Page 108 of Cross Down
The colonel leans over the body. “Sorry, sir, she’s unrecognizable. How much did she know?”
“Enough so I had to do that,” he says. He’s sad at the death of such a promising young soldier, but he’s also satisfied that he’s done his duty, no matter how bitter it was. He says, “What can we do with her body?”
Colonel Kendricks raises her head and smiles reassuringly. “There are two CID officers in Quantico who owe me favors, sir. We could say it was a suicide, and by the time the investigation got under way…well, you know.”
He does know, and he’s also known for quite a while that Colonel Kendricks is desperately in love with him and will do anything for him, although not once has he responded to her quiet and sometimes not-so-quiet overtures. For one thing, it’s against regulations to have a relationship with a subordinate, and for another, even though it’s been a long time, he’s still keeping a flame alive for his dead wife, Janice.
Also, during the past two years, he has been working nearly every day and night to get to this point. He has become a warrior monk, dedicated to his mission and nothing else.
The colonel reaches over, takes a pen from his desk, and gingerly pulls his pistol toward her by the trigger guard. She picks it up with a piece of tissue and puts the pistol into the dead captain’s right hand.
She stands up and says, “Are we all set in other areas, sir? Any more phone calls you need me to place on your behalf?”
“No,” he says. “You’ve done your work well. It’s now out of our hands.”
She nods. “After the captain’s body is removed, sir, I can put the orders in to get your carpet replaced.”
Grissom shakes his head. “Take your time.”
“Sir?”
He looks again at the captain’s body. “When I leave later today, I don’t plan to return to this office. Or the Pentagon.”
Chapter
128
After you’ve workedon the street for years, your gut and instincts become your best friends. You see a guy walking down a bad section of DC, his Washington Capitals jacket sagging on one side, you know he’s carrying a piece. You see a young girl on a park bench, teary-eyed and looking around, you know she’s in trouble. And you see a beat-up car with its engine running double-parked in front of a bodega, you know the driver didn’t stroll in there to grab a Pepsi.
When the Suburban’s doors flew open, I saw a gun barrel, and that was all I needed to see to start shooting.
In a normal world, shooting like this would be dangerous, reckless, but Deacon and I left the normal world in the rearview mirror a long time ago.
Deacon jumps right in and shoots too, keeping the laptop under her arm, and we quickly take cover behind the concrete flower planters in front of the building. People nearby are running away as Deacon and I keep steady fire on the Suburban.
There are three men firing back, using automatic rifles, and rounds are chipping away at the concrete. The men are good, quite good, but not perfect. Two are taking cover behind the bulk of the Suburban, but a third one is crouching behind the open driver’s-side door.
Revealing his feet and lower legs.
I shoot him there, and he cries out and collapses. I say, “Elizabeth, the fob to the Mercedes, now!”
For once, she doesn’t argue or question, just tosses me the fob.I catch it with one hand. “Keep up the covering fire, and I’ll be back with the Mercedes. And don’t drop the laptop!”
She fires until the action snaps back, indicating the magazine is empty, then quickly reloads and says, “Just get the goddamn car, John. Move!”
I fire twice and Deacon snaps off rounds again, and I take a deep breath, start running across the empty parking lot toward the dark blue Mercedes. The distance is maybe ten or twenty yards, but it looks and feels like ten miles.
Rounds whistle over my head, and I duck—with my height, that doesn’t matter much—and zig and zag as best as I can, then throw myself onto the pavement between the Mercedes and a white Lexus. I crawl to the driver’s side, the shooting still going on, and into my mind pops a random fact from an FBI study: A gunfight between cops and bad guys usually lasts only seven seconds.
It feels like this one has been going on for seven minutes by the time I open the door and crawl in.
The German engine starts right up and I try to keep my head down as I race the Mercedes toward the concrete planters and Deacon. I catch a glimpse of her as I brake to a halt; I toggle the driver’s door open, lean out, and fire off six more rounds as Deacon climbs into the passenger seat, laptop under her arm. She flattens herself on the seat, and even before she closes the door, I’m driving us the hell out of there.
Chapter
129
Lopez is rollingon the ground, grabbing at his shattered and shredded lower legs; Smith’s body is slumped against the rear bumper. McCoole is doing his best, firing with his right hand, his left arm hanging useless and bleeding at his side, but his shots are going wide.
