Megan

by C. R. Daems

  I didn't wait for the weapon to reach the living room, but ran into the adjoining dining room. I reached the opening into the kitchen just as the shooter stepped into the living room, and his automatic weapon continued to wreak havoc: wood and plaster filled the air, pictures were torn from the walls, leather upholstery shredded, and dishes exploding like bombs. As I stepped through the opening, the patio door to the kitchen nook burst open and another very big biker blundered in through the shattered door, hit a chair in the dark room, and went sprawling onto the table. He stood swearing and with one hand flipped the table into the bay window.

  I was thankful for the quarter moon and clouds that made the rooms dark and the figures indistinguishable shadows, which I hoped meant they would have to hesitate before shooting, as their friends were coming through every entrance. I didn't have that problem—every shadow was an enemy. While he fought the table, I crouched behind the island in the kitchen with only my eyes and the top of my head showing. When he stopped to scan the room, I shot him twice in the head.

  Seconds later, bullets raked the counter and walls behind me, sounding like a ragtime band gone wild as metal pots and pans were torn from their racks and propelled into walls and appliances. I slid around the island, giving me some protection from the shooter who had come in from the garage and the shooter who would soon be entering from the dining room.

  The flying pots and pans had just settled when a long burst of automatic fire came from the dining room opening, blowing out the family room windows as the biker in the dining room walked into the kitchen. I had my eyes level with the counter, trying to decide on my best option and hoping I wouldn't be noticed in the darkened room. Wrong. The dim outside light from the kitchen windows behind me had been enough.

  "Mac, is that you?" the guy from the garage asked as his weapon swung in his direction.

  "Yeah. The bitch is behind the counter," he said as bullets from his automatic weapon raked the counter and blew out the windows behind me.

  I ducked down, dove to the floor, and slid to the end of the counter where the shooter from the dining room stood.

  He was swinging his weapon back and forth across the island, which looked about ready to collapse.

  I shot him in his knee twice. As he collapsed I sprung up, took two running steps, landed on his back with one foot, shot him, and dove through the door into the dining room. Rolling to a standing position, I grabbed one of the dining chairs, smashed the window, and slid under the table. Preceded by a burst of automatic fire that decimated the window frame, seconds later the other biker came running into the room. He ran directly to the window, jammed in a new clip, and fired through it into the night.

  I shot him in the side of the head.

  Silence descended on the house except for the wailing of sirens in the distance. I rose in considerable pain and realized that while I hadn't been shot, I had been hit with flying debris—like shrapnel. I picked up the biker's weapon, which looked like a MP5, and headed for the door to the back patio. When I reached the shattered door two bikers were just kicking their cycles to life. I shot both, noting how little skill was required—just point and pull the trigger.

  Back in the house I made my way through each room, ensuring no one was alive. Then I went up the steps and examined each bedroom before pulling a chair out of one bedroom and sitting just under the trapdoor to the attic.

  "Denise, Lexi, it's safe, but I'd prefer you waited until the FBI and police have checked out the area," I said, leaving off and removed the bodies.

  "Megan?" came the voice of Timothy. "The area is clear."

  "Upstairs," I shouted. A minute later he appeared. "What's the tally?"

  "Bad. Agent Murel was killed and Agent Turner is in serious condition. They were up against automatic weapons!" He shook his head as if to get rid of the image. "Both local policemen are in serious condition. By the time we and the local police arrived, the action was over except for a burst of fire from the back."

  "That was me trying out one of the weapons they left behind. Nice weapon. You should requisition some."

  "We definitely need to upgrade our standard stakeout weapons." Timothy's eyes looked sad. "Where are Mrs. Burns and her daughter?"

  I pointed toward the ceiling, stood on the chair, and pulled on the cord. The trapdoor opened and the ladder extended to the floor. "You can come down now. The house is a bit of a mess but it's safe," I said. I couldn't help a laugh at Timothy's face.

  Denise climbed down first, her eyes darting around. When she saw Timothy she seemed to relax a bit. "They're gone?"

  "The police and the FBI have searched the area...it's clear, although you may want to remain up here until we clear the downstairs."

  "You're bleeding!" Lexi said from halfway up the ladder.

  "You need a hospital," Denise said, looking at me for the first time.

  "Just a few cuts and bruises," I said, knowing I couldn't go without relief or them accompanying me. "Unless Lexi...and you want to join me."

  "We haven't been hurt," Denise said.

  Wait until you see downstairs, I mused. We stayed in a bedroom which had been converted into a study, while pictures were taken and the bodies removed. The room had a disco feel with the red and blue lights from the police cars dancing off the walls and ceiling. Bradley appeared what seemed like an eternity later—two hours by the clock on the wall.

  "The CSI teams have finished up, so you can come downstairs. It's a mess, but..."

  I followed Denise and Lexi down the stairs.

  Denise had tears in her eyes as she walked in and out of the rooms.

  "How many?" Lexi asked.

  "Four in the house," I said, looking to Timothy and Bradley.

  "Four. The FBI and police on duty killed two, and you killed two in the back. Eight, which corresponds with the number of bikes outside. How many got away?" Bradley asked looking at me.

  I shook my head.

  Denise made extended stay reservations at the Oxford Suites in the Bell Tower King Suite.

  * * *

  My cell rang around ten in the morning. Denise and Lexi were halfway through an in-room breakfast.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Witton," I said, as it was one o'clock in Virginia.

  "Do you need to be relieved?" he asked, sounding concerned.

  "No. I changed clothes and sent the soiled ones to the incinerator," I quipped, only partially in jest.

  "I understand you weren't shot but were pretty cut up. The doctor said they wanted to admit you."

  "I got hit with everything except a 7.62 millimeter round: plaster, wood splinters, broken china, pots and pans, granite chips, and glass. You can tell Jody that one AK gives you an adrenaline rush, two doesn't, and four causes migraines." I gave a snort.

  "I understand. They tell me they counted more than a thousand shell casings inside the house. I also just heard the gang-member father was one of the bikers killed. They found him in the kitchen. He had been shot in the knee and in the back of the head." It was more of a question than a statement.

  "He did seem more out-of-control than the others," I said, remembering being chased by him and trapped in the kitchen. I had been lucky to escape.

  "The good news is that between the professional hitmen willing to make a deal, and killing the other grieving father, the threat to Lexi may be over."

  "Good. My adrenaline needs time to get replenished."

  * * *

  The next several weeks were quiet, not that I could relax. The gang problem appeared to have been resolved, since the gang had no reason to kill Lexi—maybe me but not her—now that the father was dead. Secret negotiations were going on between the Attorney General and the mob, probably because sending the mob-father to jail wouldn't necessarily solve the problem. The day the family was notified the house was fit to move back into, Witton called.

  "Megan, your assignment has been successfully concluded. The Committee, Senator Burns, and I are pleased with your handling of the assignmen
t."

  "Meaning my client is alive and I'm uninjured and fit for duty."

  "Exactly." He laughed. "You have a month of vacation coming, but I would like you to return here for a debriefing before you depart. Ann Marie will make your reservations."

  "You're in luck, Megan," Ann Marie said a moment later. "Lynn's plane is in Chicago and due to depart later today for Richmond. I've diverted it to Boise to pick you up. They will land today, but the crew will require rest, so they are scheduled to depart tomorrow morning. That will give you time to say your goodbyes."

  "Thanks, Ann Marie. I do like the company plane." When I hung up, the entire family was staring at me. "Yes. It's official. Your houseguest is finally leaving."

  "I'm going to miss you, Megan," Lexi said, and gave me a hug. "I wish you would come and visit sometime...maybe for my graduation...or the birth of my first child." She giggled at her parents' open-mouthed expressions.

  "Send me an invitation and I will if I'm not on assignment."

  "We would love to have you visit, Megan, anytime you want." Denise smiled. "But no wild parties, please."

  "You have a friend in the senate. If I can help, all you need to do is call. My secretary has your name on my VIP list. I didn't know what to think of the Kazak concept when I heard about it, but your group has a staunch supporter in Congress."

  * * *

  On the plane the next day I sat reflecting on my life, my last assignment—which had almost been my last one—and my decision to try out for the Kazaks. The steak dinner and the chocolate mousse dessert, the condo and the pay, and the private plane were nice, but they didn't justify the danger. Lexi did. And as a bonus I'd gotten to see inside the private lives of a senator and his family—the real people, not the façade they display in public. Looking around the plane, I couldn't help feeling as though I'd stolen the Le bleu de France and gotten away clean. A smile of satisfaction split my face.

  "You look like the cat that caught the mouse," Kathryn said as she collected my tray.

  "Nope, the Hope Diamond," I said, closing my eyes and imagining the forty-five carat blue diamond between my thumb and forefinger. "It's beautiful."

  "Wow, I'm going to try that chocolate mousse. It must really be good." She laughed as she walked back to the galley with my empty tray.

  A limo was waiting when we landed. Ann Marie let me know that Mr. Witton wanted to see me as soon as I arrived.

  * * *

  "Welcome back, Megan. It's hard for anyone seeing the pictures of the Burns's residence after the shootout to believe you survived," Witton said.

  "Luck. They hit the house early in the morning while it was still dark, the moon was only a sliver, and there were clouds. If they had attacked when it was even partially light, I'd be dead." The hard truth. "Oh, and I didn't have to worry about Lexi and her mother. The police gave me enough notice to get them safely hidden away so I was free to...run."

  * * *

  I spent a week at the facility, several hours every day at the firing range, and several hours in meditation each night. I knew deep in my heart that when the 7.62 millimeter lead was flying you had to have a clear focused mind and hit the target every time—or you died. There was no time for thinking about what to do, no getting multiple tries to hit the target exactly where you intended.

  "If I were a client, I wouldn't want you assigned to me," Jody said late one night.

  I frowned, not sure what she was getting at.

  "You attract automatic weapons like blood attracts sharks."

  "There are too many wars going on which makes combat weapons attractive. Almost anyone can buy a fully automatic weapon legally which means they're readily available. And there is a huge black market for those who wish to avoid all that messy government paperwork, waiting periods, background checks, and picky restrictions like your mental stability. That's why they gave us that shoot-first-and-ask--questions-later immunity." I laughed. "But when you think about it, I'd rather face an AK-47 than an M21 or Cheytac sniper rifle. At least you can see and hear the guy coming at you with the AK-47. I know one thing for sure, Jody. If you aren't mentally committed, a one or two-second indecision can cost you and your client your lives."

  * * *

  I was glad I had spent the week at the Kazak facility rather than start my vacation. I had needed the time to unwind from my previous assignment and hoped sharing my experience might help save another Kazak's life.

  Jody and I made a few trips into D.C., where I was batting thirty-three percent: good versus bad hookups. Jody was still looking for a steady. Good luck, I mused. I could hear it now: darling, I'm going to be out of town seventy percent of the time, so you will have to take care of paying the bills and bringing up the kids. Oh, and if you don't behave while I'm gone, you'll be collateral damage.

  I spent three weeks hopping around the Hawaiian Islands and had several two and three-night hookups. They were reasonable escapades but nothing like Jason or Ian—men who were comfortable being themselves.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Right-To-Die.

  "Are you ready for another assignment?" Witton asked as we sat in the headquarters' cafeteria, eating breakfast. I had to admit the cafeteria had a decent menu and the food was well prepared.

  "Why? Do I have a choice?" I grinned.

  Witton gave me a questioning look, since that obviously wasn't the response he expected. "Yes and no. On the one hand, an agent has a right to refuse an assignment for a valid reason. In your case, your last assignment was very traumatic and you would be justified in asking for more time to recover. You refused counseling, but you could change your mind. On the other hand, refusal without a valid reason would get you transferred out of the group. These assignments are beginning to look like combat missions and, unlike the military, we can't force you to take an assignment."

  "Sorry, that wasn't as amusing as it seemed a few minutes ago. Yes, I'm ready for another assignment. I've spent more than a hundred hours at the range and more than that meditating in preparation. Notwithstanding wackos with AK-47s, I enjoy the work. The trick is to outthink them."

  "How do you outthink ten bullets a second from an automatic weapon?"

  "By having a place to hide Lexi and her mother so I was free to move."

  Witton stared at me. "You're right. Mental preparation is critical. There is no time for planning when the tsunami hits. You are either on safe ground or you suffer the consequences." He sat quietly for several minutes, sipping his coffee. "How do you feel about euthanasia?"

  "Working for the Kazaks, it would be hard to criticize," I quipped. Although the job was a high-risk profession, it didn't feel any more dangerous than driving in LA, and far less than a combat soldier's duty in a war zone. It was dangerous, but I felt I had reasonable control over the situation.

  "There are some pretty extreme positions on the topic. Do you have an opinion on the subject?"

  "I guess if I knew the person who wanted to be euthanized, I'd have an opinion. However, unless you've walked in that person's shoes, the imaginary blisters aren't the same as the real ones."

  "I'll take that for a no. There is a unique situation occurring, maybe a once in a lifetime fluke. The 9th Circuit Appeals Court has a case before it involving a Right-to-Life issue. They have agreed to hear it En Banc. But because of the size of the 9th Circuit—twenty-nine active judgeships—a panel of eleven has been randomly selected. Unfortunately, that creates a situation where the resulting decision may not represent the majority of its members. People who watch the courts believe the eleven selected don't. Ten of the judges selected are evenly split—five for and five against—and the eleventh judge is believed to lean against the current law. Usually that wouldn't matter as the case would then go to the Supreme Court on appeal. But in this case, the 10th Circuit has already struck down a similar law, therefore it's likely the Supreme Court will leave it stand since both appellate courts agreed."

  "So if judge eleven conveniently dies, a more suitable one m
ay be appointed," I said, stating the obvious reason for a Kazak bodyguard. "Well, what's his name and where do I find him, or is it her?"

  "Judge Lloyd Singleton. He resides in San Francisco, but the panel will be hearing the case in Pasadena at the Richard H. Chambers U.S. Court of Appeals in ten days. He's expecting you tomorrow at his home. I'll send you directions and general information on your smartphone, and Ann Marie has your flight plans. You'll be flying on the company plane."

  * * *

  As usual, Ann Marie had everything under control and a taxi was waiting as I exited the condo at five the next morning. An hour later we were in the air and Kathryn had my breakfast ready before we hit cruising altitude. And I had a Federal judge in my care. It felt like a wonderful dream and I was tempted, for a minute, to stick my fork in my hand and smiled.

  "Agent Megan, you look as though you just won the lottery," Kathryn said as she put a Carmel Apple Crisp down in front of me.

  "If I didn't, please don't wake me." I dug my fork into the crisp, pulled a large piece and it melted in my mouth. "And take the batteries out of all the clocks. I don't want them striking twelve."

  "That Apple Crisp must have come from the same bakery as the chocolate mousse," Kathryn said, smiling

  Again, a limo was waiting when I walked out of the San Francisco airport. The drive up route 101 and through the city was interesting, with its narrow up-and-down streets and houses stacked like sardines. The drive ended in front of a four-story house on a street elevated well above the city.

  "Wait until I'm sure I have the right address," I said, giving the driver three twenties for the forty-five dollar tab on the meter.