By the time the gondola door closed, the space was packed with twelve people. The family chattered in whatever language they were speaking, and whatever they were saying was apparently funny as hell because they all laughed raucously.
“Oh, yeah,” Jimmy mumbled. “This is gonna be fun.”
This time Lauren pinched his balls and made him jump. “Forty-five minutes,” she whispered. “And if you’re nice, I’ll have a favor to return.
His pants grew very tight down there.
Now he appreciated the long ride. It would take him forty-five minutes of thinking about goat guts and calculus to be able to stand without getting cited for public display of perversion.
Chapter Twenty-six
Fred Kellner wondered if he’d made a mistake planting the C4 explosive on the power transformer so early. He liked the idea of blacking out the whole neighborhood when the balloon went up, and his rationale was to be done with it before the extra security arrived for the Halloween celebration tomorrow night. For sure, no one was going to find it by accident. It wasn’t that big a block, and he’d concealed it well under the water guard of the sidewalk-mounted green box. He even camouflaged it with dirt and gravel.
But if the security teams brought dogs with them to sniff before the event and they hit on his bomb, they’d likely lock everything down and cancel the whole evening. Then he’d be in a spot, and it would be tough to explain to Iceman how he ended up botching his own operation.
He was thinking about removing the explosive charge, but doing so would be particularly tough now, given the number of people wandering about. If he was going to do it, he’d have to haul his ass out of bed at some ridiculous hour tonight (tomorrow?).
Where the hell was his partner Steve? After they’d split up earlier and went to their separate rooms in the Golden Buoy, they’d agreed to meet here at eight. It was 8:05 now, and Steve’s chair was still empty.
He sat at an elevated two-top in a back corner of the Parker Brothers’ Wild Dueling Pianos Bar at the top end of Constitution Street, and as he spun his Bud Lite bottle in its sweat ring, he wondered what his partner Steve’s real game was. Or, better still, what Iceman’s game was in pairing them up. If there was one lesson Kellner had learned over the years, it was that any break from expectation and routine was always a bad thing.
It was entirely possible that Steve was exactly what he purported to be, but in this job, retirement depended on trusting no one.
Kellner thought about giving Steve a call on his burner, but as soon as the notion formed in his head, the music started up. He wouldn’t be able to hear a thing over the phone, and he wasn’t yet ready to give up his seat.
Kellner decided to give him a half hour.
Lost in thought, he was startled when a guy pulled out the other stool at his table and helped himself to the empty seat. “Got a second?” the guy asked. He’d stepped out of Central Casting as a biker. Rocking a long red ponytail, he wore a denim vest over a plaid checkered flannel shirt, under which an ample belly challenged the jeans that appeared to Kellner to be at least two sizes too small. A red beard covered most of his chest, erupting from high on his cheeks.
Kellner fought the urge to draw down on this guy. “I’d prefer to be alone,” he said.
The guy sat down, anyway. “Name’s Smitty,” he said, offering his hand. He leaned in close to be heard over the music without shouting.
Keller stared at the hand, probably for a second too long, then shook. “I’m Chuck,” he said. “And I’d still rather be alone.”
“Dude, I’m not here for a date. I thought you’d like to know that the FBI is looking for you.”
Kellner felt something go liquid in his gut but worked to keep his face emotionless. “Huh,” he said. “Why? What have I done?”
“I don’t know, and it’s none of my business,” Smitty said. “All’s I know is that there’s this FBI lady cruising the bars with a picture of you, asking if people have seen you.”
Kellner found it difficult to think rationally past his pounding heart. “How do you know she’s with the FBI?”
“That’s what she said,” Smitty replied. “And I think she might have had a badge on her belt. I’m not so sure about that.”
“And she didn’t say why they were looking for me?”
Smitty shook his head. “And I didn’t ask, either.”
How could this have happened, he wondered. “Where were you when she approached you?”
Smitty tossed a nod toward the front door. “At Callahan’s the first time. About three bars down the hill from here.”
“There was more than one time?” Kellner asked.
“I don’t think she’s paying all that close attention to who she’s asking, you know? It’s like, if you’ve got a heartbeat, she’s gonna show the picture.”
Kellner reared back a little. “They’ve got a picture?”
“Yeah,” Smitty said. “On her phone. I think it’s lifted from some security camera somewhere, but it’s a pretty good photo.”
Shit, shit, shit, shit . . . There had to be a way to put this genie back in the bottle. He just had to figure out how.
“Why are you telling me this?” Kellner asked. “What’s in it for you?”
“I did eight years in the penitentiary because of DNA analysis that they lied about,” Smitty said. “I don’t know if you remember the case a few years back, where the FBI’s lab manager was caught with his thumb on the blind lady’s scale. They held back details that would have shown me to be innocent and then misrepresented the rest in court. Wasn’t just me, either. Affected a whole shit ton of people. They fired his ass and let my ass go free, but that’s eight years out of my life, you know? Eight years.”
Kellner noted the tears in the guy’s eyes. Jail would suck under any circumstances, but he couldn’t imagine how he’d handle the anger of being sent there under false pretenses and deliberate lies.
“So,” Smitty continued, “I take whatever opportunity I can to ruin whatever those assholes are doing.” He extended his hand again. “Welcome to my bad deed of the day.”
Kellner accepted the hand again, then paused. “What does this FBI lady look like?”
Smitty scowled as he thought. “I’m not sure I know how to describe her. Normal height for a woman, maybe five-seven. Blond-ish ponytail, gray business suit— pants, not skirt. Oh, yeah, and she walks with a limp. Nothing huge, but noticeable if you know what you’re looking for.”
Kellner listened and realized that he’d just described a couple million people.
Smitty broke off the handshake and stood to go back to wherever he’d come from and leaned in again. “Look, none of this is any of my business, but if you’re going to get out, now would be the time to do it. She’s for sure gonna get to this place, because she was working every establishment on the block.”
He searched Kellner’s face for a reaction and seemed disappointed in what he saw. “That’s all I’ve got, dude. Chuck. Good luck.”
As he watched Smitty navigate his way through the crowd to return to his seat near the bar, Kellner ran through his options. First choice: Stay or go?
If the FBI lady was traveling door-to-door and was only three doors down however long ago she was there, then she’d soon be here. If he left through the front door, would he run into this lady? Surely, he would encounter someone else she’d approached, and what would happen then? He already knew from a previous trip to the men’s room that the back door had an alarm on it, and he knew from previous experience that it undoubtedly worked. No matter the cost of maintenance, it was always cheaper in the long run to keep the exit alarm in working order than it was to lose the revenue from unpaid-for bar bills.
In an instant, it became clear to him what he had to do. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and called Steve’s burner. It must have rung a dozen times before a sleep-addled voice said, “Um, yeah. Hello?”
“Steve?”
“Huh? Who? Oh, yeah, hi, Chuck. O
h, shit! I slept too long. Sorry man. Shit. I can be there in five minutes.”
“Forget that,” Kellner said. “Everything’s gone to shit. Execute the plan now. I’ll join you when I can.”
“I, uh . . . What happened?”
“No time to explain. Get to the roof and get started. I’ll try to give you ten minutes before I turn out the lights. It’ll probably be closer to five, so get your ass up there. Don’t wait for me. Just open up.” He clicked off.
This wasn’t about Iceman and his grand plan anymore. This was about the biggest diversion of all time to get Kellner to safety.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The pavement pounding was beginning to get to Gail. She’d made great progress since her injury, and for the most part she was back in true fighting form, but activities like this, walking slowly and dodging people, sometimes lit up her neck and back. Somewhere at the end of tonight, a long bath and a very long nap lay in her future.
She’d shown Kellner’s picture to at least two hundred people, she figured—management, labor, and partiers—at thirteen different restaurants and bars, and the results had been mixed. Most took the obligatory cursory glance, but she’d had a few hits, too. Some of the sightings were hours old, and some were within the last half hour, forty-five minutes. While her heart told her that some were lying—probably just for the hell of it—she tried to push those thoughts away. The idea here was always to follow evidence where it took you. If the destination turned out to be a dead end, then at least you will have been guided there honestly.
As she reached the top of the hill, she paused for a few seconds to look down on the Capital Harbor complex. It was much more beautiful at night, she thought. Jonathan spoke derisively about the Potomac Eye, but she thought it was a pretty cool idea, and now that it was lit up, she thought it was spectacular. Freedom Plaza teemed with people, some of them in costume a night early, probably for a private party somewhere.
One last place to visit, and then it was quitting time. She keyed the transmit button on the radio she wore on her belt. “I’m pretty much at the end of the line,” she said. “I’m entering Parker Brothers’ Wild Dueling Piano Bar.”
“I copy that,” Jonathan said.
Each of them informed the rest of the team when they were entering or leaving a new place. That way, if trouble came, the others would know where to go to provide backup.
As she pushed through the door, the overamplified sound hit her like a physical obstacle. For the life of her, she didn’t understand why things needed to be so loud these days. Armed with the photo pulled up on her phone, she walked to the thick-chested black man in the black T-shirt that read SECURITY.
She badged him, then presented the picture. “Have you seen this man?”
The bouncer looked at it, then scowled. “What did he do?”
“That’s a question, not an answer,” Gail said. “Have you seen him?”
“I see a lot of people,” the bouncer said. “He looks familiar, but sooner or later everybody looks familiar, know what I mean?”
Yeah, she thought, it means you’ve got nothing. Time to work the room.
Though the construction here couldn’t be more than five years old, the cavernous room had the feel of an old converted warehouse, with twenty-foot ceilings and brick walls. It was a giant sound amplifier. People at the tables had to lean close and shout to be heard. It felt like standing on a flight line.
The dueling grand pianos sat on an elevated platform that put them above the bar, which itself ran the length of the right-hand wall. To the left, looking front-to-back, the hoard of revelers occupied a sea of high-top tables.
There was no easy way to do what she needed to do. One table at a time, one person at a time, you show the picture and wait for a reaction. As she took a step forward to wade into it all, motion on her right caught her eye. A biker with a red beard was waving to someone in the back of the bar. Probably saving a seat for a friend.
Gail followed the biker’s sight line and—
“Holy shit,” she said aloud. She keyed her mic. “I’ve got him,” she said. “I’ve got him, I’ve got him. Dueling Piano Bar.”
“Wait for us before you take action,” Jonathan said.
Kellner finally saw the biker’s ever-more-frantic wave.
“Don’t think that’s going to be possible,” Gail said.
Now that the biker had Kellner’s attention, he pointed straight at Gail.
Here we go, Gail thought. She casually drew her nine-millimeter Glock 19 from its holster on her hip and let it dangle at her thigh.
Kellner moved with startling speed. He leapt from his stool, and by the time he was clear of it, he had a pistol in his hand.
“Oh, shit!” Gail yelled reflexively. “Gun! Down! Everybody get down!” Her words were lost in the cacophony of chatter and music. She brought her Glock to high ready, but there were just too many innocents in the way to dare a shot.
Kellner had no such compunction. He opened up on the crowd, sending at least ten rounds downrange in Gail’s general direction, but hitting her wasn’t the point. He wanted stacked bodies and panicked patrons. There’d be a stampede for the front door. Preparing for the coming rush, Gail lowered her shoulder like the football player she never was and pushed forward toward the back of the room.
As people fell and panic bloomed, screaming became contagious.
The pianos stopped playing as the pianists dove for the floor.
Gail yelled into her radio, “Shots fired! Shots fired! I’m engaging.”
Gunfire erupted again. These weren’t aimed shots, but rather a mag dump, a percussive boom-boom-boom that sent bullets tearing into flesh and furniture.
Within seconds, the stampede was in full bloom, with everybody pressing toward the front while Gail was pushing toward the rear. “FBI!” she shouted, holding her badge high and her pistol low. “Get out of the way. Get down!”
Less than twenty seconds into the attack, the floors were already becoming slick with blood. As the dead and wounded fell, they became tripping hazards, and the panic bloomed even brighter.
As Gail continued to press toward the back, against the crushing stream of terrified patrons, she noted that the firing had stopped. Either he was changing magazines, or he was making his escape. Two seconds later, she heard the characteristic squeal of a door alarm, and she had her answer.
For reasons that never made any sense to her, building codes allowed emergency exits to be fitted with timers that allowed twenty- to thirty-second delays before the locks would open. Clearly, they were designed to stop pilferage, but in cases like a wildman shooter, those twenty seconds could prove deadly as the accompanying alarm drew fire.
Tonight, though, the crazy timed lock gave her precious time to close the distance. She got glimpses of Kellner at the door, and she noted that the slide on his pistol was locked back. He was out of ammo. His only chance now was to run for it. If she could get a reliable shooting lane, she was going to kill him.
“Frederick Kellner!” Gail shouted. “FBI! Freeze.”
If he heard, he showed no sign of it.
Jesus, the sea of panic was exhausting. She kept pushing. She only needed a couple of seconds for a clear shot.
Out of nowhere, a beefy arm reached out from her right and shoved Gail to the side, knocking her off-balance. She stumbled over a wounded man but caught herself on a barstool before she fell.
It was Big Red, the guy with the beard who’d been trying to get Kellner’s attention. “Oops,” he said.
“Go to hell,” Gail said. She launched herself up and off the barstool and moved to push past Big Red, but he moved to block her way again.
Gail fired a brutal front kick to the asshole’s kneecap, dislodging it to the outside of his leg. He howled in agony and collapsed. On his way down, she pounded his nose with a lightning-fast left jab, and he was done.
Gail sidestepped Red and finally had a clear path to the back door. It stood ajar, and n
o one was there.
She keyed her mic. “Kellner made it out the back door,” she said. “I’m following.”
“Goddammit, Gail,” Jonathan said. “Wait for our backup.”
“Told you we shouldn’t have broken up,” Boxers said over the air, clearly running.
“Shut up,” Jonathan snapped.
Gail ignored both of them. She was going to get Kellner.
He couldn’t have more than ten-second head start, could he? Surely, her fight with Big Red didn’t last longer than that. She moved quickly to the steel door—none of the panicked guests had thought to come this way yet—and as she opened it, she moved carefully. If the roles were reversed, and she’d just run out of ammo, she’d—
Gail was halfway out the door when the heavy steel panel slammed into her left side and knocked her to the right. It helped that she’d been expecting it, so while it knocked her off-balance, she didn’t fall. She slammed the door back the other way, but it didn’t hit anything.
With her Glock up in a two-handed shooting grip, in close to her body, she angled out a step at a time, ready to take a shot the instant she had one. By the time she’d cleared the cover of the door, she saw Kellner again. He was hauling ass down the alleyway, making his way to the corner.
Gail got a sight picture just as he was making the turn, and she snapped off a shot. She thought she’d missed, but he stumbled, anyway—just a quick step off to his right—but then he gained his stride again. She fired again for good measure, but she knew before the round cleared the muzzle that she’d whiffed it.
She keyed her transmit button. “Kellner’s in the wind. He turned left out the back door of the Dueling Pianos and then left again at the alley. I’m in pursuit.” And she didn’t care what Jonathan thought about that.
Total Mayhem Page 27