Washington DC

by A. C. Fuller

  Warren pressed both hands to his face, letting out a long sigh. “This had to have been planned for weeks, months. Shooter knew he could kill the VP from here, and he set up some poor schlub to be on the roof next door. Maybe the dead guy was part of the plan, maybe he was a random unlucky victim.” He pressed his face again, sighed, and let his shoulders drop. “Kill the VP, kill the patsy. Your guess was right.”

  He looked under the bed, in the garbage can, and in the drawer of the desk. “Guy wasn’t dumb enough to leave a trace.”

  “You mean other than the murder weapon?”

  He smiled for a half a second, then his face grew dark. Standing over the gun, he said. “You didn’t touch it, did you?”

  Cole joined him next to the bed and stared down at the gun. “Of course not.”

  “The weapon from the Ambani killing, Wragg’s rifle, still hasn’t been located. And this guy just leaves his here. Why?”

  “Quick escape, maybe? I’m guessing he checked in, booked the room for a few extra days, then made the shot, left the weapon, and escaped, leaving the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door. Probably figured that would give him enough time to get out of the country.”

  “Maybe. But why leave the weapon? This thing can be taken apart and packed into a bag slung over the shoulder like the one you saw in the video Mazzalano showed you.”

  “What are you driving at, Rob?”

  “Most killers want to destroy the murder weapon. This one didn’t even bother taking it with him. He left no trace in this room. Bleached it. You can bet there’ll be no traces on the weapon. Combine that with the fact that he went to the trouble of setting another guy up to confuse the investigation for a day or two and…”

  Cole saw where he was going. “You think he’s going to kill again. He wanted to make the escape in order to buy himself time. And he left the weapon because he has another, or will get another.”

  “Nine rifles, right? Nine cities. You got clear pictures of the weapon?”

  “Every angle. Why?”

  “Because if we ever run out of money you’ll be able to sell them for hundreds of thousands to TMZ or The National Enquirer. That’s about to become the most famous gun in the world.” Warren stood up straight, as though every inch of him was alert. His eyes were wide. “We need to get the hell out of here. Now.”

  20

  “Plug in my phone,” Warren said. “It’s about to lose power and we might need it. What’s yours at?”

  “Forty percent. I’m good.”

  She plugged in his phone as he pulled out of the parking garage. Red and blue lights flashed in front of the hotel. Three police cars were parked in the valet area. Warren turned right, away from the police cars.

  “You think they’re here because of the story, the video?”

  “It’s possible.”

  As she stowed his phone between the seats, Cole noticed it lighting up with a new text. “Who’s Samuel Bacon?”

  “Remember? Partner of Norris Ubwe. Dude who helped us with Price’s records. The quiet, chubby one.”

  “He just texted you.”

  “Swipe it.”

  She did, but it was locked. “Face ID?”

  “Sorry.” Warren turned.

  She squared the phone on his face and it unlocked, then she read the text aloud. “‘Overheard your call with Norris. He won’t help you because he knows we screwed this up. Doesn’t want to get blamed. I can’t stay quiet. It’s not solid, but peeking around the darkest alleys of the dark web, I found evidence that one of the rifles may have been left in D.C. for’”—she slowed as she tried to pronounce the name—“‘Maiale da Tartufo. Two days ago.’” The phone nearly flew from her hand as Warren swerved around a car that had stopped abruptly.

  “Maiale da Tartufo?” he asked.

  “Who’s that?”

  “You don’t want to know.” His eyes were on the mirrors, as they had been much of the last two days. “Keep reading.”

  “He says, ‘Dropgang was used to leave it for him in a park near DuPont Circle. Worse, another one was stashed in Miami only yesterday. A wet drop.’”

  “Miami?”

  “That’s what he wrote. And that’s where the next shooting will be.”

  Warren’s eyes darted from the rearview mirror to the road ahead, then back again. He seemed to have stopped listening. “Hold on.”

  “What?”

  “Hold on to the seat.”

  Suddenly, Warren slammed the gas, turned the wheel to the left and then pulled and released the handbrake. The back of the Cougar pitched to the right, fishtailing on a patch of ice. Cole’s head rocked back into the headrest, then shot left, colliding with Warren’s shoulder as he jacked the wheel to pull the Cougar out of the fishtail.

  The car straightened. Cole shot a glance through the rear window, but couldn’t make anything out in the darkness. Warren lay into the horn, which screamed an old fashioned, high-pitched wail as he gunned it through an intersection. Cars from left and right slipped and skidded to elude the Cougar. A violent crash erupted from her right and Cole turned to see the aftermath of a rear-end collision in the intersection.

  Warren made a sharp right turn.

  Cole pressed her feet to the floor, bracing herself. “What the hell?”

  “We’re being tailed.”

  Cole looked behind her. She didn’t see anything.

  “Keep looking. Tell me if a gray Ford Explorer, or maybe it’s a Yukon, appears around the corner.”

  She trained her eyes on the corner and, as Warren slowed at a stop sign, a large SUV pulled around it. “I can’t make out the color in this light, but yeah, an SUV. Police?”

  “I don’t think so. I think it’s Mazzalano.”

  “What?”

  Warren eyed the mirror. “Or his guys, more likely.”

  Cole looked back. The SUV kept pace with them, about a block behind.

  “Think about it,” Warren explained. “Mazzalano easily could have set himself up as the hero who tracked down Wragg’s storage unit. That alone might launch his corrupt ass from lieutenant to captain. He hasn’t. Why?”

  “Because he’s involved. The gun thing. He gave protection to whatever crew arranged for the delivery of the guns.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “You think he sent someone after us—”

  Warren veered right suddenly to merge onto the George Washington Parkway toward the Arlington National Cemetery. His eyes moved again to the mirror. “I think he sent that SUV after us. Either to make sure we don’t have any evidence about his connection to Wragg, or to put us down.”

  It made sense. Cole believed Mazzalano had never given Wragg’s hair sample to the DNA lab. And being the man who located Wragg’s secret lair would have been the biggest win of his career. The only reason he wouldn’t have made it public was because he was somehow involved. “Why aren’t they approaching us, then? Why’d they let us get into the hotel and come out?”

  “Maybe they only grabbed our tail as we came out.”

  Cole’s head was swimming. “That doesn’t make sense. The only way they could have known we were at the hotel was by following us. And if they’d followed us, why would they have let us spend time inside? Plus, you said you were sure we weren’t tailed from New Jersey. How the hell could they even know we’re in D.C? That article only came out an hour ago.”

  A quarter mile ahead, a sea of red brake lights appeared in the darkness. “Shit,” Warren said.

  “There.” Cole pointed at an exit and Warren slammed on the gas, swerving between two cars.

  “We’re lucky these roads have been plowed,” Warren said. “But if we get onto unplowed side streets, this thing isn’t going to be able to outmaneuver the gray behemoth behind us.”

  At the bottom of the exit ramp, Warren took a soft right past a gas station and a couple fast food restaurants. Cole watched through the back window, struggling to differentiate the cars and trucks in the shifting hea
dlights behind them. For a moment, it appeared they’d lost the SUV. But when Warren turned onto a wide road heading west, traffic thinned and the SUV reappeared.

  “Where are we going?” Cole asked. “I thought you’d want to stay on the large roads.”

  “Gonna try heading into Arlington, into the town. Maybe lose them in an underground lot. They’re not even trying to hide that they’re following us anymore, which worries me.”

  They traveled west for a few blocks, the SUV still comfortably behind them, then stopped at a light. Ahead, only brake lights. The intersection was stopped up with cars. Eyes on the mirrors, studying the doors of the SUV behind them, they sat as the light changed from red to green, then back to red. No cars moved. They sat through the light again. No movement. And again.

  Warren jumped out of the car briefly, looked to the distance, then hopped back in. “Road is closed.” Again, he trained his eyes on the SUV.

  Cole took in a breath, and held it. She spun around on her knees, looking through the low back window of the Cougar. The top of the SUV was visible about six cars back. “What do we do?”

  Warren didn’t respond. He stashed his phone in his pocket and contorted his large, muscular body to put his leather jacket on. She turned back to the SUV and her heart tightened. The passenger door was open. A man got out, lit from behind by the headlights of the car behind him. He was large, maybe Warren’s size, and he was coming for them. “Warren, he—”

  “I see him. We have to go. Now.”

  21

  Cole followed Warren through the intersection, walking briskly and catching him only once looking back longingly at his abandoned Cougar. He favored his right leg, but he picked up the pace as they turned onto a side street. She needed to jog to catch up.

  The man was only a hundred yards back, but he was alone. The driver had stayed with the SUV. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “We’re only a quarter mile from Arlington National Cemetery.”

  “Isn’t it closed?”

  Ignoring the question, he picked up the pace. At the end of the block, traffic was stalled on another large road.

  “C’mon,” Warren said. “He’s waiting for us to get out of public view. Doesn’t want a scene.”

  Cole followed across the intersection onto a dark side street. “Then why are we turning here?”

  “Because I think we can disappear if we reach the cemetery. If he was sent by Mazzalano, he’s likely a rogue NYPD cop. If he’s got a badge, your average Joe is going to help them, not us. If we stay visible, we’re vulnerable. We have to disappear.” He glanced back again, then said, “Let’s go. You lead.”

  He gave Cole a gentle shove and jogged beside her. She picked up the pace, running as fast as she could, not looking back.

  They reached the intersection of Arlington Blvd. A steady stream of cars passed, shooting salt and mushy snow toward them. They waited for a break in traffic, then bolted. A car blared its horn, another braked hard and swerved across a lane. Pausing at a divider, Cole looked back. The man was closer now—only twenty yards from the road.

  The traffic thinned and they broke into an all-out sprint, crossing a large field, perfectly blanketed by virgin snow. Warren stayed behind her, occasionally stepping up to subtly correct her direction. He seemed to know where he wanted to go. They crossed a small side street, then another that jutted out at an odd angle.

  Moments later, they reached a low wall.

  Cole gazed across the wall into a vast open space, fields covered in snow, dotted with trees. Far in the distance, spaced every few feet with perfect symmetry, the tops of gravestones peeked out above the snow. “I don’t want to go in here,” she said.

  Warren had already climbed over the wall. “Hop up.”

  “No, I mean, I don’t want to go into the cemetery. It’s not…”

  Warren shot an anxious look at her. “Cole, now.”

  She glanced back, considering, then hoisted herself up, grazing her backside on the snowy ledge on the way over.

  The man was about a hundred yards back. “If I’m right,” Warren said. “He’s not here to kill us. He wants to track us. Maybe relay location back to the driver, just keep tabs on us.”

  “And we’re going to lose him here?”

  He took her hand and pulled her forward. “That’s right.”

  Through the snow they trudged across an open field, toward the first patch of graves and something that looked like a tall stone wall far in the distance. “How are we going to lose him here?”

  “Head for that wall. It’s the Women in Military Service Memorial. That’s where we’ll lose him.”

  “How?”

  Warren didn’t reply. They continued until they reached the curved wall, which rose about ten feet high and was topped with a low stone railing. “Wait here,” Warren said. “Don’t move or make any tracks.”

  Bounding to his left, he hung tight to the wall, a half-circle enclosing the memorial. A moment later he appeared from the other side, breathing heavily. “Now, go right, around the wall. I’ll be right behind you.”

  She walked around the wall. Warren followed on tiptoes, landing in the center of her tracks, heels up like a ballet dancer, trying not to make additional imprints in her track. Looking back at their trail, it was as though a trail of two people had hit the wall, then split up, with Warren going left and her going right. A misdirection. About forty yards on, they came to a crevice where the main wall ended and connected with another.

  Warren crouched, his hands cupped. “Up.”

  Cole looked up. “I can’t make that.”

  “Up,” Warren repeated. “Grab the railing, pull yourself up, and lay flat once you’re up there.”

  She stepped onto his hands and he boosted her. She braced herself on the side of the wall. Extending his arms, he held her above his head as she reached over the short fence and pulled herself atop the wall. It was roughly two feet wide and covered with snow. She lay flat, peering down on Warren, who now took one large step into the crevice where the walls met.

  From her perch above, she gazed into the black space before her. Below, the fields of snow took on a dark gray hue. Barely visible in the distance were hundreds of tiny headstones. In the silence, she thought about the hundreds of thousands of men and women who were buried here. And she thought about Matt.

  After what seemed like minutes, footsteps crunched in the snow. A light flashed on. Not too bright, it might have been the flashlight of a phone.

  Now she understood Warren’s plan. He’d circled around the wall, leaving his own set of tracks diverging from hers. He figured that the man would follow the larger set of tracks. Warren’s tracks. Matt had always told her that in any combat situation, you take out the most dangerous opponent first. After being led around the wall in vain, he’d picked up her tracks. Now he was walking right into Warren’s trap.

  She sucked in her belly and pressed her cheek into the compacted snow, trying to make herself as small as possible. She slowed her breathing and peered down as the light approached, accompanied by louder and louder steps.

  The wind picked up, screeching through the trees and blowing snow into her face. The light stopped moving. Everything went silent.

  She held her breath until the footsteps resumed. One, two, crunch, crunch. One, two, crunch, crunch.

  The light was right under her now. One, two, crunch, crunch.

  A grunt and the whir of movement below. Thwack. She lifted her head for a better view. Warren had leapt out and struck the man, who now staggered backward, holding his face.

  He looked up at Cole as he stumbled, then leveled his eyes on Warren and, like a bull, charged him. Warren waited, perfectly still. When the man was a foot in front of him, Warren tried to jump left, but his right foot slipped on the compacted snow and he hit the ground, face down.

  The man fell on him, battering the back of his neck with a clumsy punch. Warren rolled onto his back, hands reaching for the man’s throat. The
man threw a right hook, connecting with Warren’s temple, rocking his head back into the ground.

  Warren shouted in pain, then let out a long, deep yell as he reached for the man's neck. Grasping his throat, Warren absorbed a right and a left to the face, both glancing blows.

  Cole sat up and scooched to the edge of the wall. The man had Warren pinned, but Warren’s hands around his throat were keeping him from landing any solid punches. Cole draped her legs over the wall, directly over the man’s head.

  Then, she jumped.

  22

  In an instant, her outstretched legs connected with something. Maybe the man’s neck, maybe the top of his back. When her feet hit the ground her knees shot back toward her chin and she rolled to the side, striking her head on the bottom of the wall.

  Warren rolled on top of the man, battering him with three short, vicious punches to the head, and for a moment their assailant didn’t seem to have control of his limbs. In that moment, Warren’s thick arm closed around the man’s neck and began to squeeze. The man tried to twist in his grip, to punch or elbow Warren, but his strength was draining. Within ten seconds, he shuddered and went still.

  Panting, Warren rolled off him.

  “Is he dead?” Cole asked.

  “Unconscious.”

  Warren stood and patted the man down. For the first time, Cole noticed his face. He was tanned, with a solid jaw and a diagonal red scar across his left cheek that looked like it had been made by a large cat, or a small knife. She didn’t recognize him. “He have any ID on him?”

  “No weapon, no ID. Must’ve left everything in the SUV.”

  “Phone? I saw a light.”

  Warren gestured to a small flashlight in the snow. “No phone, which doesn’t make sense. If he wanted to track us, he’d need a...”

  “What?”

  Warren checked the man’s pockets again, then held up a small black disc the size of a poker chip. “Tracking device. Likely pinging the driver’s phone.”