The Directive (17 page)

He began to speak, but I couldn’t hear him over the machinery. I squeezed closer and could just make out his voice:

“—I don’t understand why we don’t just deal with him right now. Think about what he knows. Well, sure…but—If you say you have it covered, I’ll hold off. I can’t really talk about this here. Where? Sure. I have to check out that shipment anyway. I’ll take care of one more thing here, then I can meet you. About an hour. Sounds good.”

He turned back. I dropped and crammed myself in between the machinery and the wall. My face was four inches from a hot pipe that stank of diesel. I couldn’t hear a thing with all the noise.

I waited what I thought was a minute but was probably only ten seconds as I felt my heart jumping against the vest. Then I heard a door close. I eased back up, expecting Lynch to pop out from behind the next column, his coffee mug at the ready. But when I stood up, I had the basement to myself.

He was going to meet his boss. Maybe it was my paranoia in overdrive, but it sounded like my fate might be on the agenda. He hadn’t given me nearly enough to know where he was going. I could have tried to follow him, but my Jeep was a giveaway.

I walked over to his Chrysler. The vans gave me some cover from the security cameras. In a complex this big, the cameras on the second basement, however scary, would most likely be glanced at periodically, if that, and reviewed only if there were an incident. Though given how my day was going, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if I still managed to catch the moment exactly wrong.

Getting inside a car isn’t very hard, but actually stealing one is another matter. Engine immobilizers took all the fun out of auto theft in the 1990s. When I was growing up, there was a magic moment for joyriding, around the time the Club came out. There were still plenty of mid-to-late-1980s cars on the road that you could hot-wire. You needed a lot of leverage to break the steering wheel lock, though, and you looked awfully suspicious walking around a parking lot with a breaking bar. But then, God bless them, drivers began strapping metal bars to their wheels for you: the Club. You’d wire the ignition, crack the lock with the Club, and all you needed was a hacksaw blade up your shirtsleeve to cut through the steering wheel and take the bar off. The whole city was your showroom. Once chip keys became standard the party ended. No more hot-wiring. Your options were carjacking or the bus.

I needed to get in and leave no trace. Slim jims haven’t worked reliably in years, so locksmiths use the wedge technique. There were yellow bumpers on the column behind me. I pulled the hard plastic cap off one and drove it in at the top of the driver’s side door, then jammed the plastic in deeper, opening up a small space between the door and frame. I unscrewed a threaded rod from the pipe conduit running along the walls and gave it a slight bend. I angled it in past the wedge. My hand started shaking as I got the rod halfway in. If I left scratches all over his doorframe, I would tip Lynch off. I stopped, steadied my wrist, and guided it toward the door-lock button.

It skittered off the top twice. And then I managed solid contact. The button levered down. The door locks clunked open.

Lynch kept his car clean. I was hoping for a GPS unit that might tell me his usual meeting places, but there was nothing to find except a
Best of Frank Sinatra
CD and the musty trace of ten thousand cigarettes lingering in the upholstery.

I sat there for a moment. This was my only chance. Lynch would be back any second.

I took my cell phone out, turned off every ringer, silenced it completely. I checked it four times, and slid it under his rear seats.

Then I locked his doors, sealed my phone in, and stepped away.

I heard someone coming up behind me. I started walking calmly toward the exit.

A round, middle-aged man with a nicotine-stained mustache approached me from across the garage. He was wearing a military-style black uniform, but these days everybody from mall guards on up was playing SWAT Team, so that didn’t mean much.

As I neared him, I realized he wasn’t FBI. He was Federal Protective Service, the government’s version of rent-a-cops. Still, he had a radio, and that meant he could rain hell down on me with a few words.

I brought my shoulders back square, my chest out, recalled every tic of posture I had learned in the navy, and strode right at the guy. I gave him a respectful nod.

He looked at me, then dropped his head slightly in return.

I walked back toward the garage stairwell, climbed two flights up, then exited into Judiciary Square. I enjoyed a second of freedom before I recalled that I was still deep in enemy territory, near the site of Sacks’s execution, surrounded by police, marshals, prosecutors, and judges. I got away as fast as I could, by walking north and taking the long way around back to my Jeep.

I SAT IN
the driver’s seat, pulled out my laptop, and went to my phone carrier’s website. I searched until I found the “Where’s my cell phone?” feature and then I pinged my phone. There it was on the map, sleeping peacefully in Lynch’s car under the field office.

From there I drove to a neighborhood called Shaw, where my car had less chance of being recognized from the day of Sacks’s death. I parked outside a Laundromat and waited. Ten minutes later Lynch was on the move, heading west.

I followed, staying about five minutes behind him so that my Jeep wouldn’t give me away. District traffic is dangerous enough without the need to check a laptop every twenty seconds. We drove northwest through the towns on the Maryland side of the Potomac, and soon—far sooner than you would think when coming from mid-city DC—we were driving past ten-million-dollar houses and horse farms.

We headed for the historic estates high above the river, overlooking Great Falls. These towns—Great Falls, McLean, Potomac, Bethesda—are home to lobbyists and government contractors and are now some of the wealthiest zip codes in the country. I pressed *67 on my prepaid—which blocks your number from showing up on caller ID—then tried the phone number I’d seen Lynch dial. There was no answer.

The land grew more rural. I passed forests and equestrian schools. Then the dot stopped. I refreshed my computer again. It didn’t move. Lynch had arrived at his destination. On a winding country road, I pulled up to within three-quarters of a mile of him.

Through the woods from time to time I caught glimmers of the river running far below. At the end of the road, I could make out a massive stone building that looked like a former luxury hotel or resort, a hundred years old at least. The wings lay partly in ruins, backing into overgrown woods. Boards covered the high arched windows. You could just make out the green copper ornaments along the roof: Poseidons and mermaids swimming along, choked by the kudzu that covered half the building. It looked as if no one but vandals, bums, and graffiti artists had set foot in the place since the Hoover administration.

As I drove along the rusting fence, I saw that there had been some recent improvements at the main building: a gleaming steel door and an electronic gate. Clearly a new tenant had arrived, and he was hiding something, or someone, very valuable. Two cars and two vans were parked in the long circular driveway.

There was nothing good about this setup, but I had to find out who was behind it all, which part of my past had come back for me. I almost believed that it was Jack who was giving Lynch orders, running this game. But was my brother twisted enough to put a four-inch slice in his scalp in order to hook his mark?

Who knows? Maybe it was the florist we fired a couple of months back.

I drove along the edge of the property in my Jeep, bucking along a trail in the woods until I was out of sight, then parked. I pulled the pistol from where I’d hidden it under the seat and slid it into my belt.

Graffiti and empty bottles of MD 20/20 testified to the recent clientele of the resort, but even in the back of the building, the new security regime was clear. The two wings of the hotel were just husks, but the domed central portion had been secured with steel plates over the windows and new locks.

I made my way past overgrown gardens, empty pools, and defaced Roman statues, then crawled along a low parapet until I was close enough to dash to Lynch’s car. It was nearly dark, and there was no sign of anyone inside. I found a scrap of old molding and tried using it to wedge his door. The wood crumbled, nothing but dry rot and termite holes. I looked around for another wedge, then thought to try the door handle.

It was unlocked. We were in the middle of nowhere.

I sat inside and started rooting around in the back seat. My phone wasn’t there. I dug my hands deep between the cushions, took a chunk of skin off my knuckles on a bolt head, then finally felt the cold plastic.

I eased the door shut, then ran back to the parapet.

Around the side of the building, I found a steel door in an inside corner that offered decent cover while I worked. An American-brand padlock held it shut. It was a good lock, but still shouldn’t have taken too long. I was jumpy as hell, however, and kept false-setting the pins.

Finally the cylinder turned. I stepped inside, following the thin beam of my keychain flashlight. The corridor was eerie. My steps echoed, and I could only just make out the contours of the wooden paneling and porcelain fixtures.

I heard a low rumble ahead and followed it. I took one wrong turn, and my foot punched through rotten flooring and debris. As I fell I speared my kneecap on something jagged.

I pulled myself out, then circled around. Once again the noise grew louder. A long section of wall was missing along the hallway, and I crossed through it.

In the gloom I found a thick metal door, open a foot or so. As I stepped through, I realized I was in a strong room. There were old safes in the corner, too heavy for anyone to bother pulling out. The whole place was trimmed in Gilded Age decadence—carved columns and friezes and crashed-down chandeliers.

I was closer to the pulsing sound now. It seemed to be coming from behind a door with an old-fashioned keyhole, the kind you could actually peep through. That meant a lever lock. Under other circumstances this might have been an interesting puzzle, but not with Lynch and his squad waiting nearby.

I had the wrong sort of picks, which meant a nightmare of awkward angles and too much pressure. It left my fingers red and raw. I finally managed to set the levers and drew the bolt.

When I eased the door open, the noise boomed out loud, and light flooded through the crack, blinding me for a few seconds.

I was close, suddenly too close, and I could hear voices. The thick walls of the strong room had led me to believe I was much farther away.

As my eyes adjusted, the scene grew increasingly surreal. I was in the rear of an old casino cage, where money was counted and swapped for chips. It was an ornate tangle of wrought iron, wood, and brass that took up one side of the gaming floor. Looking up, I saw the vaulted ceilings over the main gambling area and the dome high above me. A quarter of the ceiling had caved in, and I could see, past the wood molding and cracked frescoes, the sky turning plum with dusk. There were a few craps tables decaying on the floor. Grass grew all around them in the casino pits, with wildflowers blooming here and there. That dome must have been open for decades.

I could hear people close by. I was shielded from their view by a counter and a safe, but through the brass bars I could see, at the far end of the floor, two glaring halogen floodlights aimed my way. There were men moving near them—maybe ten—but I couldn’t make out faces with the blinding lights behind them. Dozens of crates were stacked on the floor, towering over the heads of the men. I could see guards off to both sides, carrying assault rifles.

The throb of the generator partly drowned out the voices, but I thought I recognized Lynch speaking. I craned my neck farther out to try to see who he was talking to, but could discern only silhouettes. I moved a little closer, and I could make out what he was saying.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just put some fear into the fiancée. Or why you think you have him under control when he’s clearly out to get us—”

The other speaker cut him off. “Fine,” Lynch said. “Fine. It’s your show.”

This was the man behind it all. I crawled out farther, desperate to see the face of whoever was bent on ruining me. We had narrowed down our search for the men behind the dark money. We were close. If I could only hear the voice, I would know.

Lynch moved a few feet. The other man remained only a shadow framed by the lights. If he would just turn, move a few feet, I could see.

I inched out. The floorboard under my elbow creaked. I transferred my weight back. Wood cracked under my foot.

“What’s that?” someone said.

“There!”

I lunged back.

Beams of light flashed through the darkness, shot toward me. Men came running.

I LEAPT THROUGH
the door, slammed it shut behind me, turned the bolt back, and jammed a pick inside until it broke. There was a light far ahead, and I hauled ass toward it. The ruined corridor walls flashed by, a long wing of ballrooms built from stone with beautiful wood-frame ceilings. I hurdled a pile of debris. The ceilings were gone, the second floor half collapsed. I ran into the ruins. The stone walls stood high above my head.

I’d put some distance between me and the guards when I heard a loud bang far back, then voices. Gunshots cracked. Bullets skipped off the walls, tore the air, and sent up puffs of dirt and marble around my feet.

I ran through a stone archway held up by jack stands, then stopped. I doubled back, wrenched the supports down, then dove away, waiting for what remained of the upper floor to fall and give me cover. The stone creaked, chunks of masonry crumbled down, then nothing. Bullets sang past me. I sprinted away.

I reached the end of the corridor. The walls rose unbroken to fifteen feet. Steel plates covered the windows: a dead end. The only way out was back the way I had come, the vault where I had kicked out the stands.

I ran toward the shots, darting side to side. I heard cracks and settling from the stone archway ahead. Great.
Now
the vault had decided to cooperate. Chunks fell. I sped up straight for the passage, and rounded the corner in a flat-out sprint, arms pumping as the ceiling collapsed and the bullets slit the air.

It all came down. I dove, then felt the stones striking my legs, my back. Maybe I hadn’t gone far enough. A cloud of dust swallowed me, coated my mouth like talc. I struggled to my knees, throwing myself forward, waiting to be crushed.

A heavy stone hit me in the small of the back. I stumbled. I was going to get buried alive in this creepy pile. Some kids playing manhunt would find my bloated blue body months from now. I kept going, half crawling. The dust stung my eyes. The falling rubble eased. I ran, crashed into a wall, groped my way forward blindly.

The air cleared. The walls tapered down into piles of stone. I felt dirt beneath my feet as I ran, jumped a low pile of stone, and started across the grounds toward the fence.

Someone with a rifle must have arrived at the party, because the bullets were moving closer, indicating the practiced hand of a marksman taking his time to correct for distance and the cold wind coming off the water.

Over my shoulder I could see muzzle flares in a high window.

I ran, and saw ahead of me a last chain-link fence and then the wooded descent to the river. I jumped up, grabbed the links, and started climbing.

A bullet sparked off the fence by my head. I threw myself over the top. The twists of chain link tore at my ribs as I went over. I lost control and landed hard on the other side, driving my knee into my chin and dazing myself for a second.

A hill dropped off to my left as I kept on.

Before I heard the crack of the gunshot, I felt it hit me, like a twenty-pound sledge crashing into my lower back. I tumbled forward, whipping my head against the ground at the last second. I managed to get my feet below me, but by then the descent was too steep. I was sliding through dirt and leaves. My gun fell from my waistband, tumbled away. I took a roll and landed on my back.

I groaned. The world went red, shot through with stars and sparking lights. I fell end over end down a ledge, and came to on my stomach in a gully.

I wasn’t far from the river. There was no sign of my gun. I limped through the trees toward where I’d left my car. As I came around a bend in the water, I saw my Jeep. Thank God. I might make it out of this. I started to run, but the pain in my back flared, crippling me. As I drew closer, I saw figures ahead, flashlights scanning. They’d found my car.

The lights panned through the woods. I ducked behind a tree and waited for them to pass.

I turned and started back down the river, tearing through brush, pain arcing up my back with every step. There was nothing for miles but the men trying to kill me. As I mucked through cold standing water, I saw headlights coming down a trail. I threw myself down in the mud and waited. Minutes passed. Spiders crawled from the leaves near my ear. Something that felt like claws skittered over my legs. I held on.

The car stopped. Flashlights crossed the field, lit up the wet earth around my head. I buried my face, tried to breathe out of the corner of my mouth.

I don’t know how long I lay like that, feeling the insects crawl down my collar, the mud seep into my ear.

The lights moved on, flashed back once more. The car engine growled. They left.

Three-quarters of a mile down the river I came across an old bait shed, closed for the season. In the creek behind it there was a skiff, abandoned and half full of brown water. I clambered in and pushed out toward the river. I let the current take me away as I collapsed on my back, staring at the stars in that cold soaking mess.

I felt the blood flow from my lower back, felt the warmth mingle with the filthy water. I knew that I had been shot. I had to hope they would peg me for dead, and pray they weren’t right in the end.

It was a wide, calm section of the river. The boat ran into a snag of trees. I pushed it off with my foot. Then an eddy caught me and took me to shore on the far, Virginia side.

I made my way through the freezing water by the bank. I seemed to be in some kind of county park. As I trudged up the hill, I felt the heat from my blood as it spread down my buttocks, my leg.

I reached back and felt the vest with my fingers, traced the hole in the plate. The bullet had gone through.

The trail led to a rural road. I fished out my cell phone. Water was beaded on the screen, but it still worked. I tried Annie. No answer. I was about to call my dad, but that was a last resort. If he didn’t make it home in time for his parole curfew call, he could be sent back.

I could have knocked on someone’s front door, but they would have been justified in answering it with a shotgun. I looked every bit the escaped murderer.

I started to feel faint, and tripped over my feet a couple of times. This was getting bad fast. I had to take a break. I stepped into the cover of the roadside trees and sat down with my back against a log.

I needed an ambulance. I was about to call for one when I remembered that they report all gunshot wounds. I couldn’t bump into the cops with this. I lay on my back, breathing slowly and deliberately. I’d never felt so tired, or so cold. My eyes closed and I slumped over.

The pain and the damp and the chill seemed not to matter anymore. Unconsciousness came over me like a veil. I let the darkness in.