At all costs

by John Gilstrap

  This time when Jake rose to meet him, Frankel was ready, leveraging the edge of the table and using it to shove Jake backward over his chair. “Stay out of my way,” he growled as he prepared to launch a lethal kick to Jake’s head.

  “Stop it!” Irene commanded. She lunged across the table to intervene, but a stunning backhand sent her staggering.

  “You incompetent bitch…”

  Eddie Bartholomew materialized at the doorway, his weapon drawn. “Everybody freeze!” he yelled. “I said no violence, and I meant it! Now, Mr. Frankel, you just back off.”

  Frankel stood in place, his chest heaving, his face red. “You gonna shoot the next director of the FBI, Eddie? Wouldn’t be good for business.”

  Eddie ignored the bait. “Bullshit. This place’d become a tourist attraction. I can charge double to eat on the spot where you fell.”

  Frankel laughed. That was a good one, all right. His eyes darted from side to side like a cornered animal, and everyone in the room knew instinctively to stay away from him. “No one will believe your lies,” he said, and suddenly his eyelids glistened with tears.

  “You okay, Jake?” Eddie asked.

  Jake raised himself to a sitting position and nodded, exploring a damaged rib with his fingertip.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Agent Rivers? Senator Albricht?”

  Clayton helped Irene back onto her feet as she rubbed the swollen spot on her cheek.

  “I’ll live,” Irene said. She sounded more embarrassed than injured.

  “That’s good,” Eddie said. “Now, all of you, get out of here.”

  “Yeah, Frankel,” Jake seconded. “Get out of here. You try running for a while, you weaselly little shit.”

  Frankel was speechless. He scanned the faces in the room, then sneered, “This is far from over.”

  As he turned to make his exit, Frankel raked his gaze from Eddie’s eyes down to the muzzle of his gun. “Put that thing down,” he said. A final command before the end of his reign.

  Eddie hesitated but ultimately complied, letting the muzzle rotate in a slow arc down to his side, until the barrel pointed harmlessly at the floor.

  That’s when Frankel struck, with amazing speed. Before Eddie could react, his hand was bent at an impossible angle behind his back, and the pistol was free from his grasp. An instant later, Eddie felt the press of steel against the base of his skull, and then his brains were all over the expensive Oriental rug.

  Waiting was the single element of police work that Paul Boersky had never gotten used to. In his early days, back in Minneapolis, all he ever seemed to do was wait. And in a part of the world that has only two seasons-shovel and swat-every wait was as physically uncomfortable as it was mentally exhausting.

  At least there was purpose to it all back then. Maybe a bad guy was going to move from one point to another, or an as-yet-unidentified suspect was about to take some bait. Here, today, in the chilly streets of Washington, D.C., Paul wasn’t at all sure why he even came along on the trip. This was between Irene and the senator-she could not have been any clearer on that point. As for his role, well, he really didn’t have one.

  Nonetheless, they’d come a long way together over the years, and together, they had a long way to go on this particular case. Whatever transpired, he felt a need to be there with his partner. God knew that no one else would get within fifty feet of her. This screwup was that enormous.

  So he waited. For going on a half hour now. He wondered if maybe he shouldn’t just peek inside and see what was going on. Thus far, no one else had arrived, and certainly, no one had left. Even with his partially obstructed view of the door he could see that.

  He climbed out of the car at 4:37, according to the digital clock on the dash. Years of surveillance assignments had taught him always to mark the time. His back screamed from all the sitting, and a long stretch felt good. The autumn air felt good, too. What he missed most about living in the Deep South was the change of seasons. Sure, the leaves turned in the fall, but without the cold air to go along with it, the colors somehow meant less. Of course, come February, when the rest of the world was buried under a foot of snow, he’d feel damned smug about his southern digs.

  He was in the middle of a huge yawn when he heard the first gunshot. His mind processed the sound in an instant, evaluating and rejecting a hundred alternatives. That was no bursting balloon or backfire or firecracker. And it was coming from inside the building!

  He drew his weapon and charged up the front steps three at a time. Once on the stoop, he turned the knob and pushed. Nothing moved. He pounded on the heavy door with his fist.

  “Federal officer!” he yelled. “Open up!”

  He heard a second shot, and then a third right away.

  Holy shit! Why hadn’t they informed the Washington office? At least then, they’d have had an official vehicle and a radio channel. Shit! He rammed his shoulder into the heavy wood panels, but the door wouldn’t budge.

  He heard yelling from the inside now. And another shot.

  “Shit!” He yelled it aloud this time. Stepping off to the hinge side of the door, he took aim at the lock.

  Jake yelled at the sudden explosion of Eddie Bartholomew’s head. An instant later he saw the gun in Frankel’s hand, and the heat of the man’s anger filled the room as he swung the weapon up to finish what he’d started.

  Jake’s body reacted before his brain could tell him to stop. Even as Irene and the senator dove for cover, he charged at Frankel and hit him with all his driving force, propelling him backward toward Eddie’s lectern. Despite the impact, Frankel wouldn’t go down. He backpedaled quickly, little staccato steps that kept him from losing his balance, as Jake focused every ounce of his strength on the attacker’s gun hand. For just an instant, the muzzle crossed in front of his face, but Frankel missed his opportunity for a sure kill.

  Jake shoved his adversary hard into the corner molding of the archway to the dining room, and the impact triggered a grunt. He thought for sure that he heard something break in Frankel’s back, but the man still stayed on his feet. The gun discharged just inches from Jake’s face; a deafening blast that punched a hole in the plaster ceiling. Half a second later it went off again, disintegrating a crystal globe on the chandelier. Jake winced as grains of burning gunpowder bit into the flesh of his cheeks.

  He had both hands on the gun now, struggling to loosen Frankel’s grip, and as he reached across the other man’s face, he howled in pain as Frankel’s teeth burrowed into the flesh of his upper arm. The pain was unspeakable as an incisor found a nerve, but he still hung on. To let go now was to die.

  In his peripheral vision, Jake thought he saw Irene dash past. She’s running away! he thought. Then he knew better. The gun drawers!

  Irene knew she needed to do something. Jake was losing his fight, but she worried that if she interfered, Frankel might somehow work his hand free. If that happened, they were all dead. If only she had her weapon!

  Leaving the senator to fend for himself, she dashed through the dining room and out into the hallway, praying the whole time that Eddie hadn’t locked the drawers. There were eight of them altogether, and she pulled on the one she thought housed her black S amp;W. Sure enough, the drawer opened, and there it was.

  Snatching the weapon into both hands, she drew down on the second most powerful man in American law enforcement. “I got him, Jake!” she yelled. “Break away!”

  Frankel was a vampire! Once he got his teeth locked onto Jake’s arm, he just wouldn’t let go. The pain was exquisite, shooting lightning bolts into Jake’s fingertips. As he lost the feeling in his hand, his grip started to slip.

  The instant he heard Irene’s command to get down, he just let his legs fold, collapsing onto the floor and leaving Frankel suddenly exposed.

  Irene saw Jake drop and knew she had her shot. “Don’t move, goddammit!” she yelled, and in that instant, the world exploded in gunfire, as Paul blasted the door lock from the outside. Ir
ene whirled instinctively at the sound, breaking her aim on Frankel, then instantly realized her mistake. She dropped to one knee and tried to bring her weapon back around on target, but she was too late.

  The first bullet hit her high on her right arm, knocking the air out of her lungs and sending her pistol airborne. The second shot, fired less than a second later, caught her just above her left ear, but she never felt a thing.

  Paul looked away as he fired, shielding his eyes from the flying bits of splintered wood and steel. Five slugs pulverized the doorjamb, where the dead bolt joined the keeper, and with a single powerful kick, he sent the solid-core door exploding inward.

  All he saw were muzzle flashes as a man in a suit threw an arsenal of lead at him. Paul dropped to the concrete and scrambled for cover as a plate-glass window on the opposite side of Connecticut Avenue shattered and collapsed into itself.

  He randomly returned fire, scrambling to find shelter behind the brick wall of the town house. He never aimed a shot; to expose himself would have been suicide. Instead, he exposed only his hand and his weapon as he fired over and over, hoping that the random spray of bullets would keep the shooter at bay.

  He felt the slide lock open as the last round exited his weapon, and the instant he withdrew his gun to reload, the brick facade began to pulsate behind his back. The gunman had found his aim, but the bullets couldn’t penetrate the masonry shield. Just as he’d been trained through endless hours at the FBI range, he dropped the spent magazine out of his weapon as he fished for a spare from his belt and slapped it in place. The slide jammed the next round home, and he was ready to go again. Total elapsed time: less than five seconds.

  Out on the street, the panic had just begun. He heard the heavy impact of colliding vehicles behind him, but he ignored it. As rush-hour commuters dashed for cover, he swung his arm back into harm’s way and started pulling the trigger.

  Jake never saw Irene fall. He just saw the pistol on the floor, amid a wild, unfocused cacophony of gunfire, and he scrambled for it. He lost track of the number of shots Frankel had fired, but each trigger pull seemed to drive an ice pick into Jake’s eardrums. It wasn’t until he cleared the archway into the center hall that he heard the return fire coming from the front door. Just random gunplay, really. A hand extended through the open door, spraying bullets through the center of the house as fast as its owner could pull the trigger.

  Who the hell is that?

  That explained why Frankel hadn’t turned back to fire at Jake. He had a far more threatening target to eliminate. Pressing himself as flat against the floor as possible, Jake made his final lunge for Irene’s weapon. He brought it around just as Frankel stole a spare magazine from Eddie Bartholomew’s corpse and jammed it home.

  “Don’t do it, Frankel,” Jake shrieked, but he couldn’t even hear himself.

  Frankel didn’t hesitate in bringing his weapon to bear.

  Neither did Jake. He felt the big S amp;W buck in his hand before he realized he’d pulled the trigger. Frankel hesitated but didn’t fall. Jake’s gun bucked again. And again. And one by one, each round found its mark. Belly. Belly. Right arm. Chest. The chest shot dropped him. Frankel sagged to his knees, his face a mask of terror. He knew he was dead, and he knew who’d killed him.

  A final shot, this one coming from the cowboy behind the door, ripped Frankel’s lower jaw clean off his body. The impact spun him a quarter-turn, then dropped him like a tree onto the carpet.

  “Freeze, goddammit!” The gun at the door had a voice now, and Jake knew instantly, just from the tone, that it belonged to yet another FBI agent.

  Jake froze, just as he was instructed, as the man at the door scampered quickly up the hallway and jammed Jake face-first onto the fioor, kicking the pistol free from his hand.

  “Jesus Christ, what did you do?” the man panted.

  “For one thing,” Senator Albricht said, rising from behind his table shield, “he saved my life from that madman on the floor.”

  Paul looked confused. In all the noise and the flying wood and glass, he’d never gotten a good look at the man who’d been shooting at him. When he did look, recognition was instant. “Oh, my God,” he whispered.

  “He shot your partner,” Jake said. “She needs an ambulance.” He struggled under the agent’s weight to find a spot to rest his face that wouldn’t hurt so much.

  Paul looked even more stunned as he fully recognized the cast of characters in the room. “Jake Donovan!” he said.

  “Help your friend,” Jake said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Clearly, that’s what Paul wanted to do, but first, he had a prisoner to take care of. As he reached for his handcuffs, Senator Clayton Albricht placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Please don’t do that,” he said gently. “It really isn’t necessary.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Travis pulled at his shirt collar, hoping the fabric might stretch and give him some room to move. He hated ties.

  “Stop fidgeting,” Carolyn whispered. “And sit up straight.” She couldn’t count the number of times she’d said those words over the years, in that same order, but for some reason, they seemed fresh, unused. The fact that she was able to say them at all was a miracle she’d never again take for granted.

  After five weeks of therapy, her neck was better, though not completely. Doctors still weren’t sure that she’d ever get full range of motion back, but given the nature of the injury, and progress she’d made so far, there was plenty of reason to hope.

  Travis stopped squirming, but he didn’t straighten his shoulders. They were his shoulders, after all, and he could keep them slouched if he wanted to. “How come Dad gets to pace around?” he asked.

  Jake turned away from the window and its view of Old Town, Alexandria, to face his son. “Because pacing keeps me from exploding,” he answered, honestly enough.

  Travis leaned heavily on the ancient oak conference table and took a deep, exasperated breath. It caught in his throat and triggered a heavy cough.

  “You okay?” both parents asked as one. It was a sound that would forever live in their nightmares.

  “Jesus Christ, I’m not allowed to cough anymore?” Ever since Travis had gotten out of the hospital, his folks had been like this, on edge about everything he did; every sound he made. It was like living under a microscope. God only knew what was going to happen next time he caught the flu.

  Carolyn closed her eyes and shook her head. For the time being, she’d given up correcting his language. His voice had only recently taken on a husky, smoky quality that was fascinating to listen to, no matter what he had to say. Whether it was the remaining traces of his injury or the onset of adolescence, she wasn’t sure, but as long as the words were coming, she couldn’t bring herself to interfere.

  Jake was the one she worried about. Clearly, they’d won their war, yet Jake still wouldn’t allow himself to celebrate. The final details had taken a while to work out, and in the end, he’d had to spend two nights in jail, but then it was officially over.

  They were celebrities now, with every talk show host in the country dogging them for interviews. Book publishers, movie producers, and magazine editors fell all over themselves trying to scoop their competition in what was turning out to be the biggest story of the year-at least until the next biggest story came around-and a growing gaggle of celebrity lawyers pandered every day for the opportunity to represent them.

  Through it all, Jake had become more and more withdrawn, his outward sense of dread in many ways stronger now than it had ever been while they were on the run. He refused to talk about any of it, but Carolyn knew in her heart that it had something to do with his days alone with Thorne. Something awful had happened, and Jake was either too afraid or too ashamed to discuss it. In their quiet times together, in the hotel rooms provided by the FBI, Carolyn had tried to probe it out of her husband, but he’d have none of it.

  In time, she supposed. All things happen in time.

  When the phone
call came two days ago for this morning’s meeting at the federal courthouse in Alexandria, she watched her husband panic. After five weeks of interviews and debriefings by Paul Boersky, something about this one call to report in person had left him a wreck. Last night he even talked about not coming in-about going on the run again.

  “What for, Jake?” Carolyn had asked. “What are you so worried about?”

  He let it drop without answering; stopped talking altogether. Today he’d said barely a word all morning, and as the rest of the family was getting dressed in the hotel, she watched him out the window as he paced the parking lot, staring at the trees and sucking in the November air like it was his last time.

  And here he stood at the window, lost in his thoughts again, floating in his mind somewhere out there over the rooftops.

  When the door to their conference room opened, Jake jumped a foot. The cockiness he once possessed was all gone, replaced with a kind of timidness that left Carolyn feeling frightened. As her husband smoothed out his suit coat, she strolled around the end of the table to join him.

  Paul Boersky led the procession into the room, followed close behind by Senator Albricht; by a woman who looked vaguely familiar but whose face Jake couldn’t quite place; and, finally, by Irene Rivers.

  The sight of his old nemesis brought a broad smile to Jake’s face, even as Carolyn withdrew. “Hello, Agent Rivers,” he said. In deference to Irene’s heavily bandaged right arm, he extended his left hand as a greeting. “How are you feeling?”

  She accepted his grasp with a warm smile. “They tell me it helps when the bullet doesn’t penetrate the brain,” she deadpanned. “As for the shoulder, we’ll have to see.”

  The group burned up a minute or so with introductions and pleasantries. Neither Carolyn nor Travis had ever met the senator, who in turn introduced the final guest.

  “Donovan family, I’d like you to meet Ms. Emma Sanders, attorney general of the United States.”

  With short, gray hair and a tiny frame, Ms. Sanders stood about five-three and could have been anybody’s grandmother, or maybe even the local librarian, but her piercing, humorless emerald-green eyes left no doubt that she was one tough lady. She shook hands politely, then ushered everyone into their seats.