. The bullet took him right between the cheeks, a savage colonoscopy that dropped him to the floorboards with an agonized grunt.
Max grabbed the railing with his left hand, vaulted over and onto the porch. Blood leaked from Dawson’s sundered asshole as the agent rolled over. Max put a quick bullet into the back of his head and moved on to the front door, stepping on him in the process. That’s what you get playing it safe.
Thinking he might find Green awaiting him inside, Max opted for a more dynamic entry, barging through the front door only to find the living room empty. Gunfire in the house had ceased for the moment, though a muffled shout drifted down the stairs. The situation tore at his decisive faculties. Leet needed his help, but Green might surprise him from behind at any time. He considered storming the kitchen, hoping to find Green in hiding, but more gunfire from the upper floors settled the issue.
Taking the risers two and three at a time, Max arrived in the empty second floor hallway, which reeked of gunpowder. Seeing no enemy around, he quickly performed a combat reload of his pistol as he took stock. Several doors beckoned, two standing wide open. But which accessed the stairs to the attic floor and the gun battle? The open doors. People didn’t tend to close doors behind them when fleeing or entering a gunfight.
The first open door accessed a spartan office featuring little more than a desk and an open laptop computer, the screen dark. Two bullet holes pocked the walls; more bullets had chewed up the wall in the hallway opposite the door. No blood had been shed here, however. Perhaps a good sign, perhaps not.
Max ran to the second door, peered in, and saw a shadowy staircase leading upward. Agents might be hiding behind any of the closed doors, waiting to catch him unaware. Again leaving potential enemies at his back, he darted up the staircase, switched back at a landing, and moved up the second flight in a crouch as another gunshot cracked, shattering wood.
Approaching the attic floor, Max got lower and crept up the last few stairs. The view over the top filled him with foreboding. The staircase had allowed previous occupants to store junk and dusty old furniture in the attic, which was piled from floor to sloping ceilings. Shit. Plenty of cover.
“Give it up!” shouted an unfamiliar voice. “We might let you live.”
Leet responded from somewhere with another shot that splintered wood and shattered glass.
She’s at the far end somewhere. The mole agents wouldn’t be looking in his direction. I hope. But as his old pal LT had often said, hope usually ran contrary to fact. Did they know he had returned?
He stood and skulked into the cover behind an old wardrobe, the attic’s musty smell thick e
nough to overcome the powder smoke that hung in thick gray layers, illuminated by small round windows at either end of the room. Peering around the wardrobe, he caught a glimpse of a charcoal suit jacket, which disappeared just as fast. The Boss. He followed, ducked behind a piece of covered furniture, and peeked around it. Two quick shots sounded, followed by three more from another location. Sounds of falling debris followed.
He spied the boss’s rear end ahead, the suit crouching as he took refuge behind a sofa covered in a swatch of grimy canvas. Before Max could aim, he moved on.
Another gunshot, then a wail of pain. “Ah shit!” screamed a female voice somewhere off to Max’s left through the labyrinth of battered antiques.
“Parkinson!” the boss shouted.
Even with lots of furniture to conceal his movements, Max abandoned his direct pursuit of the boss, who would be on high alert for danger from any direction. He might even have realized Max was somewhere behind him. From the sound of it, Max’s target remained constantly on the move.
Max squeezed his bulk sideways into a narrow passage, boxes behind him and the back side of a monolithic china cabinet to his front. He took note that it could serve as cover or a weapon later. As he came to the end of the cabinet, he peered around its edge through a narrow gap in the furniture and found the boss kneeling in his sights with his back turned.
The boss quickly turned, firing on him twice through the small gap.
Though Max had advanced with his customary stealth, he had somehow given himself away. He drew his head back as the second bullet tore a piece of wood from the cabinet’s edge. Peering from cover again would earn him a bullet in the face.
“He’s fucking back!” the boss shouted.
Max crouched slightly, put his shoulder into the heavy cabinet, toppling it over with a tremendous thud. The boss gave an alarmed shout as he dove to evade the falling cabinet. He almost made it. The cabinet’s glass doors shattered as it hit the floor with a resounding boom that shook the house, pinning the boss’s legs beneath it. Through a cloud of dust, Max watched him try to wriggle from beneath the great weight as he screamed in agony. The falling cabinet might have broken one of his legs; the shattered glass had definitely cut him in many places. He waved his pistol wildly about in Max’s direction as he attempted to extricate his legs. Two bullets snapped well over Max’s head, striking the sloping ceiling.
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