“Jesus Christ!” I yell. “Shut up—or I’ll shoot you in the leg. Dylan, McCullough. Book him and gag him, please.”
Dylan grins at me but slaps the cuffs on our guy and takes him out into the hallway to search him and read him his rights.
“How are you now?” Callie asks, concerned.
I shake my head, testing. “Not dizzy anymore. Okay, I think. How’s my face look?”
“He did a number on your lips, honey-love. You have that ‘I don’t use collagen, I just beat my face against a wall’ look.”
This makes me jump to my feet, alarmed. “Decker!”
“Over here. I’m okay.”
I see him standing. He’s using a wall for support. He has a handkerchief against his mouth, which is soaked through with blood.
“Whoa,” I say. “You need to see a doctor.”
“I need to see a dentist,” he moans. “Fucker knocked out two of my teeth.”
“Callie.”
She flips open her cell phone. “Calling the EMTs now, honey-love.”
The door to Leona’s bedroom opens, just a crack. “Is it safe to come out?” she asks, voice quavering. “Is everyone all right?”
I look around at her living room, taking in Decker and his bleeding mouth, the splintered coffee table, and it hits me. Adrenaline doesn’t just shoot through me, it explodes.
“WE GOT HIM!” I yell.
Callie and Decker both jump and stare at me. Callie grins. Decker tries to.
“Everything is fine, Leona,” I say. I look toward the doorway. “Everything is just great.”
I crack my knuckles. My lips ache.
But the dragon is thrashing, roaring, and gnashing her teeth.
Feed me, she’s hissing. Let me crunch on his bones.
I lick my upper lip and taste my own blood. That should keep her satisfied for now.
44
I’M ON MY way into the FBI building with Callie. We’d left a policeman with Leona, and our suspect is being taken to the Wilshire police station for booking. I came here to get Alan and to plan out our interrogation strategy. I have just punched the up elevator button when my cell phone rings.
“Smoky!”
I go on instant alert. It’s Elaina, and she sounds terrified. “What’s wrong, Elaina?”
“There are three men sneaking around outside the house. In the backyard. Young-looking.”
A thrill of terror shoots through me. I think of Ronnie Barnes. Is this related? Did Jack Jr. create himself a little psycho army? Or am I just being paranoid?
Paranoid? With Jack Jr.? No way.
I think about what I had said to Alan, about how Elaina wasn’t in any physical danger, and I am sick at the possible consequences of this misestimation.
I break into a run, forgoing the elevator, rushing up the stairs. Callie follows. “Elaina, what about the agents out front?”
Silence.
“Their car is there. I don’t see them.”
“Do you have a weapon in the house? A gun?”
“Yes. Upstairs, in the closet.”
“Get it, lock yourselves in the bathroom. I’m getting Alan and it’ll take us maybe fifteen minutes to get over there.”
“I’m scared, Smoky.”
I close my eyes for a moment, as I continue to run. “Call the cops, get the gun. We’ll be there soon, Elaina.”
I hang up, hating myself as I do it. But I do it to force her into motion. Moments later I burst through the door of our office. The look on my face has everyone’s attention.
“Alan, Elaina has visitors!” I point at Leo and James. “You two stay here. James, coordinate with LAPD on the suspect they’re booking for us. Callie and Alan, come with me. Move it!”
Alan is in motion already. His face is full of questions, his eyes are full of terror. His voice is steady, even as we rush down the stairs toward the parking lot. “How many?” he asks.
“Three. Creeping around the house. I told her to call the cops, get the gun, lock herself in the bathroom.”
“Where the fuck are the agents who are supposed to be guarding Bonnie?”
“I don’t know.”
We run through reception, slamming through the front doors of the building, racing down the steps. Elaina and Bonnie, Elaina and Bonnie, the mantra cycles through my mind, over and over and over. On some level I register that I should be more afraid, but everything is about forward motion, not enough time to feel or think deeply. Callie hasn’t said a word. She’s following without question.
And then it happens.
“Die, cunt!”
We are in the parking lot, and the young man who screamed this is rushing toward me, a knife raised in his hands. His face is contorted, maniacal. His eyes are hungry. Time slows to a frame-by-frame. Six feet, I think, analytical. Running, knife raised, that means he’ll be on me in about a half second—
I have blown a hole through his head before I really even finish this thought. The speed involved in pulling my weapon and firing is just too fast to track if I had to think about it. It’s instinctive, a decisive lightning strike.
His head explodes, time restarts at normal speed, I’m whipping aside as he pitches forward, his body hitting the pavement with a dull thud that sends both gray matter and the knife flying.
“Holy fucking shit!” Alan yells.
I notice neither he nor Callie have pulled their weapons yet. I don’t hold it against them. We have a special relationship, my steel blackbird and I.
My mind continues to move at the same blinding speed. “Callie, you’re going to drive. Keep moving!”
I see Tommy running toward us. I don’t stop. “We’re okay!” I yell. “But there are unsubs at Alan’s home!”
Tommy doesn’t break stride, or nod, or do anything other than whip around and continue running at the same speed back toward his car. That Secret Service training, I think. Instant, unhesitating, decisive action.
We reach Callie’s vehicle and pile in. She has it in gear and is burning rubber about two seconds later.
“Who the hell was that?” Alan asks.
Callie responds for me. “Blood brothers of Ronnie Barnes, honey-love,” she murmurs, eyes fierce as she rockets out of the parking lot.
Alan doesn’t respond. I see understanding dawn on his face, followed by fear. “Oh, no…” he whispers.
I don’t respond. None is needed. He has the same mantra going on in his head as I do in mine: Elaina and Bonnie, Elaina and Bonnie, Elaina and Bonnie.
I’m sure for him, like me, it’s turning from a mantra into a prayer.
45
ALAN CALLS ELAINA. “Babe? We’re on our way. Did you call the cops—what? Shit! Stay there, honey! Right where you are.” He puts a hand over the mouthpiece. “They’re in the house. She can hear them creeping around.” Talks to Elaina again. “Listen, babe. Don’t speak back to me anymore. I don’t want them to hear you. Keep the line open, put the phone down, and point the gun at the door. If you don’t hear me, Smoky, or Callie, then you shoot whoever tries to come through it.”
Elaina and Bonnie, Elaina and Bonnie, Elaina and Bonnie…
We’re on Alan’s street. Callie screeches up to the driveway and we pile out. Alan has put his phone away, has his weapon ready. We all do. I look around, see Keenan’s car. I run up to it, and what I find fills me with rage and sorrow. Both he and Shantz are dead, holes in their foreheads.
Vengeance now, I think. Mourn later.
I move away from the car, up the driveway to the front of the house. I point at the door. It’s been forced open, the jamb splintered. “Go in quiet,” I whisper. “We need them alive if possible. Do you hear me, Alan?”
He stares at me for a moment, a long, cold, killer’s stare. Then gives me a begrudging nod.
We enter through the front door, guns and eyes moving, checking for signs of the intruders. Callie, Alan, and I all look at one another, shake our heads. Nothing down here. We all stop as we hear motion upstairs. I poi
nt to the ceiling.
We move up the stairway. My heart is hammering away. I can hear Alan breathing and see sweat on his brow, even though it’s cool inside the house. We’re almost to the top when Elaina screams.
“Alan!” Her voice is filled with terror. I hear the BOOM-BOOM-BOOM of a handgun being fired.
“FBI!” I yell, and we hit the top of the stairs, silent no more. “Drop any weapons you’re holding and get down on your fucking knees!”
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! Again, more handgun fire, and now I can see where it’s coming from. A young man with dark hair looks like he’s jitterbugging as Elaina’s handgun blows holes through him. She’s on overkill, going to keep firing until she clicks on empty.
Two others turn to face us. One has a gun, one has a knife, I note in an instant. They seem surprised at first, then see me and hatred kicks in.
“It’s her!” the one with the gun says. “That Smoky cunt!”
He raises his weapon to fire, the one with the knife rushes toward me, and now everything is moving frame by frame again.
I see Alan and Callie fire on the gunman, watch with a kind of detached approval as holes open up in his head and chest, spraying blood. I see his weapon discharge as he falls backward. Knife guy is heading toward me, and it’s a replay of the parking lot, except that this time I shoot the hand holding the blade to take him alive. Watch as two of his fingers disappear, see his eyes widen and roll up into his head as shock hits him like a sledgehammer. He drops to his knees, mouth in an O. Vomits once, then falls forward, unconscious but trembling.
“Elaina!” Alan screams.
“In here!” she screams back, hysterical. “We’re okay! We’re okay! We’re okay!” Both Alan and I rush forward into the bathroom.
I am weak-kneed with relief to see them there, in the bathtub, unharmed. Elaina is weeping, still gripping the gun in both hands, eyes wild. Bonnie is sitting at one end of the tub, arms wrapped around her legs, forehead against her knees, rocking back and forth. Alan and I bump into each other as he rushes to Elaina and I rush to Bonnie.
“You okay, sweetheart?” I ask, frantic, grabbing her head in my hands, searching for any signs of harm.
Alan is doing the same with Elaina, and Bonnie starts sobbing, throws her arms around me, and Elaina mirrors this with Alan. The sound of Alan and me saying, “Thank God, Thank God,” echoes off the bathroom walls. It is the chaos of relief.
“Callie!” I yell out the door. “They’re both fine! No one’s hurt!” There is no reply. “Callie?”
The image slams into me, a thunderclap. His gun discharging…
“Oh no…” I whisper. I put Bonnie down, draw my gun, creep out of the bathroom.
I see her.
I am enclosed in a bell of silence. A stillness formed of shock.
Callie lies at the top of the stairs, on the carpet, hair fanned. Her eyes are closed.
A red stain spreads on her chest.
“911, Alan…” I whisper. Then I am screaming. “911! 911! Motherfucking 911!”
46
I AM IN Tommy’s car, and we are racing toward the hospital. I am shaking, a whole-body shake, out of my control.
I can’t think formed thoughts. Terror keeps shooting through me, huge bursts of adrenaline.
Alan has stayed behind with Elaina and Bonnie, and to make sure that our one living suspect is dealt with. He hadn’t said anything to me, but he didn’t need to. It showed in his eyes.
The fact that Tommy is talking to me pierces my haze.
“I saw the wound, Smoky. I know wounds. I can’t tell you if she’s going to be fine or not. All I can tell you is that it’s not a guaranteed kill shot.” He turns his head to me. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, goddammit! I hear you!” It comes out as a scream. I don’t know why. I’m not angry at Tommy.
“Go ahead and scream, Smoky. Do whatever you need to do.” His voice is stoic. For some reason, this infuriates me.
“Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected, huh?” I can’t hold it back. Poison is inside me, bitter and galling and overpowering, and it’s demanding release. “You think that makes you something special, being a fucking robot?”
No reply.
“Must not be too special! You got kicked out of the Secret Service, didn’t you? Fucking loser!” He doesn’t even blink. I start screaming at him. “I fucking hate you right now! Do you hear me! You mean nothing to me! My friend is dying and you treat it like it’s nothing so you mean nothing to me and I hate you and—”
My voice breaks into a moan. The poison is gone. What’s back now is my old friend, pain. I roll down the window frantically and proceed to puke into the street. An ache spikes through my head.
I sit back, depleted by my orgy of emotion. Tommy reaches over and opens up the glove box. “There’s Kleenex in there.”
I grab a few. Wipe my face.
We drive on.
“I’m sorry,” I say in a small voice, about a mile later.
He looks at me, gives me a soft smile. “Don’t worry about it for a second.”
When I begin to weep, he puts a hand on my knee and keeps it there, as we continue to barrel toward the hospital.
47
THE HOSPITAL CHAPEL is quiet. I have it all to myself. Callie is in surgery and we have no word yet. Everyone is here. Leo, James, Alan, Elaina, Bonnie. AD Jones is on the way.
I’m on my knees, praying.
I’ve never believed in the literal God most people do. In someone up there, omnipotent, guiding the universe.
I do believe that there is something. Something that isn’t much interested in us but likes to check in from time to time. See what the ants are up to.
I kneel and put my hands together because, perhaps, this is one of those times.
I have blood and bits of brain on me. I am covered in violence.
But I bow my head and I pray, a constant, desperate murmur.
“Okay, so Matt gets taken from me, and my daughter, and my best friend. I get carved up and horribly scarred and have nightmares that make me wake up screaming. I spend six months in pain, wanting to die. Bonnie is mute because of an unreal horror some psycho visited on her. Oh yeah, and Elaina, one of the best people I know, a woman I love, has cancer.” I pause to wipe a tear from my eye with a shaking hand. “With all that, I’ve been dealing. Took me a little while, but I’ve been dealing.” A tear I missed runs down my cheek. I clench my hands until they hurt. “But this. No. No way. This is too much. Not Callie. So, here’s the deal. You ready?” I can hear the wretchedness and pleading in my voice. “Keep her alive, and you can do whatever you want to me. Anything. Blind me. Cripple me. Give me cancer. Burn down my house, fire me from the FBI in disgrace. Make me insane. Kill me. But keep her alive. Please.”
My voice cracks then, and so do I. Something inside me breaks. The pain of it makes me pitch forward, and I have to put my hands out to catch myself. I’m on all fours, and I watch as tears rain down on the chapel tile. “You want me to crawl?” I whisper. “You want to have someone, ten someones, rape and cut on me again? Fine. Just keep her alive.”
There isn’t any answer, or even the hint of one. This doesn’t bother me. I didn’t expect a response. I just needed to say it. Call it talking to God, begging Allah, or just envisioning a goal. Whatever. I needed to plead with the universe to spare Callie. I needed to show that I was willing to give up anything, everything, to save my friend.
Just in case it might make a difference.
I walk back out of the chapel to the waiting room. I’d taken some time to try and pull myself together, but I still feel jumbled and shocky and broken. I know that I should be here for my people right now. That’s my function. My place. What a leader does. “Any word?” I ask. I’m proud of myself. My voice is steady.
“Not yet,” Alan replies, morose.
I look at them all. James looks grim. Leo is pacing back and forth. Alan is as helpless as I’ve ever seen him. Only Elaina and Bonnie seem calm, which
amazes me. They were the ones most recently victimized. You never know where strength is going to come from until it happens.
I smell the sterile smell of this place, hear the little “whooshing” sounds and beeps that always fill a hospital. So quiet. Like a library where people bleed and die.
I walk over and sit next to Bonnie. “How are you doing, honey?”
She nods, and then shakes her head in the negative. It takes me a minute to get it. Yes, I’m fine, no, you don’t need to worry about me, that’s what she’s telling me.
“Good,” I murmur.
The door to the waiting room bursts open, and AD Jones is there. He looks frantic.
“Where is she? Is she okay? What happened?”
I stand up, walk over to him. Clickety-clack on the hospital tiles, I notice with the part of me that’s still dazed and numb. “She’s in surgery, sir.”
He regards me for a long moment. “What’s her status?”
“The bullet entered the upper chest. Nine millimeter. No exit wound. She lost a lot of blood and they rushed her into surgery. That’s all we know.” Concise, I think. Crisp, clean, and efficient. I suppress a little bubble of hysteria. Tiny bubbles in the whine…
He looks at me, his face turning red. I’m appalled at the level of rage I see in his eyes, because it’s not something I’ve ever associated with this man. It dampens the craziness that’s percolating inside me. “How long has she been in surgery?” he snaps.
“Two hours.”
He turns away from me, a sudden motion. Paces. Whips back, stabbing a finger in my direction. “Listen and listen good, Smoky. I have two dead agents, and another one in surgery. None of you, and I mean none of you, is to be alone from this point forward. If that means some of you have to bunk together until this is over, that’s what happens. You don’t go to the bathroom or wipe your nose without having someone with you. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No more casualties. Do you hear me, Smoky? No more!”
I take his rage, bend to the storm of it. This is his version of me in the car with Tommy. This is him venting about Joseph Sands. This is him caring. I empathize.
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