36: A Novel (33 page)

“You have that much?”  I asked

I needed to know, but was afraid to ask.  Didn’t want to cause her to rethink the huge amount of cash she was about to spend on nothing more than my word, and a short video on a flash drive.

She nodded and stood, heading for her bedroom again.  This time she didn’t yell at me for watching her walk away.  When she came back, she had a purse.  Digging in it, she removed a wallet and flipped through until coming up with a debit card.

“This is almost every penny I have to my name,” she said without looking at me.  “You’d better be right.  If I don’t get this back, you’re going to owe me for the rest of your life.”

I didn’t say anything.  Knew she wasn’t looking for reassurances.  She was just voicing the fear she was feeling over draining her bank account. 

With a sigh, she input the numbers off the card, filled in a couple of other fields and moved the mouse cursor to the
PAY
button.  She held it there for a moment, not moving.  Stared at the screen.  I tried to imagine the thoughts going through her head.

“Fuck it,” she said and clicked the button.

The wheel churned again for a long time, finally going away and displaying a new screen.  It said the transaction was being processed.

“What does that mean?”  I asked.

“I have no idea,” she said, peering at the laptop.  “Maybe it’s because of the amount.  I’ve never spent more than five hundred dollars on this card.  Maybe the bank is freaking out.”

We both jumped when a phone began ringing.  Julie smiled in embarrassment and dug the device out of her purse.  She answered it and listened for a few moments, then proceeded to provide some personal information.  Apparently she passed the first test.

“Yes, that is an authorized transaction,” she said into the phone.  “Twenty-one thousand to Imperial Air Charters.  Correct.”

She listened for a few more seconds, thanked the person on the line, whom I assumed was from her bank, then broke the connection.

“Good to go?”  I asked.

“Yes.  I was right.  The bank freaked.  They were calling to make sure it was really me.”

“What about the tickets, or whatever?  Do we need to take something with us?”

“Hope not.  I don’t have a printer.”

She clicked around the charter company’s website for a minute, then leaned in to read something that was too small for me to see from where I stood.  Opening her email, she waited for it to connect and download all her new messages.  At the top of the list, I could see one with a bold header that was from the charter.

Julie opened it and read it quickly, then picked up her phone and tapped an icon.  An email app opened and a moment later she was looking at the same message.

“We’re good,” she said, closing the app and putting the phone back in her purse.  “There’s a barcode in the email, and as long as we’ve got that for them to scan, everything’s cool.  Now, we’ve got two hours to get to the airport and I’m going to take a shower and change clothes before we leave.  Sit tight and stay out of trouble.”

She didn’t wait for me to say anything, just jumped to her feet and hurried down the hall.  I wandered over and plopped my ass onto the sofa, turning when I saw movement in the hall.  It was Julie, going into the bathroom with a towel and pile of clothes in her arms.  The door closed, the lock clicking a moment later.  I guess trusting me enough to spend $21,000 on a private jet didn’t mean she trusted me enough to take a shower with the door unlocked.  Smart girl.

39

Julie was ready faster than I expected.  Fifteen minutes later she walked into the living room, freshly showered.  Her hair was braided, falling down her back.  She wore dark green cargo pants and a black T-shirt.  Tossing a small overnight bag on the table, she sat down next to me on the couch and dropped a pair of well worn, desert boots on the floor.

I remained sitting, watching her pull on a pair of thick socks, getting a closer look at her ankles.  She’d removed the gold chain from the one with the combat medic tattoo.  On the opposite, just above the small round bone on the outside near her foot, was another tattoo.  This one was of a grinning skull in front of a pair of crossed arrows.  A knife pierced the top, a snake coiling around the hilt.  Her husband had been a Green Beret and she’d honored him with the ink.

As she laced her boots, I questioned myself for having waited.  While she was in the shower, I had seriously considered stealing her phone and leaving without her.  With it, I’d be able to get on the plane.  But I didn’t know her well enough to begin to guess what she’d do if she came out and I was gone.  The tickets were purchased in her name.  I didn’t think it would be difficult for her to call the charter company and tell them to hold the jet until she could arrive and kick my ass.

She was a headstrong woman, of that there was no doubt.  There was a lot of iron in her.  Had to be.  You didn’t do the job in a war-zone that she’d done if there wasn’t.  And then to lose a spouse?  I had to admit that I admired her.  Respected that she’d been through hell and seemed to have come out on the other side relatively intact.  That, or she was a hell of an actress.  Nah.  No one’s that good.

“Ready,” she said, standing and stomping her feet to settle them into the boots.

I stood and took my jacket off.  Her eyes momentarily narrowed when she saw the weapons I was carrying.

“Do you have a small duffel or something?”

I didn’t want to spend a five-and-a-half-hour flight with the rifle and pistols digging into my back and sides.  I also didn’t want to run the risk of the flight crew catching a glimpse of my small arsenal and deciding to warn the authorities at the arriving airport.

“Just the big suitcase you saw,” she said.  “I haven’t exactly had time to move in.  Do you want it?”

“Can we bring it on the plane?”

“I think so.  Their website said there was room for normal luggage.”

I nodded and she waved for me to follow her into the bedroom.  The bag was lying on the bed, half the contents strewn across the mattress.  Julie looked at it and eyed the weapons, magazines and flash-bangs I was unloading onto the top of the dresser.  She rushed out of the room, returning a moment later with the small overnight bag she’d already packed.

She lifted the top of the large suitcase and dumped the remainder of its contents onto the bed.  Clothes and shoes spilled out, then a large vibrator landed on the pile and rolled off onto the floor.  I couldn’t help but look at it, trying to suppress a grin.

“What?”  She challenged as she opened the overnight bag and dumped its contents into the empty suitcase.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Say a word,” she said.  “I fucking dare you.”

She didn’t sound like she was kidding, and I wasn’t brave enough to test her.  Instead, I watched as she arranged the clothes she was taking with her, then picked up the rifle.  It was a short barreled version of a standard Army issue M4.  With obviously practiced hands, she made sure it was unloaded before placing it in the bag.

Adding some clothes for padding, she found spots for all of the spare magazines and the two grenades.  I’d kept one of the pistols.  It was stuck in the waistband of my pants at the small of my back.  Tossing the jacket into the bag, I made sure the weapon was well covered by my shirt.

Julie picked up the other pistol, again handling it with a familiarity that only came from years of being around weapons on a daily basis.  Satisfied there was a round in the chamber and a fully loaded magazine, she slipped it into a large pocket on the right leg of her cargo pants.  They were tight enough around her narrow waist that its weight, while slightly noticeable, didn’t drag them down.

“What?”  She asked when she noticed me looking at her pants.

“You know you’re committing a felony in California just by concealing that in your pocket.  And DC has even more strict gun laws.  Tagging along is one thing, but you’re putting yourself in a bad position.”

“I’m a big girl,” she said.

She stuffed more clothes into the bag to keep everything tightly packed before closing the lid and spinning a combination lock to secure it.

“And,” she turned to face me.  “If I’m about to walk into a situation where people might be shooting at me, I want to be able to shoot back.”

I nodded, not about to argue.  Stepping forward, I lifted the suitcase off the bed and set it on the floor.  Extending the handle, I pulled it along behind me as I followed her back into the living room.

“Are we ready?”  She asked, taking a quick look around as she slung her purse over her shoulder.

I nodded and lead the way, suitcase dragging along behind.  Releasing the deadbolt, I opened the door and came face to face with two men wearing suits.  I stopped so sharply that Julie ran into the suitcase before she realized something was wrong.

One of the men had his arm raised, preparing to knock, looking as surprised as I was.  Our eyes locked and a heartbeat later I saw a look of recognition in his.  FBI!  Had to be.

He dropped his arm and started to step back, his hand moving towards where a weapon would be holstered on his belt.  His partner was a little slower on the uptake, glancing at him before moving.  I stood frozen for another heartbeat, spurred to action as his other hand came around to sweep his suit coat clear.

His hand was inches from the butt of a pistol when I dropped the suitcase handle and lunged.  I bulled into the first guy, knocking his arm aside and shoving him against the railing that protected from a three story drop.  The partner was moving now and I spun, delivering a strike to his solar plexus with my elbow.

He folded and I raised my knee into his face hard enough to lift him a couple of inches into the air.  His body went limp and he fell to the side.  The other agent had scrambled away, still trying to bring his weapon into use, but was frozen when I looked at him.  He had a pistol in his hand, pointed straight down as he stared into the apartment door.

I risked a glance over my shoulder, more than a little surprised to see Julie with a pistol leveled at the man’s face.  She held it in both hands at arms length, knees slightly flexed and shoulders forward.  Her finger was on the trigger and the gun was rock steady in her grip.

“Hand me your weapon, butt first,” I said to him, making sure I was clear of her line of fire.

After a moment of hesitation, he slowly raised his arm across his body and extended the gun in my direction.  I took it from his hand and stepped back, aiming it at him.

“Inside,” I said.

“This is not a good idea, Mr. Whitman,” he said, not moving.

“Neither is not doing what I tell you,” I growled.  “Now, get inside that fucking apartment before I completely lose my patience.”

For a bit, I thought he was going to be a problem.  But, when there are two weapons pointed at your head, and both are held by people who are keeping space open and look like they know what they’re doing, you don’t have a lot of options. 

Carefully, he straightened and slowly moved forward, stepping across the threshold.  Julie slipped sideways, keeping room between them as he advanced, the muzzle of her pistol never wavering. 

“On the sofa.  Hands in plain sight at all times,” I said, remaining outside and hoping a neighbor hadn’t seen what was happening.

Once he was seated, his hands on his knees, I glanced at his partner.  The man was still out, lying on the concrete walkway.  A small pool of blood had spread out around his head.  Probably from a broken nose.

Keeping the new pistol tight against my body, aimed at the unconscious agent, I reached out with my free hand and removed his weapon.  Sticking it in my waistband, I grabbed his belt and dragged him inside, dumping him on the carpet underneath the front window.

Circling behind Julie, who was keeping the two men covered, I went into the kitchen.  I was looking for something I could fill with water to rinse the blood off the walkway.  But there wasn’t anything.  Like she’d said, she hadn’t had time to move in yet.

“Anything in the bathroom I can put water in?  Blood outside I need to clean up.”

“Shampoo bottle in the shower,” Julie said.  “Dump it out and use it.”

I did, and a few minutes later there was no longer an obvious blood stain right in front of her door.  Now it was just a slightly soapy wet spot with an indeterminate dark splotch in the middle.  It would be noticed if someone walked by, but it would be dismissed.

Closing the door, I knelt over the unconscious agent and searched him.  Wallet, keys, cell phone, hand cuffs, a folding knife and an FBI badge case.  I flipped it open and looked at the ID card.  Special Agent Reginald Hart.  Piling the items on the table, I stepped to the side of the guy on the sofa.

“On your feet,” I said, waving him up with my hands.

He sighed and stood.  Reaching out, I grabbed his shoulder and turned his body until he was facing away from me.  Running my hands over him, I found the exact same things I’d taken from Agent Hart, plus a snub nosed revolver in an ankle holster.  Pushing him back onto the couch, I added all of his possessions to the pile on the table, noticing my watch as I worked.  We only had slightly more than an hour before our flight left.

But then I wasn’t terribly worried.  This was a charter, not a commercial flight.  There was no point in them leaving without us.  Still, we needed to be moving.

“You know who I am,” I said to the conscious agent, opening his badge case to look at his ID.  “Special Agent Arnold Cooper.”

“I know who you are, and I know what you did,” he snarled at me.

I closed the case and tossed it onto the table.

“What did I do?”  I asked.

“You murdered Kirkpatrick,” he hissed.  “He was a friend of mine.  Wife.  Two kids.  And you killed him.”

“Yes, I did,” I said.  “After he tried to shoot me in the head on orders from Agent Johnson.”

“Bullshit!”  He spat.  “I’ve heard about you.  About the cops you killed in Arizona.  You never should have been brought in to the project.”

“Would you believe me if I showed you a video of Johnson ordering my termination?”  I asked, brief hope flaring that maybe I could use the FBI to help.