The Echo of the Whip

by Joseph Flynn

  “How can you tell?” Tall Wolf asked.

  “He spends more time looking left, right and behind him than he does at the road ahead.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to stay aware of what’s going on around you when you drive?” Tall Wolf asked.

  “Absolutely, but you know how many people do that?”

  “Not enough?”

  Leo laughed. “Hardly any. Way too many people flick a glance up ahead and then get back to their text messages. Some of the old-school types just read a magazine or newspaper while they drive. That boy ahead of us, he’s been trained. He’s staying alert to his environment. Only problem is, he’s fallen into a pattern. Three beats to each side, a pause, three beats up front, a pause, and three more beats to the rear view. It’s almost like he’s listening to music and moving his head and eyes with the tempo.”

  Tall Wolf said, “If I’m not mistaken, Leo, you’ve been changing lanes in that same time signature.”

  “Sure have. But I’m ziggin’ when he zags. As far as he knows, we’re invisible.”

  “That’s one fine trick.”

  “Well, when you’re out on a race track, the last thing you want is for the guy ahead of you to know when you’re gonna make your move to pass him. The sumbitch might run you into a wall if he knows your coming.”

  “Excellent point, but how do you know that driver up ahead, while he might have had some training, isn’t just out on everyday business, some normal activity?”

  “I’ve been doin’ this a while, Mr. Tall Wolf. You just watch and see where this fella is headin’. Then you’ll know I’m right.”

  Leo was. The car ahead of them turned into Rangle’s driveway. Never knowing he’d been followed and observed.

  The White House — Washington, DC

  “What are you thinking?” Patti Grant asked McGill.

  The president and her henchman were having a quiet dinner in the family dining room.

  “I’m just reviewing the biographical profiles of first ladies I’ve read.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to remember what they did when their spouses were in a tight spot.”

  “Anything inspirational?”

  “Not so far. Jackie Kennedy would buy a new hat and Lady Bird Johnson would gather wild flowers. I don’t think either of those things will work for me.”

  “You need something more manly?”

  “I’d still like to flatten a few noses. I’d even let you and Galia compose a top ten list and see if that lifted my spirit and yours a little.”

  “Your little jaunt to Los Angeles wasn’t emotionally satisfying?”

  McGill sighed. He told Patti about Mira Kersten calling off the investigation and then discovering the one embryo she really wanted was still missing. He said, “It’s not the first time I’ve wanted to smack a client, but it’s an impulse I try to restrain when I’m working for a woman.”

  “Maybe I could do it for you,” Patti said.

  McGill gave his wife a look and then laughed. “I could give you a refresher course in Dark Alley, but if we did that the next thing you know you’d be challenging members of Congress to duels.”

  The president grinned but then shook her head. “A tempting idea, but if I got that ball rolling, it probably wouldn’t be long before we’d have a Duel of the Week Show on TV. Some customs are best left departed and gone.”

  McGill put his fork down. “You know, by the time Jean Morrissey takes her oath of office, you and I will be ready to blow this pop stand.”

  Patti laughed. “Pop stand? Does anyone still say that?”

  “I do. How about we ask the waiter for a doggy bag? If any of this stuff still looks good in the morning, we’ll fry it up for breakfast.”

  Patti said, “All right. So what shall we do now? Go to bed and read?”

  “I’m with you on that first part. We’ll go to bed. Then we’ll see what happens next.”

  “Are you trying to seduce me, James J. McGill?”

  “You bet, but give me a nudge if I start to fall asleep before things get good.”

  “It’s all good with me, sailor.”

  McGill smiled. “Now that you mention it, I do recall things that way. Promise me, though, that you’ll do that one special thing I like best.”

  “I know just what you mean.”

  With one voice, they both said, “Turn off the phone.”

  Punta del Este — Uruguay

  “Turn off my phone, will you?” Tyler Busby said. “I forgot to do it.”

  FBI Special Agent Abra Benjamin had entered the bedroom with her purse over her shoulder and closed the door. She’d seen Tyler Busby, the world’s most wanted man according to the FBI, lying on his back in bed. She’d kept a straight face and started to plan how she might kidnap him.

  Turning off the phone was a good start. Abra said, “Sure.”

  A wireless home phone sat on a nightstand next to the bed. Busby could have reached it with ease, but he wanted her to do it. Asserting his dominance. That or he was one really lazy son of a bitch. Might be both.

  She lifted the phone from its charger, hit the mute button and put it back.

  “Turn your cell phone off, too,” he said.

  “Already done,” she lied.

  “Good. Then we’re ready to start.”

  Busby flipped back the duvet and top sheet that had been covering him. He was naked and erect. Smiling, now, too. Like he was proud to show himself off, wanting to impress her. Abra had to admit he wasn’t in bad shape for an old guy.

  She was also sure that wasn’t a kosher wiener. Pharmaceuticals had to be involved. Chemicals to which no rabbi would ever give his stamp of approval. Still, Busby was proud of his display and did everything but ask Abra, “So what do you think?”

  Neglecting to provide the hoped for compliment, she only asked, “What do you like?”

  “You name it, I’ll try it,” he said, but there was a whining note in his voice. He was annoyed that she hadn’t complimented him.

  She realized a real hooker would have been more solicitous, pun intended.

  Not wanting him to raise any kind of a ruckus, Abra said, “Well, with that thing of yours, I suppose we could play baseball.”

  Busby loved it, laughing loudly. “Right, I’ve got the bat and the balls.”

  She thought he could have come up with a better line, but smiled anyway.

  Abra heard footsteps outside the bedroom door move off.

  The indulgent wife making sure all was going well?

  “How about role playing?” Abra asked. “You into that?”

  “Why not?” Busby said. “I’ll be the sultan; you’ll be my newest concubine.”

  “We can do better than that.” Abra sat on the edge of the bed, facing him. She undid two buttons exposing more of her breasts. “How about this? I’ll be the boss of a mattress factory, and you’ll be a job applicant, looking to fill the opening for … a quality-control manager.”

  Busby nodded; he was interested. “That’s imaginative. What are my qualifications for the job?”

  “Well, you’ll have to tell me, now won’t you?”

  “I’ve taken a different woman to bed every night for the past five years.”

  “Well, aren’t you the fickle boy?” For just a second, Abra wondered if that could possibly be true. “Relentless, too. Didn’t you ever want a day off?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m the hardest worker you’ll ever see.”

  Getting into playing the job-seeker, Abra thought.

  “Well, I’ll concede you are experienced,” she said. “Now, I want to see how perceptive you are. Take a good long look at me.” She undid another button. “Now, close your eyes and describe how you see me, how you’d imagine me … well, anyway you’d care to.”

  Busby closed his eyes and rested his hands on his abdomen.

  If the smile on his face meant anything, he’d started to fantasize, but Abra didn’t let him get far. She slipped
her handcuffs and her gun out of her purse. She snapped the cuffs over Busby’s wrists and had her gun pointed at him by the time he opened his eyes.

  Busby looked startled and said, “Is this part of —”

  Abra raised a finger to her lips to shush him.

  “Okay, we’re still playing roles here, only we’re not pretending anymore. I’m Special Agent Abra Benjamin of the FBI. You’re Tyler Busby, fugitive, and now you’re under arrest. How’s that for a night you’ll never forget?”

  Abra wouldn’t forget it either.

  Not after she heard the clank of the bedroom door locking.

  Busby smiled up at her. “My wife did that, bolted the door remotely. You see, I like to make video recordings of all my encounters, and my wife likes … well, to maintain quality control.”

  Abra thought: Shit. Life is never simple.

  To top everything off, Busby was still hard.

  Proof positive that his hard-on wasn’t natural.

  Abra decided if worse came to worse, she’d shoot it off.

  Great Falls, Virginia

  Beck liked the layout of T.W. Rangel’s office and kept his little confab right there. He had Whelan and Rangel seated next to each other in a pair of wing chairs while he perched on a corner of Rangel’s desk. Beck was amused by the fact that his lack of decorum seemed to upset the old man as much as being held captive at gunpoint.

  “All right,” he told his two prisoners, “who wants to tell me how the three of us came to be here together? Mercy points will be given for whoever cooperates the most.”

  “More,” Rangel said.

  “What?” Beck asked.

  “You’re addressing two of us. The comparative form, not the superlative, is the one you want. More not most.”

  Whelan pointed at Rangel and said, “He’s a stickler for proper grammar. I’m more interested in what mercy points are, and do they extend so far as to include amnesty?”

  “You mean a get-out-of-jail-free card?” Beck asked. “Probably not. Mercy means you’re dead before you know it. Lack of mercy means being gut shot, living long enough to wonder if hell could be any worse.” He turned his attention to Rangel. “Did I get all that right, Professor?”

  “Might we at least know why we have to die?” Rangel asked.

  Beck said, “That’s a reasonable request. Mr. Whelan over there has to go because he tried to blackmail me into killing James J. McGill.”

  Rangel turned a look of amazement on his former protégé.

  “You really did that?”

  “That bastard over there with the gun wouldn’t cooperate,” Whelan said, figuring if he was going to die there was no need to be polite. “It’s not like he hasn’t killed plenty of people already.”

  “Hey,” Beck objected, “the only people I’ve ever killed were targets selected by your government and mine.”

  “You work for the government?” Rangel asked Beck.

  “Indirectly.”

  “That’s even more interesting.”

  “I thought so, too, but look where it’s got me.”

  “Gotten,” Rangel corrected.

  Whelan said, “He really can’t help himself. You should just shoot us both now.”

  Rangel held up his hands. “No, don’t. Not yet anyway. He hasn’t answered my question.” Turning to Whelan, Rangel said, “I didn’t mean why did you use coercion on this man; I meant why did you choose to target McGill?”

  Beck said, “That’s one of the things I want to know, too. From everything I’ve seen of the man, he seems like a stand-up guy.”

  Whelan put things in the simplest terms he could, telling Beck, “You see who your enemies are; I see who mine are.”

  Beck shook his head. “Hey, we’re all Americans here, aren’t we?”

  “And yet you’re perfectly willing to kill me,” Rangel said. “Why would you do that?”

  The assassin sighed. “You committed the worst mistake anybody can. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’re collateral damage.”

  Rangel took the news with surprising grace. “That’s comforting to know. I’m not undone by a fault of my own but as a matter of mere circumstance.”

  Whelan shook his head, telling Rangel. “You’re not getting off that easy, you bastard. We’re both here because you stole my treatise.”

  Beck’s jaw fell open. He looked at Whelan and said, “Wait a minute. I thought your ex-wife took your papers. That’s why you brought me into this mess.”

  Whelan’s expression turned hang-dog. “I thought she did it, but she told me who it really was.” He pointed at Rangel again.

  “Is that right, Professor?” Beck asked.

  Rangel looked defensive. “I was trying to preserve my reputation.”

  Beck said, “You two assholes are giving me a headache.” Turning to Whelan, he asked, “Were you actually trying to accomplish something by wanting me to kill McGill?”

  Whelan stiffened his spine and admitted, “I was hoping to weaken the president.”

  Rangel shook his head. “So wrong. I don’t know what I ever saw in you. Look at how Patricia Grant bounced back after her first husband was killed. She went out and became the president. Twice. McGill is not the target, Galia Mindel is and …”

  Rangel fell silent, looking as if he’d just experienced an epiphany.

  “My God,” he said, “how could I have been so foolish?”

  Before Whelan could tell Rangel about all the mistakes the old fart had made or Beck could get around to shooting the both of them, a cylindrical object, measuring 5.25 inches in length and 1.73 inches in diameter was thrown into the room. Beck knew the precise dimensions because he’d used the M-84 stun grenade himself.

  He’d had an angle on the doorway to the office but he had neither heard nor seen anyone approach the room. He reacted to the reality of the threat without wondering about any whys or wherefores. He leaped from the desk, covering his eyes with one arm and slammed sideways into the two seated men. They all went over in a pile as the flash-bang detonated.

  The grenade produced a bang of 180 decibels, capable of causing deafness, tinnitus, loss of balance and disorientation. The flash created a light of more than one million candela within five feet of detonation, far more than enough to cause momentary blindness. The effects were intended to be temporary, but there was a risk of permanent injury or even death.

  None of that prevented Beck from wrapping an arm around the neck of what felt to him more like Whelan than Rangel and pressing his gun to the side of the man’s head. When he thought he heard footsteps coming on the run, Beck called out, “On the chance this prick means something to you, whoever the hell you are, you better give me the time to recover and the chance to get the hell out of here.”

  Problem was, he couldn’t see shit out of his right eye, and the left one resolved the world only to the point of being a blur.

  “You don’t shoot at him or me, I won’t shoot you,” a voice replied.

  “Who are you?” Beck asked.

  “The Co-director of the Office of Justice Services, Bureau of Indian Affairs.”

  “Bureau of Indian Affairs?”

  Unspoken but clearly implied was the question of what the hell the BIA had to do with anything.

  John Tall Wolf said, “I know. Thing is, I freelance for other people. I overheard you mention James J. McGill’s name. How about I give him a call?”

  Beck had a moment of doubt but then he smiled. “You can do that?”

  “Uh-huh,” Tall Wolf said.

  “Okay, do it. If he needs any convincing, tell him if he doesn’t come, I’ll kill this prick.”

  He jabbed Whelan’s jaw with the Colt, producing a yelp.

  Tall Wolf wasn’t impressed. “I don’t think he gives a damn about him. I’ll just extend the invitation.”

  The White House — Washington, DC

  McGill and Patti had turned off any and all phones that might disturb them. They’d even left a do-not-disturb
message with Blessing. Short of the launch of hostile ICBMs, they were to be left in peace and quiet. Things were good right from the start for the First Couple and just about to get really good when the lights in the bedroom began to brighten.

  Lumen after lumen was added. For several moments, husband and wife tried to ignore the fact that the ambience of the room was changing from intimate boudoir to hospital operating room. Yes, nobody had intruded personally. No one had broken phone silence. But the word was being passed nonetheless.

  McGill said, “Deliver us from evil.”

  “Amen,” Patti added.

  “My guess is the interruption is for you.”

  “Mine, too, I’m sorry to say.”

  She rolled over to her bedside phone, touched a single key and said, “What is it?”

  Blessing said, “My apology, Madam President. Your lawyer, Mr. Collison, is on hold for you. He says it’s imperative he talks with you right now.”

  McGill was listening closely and heard the name of his wife’s chief defense lawyer in her upcoming trial in the Senate. He gave her a nod and said, “Take it.”

  Repressing a groan, the president said, “Put him on.”

  McGill got up to use the bathroom, grabbing his phone off the night table as he went. He turned it on just in time to hear his call tone. The ID screen showed John Tall Wolf’s name. McGill closed the bathroom door behind him and tapped the answer button.

  “Is that you, John?”

  “It’s me,” Tall Wolf said. “I’ve got the guy who was supposed to kill you.”

  “Supposed to kill me?”

  “He says he never intended to do it.”

  “It was just a passing notion?” McGill asked.

  “He says someone was trying to coerce him but it didn’t work.”

  “How can we be sure of that?”

  “Well, he’s holding a gun to the guy’s head right now. You might remember the captive’s name, Ed Whelan. The guy with the gun, Eugene Beck, says he’ll kill Whelan unless he gets to talk to you in person. I think Beck is serious, but I don’t think Whelan would be a big loss.”