Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) (40 page)

“WHERE IS IT?!”

Then it came like a flood. Art, however, heard only the first three words. Once he did he let Moises Griggs fall to the ground and ran outside to his loaner, calling Agent David Rogers at the Capitol and agonizing through each ring.

*  *  *

Word was going out quickly that something had happened at the secretary of state’s Falls Church home, and that a mysterious 911 call might have something to do with it. The Virginia State Police unit assigned to check out the call’s point of origin, a truck stop off I-66 near Marshall, made haste in doing so. After just a minute of questioning the waitresses and a few patrons of the small cafe at the stop, the troopers had a brief description of the youngish man who had made a call from the public phone located at the end of the counter. One waitress remembered the man’s strange eye, a descriptive point the troopers immediately seized upon thanks to the broadcast from their communications center, and one trucker remembered seeing the “screwy-looking guy” get into a Honda, dark green, maybe. Another trucker recalled the car cutting in front of his rig as he entered the truck stop, zooming away up the entrance to westbound I-66.

With that the troopers had something to go on. They radioed in the information, and within minutes there were seven VSP cruisers, marked and unmarked, converging on the stretch of interstate between Marshall and I-81. A helicopter was also racing that way from an assignment near Winchester.

*  *  *

David Rogers flipped open his cell and heard the excited voice of Art Jefferson. He handed the phone immediately to Frankie as requested.

“Aguirre.”

“Frankie, it’s inside,” Art said quickly, somewhat winded.

“What? How?”

“Vorhees... He was picked on purpose... That’s why Royce didn’t use Crippen...” Breaths, heavy, fast. “Frankie, it’s in his leg! Get it!”

Frankie’s eyes went wide as she handed the phone back to Rogers. It was more of a toss, really, and all he heard was “Oh, my God!” from her as she bolted into the Capitol.

As she did, phones and radio circuits all over Washington suddenly came to life.

*  *  *

The VSP helicopter began scanning the interstate from a point five miles west of Marshall, flying at two hundred feet and a hundred miles an hour as the trooper-observer surveyed the light traffic through powerful binoculars. Just past the Highway 522 connector he got a hit. A mile and a half back an unmarked cruiser was tasked with making a quiet pass of the vehicle to ID the driver. It accelerated past a hundred to make up the distance. The word now was that the suspect was not to be stopped, just followed. It was where he was going that was important.

*  *  *

“Get out of the way!” Frankie screamed. Secret Service agents grabbed at her, and it took Rogers running behind her with his shield held high to free her more than once. “It’s in there! It’s in there!”

Access to the center aisle was blocked by two large Secret Service agents who stepped to block Frankie’s path, but moved aside as something came through their earpieces. She pulled the twin doors out and ran down toward the front of the chamber.

*  *  *

“...with an added seven federal prisons to—” The president looked straight ahead as a commotion spilled into the chamber from the hall, but had no time to react. That was done for him. Two Secret Service agents came from either side, grabbed the chief executive by his suit jacket, and dragged him off the podium as the House and Senate members jumped to their feet.

*  *  *

In front of Anne and the Griggs’s, the first lady sprang to her feet, and was as quickly whisked off by her security detail. Anne and Felicia watched that, while Darren kept his attention on the floor below.

“It’s Frankie! Art’s partner! Look.”

Anne jerked her head to the right and caught sight of the woman her future husband trusted his life with. She was climbing over a sea of fleeing bodies to get to one man.

*  *  *

Frankie got her hands on Congressman Richard Vorhees’s coat and pulled him back into a chair without explanation.

“Get your hands off me!” Vorhees screamed.

“Leave him alone!” a fellow representative protested.

Frankie heard none of it, and held Vorhees back in the seat with one hand while the other ripped at his pants. “Which one is fake?! Now!”

“Are you mad?”

Rogers made his way over the crush of bodies and put a chin lock on the congressman. “It’s in your goddamn leg, idiot. Now which one is it?!”

“In my leg. You mean...” The shot in the leg, the window broken by a ball whose owner he could not find, the awkward balance of the spare.
Oh my God!
“The left! The left! Get it off!” His hands ripped at his trousers now. “Get it off!”

The flow of mostly middle-aged men increased as a lightning bolt of understanding swept over the chamber.
It was in there. With them! Near them! On him!

Frankie pulled with both hands and tore the pricey material from cuff to above the knee, exposing the limb. Vorhees undid the several straps with fingers that had completed the operation countless times before, and without hesitating Frankie took the limb, still wearing the congressman’s leather shoe, and dove through the mass of bodies to get out of the chamber. This time a path seemed to open for her.

She headed straight for the exits to the west front of the Capitol, moving away from the masses heading for the east side. The doors were held open for her by agents who shielded their faces and cringed as she passed. One had managed to get a respirator on.

The cold air slapped her for some reason as she emerged, limb in hand. She stopped, took a breath, heard Rogers come out behind her, heard sirens start up somewhere in the distance, saw agents clearing the way before her, and asked herself just what she was going to do with it.

Think, Frankie, think!
She didn’t know how much time there was. Seconds. Minutes. Not long, she was certain of that. The president was three quarters of the way through his speech. There was a frighteningly small window of opportunity left to dispose of the thing. But how to do that. A breeze was blowing at a good clip, negating just laying it out on a patch of lawn to go off. She had to get it somewhere safe, somewhere it could be contained. Somewhere it would be...

Her eyes fell upon the small reflecting pool beyond Grant’s monument.
Water
. Orwell’s statement about 1212 Riverside flashed in her head. “
The best thing would be to just pick the whole house up and set it in a vat of water.
” Not with a building, maybe, but with a leg...yes!

Frankie heard Rogers yelling something at her, but there was no time for response. She started down the steps to get to the pool. It was just under a quarter-mile away.

*  *  *

“State police just made a pass of a car their air unit spotted,” one of Jones’s Washington agents reported to the director as they stood in front of the secretary’s battered Falls Church home. “It looks like Toby Barrish.”

Jones looked to Art, as did Coventry and a hastily bandaged Bud DiContino. “You were right.”

Art swallowed and nodded, accepting the compliment. He saw Moises Griggs lying proned-out on the lawn and knew he would have rather been wrong about everything.

“They’re following him to see where he goes,” the agent continued. “HRT is just getting airborne.”

Again, Jones looked to Art. “You want in on this?”

“Badly.”

“Block off a street and get a bird here for us,” Jones directed.

“Gordy, any chance I can be there for the party?” Bud asked. His wound was quite superficial, and had been quickly cleaned and taped shut by VSP troopers.

“Are you up to it?”

“If it means seeing the man that did all this,” Bud began, “yeah. I’m up for that.”

Jones pointed a finger at his agent. “Get that bird here fast.”

*  *  *

Frankie had visions of reliving her high school softball days and pitching the limb into the reflecting pool from twenty yards away, but her sensibilities stepped in and drove her to draw much closer before letting the hunk of metal and plastic fly. She slid to a stop and watched it tumble end over end through the air, sailing into the wind, diving for the rippling surface of the pool, and finally splashing foot-first into the water. It disappeared beneath the surface, the wake disturbance rolling over to cover it. Frankie bent forward, hands on her knees, took a deep breath of relief, and spit it out with eyes gone wide as the limb bobbed to the surface. It was floating.

*  *  *

Lee Highway was completely blocked in both directions by VSP cruisers and FBI vehicles, allowing the Park Service Jet Ranger room to land.

“Park Service?” Bud asked as he instinctively bent forward and trotted toward the blue-and-white helicopter.

“It was the closest thing,” Jones reported. He climbed in, followed by Bud, then Art.

“Everybody ready?” the pilot asked from his seat on the right of the helicopter’s cockpit.

Everyone nodded and slid into headsets. As the bird lifted off and headed west, Art Jefferson did one more thing to ensure that he was ready: he inserted a full magazine into his Smith & Wesson.

*  *  *

If her mind had been racing before, it was on afterburner now.
The goddamn thing is buoyant!
Frankie looked around for something to weight the limb down with, but could see nothing. She’d just shoot it and hope to sink it that way, but that might just as easily set it off. Her gun would do no good here...

Or would it?
Yes!
Frankie ran to the pool’s edge, to where the limb had been pushed by the steady breeze, and pulled it out. She laid it on the ground and knelt next to it, removing her belt and the holstered weapon attached to it. She wound the combination around the limb tightly and secured the buckle as tight as possible. It wasn’t the use intended for her Smith & Wesson model 1076, but if its forty-plus ounces would do the trick it would count as straight shooting in her book. Standing once again she underhanded it fifteen feet into the pool and watched it settle into the water, sinking, falling, sinking, and staying underwater.

“Jesus,” Frankie said, watching and waiting, then jumping as a dim flash pierced the surface, which boiled briefly. She became very conscious of the wind in her face, the wind coming at her from the direction of the pool. She held her breath, knowing that would do no real good if any of the VZ had breached the surface, then pulled a lungful in and took stock of herself.

She was alive. She let out the breath and took in another. Then another. The night air tasted sweet to Frankie Aguirre. Sweet with success.

*  *  *

“It’s heading south on I-eighty-one,” the pilot of the Park Service heli reported over the intercom after receiving the radio report from the Virginia State Police heli fifty miles distant. “And the Hostage Rescue Team bird is on-station with them.”

“Good,” Jones said into the boom mic touching his lips. “If I say ‘floor it,’ does that have any meaning to a helo jock?”

The nose of the Park Service Jet Ranger dipped, the pilot smiling as he did the aerial equivalent of putting the pedal to the metal.

Jones looked left to Art. His gaze was fixed forward. “We got it in time,” the director said. That report from the Capitol had come minutes ago. “She’s okay, Jefferson.”

Art nodded.

“HRT is the best,” Jones reminded him over the intercom. “No hostages here, but they’re the best SWAT team in the world. We’ll get them.”

Another nod. Art knew they would “get” John Barrish, but somehow that seemed inadequate. They should have had him a long time ago.

THIRTY TWO

Takedown

Toby stopped the Honda fast in the driveway and ran into the house. His father and brother were in front of the TV in the living room.

“What happened?” Toby demanded. “The radio said someone broke into the place and ripped his leg off!”

John Barrish sat hunched forward on the edge of his chair, muscles tensed, nostrils flaring with each hot breath.

“That’s what happened,” Stanley confirmed. The TV now was cutting between news crews trying to get information on the happening. They would not be the only ones. “Dad, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“He’s right, Pop,” Toby agreed. He pulled the .38 from his waistband. “They could find us.”

Who? Who had blown it? Who screwed up? WHO RUINED MY PLAN?

“Pop,” Toby pleaded. “Come on. We’ve gotta get out of here.”

John looked to his sons. They were right. They would have to leave, would have to run to fight again. He picked up the Beretta resting on the end table and stood. “Stanley, get your mother. She’s in the bedroom. Toby, throw some food and ammo in the car. Now!”

*  *  *

The FBI and Park Service helicopters landed on State Route 259 near Chimney Rock, two miles from the house to which the blacked-out VSP air unit, flying high and using its FLIR (forward looking infrared), had carefully followed the Honda. A trooper familiar with the area briefed the team on the lay of the land, then all involved piled into vehicles, some commandeered, and headed toward Fulks Run.

*  *  *

“Get the food, Louise,” John commanded. His wife looked at him with dead eyes and dropped canned vegetables into a paper sack.

“Pop, Stan’s grabbing some clothes for us,” Toby said as he popped his head into the kitchen. “I’m putting the guns and stuff in the car now.”

“I want to be on the road in five minutes,” John said.

“You got it,” Toby assured him, then headed out the front. The lights of the Honda were still on. Not good for the battery, but it had only been a few minutes. Toby walked toward the rear of the car, arms full of ammo boxes and extra weapons, his pace slowing as light glinted in several spots from the dark forest. He looked behind. The car’s high beams were reflecting off the large front window and into the trees, illuminating... what?

“FREEZE! FBI!”

Toby dropped the load in his arms and drew the revolver from his waist. He was just bringing it up when a volley of fire came at him. He felt a fire in his belly, fell backward, and crawled toward the open front door, gun in hand. Ten feet was all he could manage before he passed out and died.