K Street

by M. A. Lawson

  He needed to call Ginnie. She had no idea what had happened to him and was probably going out of her mind. But he doubted that he’d be able to get a cell phone signal out in the middle of nowhere. Using the crutches, he hobbled out to the front porch, where Simpson and Younger were sitting on folding lawn chairs, drinking coffee, bullshitting about the bad old days they’d spent in prison together. He noticed that Simpson had somehow gotten his Harley out of the back of his pickup.

  “Would you mind getting my phone out of the truck,” Otis said to Simpson.

  Simpson collected Otis’s phone and Otis was surprised to see a couple of bars of service. He also noticed he’d missed three calls from Shirley. He went back inside the cabin so Younger and Simpson wouldn’t hear him and punched in Ginnie’s cell phone number.

  “It’s me,” he said when Ginnie answered.

  “Thank God! Where the hell are you? Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine—well, not exactly fine—but I’m alive. I don’t want to say much, but I’m going to have to lay low for a while. Maybe quite a while. This last job, Ginnie, I stepped into some serious shit.”

  They’d talked about this before, that if he had to run, he’d run. South America, Mexico, Canada, wherever he’d be safe. Then somehow he’d find a way for Ginnie and the kids to join him.

  “You have enough money,” Otis said, “that you and the kids should be okay for a long time, and I’ll send you some more when I can. I’m not going to be calling very often, because the people that are after me might use my phone to locate me. I love you, babe,” he said, and hung up.

  He thought about calling Shirley next—then he thought, what was the point? Shirley was going to get screwed. She wasn’t going to get Ray’s share, not the way things stood now.

  But he would do one thing for Shirley: He would make sure that John followed through on his promise to pay off her mortgage and unfreeze her bank accounts.

  He called John next, and the first words out of John’s mouth were, “What time is it? And why are you calling me?” It sounded as if he’d woken John up.

  “It’s eight in the morning, and I’m calling because that woman who killed one of my guys tracked me down and killed another one.”

  “What?” John said.

  “She also shot me. I’m lucky I’m still alive. She doesn’t know your name but she knows where you live.”

  “How could she know where I live?” John said, for the first time losing the I’m so cool nothing gets to me attitude.

  “I don’t know,” Otis lied. “But she does. And she’s coming after you. Her name’s Hamilton.”

  “But how would she know where I—”

  “Look, I’m leaving the country,” Otis said, “but you better keep your promise. You said you’d pay off Shirley Brown’s mortgage and unfreeze her accounts, and if you don’t, I know people who can get to you. I know where you live, too.”

  John—or whoever the fuck he was—laughed. “Mr. Otis, I am the last person on earth you want to threaten. But don’t worry. I’ll do what I said. I want to preserve our relationship. You can never tell what the future might bring.”

  “You better,” Otis said and hung up, thinking, Sorry, Shirley, but that’s the best I can do for you. Otis was willing to bet, however, that Shirley was never going to get over the loss of her brother, and he was pretty sure that she would end up killing herself with booze before long.

  • • •

  BECKMAN WONDERED HOW much longer she should watch the cabin. It was light out now, and although she was well hidden behind a couple of thick bushes, she was still at risk of being seen. She should go back to her car and update Prescott. She’d been up all night and it had been impossible to sleep even if she’d wanted to, and there were lumps all over her face and arms from insect bites.

  She’d give it a few more minutes, then she was splitting.

  • • •

  AFTER OTIS HUNG UP WITH JOHN, he sat for a moment, reluctant to do what he needed to do next.

  He walked over to the door, leaned his crutches against the wall, and picked up the shotgun that was next to the doorframe. It was an old double-barreled Winchester with two triggers. He broke the shotgun open, verified it was loaded, and flipped off the safety. He pushed open the door, and braced himself against the doorframe so he wouldn’t fall.

  Simpson and Younger were still on the porch, and Simpson, who was seated closest to the door, turned toward him. When he saw Otis holding the shotgun, he looked puzzled, but before he could ask why Otis had the gun, Otis pulled the trigger and blew Simpson’s head apart. Younger, who’d been whooping with laughter at something Simpson had just said, stopped whooping. But he didn’t do anything. He just sat there in shock with Simpson’s blood all over his face, looking at the gory mess that was Simpson’s head. Then Otis pulled the second trigger and shot Younger.

  Otis didn’t want to leave the dead men on the front porch, but with his leg fucked up the way it was, he didn’t have a choice. Fortunately, the cabin was so isolated that it would probably be months—maybe even years—before anyone found the two rotting corpses.

  He went back into the cabin and did his best to wipe his fingerprints off any place he’d touched, including the shotgun. He thought briefly about searching for the five thousand he’d given Younger, but decided not to bother. Then he picked up the bag containing all the gold and cash and headed for the door. The bag was heavy and it was hard to hold it while walking with the crutches, but he took his time and headed carefully down the steps.

  He felt bad that he’d had to kill Simpson. He hadn’t known him long, but he’d seemed like a good guy. But what choice did he have? He needed all the money so he could hide out for a while—and with the shape he was in, he wouldn’t be pulling another job anytime soon. And the money wasn’t just for him; it was for Ginnie and the kids.

  • • •

  HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! Beckman couldn’t believe it when Otis stepped out of the cabin and blew the two men’s heads apart. He’d just executed his two friends. As Otis gimped down the steps toward his truck, Beckman backed out of the bushes where she’d been hiding, staying low for about fifty yards, and when she was sure Otis wouldn’t be able to see her, she sprinted for her car.

  Jesus! He just blew their fuckin’ heads off.

  • • •

  OTIS FIGURED IT would take him about eleven hours to get to Miami if he really pushed it hard, which he would do. He knew a guy there who could turn the gold into cash, but more important, his Miami connection knew people who could make him a passport. After he’d taken care of the gold and had a new ID, then he’d decide where he wanted to go, but first he had to reach Miami without getting caught. Someplace along the way he’d steal license plates off a truck or a van and replace the plates on his pickup. He’d also dump his cell phone so it couldn’t be used to track him; he’d pick up another one later.

  He swallowed one of the OxyContin the nurse in Franklin had given him, and as he drove he cursed his luck. He hadn’t had a job go this bad since the first time he’d been arrested when he was seventeen, the bank job he’d pulled with his old man. And that damn Hamilton, she was like the Bitch from Hell. He still couldn’t believe that a woman had taken down half his crew and turned him into a cripple. He was also pissed that John had given him gold, because the guy in Miami was going to charge him a bundle to turn it into dollars.

  But he was alive. He needed to start getting his head around the future rather than spending time stewing over the past. But he still felt bad about Simpson. It was really a shame he had to kill him.

  • • •

  BECKMAN WAS ABOUT A MILE behind Otis as he drove toward Franklin. She had no idea where he was going, but she doubted Franklin was his destination.

  Beckman had been keeping Prescott informed via text messages, but she wasn’t going to send
a text to tell Prescott what had just happened.

  She called Prescott and said, “Otis just killed Simpson and the old man. I mean, he took a shotgun and blew their heads off!”

  “Calm down,” Prescott said, and Beckman was embarrassed to realize she was practically screaming into the phone and sounded hysterical.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I couldn’t believe—”

  “What’s Otis doing now?”

  “He’s back in his truck, driving. I don’t know where he’s going. What do you want me to do?”

  There was a brief pause, then Prescott said, “You do what I told you to do. Stick with Otis and keep me informed.” Prescott disconnected the call.

  Jesus, what a cold-blooded, scary old bitch.

  27

  DAY 5—8 A.M.

  When Otis had called Fang Zhou, Fang had been lying in bed next to a lovely redheaded Russian. Last night he’d gone to a party at the British embassy. Attending the party was part of his job, but he’d also been celebrating. The redhead worked at the Russian embassy and claimed to be a secretary, but Fang suspected she was Russian intelligence and thought that she might be able to use her beautiful body to recruit him. She was the bait in a classic honey trap—but Fang hadn’t been the least concerned. She would never recruit him, but he might end up recruiting her—and even if he didn’t, he would at least enjoy her favors in bed.

  Now, however, after speaking to Otis, all the good feelings he’d had the night before had been shattered and he felt like a fool. He’d known that Hamilton was more than a lowly security guard but he’d failed to deal with her.

  Fang looked in on the Russian lying in his bed. She was lying face-down and he was treated to the sight of a marvelous derriere, long shapely legs, and a mass of flaming red hair fanned out over a pillow. He thought about waking her up and telling her to leave—she was a distraction he didn’t need right now—but decided to let her sleep. He made a pot of coffee and, wrapped in a lightweight robe, took a cup out to his backyard patio.

  What should he do about Hamilton? He was a Chinese diplomat, so the most the American government could do was expel him from the country. But Hamilton was obviously not a government agent; if she had been one, she wouldn’t have gone after Otis on her own and would have involved the police or the FBI. She clearly wasn’t interested in merely arresting the people who’d attacked Callahan. She was killing them—and now it appeared that she was coming for him.

  He needed to take Hamilton off the board, but how should he remove her? He certainly wasn’t going to kill her himself. So who could he use?

  The answer was obvious: his young friend Jamal.

  He glanced at his watch. Eight twenty a.m. He doubted Jamal was an early riser—he imagined the young man didn’t rise before noon—but disturbing Jamal’s slumber was the least of his concerns.

  He called Jamal using the same phone he’d used to communicate with Otis, a prepaid cell phone that couldn’t be traced to him or the Chinese embassy. As expected, he woke Jamal up.

  Jamal answered his phone saying, “Who the fuck is this?”

  “It’s your friend John. I have another job for you, one that will pay very well.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Wake up! Do you remember the tavern where we met one time?”

  “No.”

  “We’ve only met in a tavern once. Think about it.”

  “Shit. Hold on a minute.”

  Fang heard what sounded like a cigarette lighter clicking.

  “Yeah,” Jamal said, “I know where you mean.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you there at eleven.”

  “Well, shit. Then why didn’t you wait until ten thirty before you called me?”

  Fang didn’t bother to tell Jamal that he didn’t want to meet until eleven because he needed to obtain some information before the meeting.

  He called his contact at the D.C. Metro Police Department and told him that he needed everything they had on Hamilton. He knew the police would have some information because she had been questioned after the attack. When the detective asked him why, Fang evaded the question and said that he could have his Redskins seats for every game this coming season. Ten minutes later, he had the information he wanted.

  Fang realized that if Hamilton was killed, the detective would immediately suspect that Fang had something to do with her death. But so what? The man could hardly tell people he was providing information to a member of the Chinese embassy in return for football tickets.

  Fang’s next call was to his researcher. He gave her the information he’d just obtained from the police and told her to find a picture of Hamilton. He had a description of her—in her early thirties, tall, blond, very good-looking—but he wanted to give Jamal more than a description. Ten minutes later his researcher called him back. She had found photos of Hamilton in articles about two DEA operations—one in Miami and one in San Diego. Hamilton was ex-DEA, the researcher said—and she’d killed four men in Miami.

  The researcher e-mailed him the photos and Fang printed out the most recent one. It was a photo of Hamilton at a press conference after she arrested a drug dealer named Tito Olivera in San Diego. Fang was impressed by her beauty. She had an incredible body. In the photo, she was wearing a skirt and he could appreciate her long legs. Then it occurred to him that maybe he had seen Hamilton before: Could she have been the blonde parked in the No Parking zone in front of the embassy?

  Fang had more than two hours before he had to meet Jamal, but it was going to take him a long time to get to the meeting place because he would need to take precautions to make sure he wasn’t being followed. But first, he needed to get the Russian out of his bed and out of his house. He wasn’t about to leave her alone so she could search his house after he left.

  • • •

  FANG DRESSED IN CASUAL CLOTHES: a white polo shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. Over his arm he carried a lightweight windbreaker that was reversible—blue on one side, red on the other—and in a pocket of the windbreaker was a red Washington Nationals baseball cap. He headed for the door, then stopped and returned to his bedroom and removed a small .380 automatic he kept in the nightstand next to his bed. With a maniac like Hamilton stalking him, he needed to take precautions.

  He looked carefully up and down the street. He didn’t see Hamilton or anyone else watching him. Nonetheless, he spent the next hour doing everything he could to make sure he wasn’t being tailed. He took a taxi to a Metro station, got on a train and got off abruptly at a random stop, waiting until the train was just about to depart the station before he exited. He walked rapidly, turning corners for no reason. He went into a restaurant, left by the back exit wearing the windbreaker, blue side out, no cap on his head. He took another Metro ride—one that would take him closer to his final destination—walked about some more, checking constantly behind him, entered another restaurant, and this time left wearing a red jacket and a baseball cap.

  Satisfied that he wasn’t being followed, he took a seat in a bar called Tunnicliff’s Tavern. Fifteen minutes later, at exactly eleven a.m., Jamal Howard entered the bar. He was a punctual gangster.

  Jamal was hardly inconspicuous. He had a heavy gold medallion two inches in diameter on a gold chain around his neck. He was wearing a gaudy blue silk sweatshirt that had a logo on it that Fang didn’t recognize, and those baggy jeans young people seemed to favor. On his feet were Timberland boots of a yellowish color.

  Jamal took a seat across from Fang. “My man, John,” Jamal said.

  Fang didn’t appreciate his flippancy. Nonetheless, he said, “Would you like a drink, a beer?”

  “I don’t drink,” Jamal said.

  That surprised Fang. It also pleased him.

  “So wuzz up?” Jamal asked. “Why did you want to meet? What’s the big fuckin’ deal?”

  Fang removed a folded piece of
paper from the back pocket of his pants—the photo of Hamilton. He unfolded it and slid it across the table to Jamal. Written on the bottom of the photo was Hamilton’s address on Connecticut Avenue.

  “Whoa!” Jamal said when he looked at the photo. “She’s hot.”

  “I want her dead,” Fang said. From another pocket he pulled out an envelope and slid it across the table to Jamal. Jamal opened the envelope and without removing the money, counted the bills inside, which were all hundreds. The money had come from Callahan’s safe. Fang thought it somewhat ironic that Callahan’s money would be used to kill another of his employees.

  28

  DAY 5—8 A.M.

  When Otis called Fang Zhou to warn him about Hamilton, Kay was just getting out of bed. Yesterday, after she met with Prescott at the restaurant in Georgetown, she’d gone home. She didn’t know what to do about Fang. She was forced to admit that Prescott was most likely correct and that she should leave him alone so she didn’t screw up whatever Spy-vs-Spy operation the NSA was running. She knew what to do about Dylan Otis, but she didn’t know how to force Prescott to tell her where he was.

  She’d also gone home because she needed to sleep. She hadn’t gone to bed immediately, however, because she knew that if she crawled into bed at three in the afternoon, she’d most likely wake up at three in the morning. So she’d washed a load of clothes, cleaned up her apartment, paid a few bills she’d been neglecting, then took a long shower before lying down. She slept for twelve hours and woke up feeling rested and restless.

  The first thing she did was call her daughter, hoping to catch Jessica before she headed off to a class. She hadn’t spoken to Jessica since before the attack. But Jessica didn’t have time to chat; she was just leaving her dorm. She’d been able to talk her way into observing a heart transplant, and she could hardly wait. Kay’s reaction was: Yuck! Who’d want to watch someone’s chest cracked open and heart yanked out like some kind of Aztec sacrifice? But all she said was, “Hey, well, that’s great.”