Page 199 of The Fourth Option
Walker pivoted back to the lieutenant, his thumb moving his rifle’s selector to fire.
“You going to murder me in front of an FBI agent?”
Stanton moved down the hill and stopped next to Walker.
“Belle?” the SEAL asked.
“She’s in the car.”
“Jarrett, listen,” Bates said. “I’ll deal you in, call off the Salvadorans that are going to spend some time with your wife and daughters. Only I can do that. That’s how this works. You can be a live hero instead of a dead one. Kill Walker. He’s got a rifle so it’s a justified shooting. Kill him and be a hero, get the SAC job you want, save your family. Wrap up the investigation; Connor Staub, Mexican cartel, and Walker are all guilty. That’s your move.”
Bates slowly got to his unsteady feet and lurched back against the overturned car, his right arm hanging limp at his side.
“If you won’t do it for justice, do it to save your wife and kids.”
Sirens blared in the distance.
“Not much time,” Bates observed. “State Police will be here soon. Kill that son of a bitch and make this right. Think of your family. Think of that pretty wife of yours.”
Stanton kept his eyes trained on Bates, who shifted his attention nervously between the two men with rifles.
“There is something you missed. The ‘why,’?” he said, stalling for time.
“The why doesn’t matter as much after tonight,” Stanton responded.
“All right, you want to arrest me? Then fucking arrest me.”
“I’m not a cop,” Walker said.
“And I,” Stanton said, “I’m not here to arrest you.”
“You are a sworn federal law enforcement officer, Jarrett! I know you. Law and order every time. Justice. The system. Due process. You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man.”
Vehicles came to a stop at the top of the embankment, their sirens changing pitch, their red-and-blue lights cascading over the swamp.
Walker reached behind his back and tossed Bates’s pistol into the mud at the lieutenant’s feet. He turned his head, his eyes meeting those of the FBI man.
They looked back to Bates, raised their rifles, and fired.
EPILOGUE
“For the world is Hell, and men are on the one hand the tormented souls and on the other the devils in it.”
—Arthur Schopenhauer
New Orleans
Three Months Later
THE TWO MENsat in chairs on Stanton’s deck, sipping sweet tea, watching the world go by, and listening to jazz that floated up from the French Quarter.
“You boys need a refill?” Alma asked, cracking the screen door.
“I’m okay, ma’am,” Walker replied. “Thank you.”
“And you, dear?” she asked her husband.
“I’m good, sweetie.”
