by Marcus Sakey
There was a gentle rise ahead of him, a nightmare, but the other side would provide a little cover. No choice. He slammed forward, boots rattling against the ground, the impact jarring up his legs. Breath coming hard, and panic sweat soaking his armpits. Sprinted diagonally across a row of headstones, leaped a short one, more gunfire behind, reached a tree, centripetally spun around the other side of it—careful, do the same move too many times and they’ll anticipate it—but it worked this time, the thud of a round hitting the bark above him, and then he made the edge of the ridge and flung himself forward in a soccer slide tackle, low to the ground, stones and branches ripping at him.
Behind him, he heard the men yelling, knew they’d be spreading out in an arc, moving fast, trying to narrow his options. Cooper had his pistol, but the assault rifles they carried were capable of full auto and accurate to a mile.
Still.
He turned and fired twice directly at the roof of the crypt, then paused, fired again. Stone cracked and bullets ricocheted. The threat would slow them down, force them to move more carefully. It wouldn’t buy much, though. He needed a plan.
The far side of the cemetery was bounded by the Potomac. If he could make it there, climb the fence, then…
Then what? A swimmer in open water was an easy target. Besides, it was the obvious move. Chase, and the target flees. Flee, and you can’t think.
Cooper pictured the map he’d noticed at the entrance, the graceful regions nestled against one another, the famous dead, the chapel.
Worth a try.
He set off at a dash, keeping as low as he could without slowing down. Leaving the path behind and heading directly perpendicular to his previous course, not something fleeing people did. Adrenaline electrified his every nerve. The physical weight of the pistol in his hand and the emotional weight of the drive in his pocket. The smell of dirt. A gust of wind that lifted the tree limbs to dance.
A gunfight in a graveyard, Jesus Christ.
There was a row of tall tombstones with dates from the Civil War, and he angled behind them, moving fast. Through the trees ahead, a small hill, too perfectly proportioned to be natural, and the ivy of the chapel. He leaped a bench, landed moving, passing a tombstone with a slender angel beseeching the sky. Intuition made him glance over his shoulder.
The man was alone, probably the far edge of the arc. Fifteen yards away, atop the ridge. Black body armor and a good stance, weapon at the ready. The black helmet with its visor down, a blank-faced predator. His attention was focused on where Cooper was supposed to be, but intuition or his helmet optics must have screamed a warning, because he turned to look right at Cooper.
For an instant, they stood frozen. Then the faceless swung his rifle to bear, rocking his weight to his back leg, sighting down the barrel, zeroing in, gloved finger moving, and Cooper could see the path of the bullet, see it like it was drawn in the air, a line right to his chest, and without thinking he flung himself sideways.
Heard the crack of the bullet as he hung in the air, and heard its brothers, the man firing to follow him, the rush of air, the ground rising to meet Cooper, the angel staring at the sky, Cooper’s hands coming up even as he fell, the pistol steady, the man in his sights. They both fired.
The angel wept stone tears.
The commando in black staggered as a hole spiderwebbed his visor.
Cooper hit the ground, the impact uncushioned by grace, knocking the wind from him. Kept the gun up as he watched the man fall.
He’d killed a DAR agent.
It was the first time. He had a sinking feeling it wouldn’t be the last.
Then he was scrambling to his feet and running in a crouch, the chapel nearby now, the ivy waving in the breeze, the stained glass bloody in the evening light. He reached the edge of it, panting, ran around the far side, the bulk of it between him and the assault team, and only a fraction of a mile to the street.
To find Bobby Quinn leaning against the far side of a gravestone, most of his body out of sight behind the stone, a submachine gun braced on it. Leveled straight at Cooper’s chest.
His former partner betrayed no surprise to see him. Had been expecting him. Of course. They’d worked together enough. He knew Cooper liked to double back, to misdirect. So he’d sent the team to cover the obvious routes, and then staked out his hunch.
“Drop the gun. Now.”
Cooper considered making the same play he just had, a wild leap and a midair shot. But the situation was different. The faceless had been exposed and surprised. He’d telegraphed his intent with every muscle. Quinn, on the other hand, was ready and steady, with most of his body—and, more important, his body language—hidden. No way to read him if Cooper couldn’t see him.
Besides. Are you going to shoot Bobby Quinn?
“I mean it. Drop the gun.”
Cooper froze. Nervous energy crackling through him, his body rubbery. Had a weird desire to laugh. He dropped the gun. “Hi, Bobby.”
“Lace your hands on your head, then get down on your knees with your ankles crossed.”
Cooper stared at his colleague, his partner in a hundred missions, remembered the dark sense of humor of the man, the way he’d hold a cigarette for two minutes before he’d light it. How many times had they gone in a door together?
“Bobby.” He struggled for words, wanted to explain the situation, the whole thing: going undercover, chasing John Smith, everything he’d learned since. Wanted half an hour in a pub, somewhere with oak and worn stools, coasters with the Guinness logo. Wanted to explain, to lay out everything that had happened, to make the man understand.
And then the laugh did hit him, nothing he could do about it. How many times had his targets wanted the same thing? How many times had he heard them say…
“Do it now!”
Cooper said, “I didn’t do the things they say, Bobby.” The colossal humor of it almost overwhelming him. What was the phrase the Irish used?
You want to make God laugh, you make a plan.
“Lace your hands behind—”
Cooper shook his head. “Can’t do it.”
“You think I won’t shoot you?”
“I don’t know.” But I do know that if I let you take me, I’m a dead man. And this evidence, whatever it is, it will vanish. Drew Peters will go on fostering a war. And I can’t live with that.
Even if it means I have to die with it.
“I guess we’re going to find out.” Slowly, hands at his sides, he started walking. Not toward Bobby, at a tangent. No time to talk, no time to explain. The rest of the tactical response team would have heard the gunfire, would be closing in on their dead comrade. They’d be here in seconds.
“Goddamn it, Cooper—”
“I’m sorry.” He kept walking but met his partner’s eyes as he did. “I promise you, I’m not who they say I am. But I can’t stay to explain.”
Quinn lowered the barrel of the gun a notch, pulled the trigger. A chunk of turf an inch in front of Cooper’s foot detonated. “I know you can shoot out my legs, Bobby. But that’s the same as killing me. You know those men won’t hesitate. And if it’s going to happen, I’d rather it was you.”
“Cooper—”
“Make your choice, Bobby.” He stopped then. Stared at the man. Trying to read his fate in the set of his partner’s eyes, the twitch of the muscle in one cheek, the tension in his neck.
Finally, Bobby said, “Goddamn you.” He turned, straightened. Put up his gun. “You’ve got three seconds.”
A rush of emotion swept through Cooper. For a moment, he wondered if he would have made the same choice if their situations had been reversed. If he’d have had the courage to be a person instead of an agent.
A question for another time. He took the head start and set off at a sprint.
It was more like five seconds before Quinn started yelling that Cooper was over there, that he was by the chapel, and by that time the fence and the street and the wide world were in front of him.
CHAPTER 36
Cooper stalked the DC night with a bomb in his pocket and his head on fire.
Overhead, faint, he could hear the sound of an airship, flying low. Looking for him. There would be a sniper on board, and a high-res camera package, and if they spotted him, he’d never hear the shot.
Relax. You’re just a man walking down the street. Just like all the others in this crowd. Don’t run, don’t call attention to yourself, and the odds of them spotting you are nil.
Well. Slim.
Any gunfight you walked away from was at least a partial success. But this one felt more partial than he’d like. Until he’d found the drive, he’d harbored hope that maybe Smith had lied, that the things Cooper had done were justified.
He couldn’t shelter that hope any longer. Peters had sent a hit team. No hesitation, no orders to arrest. Just kill and clean it up later. Drew Peters was the bad guy. Which made John Smith…well, who knew what it made John Smith?
Worse, Cooper had hoped to get in and out unspotted. To have time to review the video before the DAR even knew he was back in town. But now not only would Peters know that his precious insurance had been taken—he would know who had taken it.
What would that mean? What would a man like Peters do next?
Cooper froze, every muscle locking like stone. Someone bumped into him from behind, and he spun, hands ready. A sad-looking man in a business suit jumped, his eyes wide. “Hey, man, watch where you’re…”
But Cooper was already moving. Sprinting, despite the risk. A mini-mall was ahead on the right, one of those indoor places with a dozen fading businesses that never seemed to quite go under. He yanked open the door and stepped inside.
Muzak, and the multilayered reek of the candle shop by the entrance. A handful of shoppers wandering like zombies. His boot heels rang on the polished floor. A tanning place, a convenience store, a hair salon, a bright hallway leading to the bathrooms. Opposite them he found a payphone with a frayed cord, the phone book stolen long ago. He dug in his pockets. No change.
Back to the convenience store. He threw a ten at the vigilant-eyed Pakistani behind the register. “Quarters. I need quarters.”
“No change—”
“Give me four goddamn quarters and keep the rest.”
The man stared at him, shrugged, and opened the register in slow motion. Dipped in the drawer like he was pushing through water to do it. “Crazy, you are crazy.”
Cooper snatched the coins and ran back to the payphone. Almost knocked over a suburban-looking chick with big hair, didn’t slow.
He slotted two coins, then dialed Natalie’s number. Held the phone to his ear, his heart going wilder than it ever had in the cemetery, his hands shaking, control slipping. Ring. Ring. Ring. Come on, come on, come—
“Hello, Cooper. Welcome home.”
The world seemed to spin. He planted a hand against the wall. That voice. He knew that voice. “Dickinson.”
“Got it in one.”
“Where are my—”
“Children? They’re safe. Safe as can be. Your ex-wife, too. All three are in the loving arms of Equitable Services.”
Whatever happens, I’ll take care of your family.
Cooper wanted to rage, to scream threats down the line. But it wouldn’t do any good, he knew that.
Did it anyway. “Listen to me, you piece of shit, you let my children—”
“Shut up.” Dickinson calm as the eye of the hurricane ravaging the countryside, calm as the iceberg ripping open the Titanic. “Just be quiet. Okay?”
He started to reply, managed to stop himself.
“Good. Now. This is simple. We’re not gangsters, and this isn’t a B movie. This is a situation you created. And it’s a situation you can resolve.”
Cooper bit his tongue, literally bit it, jamming his teeth down and relishing the pain and focus it brought.
“Here’s how,” Dickinson continued. “Just come in. Come in, and bring what you stole. Simple as that. I’m not going to bullshit you. You won’t walk out again. But it will be quick, I’ll promise that. And we’ll let your family go.”
“Listen to me, Roger, listen. Drew Peters is not what he says he is. He’s a criminal. What I stole, it’s a drive, and it’s got evidence to back me up—”
“Listen to me, Cooper. Are you?”
“Yes.”
“I. Don’t. Care.”
The second of silence that followed sounded like an earthquake.
“Get me? I don’t care. It’s not my job to care.”
“Roger, I know you’re dedicated, I know you’re a believer, but what you believe in, it’s all a lie.”
Through the phone, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Don’t you remember what I said that morning after Bryan Vasquez died?”
Cooper forced himself to think back. “You said you didn’t hate me because I was an abnorm. You hate me because you think I’m weak.”
“I don’t hate you at all, Cooper. That’s the point. But I believe. And you don’t.”
Cooper rubbed at his face with his hand. “Roger, please—”
The line was dead. He stood holding the phone to his ear, Muzak in the background, the scuff and squeal of dress shoes on the floor, the faint odor of disinfectant from the bathroom, his family held hostage by monsters.
You decided a long time ago that you’d lie down in traffic for your children. Every parent does. Time to pay that piper.
He dropped the phone and started for the exit. Felt relief, honestly. He was tired, so bloody, stoop-shouldered tired, and he’d been on his own too long. Die for his children? No problem. One dead twist, coming right up.
Do you really believe Peters will let them go?
Why not? It’s me he wants. Me and his precious insurance, whatever it is. What harm can an environmental lawyer and two children do him?
He froze. What harm indeed?
Cooper turned and walked back to the men’s room. Pushed open the door. A janitor was leaning against a mop.
“Get out.”
“Say what?”
“Now.”
The janitor took another look, then rolled his cart out, muttering something about crazy-ass people, he had a job same as anybody else. Cooper opened the middle stall and shut and locked it behind him. From one pocket he took his datapad, from the other the drive, still encased in duct tape. He peeled that off, dropped it on the floor. The chip he’d found on the back of Teddy Eaton’s casket was a standard stamp drive, a terabyte storage, the kind you could buy in any drugstore. He slotted it, then sat down on the toilet.
The screen brightened, then started playing automatically.
The video showed two men talking in a bland room. One of the men was Drew Peters. The other he’d never met, but knew. Everybody did.
Cooper watched the video all the way through.
And when it was done, he hung his head, pressed his fingers into his eyes hard enough that black-and-white patterns danced. But not hard enough to erase what he had just seen.
He’d thought things were bad before. Bad last night, in Wyoming. Bad this afternoon, in the cemetery. Bad half an hour ago, on the phone with Roger Dickinson.
It turned out he’d had no idea what bad was.
There was no chance, none at all, that Peters would let his family live.
CHAPTER 37
He might have cried, sitting in that smelly toilet stall in the shitty mall in the heart of DC. He might have. He couldn’t really say.
There seemed to be a few moments missing from his personal history. And he was having a hard time wanting them back.
What he did know was that at some point, he’d stood up, opened the stall door, and walked to the sink. Held his hands under the faucet until it finally came on, then splashed lukewarm water on his face. Again, and again. Paper-toweled dry.
Stared in the mirror. At a dead man, most likely, the father of murdered children.
But not a man who would go quietly.
Cooper tossed the towels in the trash, walked back to the payphone, inserted his last coins, and dialed another number.
Forty-five minutes later, he walked into a pub called McLaren’s. Oak and worn stools, coasters with the Guinness logo. A smallish crowd of post-work drinkers, mostly men, mostly watching the game. He’d been there once before, years ago, some work party of Natalie’s. Cooper walked to the bar, signaled the man behind it.
“What can I getcha?”
“You guys have a back room, right?”
“Yeah. Not open now, but if you want to rent it for an event, I can get you the manager’s—”
“I’ll give you…” He opened his wallet and took out a handful of bills. “Three hundred and forty bucks to let me use it for an hour.”
The man looked left, then right. Shrugged, folded his hand around the bills. “Right this way.”
He followed the guy around the end of the bar. The bartender jangled out a ring of keys, found one, and turned the lock. “You want anything?”
“Just privacy.”
“Don’t mess it up, okay? I’m the one who cleans.”
Cooper nodded, said, “Privacy,” then pushed into the back room.
It was a smaller twin of the main room. A bar along one side, the taps unscrewed, pitchers racked, washcloth dangling. Without anyone there, it had an air of sad expectation. Cooper flipped on the lights, then sat down at the abandoned bar. He laid his datapad down, then spread his arms, put them palm first on the polished surface, and waited.
Ten minutes later, he heard the door open. Very slowly, moving only his head, he turned to look.
Bobby Quinn had on the same suit as earlier. His posture radiated fight-or-fight, and screw the other option. One hand rested on his weapon, the holster unsnapped.
“I’m not moving, Bobby. Legs crossed, hands on the bar.”
Quinn glanced around the room. Didn’t relax, but did step inside. He let the door click behind him, then drew the gun. Didn’t point it, which was something.
“Half an hour,” Cooper said. “Like I said on the phone. Then you’ll understand.”
