No Fortunate Son (14 page)

O
verbite trained the weapon on Pike and said, “Hands up. No movement.”

The accent was hard to place, but it wasn’t from the UK. Somewhere from Eastern Europe.

Pike did as he asked, moving slow and deliberate. Behind the two men, the Asian from outside entered with a smirk on his face.

Pike said, “Hey, wait. This isn’t what it looks like. We aren’t stealing anything. We’re just trying to locate a lost friend.”

Overbite said, “I don’t give a shit what you’re doing. I’m just happy you broke in here. Makes my job of killing you that much easier for the police investigation.”

Jennifer said, “Wait, wait. We haven’t done anything. This is just a misunderstanding.”

The Asian said, “Kill him. Sell her. I split the profits with you.”

Pike closed the distance to them, getting in range of the pistol. He said, “You don’t want to do this. You’re making a mistake.”

Overbite said, “You have one chance to live. One question. And one answer. You answer correctly, and you get to walk out of here. You don’t, and you’re dead.”

Hands raised, Pike said, “What is it? I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Besides you, who knows about Bulgari in Paris?”

Jennifer heard the words and thought she was in a bad TV movie.
What in the world is he talking about?

The man continued, “You tell me the leak, and you can walk. Otherwise, you’ll die. And I don’t mean quietly.”

Pike’s eyes watered, his voice pathetic, his hands trembling. “Please, please, don’t harm us. I can’t kill both of you. Without help, I’m no threat.”

The man with the pistol looked confused by his words, but Jennifer knew exactly what Pike meant. She floated forward, closing the distance to Ponytail, ignoring the Asian, waiting on the move.

Overbite said, “Get on your knees.” He motioned to the other man and said, “Get her under control.”

Pike lowered himself down, not looking at Jennifer at all. Giving no indication of his intentions, yet she had no doubt that there was about to be a cyclone of violence. And she had a part.

Ponytail approached, and she knelt down as well, watching Pike. Waiting on the explosion. The man sidled next to her, pulled out a pistol of his own, also with a suppressor. He watched Overbite, the leader. Ignoring her, he used the weapon alone as the threat for compliance.

Pike began pleading, his voice sounding pitiful, amazing Jennifer. “Please. Don’t hurt us. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have no idea. I’m here looking for a friend. Please, dear God, don’t kill us.”

Overbite advanced and placed the barrel directly on Pike’s forehead, the suppressor embedded into the skin. Death inches away. Close enough to negate the very reason pistols were invented.

He said, “You’re a long way from your friend. Trust me, I know. Last chance. You don’t answer, and I’ll rape the girl in front of you, then kill you both.”

Looking him dead in the eyes, the barrel still buried in his forehead, Pike snarled, “I doubt that.”

He jerked his head down and to the right and the weapon went off, the soft
pfft
of the bullet embedding harmlessly into the wall over his shoulder. Pike slapped his hands forward, trapping the pistol before it had even cycled another round. He twisted it upward, locking Overbite’s wrists against the frame and causing the man to scream. Controlling the weapon with one hand, Pike hammered a rabbit punch into the man’s kidneys, then twisted the barrel until it was aimed at Overbite’s chest.

The action occurred so quickly that even Jennifer was surprised.
Before Ponytail could register what had happened, she sprang to her feet and drove a palm strike into his face, splitting his nose. She wrapped her arm over his gun hand as he fell back shouting, trying to get her off him. He pulled the trigger and the round shattered the window in the door.

He kneed her in the groin, bringing her to the floor with a starburst of pain. She lost control of the weapon. He swung it around, and she slapped the barrel a second time, the bullet snapping by her head like a wasp. She punched him in the gut as hard as she could, causing an explosion of air. She grabbed the pistol again, fighting for control. He began squeezing the trigger, the rounds cycling by her head and stitching the roof.

Pike heard Jennifer shout and knew he needed to end the fight
now
. Still wrestling Overbite for the pistol, he torqued it harshly backward, feeling the man’s fingers snap. He jammed his left thumb into the trigger guard of the pistol and forced the man’s index finger to break the trigger to the rear. The weapon cycled upside down, the round punching through the man’s chest. His eyes flared open and he fell to the floor, releasing the pistol.

Realizing the threat, Ponytail went wild trying to get control of his own gun. He whirled to the left, lifting Jennifer off the ground and slamming her into a wall. She fell and began scrambling backward. He leapt toward Pike, training the barrel for a kill shot. Pike was quicker. A small cough, and the man’s head exploded, the pistol falling to the floor, useless.

Breathing heavy, the pump from the fight racing through her, Jennifer checked to make sure he was truly down. She looked up at Pike and nodded.

Pike went over to the other man, hearing the labored breathing from his chest. Knowing he was near the afterlife. He said, “Who are you? Where is my friend?”

The man said, “Fuck you.”

And died.

Jennifer surveyed the carnage, shaking from the stench of death. The closeness of her mortality. She saw the Asian break from the corner and try to dart from the room. She sprang forward, beating him to the door.
He raised a fist and screamed. She parried with her left and ducked under it, driving an uppercut with her whole weight behind the punch, lifting his slight frame off the ground. He collapsed in a daze.

She took a knee on the floor, shaking her hand from the blow and looking at Pike. He checked the chamber of his pistol. Satisfied, he let the slide close.

He walked to the Asian and said, “You still want to sell her, asshole?”

The man recoiled, pulling himself along the floor, getting away from the specter floating above him. To Jennifer, Pike said, “Search the bodies.”

She started going through Ponytail’s clothing, and Pike bent over the Asian, digging through his pockets. He pulled out a satchel, flipped it open, and glanced at the contents. He closed it and tapped the Asian in the head with the barrel of his newfound weapon. “You talk to anyone about what happened here, you’ll end up just like those two, understand?”

The man nodded, and Pike held up the satchel. “I know who you are. I won’t kill you. That would be too easy. I’ll sell
your
ass to friends of mine, and you’ll beg for the pain to end.”

The Asian cowered. Pike raised the weapon, saying, “Then again . . .”

His expression was so visceral Jennifer was sure the man was dead.

Don’t do it.

Her earlier conviction faltered. Violence for Kylie’s sake was one thing, but killing innocents—even asshole innocents—was crossing a deadly line. A step into the abyss. A fall into blackness that no rescue would absolve.

In a voice just loud enough to be heard, she said, “Pike?”

He glanced at her, the rage boiling out like a white-hot furnace. The Asian scuttled through the door, then began running for his life. Pike settled back and let out a breath.

She said, “You okay?”

He smiled, the violence having drained away as rapidly as the man fleeing the room. He said, “Me? I’m the one who should be asking that question.”

“I’m fine. I thought for sure you were going to kill that guy.”

“Perfect. I wanted him to feel the same way.”

She squinted at him, continuing her search of Overbite’s body. She found a thick keycard for someplace called B-Aparthotel, pocketed it, then held up a cell phone.

Pike saw the phone and understood the implications. He moved to the other body and said, “Good. Really good.”

Confused by the Jekyll and Hyde, she asked, “That was an act? What you just did with that guy?”

Pike started going through Ponytail’s clothes and said, “Yep. Sometimes you’ve got to act like a badass. Other times like a pussy.”

With conviction, or maybe confusion, she said, “You never do that.
Never
.”

He grinned, real humor showing through. “Not as far as you know, huh?”

Her mouth dropped open; she didn’t know what to say. Pike was meat and potatoes. Shoot or no-shoot. Kill or be killed. There was no nuance. If he wanted to break you apart, he did so. If he didn’t, you got to walk away, but she had never, ever seen any capacity for subterfuge, and now he’d just shown it twice.

He saw the realization sinking in and said, “You really thought I was losing it, huh?”

On new ground, she almost said no, not wanting to admit to her narrow, fallacious view of his psyche, but it would have done no good. He didn’t wait for an answer.

He winked and said, “Makes you think, doesn’t it? Women aren’t the only ones controlling
that
terrain.”

He tucked the weapon in his pants, hiding it with his shirttail. He nodded, satisfied with himself. “Yeah. I should get an Oscar if it fooled you. Trust me, I’m better than okay.”

He pointed at Overbite. “That asshole said we were a long way from our friend. He confirmed we’re on to something. I don’t know what, but Kylie’s at the end of it.”

T
urn off the recorder. This isn’t for attribution. I told you that already.”

Grant Breedlove clicked a button, and the red light faded. He said, “But you’ve already said you have no idea what I’m talking about. Why would you care if you were recorded?”

The waiter came by, dropped off a crystal glass full of expensive bourbon, then stood there expectantly. Located just blocks from the White House, Old Ebbitt Grill was an institution of political horse trading in Washington, DC, dating back more than a century. Crowded even during off-hours, it was jam-packed at 6:00
P.M.
, the tourists easily distinguishable from the power brokers by the cameras around their necks. Because of it, the waiter had no patience for someone who was going to take a booth and not order food.

Gerald Walker, the secretary of Homeland Security, picked up the glass of bourbon and gave the waiter a look that reminded him of his station. “Give us a minute, please.”

Gerald fiddled with his glass until the man was out of earshot, then said, “I’ve been here twenty minutes and you haven’t asked me a damn thing about my department. I’m not even sure why I agreed to show up.”

Grant leaned back. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Something’s afoot. I can smell it. I’m not asking for you to leak. I have that already. I’m asking for some administration perspective. Whether you give that is up to you.”

Gerald rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, whatever. Maybe if you gave me a question I could answer, we’d get somewhere.”

Grant said nothing for a moment, then, “Okay. Here’s what I think. You tell me if I’m close: We’re pulling out of Afghanistan, wanting to leave as rapidly as possible, no combat forces left, and someone’s come up missing. Someone important, which is going to cause all kinds of hell about withdrawal. The Taliban have him, and, after the last POW, are demanding some type of exchange. A big one.”

“What the hell has any of this got to do with DHS? How would I know?”

Grant held up his hand. “Hear me out. So, we have one American who was held for five years—a possible deserter—and we release five Taliban. Now, they have another. Someone who’s the son or daughter of someone important—but from the last firestorm there’s no way the administration can deal for him. At least not in public. They want to keep it quiet. Conduct the negotiations in secret. Get the guy back without any fanfare, since the last one was an abortion. How am I doing?”

Gerald rattled his glass and said, “As a fantasy, pretty good. Honestly, I don’t know where you guys come up with this stuff.”

“Mr. Secretary, I’m currently going through every single soldier and civilian in a war zone who’s even tangentially related to a political elite. The records are open information. From there, I’m going to start sending emails. When one doesn’t come back, your side of the story is going to be decidedly less rosy. More like a Watergate cover-up.”

Gerald drained the last of his bourbon and said, “Once again, I have no idea about any of this. Department of Homeland Security wouldn’t have a say in this even if it were real.”

He stood, and Grant grabbed his arm, saying, “Then why are you going to all of those off-the-books meetings?”

Gerald shook his hand free and said, “Let me guess: You’re talking to Rivers. Because I’m canning his ass for fraud.”

Gerald saw a flicker and knew he’d hit pay dirt. “Grant, you should really vet your sources a little more. He’s being fired for travel fraud, taking trips on the government dime for personal business. Which I guess explains why your last story had DHS filling American skies with killer drones armed with Hellfire missiles. Your sources are shit.”

Grant watched him walk away, then shouted above the noise in the restaurant, “I’m still going through the names.”

Gerald waved a hand without looking back, fighting through the crowd to the front door. Grant watched him go, then signaled the waiter for the check. He threw a twenty down, enough to cover the glass of water for him and the bourbon for Gerald, then stood, scribbling in a notebook.

He reached the door and stopped, surveying the room one final time, a reflex to see if there was anyone of interest he could annoy or groom for a source. Lost in his own world, searching for the power elite—or those scrambling to achieve that lofty position—he ignored anyone who worked the room as beneath his interest.

Others focused on the same story did not possess his snobbery. Because of it, Grant failed to notice his waiter curiously working underneath his vacated booth.

*   *   *

Acting dejected, the waiter told the woman who was assigned Grant’s section that the booth had left without dinner.

The waitress laughed, saying, “You still owe me twenty for giving you the table.”

He passed the money, then wiped sweat from his brow. She said, “You okay? You look a little sick.”

He said, “Yeah. Just a little pissed at the lack of a tip. Tell Carver that I’m going for a smoke break.”

She said, “You still got tables . . .”

Pulling off his apron, he said, “Cover for me. I’ll be back in twenty.”

He exited on Fifteenth Street and went north, turning onto G Street. He walked about a block and entered a parking garage, hugging the wall to let cars pass. He went straight up the ramp, winding around and moving directly through where cars were trying to pass.

He reached the second level and went left, to the end of the garage. He saw the white Ford and felt his heart rate increase. He waved his hand, hoping the man behind the wheel would see it in the rearview, not wanting to surprise him. From their earlier meeting, he had an
instinctive feeling the end result wouldn’t be good. Like waking a sleeping Doberman.

He paused, waving again, staring at the silhouette in the driver’s seat for a reaction. The car’s lights flashed against the wall and he started forward blindly, without looking. He leapt out of the way as another vehicle came around the turn much too fast for the space. A horn honked, and the idiot was gone.

Jesus. Never again. I’m
never
doing this again.

He darted across the space and opened the passenger door, taking a seat and pulling out the digital recorder he’d been given four hours before.

He said, “They came, and I managed to get their table, but they didn’t eat.”

“Did they talk at all?”

“Yes. I don’t know what about, but they did talk.”

“How long?”

“Maybe twenty minutes. The older guy seemed pissed. He left early.”

The man grunted and said, “Okay.” Nothing more.

The waiter screwed up his courage and said, “You’re still going to pay me, right? I mean, it’s not my fault they left. I took a huge risk.”

The man looked at him, and he felt the same fear he had when he’d agreed to this stupid idea. Like his bladder wanted to release right there in the car. He said, “Never mind. You keep the money. We’re even.”

The man tossed a bundle of bills in a rubber band into the waiter’s lap and said, “Go.”

When he was halfway out the door, wanting desperately to get back to the safety of his job, his new employer touched his arm. A light caress that brought him up short. The man said, “You understand what will happen if anyone hears about this, correct?”

He looked into the black eyes, devoid of any emotion, and understood the man never made a threat. Only a commitment. In abject fear, he felt his bowels want to release. He said, “Yes, yes. Of course. Believe me, I want nothing to do with this.”

The man nodded and he fled the parking garage before Black Eyes could change his mind. He emerged back onto G Street and felt more
secure, the people swirling around him. He speed-walked back to Ebbitt Grill, questioning why he’d ever agreed to do the eavesdropping.

It was the damn accent. All jovial and safe.

He wondered what the entire affair had been about, but not enough to investigate. No way would he investigate. The waiter would work at Old Ebbitt Grill for another five years, never knowing his part in the greatest manhunt since Osama bin Laden. Every March 17, when the patrons wore green and the bar descended into chaos, he would be reminded of the man with black eyes.

And he would fear the man’s return.