They'll Call It Treason (9 page)

“Put the gun down, Shaw. It doesn’t have to be like this.” Sean feigned negotiation, his tone more consoling than it had been earlier.

“Yes, it does,” Ethan said as he jumped out the broken window and onto the truck bed as it passed under the bridge. With a painful thud, Ethan’s feet hit the hard metal plating of the tow truck bed. He suppressed a groan as his foot bent awkwardly, rolling him a few feet before coming to a stop.

He clinched his teeth and regained his footing. Pain exploded through his leg. It almost sent him back to his knees. He flinched as a bullet ricocheted off the metal bed with a spark.

Ethan jumped to the side, swearing under his breath.  He slung himself off the truck and onto the sidewalk. His injured leg hit with a hard jolt, his body crumpled to the ground. He struggled to shake off the pain as he got back to his feet. Confused onlookers stepped back. Ethan shed his torn and blood-soaked coat and raced forward. He took the next road away from the CNN Center and into a parking lot.

He chanced a look back. There was no one. He had lost them—but for how long?

I have to get out of the city.

Ethan ran through the parking lot from car to car, trying to find one whose owner had made the mistake of leaving their car unlocked. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting someone to come around the corner and open fire at any moment. Finally he found an unlocked door, a late model Nissan. He jumped in and reached below the steering column to hotwire the car.

He refused to die today.

January 29 at 11:00
a.m.
EST

Atlanta, Georgia – CNN Center

The frigid wind engulfed Sean. Shattered glass cracked underfoot. He stood by the broken window pane, a shiver escaping down his back. His earpiece was alive with activity.

“Shit!” Sean spat, kicking the glass at his feet as Ethan ran out of sight behind the Omni hotel. Sean reported in over his radio, “The suspect escaped onto Marietta heading north. Does anyone have eyes on him?”

“This is Agent Perez, I’ve got him in sight sir,” a panting voice came over the radio. “In pursuit.”

Sean waited. Ethan could not be permitted to escape—it would threaten everything. The seconds stretched on, trying his patience.

“I lost him, sir,” Agent Perez huffed over the radio, “He got away in a silver sedan. Took off down Marietta.”

“Did you get a tag number?” Sean asked, hopeful.

“Negative, sir.”

“Make of the car?” Sean tried again.

“No, sir,” the agent said, his voice nervous.

“What the hell
did
you see?” Sean asked angrily under his breath, keeping the comment off the air. He clenched his fists, trying to master his irritation.

How did we lose him so easily?

“Regroup in front of the World Congress Center.” He barked over the radio as he spun around and headed for the stairs. “We’ll grab the license plate from the street camera.”

The heat of the moment gone, pain pulsed through Sean’s body from the bullet wound in his side. Without slowing, he reached down and pressed his hand firmly to the wound. It was warm and wet. He groaned.

His fellow agents followed him out of the building. Sean chided himself silently for failing to eliminate Shaw.

Sean pushed his way through the gathering crowd outside the Congress Center. It was mostly members and observers from the Democratic National Committee meeting, interspersed with a few pedestrians. He walked past a group of women sobbing on the sidewalk, mourning the loss of their dear Congressman.

Pathetic.

The news crews had already begun to gather, questioning bystanders and police in the crowd. Sean worked to maneuver through the horde, away from the media. He kept his hand on his bloodied side, a small pang shooting up with each step. Thankfully, it was growing weaker.

“Sean, are you okay there?” an older black man standing a few feet ahead in the crowd asked, placing a hand on Sean’s shoulder. Agent James Crosby, Sean’s superior, a kind but stern man with a little grey stubble on his chin and a clean bald head.

“I’m fine, sir. It’s just a flesh wound.”

“Are you sure? You still need to get checked out at least,” Crosby insisted.

“Alright, alright.”

Between the mobs of people, Sean spied his handiwork lying prone on the ground, surrounded by yellow police tape. A white sheet draped over the Congressman’s body, edges soaked in red. It would be only a matter of minutes before the nation was inundated with news of Thomas Burr’s assassination. The media would pin the blame on the Georgia Militia, throwing around terms like domestic terrorist and anti-American.

Even though Shaw had escaped, Sean was pleased that at least one thing went right. The Congressman was dead and the pundits and officials would soon take the bait. Now Sean had to tie up the loose end known as Agent Ethan Shaw.

“We checked with the CNN Center to get the security feeds on the fourth floor. It seems the damn cameras haven't been installed yet,” Crosby explained, annoyed by the hitch. “Please tell me you got a good look at the shooter, Sean.”

Sean sat on the back bumper of a black SUV up on the sidewalk and sighed. “I only caught a glance. Shaw and his partner, Phelps, went in first and before I could enter the room Shaw had already shot Phelps. I didn’t have time to get a look at the sniper. I was shocked. It was the last thing I expected to happen,” Sean explained, working out his story, taking care to keep all the details straight.

“We know who Shaw is. Once we locate him, he should be able to lead us to the shooter,” Sean rationalized.

“He came all the way down here just to stall us,” Sean stated bitterly, hoping to convey a sense of disgust at Ethan’s alleged betrayal. “Have we notified police in the neighboring cities and counties that he may be in their jurisdictions yet?”

“Not yet, but I’ll get on that,” Crosby agreed. “You need to take it easy for a while.”

Sean nodded, “Just give me a couple minutes and I’ll be back in the game. He got away on my watch. It’s my responsibility to bring him in.”

Sean could not risk that anyone might listen to Ethan – raising inconvenient questions or prying for answers. Ethan had to die. It was that simple.

January 29 at 11:25
a.m.
EST

Norfolk, Virginia – FBI Norfolk Field Office

“Have you seen the news?” Dante asked, careening around the corner.

Gray sat at his desk, his gaze fixed on his computer monitor. He did not move.

“They’re saying Ethan is a terrorist or something. That he took part in the assassination of Congressman Burr,” Dante explained in disbelief.

Gray said nothing, his gaze remained fixed in place.

“Gray? Grayson, you okay?” Dante asked, shaking him gently by the shoulder.

Gray turned slowly in his chair, his lips curved down at the edges. His honey eyes looked confused, glossy almost like he might cry. Without looking at Dante, Gray managed two words, “Jason’s dead.”

“What? Jason? How?” Dante tried to restrain his emotions, the shock and grief avalanched on top of him all at once. He felt his eyes gathering that same gloss he saw in Gray’s eyes. Stepping back, he dropped into a chair a few feet behind him.
No. No.

Gray looked down at the floor before he met Dante’s stare, “They’re saying Ethan shot him… Twice through the chest.”

“No! That’s impossible.” As suddenly as the grief had struck him, a fury of disbelief flared through Dante’s heart. “It can’t be. Jason and Ethan were best friends!  They grew up together.”

“I know, but that’s what they are saying, and the FBI is corroborating the story,” Gray explained, not wanting to believe it himself. Talking at least seemed to help dam up the tears, for the moment. “According to the news, he kept the FBI off the shooter long enough for him to get the shot off, and then killed Jason and attempted to kill another agent.”

Dante kept his eyes low, looking back and forth, searching in the mundane brown carpet for some answer. Nothing.

“How the hell could this happen?” Dante asked. It seemed impossible.

He’s not capable of such an act
, Gray thought.
Why? Why would he have done it? What could he have possibly gained from it?

“I don’t know,” Gray paused, “but it did.” He searched the news article again, begging to have been wrong, to have imagined it all. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him, maybe he was just tired and had missed something. Nothing changed.

Ethan had gone rogue.

January 29 at 12:00
p.m.
EST

Atlanta, GA

The towering skeletons of oaks and maples occupied the shoulder of the road. Patches of tall, wavy grass sat beneath the winter besieged trees.  It was quieter here. Only a few homes and gated communities dotted the drive; nature took over the rest.

An hour had passed since Ethan fled from downtown, since his life unraveled. Passing through the calm Atlanta suburbs had eased the onslaught of adrenaline. His heart had finally normalized and a painful throbbing in his chest and face had set in. The blood at his side had clotted. It burned with each movement, each time his side grinded against the center console when the tires bounced from a bump in the road.

The digits on the stolen Maxima’s odometer said he had driven over forty miles, trekking further into the maze of small towns and wooded countryside. Ethan had no idea where he was, but driving further from the city brought a small sense of safety. Yet, even with the distance he had placed between him and downtown he felt uneasy. He periodically glanced in the rear-view mirror, expecting to see one of the FBI’s distinctive black SUVs or an Atlanta PD cruiser following.  He was now a wanted man.

His thoughts kept returning to Jason’s pleading eyes, begging him for time. He shuddered; a tear ran down his cheek. Anger smoldered within Ethan’s chest as he remembered the fear in those eyes – and the man who had taken Jason’s life: Agent Sean Abrams.

Boiling inside, he stopped at a red light. A sedan and a sports car whined by. Abruptly he punched the steering wheel, again and again, imagining Sean with each blow. He wanted the anger to go away, but even more so the feeling of helplessness – a deep abyss of emotion that rolled in his gut.

The light turned green. Ethan drew in a deep breath and pressed the accelerator.

Who will tell Amanda and Kallie? Are they going to believe I killed Jason? How would they ever know the truth? How would Kate know the truth?

The thoughts haunted him, hanging over him like a massive weight that threatened to crush him. Everyone he knew would soon be positive he was a domestic terrorist. A soulless murderer, a cancer. He had to set things straight. But how?

The building’s security cameras? Were the cameras working on that floor? Please have been on!

He thought back to entering that ill-fated fourth floor. He pictured the bare walls and exposed wiring, the naked sheetrock and steel beams.

Were there any cameras?

He squinted. Would they even have been on with all the construction work? He could only hope his luck was not entirely out.

Wait, the shooter. He had a tattoo… on his neck.

Ethan forced himself to replay those painful moments in his mind again. Jason staring up at him in shock replayed in his head. He tried to turn away, but his memories refused to let him. Willing his mind to move forward he saw the shooter. Asian. Blue and white coveralls. The tattoo on his neck.

A cross? No.  Maybe a tribal pattern?

He focused. The details became clearer.

A dagger. A triple dagger.

Realization sparked in his eyes. It was the same dagger formation pinned to his tack board back in Norfolk. The same one that had appeared on a recording nearly a year ago when a North Carolina representative had been murdered in Raleigh.

Could it be the same man?

Without a means to dig deeper it was all useless speculation. But something told him it was more than speculation. If it was the same man, it could be the break in the case he and Jason had needed. Yet, right now it did him no good; it helped little to show his innocence.

Hopelessness seeped back in. He had to prove he had no part in the Congressman’s assassination. That he did not kill his best friend. He groaned at the thought. Everything was set against him now. He no longer had access to the Bureau, to law enforcement or any other tool that could prove his innocence. Instead they were hunting him down at this very moment as they would a hardened criminal. His most important task now was staying alive and under the radar.

Could the Bureau be involved?

The thought stung. He tried to push it away. It was maniacal to think the Bureau could be complicit in such a plot. They were far from perfect, but this was too much, too criminal. Yet, something deep inside him would not allow him rule it out.  After all, it had been another Agent that had stabbed them in the back.

Ahead the traffic light turned red, and Ethan slowed the car to a stop. The roadside was adorned with more maple and oaks. Light poles stood erect on either side of the intersection. Power lines sagged over the road, feeding power to the houses and the few small business that peppered the area.

Under the radar… My old ID.

Ethan reached into his back pocket and retrieved his wallet. He opened it and examined the back fold with his finger until he found what he was looking for, a small loose thread. He took hold of the thread and gave it a firm yank. It moved. Again he pulled. Reeling in the rest of the thread, he revealed a small opening in the back of the wallet.

Pulling the flap open he poked his fingers inside and pulled out a North Carolina Driver’s License. It had been years since he had last seen the ID. He had placed it there for safe keeping, motivated by equal parts paranoia and nostalgia.

The picture showed Ethan, but the name was different:
Matthew E. Killian
. The Bureau had supplied him with the alias two years before, during a drug bust in North Carolina. The bust had gone as planned, and the Bureau had kept the alias active for future use.

Ethan had kept the ID hidden in his wallet. He never really could explain why. Over the years he had chalked it up as the result of too many conspiracy movies and books. His friends had joked that he must have been the only federal agent to mistrust the feds that much.

It was not that he mistrusted the feds, it was government in general that he held as incompetent. A fine belief for a federal servant.

The photo showed Ethan with dyed black hair, cut exceptionally short, almost military-like, and he sported a pair of thin rimless glasses. He stared at the picture for a few moments.

After a deep breath, he exhaled, “Looks like it’s time to become Matthew Killian again…”

Beep! Beep!

Ethan darted his eyes up to the rear-view mirror. He spotted a woman with her hands raised and waving in the car behind him. Her bright red lips moved swiftly. She was undoubtedly spitting out the foulest expletives she could think of, if her irate facial expressions were any clue. The light had turned green while Ethan had been examining his ID.

The woman’s horn blared once more as Ethan floored the accelerator. A quick squelch of rubber on pavement sounded out, and he was off. He buried his agitation. Hot-tempered drivers were the least of his worries.

As he drove, the thought of warning Kate slipped into his thoughts again. He needed her to know he was innocent that he did not do the horrible things the media was likely saying about him. At the same time he worried for her safety.

The Bureau would want to speak with Kate to find answers and dig deeper into the situation. That was good and hopefully could lead to a positive conclusion. The problem was Agent Abrams. Ethan feared he would be the one to question her and that he may want to use her in a much more sinister way.

The thought alerted a renewed sense of urgency. He reached for his phone and dialed Kate’s cell phone.

No. What are you doing? You can’t do that. You can’t use your phone.

He stopped in mid-dial, mentally chastising himself for the mistake. He stared at the phone, a virtual GPS. A tracking beacon.

He flipped the phone over and tore the back panel off before ripping the battery out.  He slung them down on to the passenger seat like red-hot coals.  Had he already given away his position?

Ethan’s eyes scanned his surroundings as he drove, paying close attention to the car behind him. It was an old Dodge sedan, crimson, with a dented front quarter panel. The woman behind the wheel had curly brown hair, bright red lip stick and wrinkles over her eyes. Her expression was only mildly less angry than it had appeared at the stop light a few miles back.

No, she’s civilian.

He continued to scan the area, both on the lookout and hoping for some solution to present itself. Two miles up the road he spotted another intersection. A few buildings stood to either side, too far away to make out.

The closer he got the more detail he could see. On the left just past the light was a small outlet strip. A beat up sign heralded a local mom and pop’s diner, a laundromat and a questionable looking pawn shop. On the opposite side of the road stood a small two-pump gas station. Coming up on the stop light he noticed a weathered glass booth set next to the road in the gas station parking lot.

Pay phone?

Ethan scanned the booth as he pulled closer. It was a pay phone. Ethan pulled past the traffic light and turned into the gas station. The station was old and in need of repair. Its exterior walls were covered in old wood paneling. It looked like the boards had been nailed up fifty years and received little maintenance since. Half rotted wooden stairs led up to the front porch. A large Budweiser sign hung in the window, flashing with bright LEDs.

Ethan pulled the Maxima past the two solitary pumps. He bypassed a mammoth red Chevy truck with a rebel flag flying behind the cab. Beyond the truck the parking lot was empty. He pulled to the edge of the lot a few feet from the pay phone and sat for several minutes.

Satisfied, Ethan opened the car door and walked up to the payphone.