Page 129 of Cross Down
Casey says, “Where in hell are Frick and Frack?”
“I don’t know,” Sylvester says, “but that’s not going to stop us. Might slow us down, but we’re still doing the job.”
Casey says, “That’s the spirit. Let’s do it.”
There’s no traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue, so Sylvester easily maneuvers the large tow truck, glancing with a practiced eye into the side-view mirrors to execute a turn.
He shifts into reverse and is about to gently press the accelerator when two men wearing helmets and army fatigues step up on the running boards, one on each side.
The one next to Sylvester raps the window with a closed fist, and Casey says, “Don’t do it, don’t do it,” but Sylvester lowers the window. The guy in fatigues says, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“My job,” Sylvester replies. He sees other soldiers gathering along the sidewalk.
“What the fuck kind of job is that?”
Sylvester starts to speak, but the soldier interrupts him. “Look, bud, I don’t see any disabled trucks or cars in the area. Turn around and get the hell out.”
“Not happening,” Sylvester says. “I’ve got a job to do.”
The soldier says, “Yeah, and I got a job to do too. Nobody is allowed on this street—nobody. And you ain’t somebody, so get the hell out. Now.”
Sylvester glances over at Casey, who slightly shakes his head no.
The soldier adds, “Just to show you how fucking serious this is, we’re authorized to use deadly force. That get your attention? Now move!”
Again Sylvester looks at Casey, and in a low quiet voice, Casey says, “Screw ’em. They’re weekend soldiers. They won’t dare shoot. Come on, back ’er up.”
“You sure?”
“Christ, I’m sure,” Casey says. “They’re just play soldiers. They won’t shoot.”
Sylvester is filled with confidence; he nods and puts the heavy truck in reverse.
Less than ten seconds later, Sylvester is lying on the seat, broken glass on his face and chest, feeling his wounds bleed out. His last thoughtis that he shouldn’t have listened to Casey.
Chapter
161
With the arrivalof the DC National Guard units, I feel the tight band around my chest loosen. The desperate phone call Ned made from his house to the DC mayor is paying off. I lower my M4, then put it on the trunk of Ned’s Impala. More people and one TV camera crew are on the crowded sidewalks watching this drama unfold.
And what a drama it is. The National Guard colonel is standing with Ned, and Ned is carrying a set of handcuffs. Grissom’s Pentagon Police and security service have backed off and lowered their weapons, and things seem under control.
Except for the angry colonel standing next to General Grissom, pistol in her right hand.
Nobody is moving.
The scene is frozen.
I walk around the trunk of the Impala and head toward General Grissom and the colonel standing next to him. Her pistol is now pointing straight at me.
Not the first time in my life this has happened.
Then I’m stunned when I hear someone call out from the growing line of National Guard members, “You go, Big John! We got your back!”
I don’t turn. I keep slowly advancing, but despite what I’m facing—an angry army officer aiming her pistol at me—I’m incredibly calm and peaceful. A friend of mine is back there in the National Guard force, and most of them there, defending their city, their White House, and their president, are the most overlooked workers in and around DC. They’re engineers, clerks, beauticians, hotel staff, sanitation workers, IT professionals, and people of so many other professions, now one unit, one force, the District of Columbia National Guard.
Nicknamed the Capital Guardians, for obvious reasons.
