Forged in Honor (1995)

by Leonard B Scott

  Josh reached out and pulled her back to his shoulder.

  "Naw, it's the last option to make you go to bed with me."

  She smiled and settled against him again. "I'm here to be caught, best turtle catcher on the Potomac."

  Josh's lips curled back in a grin. "Let's go to bed and discuss really important stuff like traps and bait."

  "Whoa, you have to catch me first. What kind of bait are you going to use?"

  He pushed aside her robe and ran his hand slowly up her bare leg toward her inner thigh. "I thought I'd coax you into the trap this time."

  She shuddered with his touch and closed her eyes, breathing heavily. "It's working ... Ohh ... Don't stop ... Ohhhh yes."

  Josh couldn't seem to get close enough as he pressed against her, feeling her warmth and building passion. He felt her every tremor and heard every murmur as they moved faster and harder against each other. He didn't want it to end and strained to hold on to the moment, but he wasn't strong enough.

  Chapter 19.

  Kelly looked at the writing on the Styrofoam container and grinned. "She got it right this time-`Kelly Special.' God, I love that wench."

  Josh passed him the hot sauce and napkins with an accusing stare. "What'd you do last night?"

  Kelly eyed him cautiously. "You're settin' me up. You talked to Mary, didn't ya?"

  "Yeah, I saw her outside as she was leavin'. She's going to throw your ass out on the street unless you start payin' attention to her. And I'll snap her and the twins up in a heartbeat."

  "The guys came over and we went over some things, that's all."

  "Mary said they left at one in the morning."

  "Hey, I'm a cop. Get off my case. I got her covered, so I been listening. You wanna hear what we got, or don't ya?"

  Josh pulled up a chair. "I'm listening."

  "The uniforms rousted the Sancho yesterday, as well as every Chink who went into his office building who wore a suit.

  We came up with nine businessmen into everything from dry cleaning to restaurants. They must be his colonels or at least his majors. They were all clean, but now we have their prints and they know we're watchin' them. The Sancho got bent with the rousts and called in some heavy hitters. His big-buck lawyers came first, then that Chink businessman association, the Asian-American Group, and finally the fuckin' American Civil Liberties Union boys with their whining song-and dance routine. I guess it was quite a show in the mayor's office."

  "And?" Josh asked with a knowing smile.

  "Look, smart-ass. So we took some heat from the brass.

  They're nothin' but politicians wearin' uniforms. We made the point and that's what's important. The Chinks know we know, so now the line is drawn. We're gonna wait and see who blinks first. It ain't gonna be us."

  "You thought about bringing in the Feds yet? If it's Triad, and it sounds like it is, you're in over your head."

  Kelly pointed at himself. "I ain't a cowboy. Sure, we been tellin' the Feds what we got so far. But you know them unless they have hard proof, they stay in a look-see mode."

  Kelly lowered his eyes. "You're not gonna like this. Some of our undercover boys bought a bag of the new hero and gave it to the DEA for tests." He looked up at Josh as if in pain.

  "The DEA says it's from Burma. And they ain't happy about it. They told us it could be the beginning of a whole lotta shit comin' in."

  Josh's jaw muscles rippled. Too many things were falling into place. Now he knew why the CIA director had wanted him to attend the conference. Their worst nightmare had come true. The missing heroin from the facilities was on the streets.

  Kelly saw the reaction and wrinkled his brow. "We're in a war, Hawk, and we're like the British redcoats, all lined up walking down the road while the players are poppin' us from behind legal eagles and the ACLU. We're gonna have to bend the rules and get the snake's head before this gets out of control."

  Josh took a breath and told himself to relax, it wasn't his concern. He got up and patted Kelly's shoulder. "You can do it. I'll watch from the sidelines and cheer you on."

  "Talk to Mary for me, Hawk. She listens to you. I tried to explain last night how important this is, but she wouldn't listen to me. Talk to her. I'm asking as a friend. She needs to hear it from somebody else, and she trusts you."

  Josh forced a smile. "I'll run over and see her after sculling this afternoon. I promise."

  Kelly looked toward the window with a distant stare. "I wish I was like you and could get away from all this. I don't see an ending to this."

  Josh walked toward the door. "You'll figure something out to get them. Take care, Shamrock. I'll talk to Mary and see ya tomorrow."

  Josh walked out into the drizzling rain and looked down the street toward the BMW parked alongside the curb a block away. He wanted to walk up, pull his pistol, and make the bastards tell him why they were making him a player in a game he didn't want to play. Instead, he mumbled, "Screw you" and headed for his Jeep.

  Norfolk, Virginia Stephen awoke and rolled over to look at the alarm clock.

  It was 12:15 P. M. He groaned but knew he had needed the rest. They had arrived at Patrick Henry Airport just after 4 A. M. and parked in front of a small hangar across the airfield from the much larger commercial passenger terminal. A nearby motel sent a van for him and he'd checked in, paying in advance in cash. He sat down at the room desk and looked at his road atlas. It was only three hours to Washington, D. C. by car. He picked up the briefcase, took out the money he'd taken from the bodies, and found he had a little over three hundred dollars left. It wasn't enough to get back to Burma, but it would get him to Joshua. With renewed hope he quickly showered, changed into comfortable clothes, and called for a cab to take him to a car rental agency downtown.

  Minutes later, he headed for the lobby, saw his cab, and walked out into the circular drive. Handing his suitcase to the cabby, he looked to the north at the dark, rumbling storm clouds and felt a strange shiver run up his spine.

  Georgetown Boathouse, Washington, D. C.

  As Josh parked his Jeep by the boathouse, Fred stepped out of his small office and said, "You're not thinkin' about goin' out, are you?"

  Josh walked over and lifted the scull off the pegs. He balanced the weight on his shoulders. "Fred, I can't let a little rain screw up my schedule."

  "Hell, I'm not worried 'bout the rain, but the river's up and runnin' fast. You ain't gonna get a hundred yards upriver against that current. Better come back when she's down."

  Josh continued to carry the lightweight craft toward the swollen banks. "I gotta try it, Fred. If it's too much I'll take her downriver to the tidal basin and call you. Can you come get me and the boat in your truck?"

  "Sure, but it seems awfully foolish taking the chance of gettin' swamped or worse."

  Josh strode back for the oars but stopped long enough to pat the old man's shoulder. "I need this, Fred. I gotta get away for a while, you understand."

  The old man begrudgingly nodded. "Yeah, she gets in your blood and it seems you can't live without her. Be careful, Mr.

  Hawkins, she's bitchy today."

  Fred was wrong. Josh fought the current for three hundred yards upriver before he had to turn about. He was drenched, and his baseball cap was pulled down so far his ears stuck out, but he'd done what he wanted-felt the exhilarating pain of trying to beat her. She'd won like always, but he knew she would at least respect him for his attempt. He soon found out that shooting down the river with the churning current was almost as difficult as going upriver, for he had to avoid the debris and rolling swells that could swamp the scull. He barely had a chance to look toward the shore to see where his tails were. He didn't see them, but knowing they were trying to keep him in sight was a pleasure of its own. Below the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge the river calmed down a little, and he dug in his oars and shot forward like a slender rocket.

  Beneath his lightweight nylon jacket he was drenched with sweat, but he kept up the breakneck pace. Just a little
more pain, he thought, just a little more.

  Mary Kelly parked the old station wagon in the driveway and looked over her shoulder at the her twin seven-year-old boys in the backseat. "You both wipe your feet before going in the house. And hide the clothes I bought you. Your dad will have a fit if he knows what I paid for those jeans and T-shirts you two had to have."

  "Mom, everybody wears Panama Jack shirts in the summer. It's cool," Mike said, unable to believe his mother didn't understand "in" clothes.

  "You'll think 'cool' if your dad finds out," she snapped, and glanced at her watch. "Move it, and get the stuff inside.

  It's four o'clock, time for `Oprah.' "

  She got out and waved to the young officer in the cruiser that had pulled in behind her. He waved and got out in a hurry. "Hold the boys up, Mary. I need to check the house first."

  "You heard him, guys. Hold up."

  "Mom, it's raining," complained Todd.

  "Open the garage and wait there. I'll yell when it's okay."

  Mary rolled her eyes at the approaching officer and handed the house keys to him. "Skip, whatever you do, don't have twin boys. You have to push on the door when you hear the click."

  "Got it," the officer said with a smile. He opened the door with no problem and stepped in with his hand on his revolver. Mary followed a few seconds later and stood in the entryway. He strolled out of the kitchen and shrugged.

  "Looks fine. I'll check the upstairs and then I'll get out of here."

  Mary sighed, looking at the mess in the living room where the boys had set up a Star Wars base for intergalactic warriors. She walked in to rescue her good couch pillows, then heard a crash. She turned and yelled up the stairs. "Skip? ...

  Skip, are you all right?"

  Josh had pulled in behind the station wagon and saw the boys standing in the garage. He got out and was about to speak when he heard a bloodcurdling scream from inside the house. He spun and grabbed his holstered pistol from the passenger seat of the Jeep and yelled at the boys as he sprinted toward the house, "Run to the neighbors and call 911!"

  He dropped the empty holster on the steps, chambered a round into the pistol, and went through the open door in a shooter's crouch. His blood turned cold-Mary was standing five feet away in the hall with a black man holding a nickel plated 38 to her head.

  "Move and she's dead! Drop the piece and get your hands up!" the black man hollered.

  Josh didn't move. "You got it wrong, asshole. You want to shoot me, not her. I'm the one in the way of your getting out of here. Now watch me real close, 'cause I'm gonna lower the pistol so you get your chance."

  "Fool, I'm gonna kill her!"

  "Me, asshole, you gotta kill me!" Josh barked, watching the man's eyes. Slowly, Josh stood up and began lowering the pistol to his side, waiting for a blink or a movement of the other gun. But the man did something unexpected-he smiled as if he knew an inside joke. Josh heard a creak at the top of the stairs and threw himself into a forward roll. Bullets tore into the wood floor where he had been standing. He was now within a foot of the man holding Mary. The assailant pointed his pistol at Josh's face and grinned. "You're dead, muthafuc-"

  There was a thunderous kaboom, and the man fell back with a bullet through his heart. Josh threw himself on top of Mary, knocking her to the floor as he screamed, "Upstairs!"

  There was no need for the warning, for the second FBI agent through the door was already firing. The man upstairs got two shots off before a back portion of his skull flew off and shattered Kelly's framed police academy graduation picture hanging on an upstairs wall.

  Josh slowly got off Mary, who was still trying to scream although not a sound came out of her open mouth.

  "It's over," he said softly, then hugged her.

  The Silverado Room of the Hilton Conference Center was filled with conference-goers. On the stage, a panel of national and state agency and bureau chiefs sat behind small microphones. The afternoon session had been made up primarily of briefings about proposed drug enforcement programs, followed by a concluding question-and-answer period. Grant, seated in the next-to-last row, leaned over to another DIA colonel. She pointed at her watch as she whispered, "They've already gone past four. I've heard enough and think I'll slip out."

  The colonel nodded and whispered back, "Yeah, you might as well. The directors left their deputies to answer the questions. Nothing's been said that we couldn't have gotten from Newsweek. I'll call you if anything important happens."

  Grant picked up her purse and raincoat from beneath her chair and stood up. Excusing herself, she scooted down the close row of chairs, finally made it to the aisle, and strode for the guarded rear doors. Stepping into the lobby, she gently closed the door behind her and saw a friend from the DEA leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. Grant walked over to her as she put on her raincoat. "What'd you think, Shirley?"

  The woman shook her head. "We're wasting our time.

  Nothing is going to work until we get some leadership. Did you hear the way the agencies bickered?"

  Grant shrugged. "A friend of mine says we need one person in charge."

  "Your friend is right. This is. a joke. I'm finishing this cigarette, then going home and try to forget this fiasco. You want to join me?"

  "Thanks, but no, I found a little world where I can get away. I'm going there now and-"

  An ear-shattering explosion inside the conference room ended their conversation. Both women's eyes closed in nature's response to the horrific noise. Neither one saw the conference room's doors blow off the hinges and become lethal projectiles that slammed into the reporters and attendees unlucky enough to be standing in front of them. The blast cloud roared into the lobby, leveling everything and everybody like a giant tidal wave. Grant and Shirley were not in the direct path of the invisible wave, but were caught in its wake and blown down the hallway like bits of cork.

  The 4:15 Blue Line Metro train slowed and came to a stop at the Arlington Cemetery Station. Unlike the previous crammed stops at Roslyn, Foggy Bottom, and McPherson Square, the platform here had only a few waiting passengers.

  The doors of the train opened and three men stepped out of different cars as the few new riders hunched their shoulders and tried to push their way into the tightly compacted mass of commuters. None of the passengers on board the departing train noticed the briefcases the three men had left behind under the seats.

  The three Nigerians walked straight for the exit as the train rolled into the tunnel toward its next stop, the Pentagon.

  Hundreds of eager commuters waiting on the Pentagon platform saw the lights flash to warn them a train was inbound, and they began jockeying for position. The Pentagon station was a change-out point. Those who worked in midtown and lived in the outlying communities took the Blue Line to the Pentagon, then they got off and took the escalator to the aboveground Metro bus station. There they could catch a bus to their neighborhoods. Those waiting on the belowground platform and those staying on the train would take the Blue Line to stops in Crystal City and Alexandria.

  The train became visible in the black tunnel and the waiting throng began the final press forward. Blue Line Train 23 came to a halt and the doors opened to release the human flood.

  Five seconds later, at exactly 4:18, the first car, its passengers, and those waiting to board it disappeared in a flash of light, heat, and debris. Milliseconds later, two identical blasts came from two other cars. Within the huge concrete and steel tunnel, the confined blast rebounded off the ceiling like a rubber ball and roared down the man-made tubes like an invisible locomotive, destroying everything in its fury.

  Glenn Grant walked with a painful limp through the wisps of smoke that rose up from the blackened floor littered with chairs and shattered bodies. The pathetic moans seemed oddly louder than the screaming clean people who were shouting as they ran through the debris, searching for survivors. The clean ones were those who had not been inside they were the living. She approached the shattered remain
s of the stage and halted. Her burning eyes swept over the carnage and she slowly turned, her eyes capturing it all like an imaginary video camera. The vacant stares, shoeless feet, a notepad, an unbroken glass in the hand of what was left of a man--or a woman; she couldn't tell-it didn't matter. She had to get it all, keep moving, capture it, keep it for ... for ...

  "Lady, are you all right? Over here! This one's in shock.

  Get her to the lobby with the others!"

  Josh sat beside Mary in the back of a cruiser with his arm around her shoulders and said softly, "It's going to be all right. These officers will take you and the boys to your mother's. They'll stay with you all the time so you can take it easy."