by Leigh Barker
He pulled out his Sig, looked at it, then took a quick look back at the partly open top-floor office window. He put the gun away. Not even in the movies. Maybe half that distance, on a good day.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell. Rolling and crawling about had exceeded its design spec and it was now only good as a paperweight.
“You called for backup?” he said, lifting himself back onto his knees.
A close relative of the huge hole tore through the duct a foot from his head. He moved away.
Mancini didn’t answer.
“Hey, Mancini. You taking a nap?”
It took a moment for him to answer.
“No, I’m not sleeping. Jesus!” He was silent again, and that said it all.
“You didn’t call for backup, did you?” Ethan shouted. “For Chrissakes, man? We can’t stay here. He’s going to blow our heads off any minute.”
“Not mine,” Mancini muttered, but it carried, as did the sound of the roof door opening.
“Mancini,” Ethan said, “you bug out on me and I’ll find you and finish what this fucker started. You hear me?”
He heard the flat crack of a supersonic round passing by, and the simultaneous thwack of it impacting the door.
The door closed and he swore. The shooter could see the door too. Outstanding. The day just kept getting better.
“I don’t get this,” Mancini said from the shelter of the rusted metal steps.
“Let’s talk about it over a beer,” Ethan said. “Call for backup.”
The man was a total dildo.
The ducting rang like a broken bell as another round ruined its effectiveness as a cooler. He ducked, even though the hole was ten feet away. A .50-cal round can have that effect on a man.
Then he got it. He had to think it through twice because it was so stupid.
“Mancini, you left your cell in the car, right?”
Mancini was silent.
“Unfuckin’ believable.” Ethan almost stood up. “You leave your brains there too?”
“We didn’t expect to have to make a call,” Mancini said, his voice cracking with anger. Or fear. “Didn’t want an electronic trace.” He sounded as if he was sulking. “How the fuck did we know some sniper would be trying to kill us?” He was silent again.
“And succeeding,” Ethan said. “Rayford’s lungs are all over my shoes.”
He recalled the first shot. The bullet should have gone straight through Rayford as if he wasn’t there and hit the target it had been aimed at. Him. He replayed the moment. The shock of Rayford doing his Hollywood-zombie moment blurred his memory. Then he saw it. Rayford’s gun had exploded and taken off his hand. And that had deflected the round. He hoped it hadn’t hit anybody nice.
“We should stay down,” Mancini said, “and he’ll give up and go away.”
Right, to find the tooth fairy. “Listen to me,” Ethan said, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice. “This guy doesn’t have to go anywhere. Nobody knows we’re here. He’ll wait it out until we make a mistake.”
Except somebody did know they were there. Kelsey. He glanced at the parapet along the roof. Problem was, with the suppressed rifle making no sound worth a damn, she’d have no reason to think he was in trouble and would continue searching the apartment buildings.
Ethan swore.
“Mancini.”
He got a grunt for an answer.
“You remembered to bring your gun with you, right?”
Another grunt.
“Okay, follow my lead.”
He pulled his Sig, pointed it vaguely in the direction of the sniper, just for somewhere to point it, and emptied the seven-round mag. Mancini took a moment to catch on, then joined in.
The sound of the shots echoed from the surrounding buildings and rolled out over the park.
Another .50 cal smacked into the rooftop feet away from Ethan and he smiled. That was just petulance. The shooter would be heading for the exit.
He decided not to test his assessment of the shooter’s actions and stayed put. Until he heard the sound of the boys in blue arriving from all directions. Washington PD frowned on folks firing their guns in public without asking.
He snapped another mag into his Sig and stood up. Mancini was still hugging the stairs and looked up in surprise when Ethan appeared silhouetted against the sky, and pointing his gun at him.
“What the fuck is this?” Mancini said, starting to get up.
“Stay where you’re at,” Ethan said, and twitched his gun for emphasis. “You and me have things to discuss.”
Mancini started to slip down onto the next metal tread and put out his left arm to steady himself while his right slipped under his jacket.
“Go ahead, make my day,” Ethan said, and smiled. It was like a joke.
Mancini took his right hand off his gun and glared at him. “What is this? We’re on the same team.”
“Yeah, right,” Ethan said. “Take the shot,” he said, in a poor impression of Mancini. “You remember that, teammate?”
Mancini shifted uncomfortably. “I thought you were going to shoot the secretary of the air force.”
“And why in God’s name would I do that?”
Mancini licked his dry lips. “Dryer said you—”
“Dryer said?” Ethan strode down the steps and stood over him. “Dryer said I was going to shoot SecAF?” He clamped his jaw and fought the desire to put a round in the idiot’s head. “Shit, Marines don’t love wing-wipers, but we don’t go around shooting their boss.” He was calming down, despite his desire to stay mad and beat the crap out of this shiny-suited asshole.
The police sirens died in the parking lot, and he could hear shouted orders even from where he was standing. He glanced at the door then at his Sig. Any second now Washington’s finest would come bursting out of that door, eager to shoot anyone who looked even slightly suspect. And holding a Sig Sauer P320 and standing over a federal agent would score high on the suspect register. He put his gun away and closed his jacket. Then thought about it, took it out again, went back up the steps and put it on top of the aircon fan.
He returned to Mancini and waved him up. “When the eager-beaver boy cops come charging out here, they’ll see you in a prone position and shoot you, just in case you’re a bad man.”
Mancini got up as fast as he could.
The door burst open and, as predicted, a cop crashed out, followed by three others, all eager to get in on the action.
Ethan waited for them to start shouting.
“On your knees!” The first cop waved his gun at them. “On your knees now!”
Ethan looked down at the roof near the top step. Not too much bird crap or chewing gum. Yeah, okay then. He knelt down, careful not to crunch his knees on the loose chippings.
Mancini knelt on the nearest step and put his hands behind his head. Now that was just showing off. Ethan decided not to copy the federal agent’s lead and just watched the cops tumble out onto the stairs and run up to the roof. They’d start shouting again pretty soon.
“Put your hands behind your head,” the shouting cop shouted. “Interlace your fingers. Do it now!”
As opposed to what? Do it when the mood takes me? Ethan sighed and did as the man with the gun asked.
“Officer,” Mancini said, to none of them in particular, “I am a federal agent. I am reaching for my badge.”
“Don’t move! Don’t move!” They were all shouting and waving their guns at him.
Ethan smiled. The cop on the roof had stepped between him and Mancini. All he had to do was stand up and he’d have himself a gun and a blue-uniformed shield. Tempting as it was, the end result wasn’t too inviting. SWAT team, snipers, more shouting. He coughed.
The police officer jumped several inches into the air, turned and pointed his gun at him, then stepped up and stood over him.
“Stay still!”
Shouting again.
“He is a federal agent,” Ethan said, nodd
ing down the steps.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Waving his gun around again. And more shouting.
Okay, enough of this shit.
“Son,” Ethan said, with a smile, “you point your gun someplace else, there’s a good police officer.” The smile again. “Because the way your juiced up, it’s likely to go off any minute and that would be unfortunate.”
The officer looked at his gun. Ethan could’ve reached out and wrenched his legs from under him and dropped him on his ass. But… same result. SWAT and angry policemen.
He decided to be reasonable. “Son—”
“Stop calling me fuckin’ son.”
Ethan fixed him with a steady look. “Sure I will. As soon as you stop acting like a kid.” He decided not to give him time to get worked up about that. “Like I said, Special Agent Mancini is a… special agent. FBI.”
The cop looked down the steps at Mancini, then at the other three young cops standing on the stairs. They just looked back, confused. They’d expected to be shooting suspects, not having a friendly chat with them.
“And… officer,” Ethan said, and reprised his smile, “I’m a US Marine. And that makes us on the same side, right? Saving the country from bad people?”
He could have struck a match on the cop’s furrowed brow.
“We were here investigating a potential terrorist attack on SecAF,” he lied. “That’s the secretary of the air force. She’s in the hotel over there.”
The cop looked across the roof and didn’t step away from Ethan’s reach.
“There’s another agent up there.”
The cop jumped and pointed his gun across the roof.
God save us from boy wonders.
“He’s dead,” Ethan said, and nodded confirmation at the sudden look. “Sniper shot him when he jumped in the way of the bullet to save me.”
Yeah, right.
The cops exchanged long looks, and one by one they put away their weapons.
Mancini took out his ID wallet very, very slowly and handed it to the nearest officer, who examined it carefully and nodded.
“They’re telling the truth, TJ. This one’s FBI.”
TJ? That was a TV show in the eighties. James T Kirk as a cop. Used to get a stunt double to do all the running for him. Ethan decided not to enlighten them, the eighties was ten years before they were born. It was all a bit dispiriting.
“Can I get up now?” he asked. “I’ve got a bad knee.” Thinking he was disabled and slow might be helpful if things reverted to the total fuck-up they appeared to be a moment ago.
The cop glared at him, clearly disappointed he hadn’t caught the shooter. That’ll be five minutes after he stopped firing. Ethan took a long breath and forgot about it. Some things are important and some are not. And this gung-ho cop with a life expectancy in single figures was firmly in the not camp.
The cop stood up on his tiptoes for a better look, then started to move across the roof towards Rayford’s body.
“Hey,” Ethan said, and raised his hands as the cop looked over his shoulder. “Not my business, but d’ya think the forensic boys will give you a medal for fucking up their crime scene?”
The cop froze and retraced his steps.
At that moment two detectives came up the stairs, pushed open the door, stopped and looked around.
“Jesus H,” the fat one said, and shook his head. “Is there a fuckin’ police convention up here?”
“Just these young officers,” Ethan said, sitting down on the top step, “securing the crime scene for the real police.” He smiled.
The fat detective looked him up and down. “Who the fuck are you?” He raised a hand. “Besides being a fuckin’ wise-ass.”
Ethan smiled again. Might as well be nice to the fine, professional detectives. Especially when they can make your life a living hell. “Master Sergeant Ethan Gill, sir.” He would’ve given him a bow, but he was sitting. “US Marine Corps.”
“That right?” The detective came up the stairs and onto the roof. He was breathing heavily. Not much longer playing cops for this one.
“What we got here?” he asked the cop on the roof.
“Got a report of shots being—”
“Yeah, we know that.” He pointed down at the other detective. “That’s why we got sent here.” He took a long breath. “Up all those fuckin’ stairs.”
Ethan was about to ask why he hadn’t used the elevator, but decided the cost of the information was too high. But the elevator engineers would be pleased these two hadn’t ridden up. He looked down at the other detective, a marginally slimmer version of the one on the roof. He was thinking of attempting the stairs.
“When we got up here,” the cop continued, “we found these two.” He pointed at Mancini and Ethan. “The guy down there is FBI.”
The detective gave Mancini a look like he’d got dog shit in his hair. “That right?” He raised his eyebrows. “You a fed?”
Mancini raised his ID wallet.
“So, fed, what’s the story here?”
Mancini bristled but let it go. “We got a report of a imminent terrorist attack.”
The detective’s face turned a deeper pink. “And you fucks didn’t think to tell us before you stamped over here and started shooting?”
Mancini looked pointedly at the four young officers standing around him. “No, we thought we’d avoid world war three.”
The detective’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Yeah, I can see how your heroics saved us.” He looked across the roof. “Didn’t do too good for your partner there, though, did it?” He smiled.
Ethan glanced down at Mancini and gave him a tiny shake of his head. No point shooting the fat fool. It would just cause bad feeling between departments.
“Can we go now?” Ethan asked.
The detective opened his mouth to issue more abuse, but Ethan pointed at the other office building across the street.
“It’s just that the terrorist is probably watching through his rifle scope from there as we exchange pleasantries.”
The detective stared at the top-floor windows, then looked at Rayford’s body. The message fought it’s way past thoughts of double cheeseburgers. He went down the stairs in what he probably thought was a run, but it was, in fact, a waddle. Same thing, though, he got off the roof as fast as his fat body would let him.
The young cop caught Ethan’s eye and winked. Okay then, not the total asshole he’d appeared to be. Maybe not be dead by his twenty-fifth birthday. Maybe.
Ethan wanted to get out of there. “My gun is on the ducting over there.” He pointed at the aircon fans. “I’m going to get it and stroll over to the other building to see if the terrorist is still there. Maybe he’s grabbing a coffee before he sets off.”
He retrieved his gun, holstered it and went down the stairs. He had to maneuver around the clog of police in the stairwell, but finally got the door open. He stopped and looked back. “You coming, Mancini?”
“Yeah, right. I’m with you.” He glanced at the fat detectives. “Terrorists to chase down.” He smiled. “Unless you want to start the foot race and we’ll catch up?”
They glared at him as he closed the door behind him.
“They let us leave. Material witnesses. Can you believe it?” he said as he followed Ethan to the elevator.
“They did. Somebody’s gonna be pissed.” Ethan pressed the call button.
“Tragic,” Mancini said.
“Yeah.” Ethan let him go first. “Now, you were going to tell me why you were on the roof.” He pressed the ground-floor button.
Kelsey met them in the building reception, saw Mancini and raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.
Ethan waved her over.
“Agent Mancini here is going to tell us why he and Rayford wanted to kill me.”
“This should be good,” Kelsey said, and looked around. “Rayford?”
Ethan pouted his lips and made a sound mother’s tell their kids off about.
Kels
ey nodded. “Tried to express his frustration with you in a more meaningful way?”
“He did,” Ethan said.
“Did you kill him?”
“No. A sniper.”
She stopped and looked back at the cops drinking the visitors coffee at the reception desk. “That explains the blue tsunami.”
“No, not really,” Ethan said, looking past her at the dozen or so cops milling around. “That would be me.” He nodded towards Mancini. “And Agent Mancini.” He saw her frown. “Sniper was using a suppressed .50 cal.”
She whistled. “That’s a hell of a lot of gun.”
“Yeah, I guess he wanted to get the job done.”
“And he shot Rayford?”
“Meant it for me. Rayford jumped in the way. A true hero.”
Kelsey met his look and held it for a moment, then looked away. “Yeah, his family will take comfort in that.”
“And the pension won’t hurt,” Ethan said, and caught Mancini’s eye. “Hero, right?”
Mancini nodded. “In that he was following orders, yes, he was a hero. Any agent who dies on the job is a hero. Nobody asks us to do this crappy work.”
“I hear that,” Ethan said, and pointed to a meeting area on the street side of reception. He and Kelsey took one of the hard couches and Mancini the other. Ethan waited for them to settle, and looked around to make sure no eager-beaver cop was eavesdropping.
“Rayford was following orders?” he said, leaning forward to put his fingertips on the big glass table between the couches.
Mancini nodded, but didn’t elaborate.
“Let me guess,” Ethan said. “Dryer?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Why in God’s name would that dick want me dead?”
Mancini watched him for several seconds while he arranged his thoughts. “Because he thinks you’re going to try to assassinate the President.”
Ethan laughed out loud and looked around quickly at the cops, who’d suddenly taken an interest. He saw Kelsey staring out of the window.
“What?”
She snapped out of it. “A .50 cal, you say?”
“Yes, no doubt about it. So what?”
