The Good Guy with a Gun (Jim McGill series Book 6)

by Joseph Flynn

  “Why didn’t you say so right off?” he’d barked at Ellie. “Of course, we’ll put your video on the national broadcast.”

  More than anything else, he was furious at the way he’d let Ellie play him.

  “Hey, hey you!” a male voice called out. “You’re Hugh Collier, right?”

  The man’s voice had an accent Hugh couldn’t place. Maybe somewhere in the middle of America. He still hadn’t learned all the inflections; it was a big country. The man standing in front of him looked both angry and nervous.

  For the first time since he’d stepped out of his office building that night, Hugh noticed how empty the sidewalks around him were. Manhattan, truly, was the part of New York City that never slept. There was still plenty of automotive traffic rushing past, but the cold wind had scoured the walkways clear, except for him and —

  “Yeah, you’re him all right, Hugh Collier.”

  The idiot sounded as displeased with him as Ellie had been.

  Not acknowledging his identity, Hugh asked, “What do you want?”

  The man’s face turned even redder than the wind had made it.

  “I’ll tell you what I want, you goddamn faggot, I want my old WWN back, the way it was when your uncle ran the place. Not the swish-city liberal sissy outfit that supports the faggot-pride parade.”

  Supporting the annual Gay Pride parades in New York and other cities had been one of the more definitive signs not only of Hugh’s personal sexuality but also of WWN’s new editorial point of view.

  Hugh pressed his steepled hands to his chin and smiled, as if a prayer had been answered.

  Here at last was someone he could bash into a quivering mass.

  All he had to do was let the dolt make the first move.

  “And if you don’t get it back?” Hugh asked softly.

  “Then you’ll get this.”

  The cretin didn’t rush him. Didn’t throw a punch. He reached into a jacket pocket.

  In that chilling moment, Hugh was reminded he wasn’t back home in Oz.

  He was in the U.S.A. where every state allowed the concealed carrying of firearms.

  Hugh threw himself forward, landed a straight right hand that flattened the fool’s nose.

  Knocked the wanker unconscious before he crumpled to the ground.

  But Hugh got shot in the leg anyway.

  Chapter 25

  Mindanao Sea — 5.85˚N, 123.14˚E — Wednesday, March 12, 2014

  The Shining Dawn lay motionless beneath a clear starlit sky. A waxing, nearly full moon added to the brightness of the night at 3:30 a.m. Philippine Time Zone. The calm sea reflected the celestial lights like a mirror. In water too deep to use an anchor, a captain would keep his vessel’s bow head on to the wind to maintain position with what was known as a sea anchor. With no wind that night, the maneuver was unnecessary.

  Tyler Busby stood at the stern of the mega-yacht and looked at the ovoid boat connected to the mother ship by a nylon line. The smaller craft was almost thirty feet long. It was called a Fassmer SEL-RT 8.5. It functioned as the Shining Dawn’s tender or lifeboat. It could hold up to forty people.

  Depending on their average avoirdupois, Busby supposed.

  In any case, the lifeboat offered more than enough elbow room for its sole occupant, Ah-lam, former dragon lady of the Shining Star.

  Ah-lam had given herself away when she’d told Busby he could sleep with her only once. The implication of a black widow’s sexual cannibalism might have been regarded more subtly in Asian cultures, but it was clear to him. Bed Ah-lam and it was goodbye, Charlie.

  The fact that she would always be nearby and sexually available, though, even when he might become depressed and give in to a temptation to end it all in bed with Ah-lam — there were many far worse ways to go — told him something else that was important.

  While he had secured a five-year lease for the Shining Dawn, the deal would become far more profitable and politically less risky to the yacht’s Chinese owner if Busby cashed in his chips early. Indeed, Ah-lam might already have been reprimanded by her lord and master for not bringing the deal and Busby’s life to a swift end.

  He had to hand it to Ah-lam for bringing her sisters aboard to serve as his concubines. The two stunning young women, whom Busby had nicknamed Toots and Bubbles, did resemble Ah-lam closely. And the psychology of the ploy was brilliant. After having the two princesses, Busby would feel compelled to bed the queen.

  Instead, he decided to do what gave him even greater pleasure.

  Outwit a competitor. He came up with a plan that pleased him no end.

  Busby had quickly seen that both Toots and Bubbles chafed under their older sister’s authority. So he used them to launch a hostile takeover. In this case, it wasn’t a company he would seize but the Shining Dawn. His weapons were subversion and money. Everyone on board got a million-dollar signing bonus; the captain and first mate got five and three million respectively. Once the captain confirmed that his booty had been wired to an account in Singapore held in his wife’s name, everyone else came aboard.

  And Ah-lam was cast adrift.

  Once she managed to untie her hands she’d be able start the engine of the Fassmer SEL-RT 8.5. She had more than enough fuel aboard to reach the island of Mindanao. True, it was a dicey place what with the Abu Sayyaf guerrillas and other troublemakers running around kidnapping people and whatnot, but Ah-lam was a resourceful young woman.

  Busby was counting on that.

  The yacht’s captain, Busby’s new best friend, appeared at his shoulder.

  “Sir, there are three vessels approaching. They may be pirates.”

  “You told me they’re small-timers in this area.”

  “Yes, sir. Mostly they extort poor local fishermen. But seeing a vessel like ours or even the lifeboat sitting dead in the water, they’ll want to sniff around.”

  Busby didn’t think some riffraff could pose a threat to the yacht; it was too well armed. But giving Ah-lam safe passage was critical to his plan.

  “Discourage the pirates, Captain. Send them on their way.”

  “Yes, sir.” He motioned to two crewmen, each of whom had overheard Busby and carried a SMAW II, a shoulder-launched multipurpose assault weapon — the updated model of the rocket launcher used by the U.S. military. The captain told his crewmen, “Fire a warning round. If they change course, let them be. If they continue coming at us …”

  He looked to Busby for a decision.

  “Destroy them.”

  One of the crewmen fired a rocket at the lead boat. It looked to Busby as if it were going to hit its target squarely. But it splashed into the water and exploded just short of the vessel. Close enough to douse everyone in the small craft and apparently scare the hell out of them.

  All three boats veered away. Busby waited five minutes to make sure they didn’t circle back. When he was satisfied the pirates weren’t going to return, he told the captain, “Let’s get under way.”

  “Yes, sir, and the destination?”

  “Montevideo. We can make it that far, can’t we?”

  “Of course, though we will have to refuel. And it would be prudent to purchase a new lifeboat.”

  “Yes, of course,” Busby said. “Let’s get the new lifeboat as soon as possible and then be on our way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man was about to return to his helm when Busby stopped him.

  “Cut the line to this lifeboat. We don’t want to tow Ah-lam all the way to South America.”

  The captain blushed and delegated the chore to one of the crewman.

  Busby watched until Ah-lam’s boat was lost to sight.

  Stay safe, my dear, he thought.

  Q Street — Georgetown

  Sweetie felt a hand gently rouse her from sleep. As her eyes fluttered open, she remembered she wasn’t at home. It wasn’t Putnam waking her.

  A voice with a charming Spanish accent told her, “I took a vow of celibacy many years ago, but if you are th
e angel you appear to be perhaps we might enjoy a spiritual union.”

  Sweetie laughed and raised herself on one elbow.

  “I took a wedding vow, and I’m as far from being an angel as I am from heaven. Buenos dias, Father. I hope you don’t mind my borrowing your bed.”

  Sweetie swung her feet off the narrow cot, necessitating a retreat by Inigo de Loyola from the tiny space beneath the staircase of Dikki Missirian’s second commercial property in Georgetown. Keeping her head down, Sweetie also stepped out of the tiny chamber the priest called home.

  “You had nowhere else to go last night, my child?” de Loyola asked.

  “I share a very nice townhouse with my husband and the young girl we’re going to adopt, Father. But I was out looking for you last night. I hoped you’d return here. Dikki let me stay in your space; he said you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Of course, I don’t. I am his guest as well. And though I have never seen an actual angel, sinner that I am, I hope they look just as you did a moment ago.”

  “Come on, Father. If I wasn’t a tough old copper, you might make me blush.”

  “I’m sure that would only add to your beauty. But now that you’ve found me, how may I serve you?”

  “I’m told that you pray for the president, Father.”

  “I do. Daily. I pray that she may be safe, wise in her actions and lead this great land with a compassion for all those less fortunate than herself.”

  “As someone who knows her, I can tell you she does her best to do just that. What I’d like to know now is whether you’d be willing to lend both her and me a hand. Help us with a job I think you’d be exactly the man to do.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Take a trip to Costa Rica. See what a certain American politician has been doing down there. Discreetly look into his relationship with a certain American woman who might have visited him in Costa Rica.”

  The priest’s face took on a pensive look, as if he were silently asking himself several questions. He came to a conclusion and bobbed his head. “I think I can do this. Costa Rica is perhaps the only country in Central America where I am not a wanted man, that I know of.”

  That gave Sweetie pause. “Father, I can’t ask you to put yourself in danger.”

  “No, no. It will be all right.” He stroked his lush beard. “I will have to shave, of course. Perhaps cut and dye my hair as well. But this I do not mind.”

  “You’re starting to worry me, Father.”

  De Loyola gave Sweetie a smile that was almost saintly.

  Spoiled by just a hint of mischief, maybe even devilry.

  “I will be happy to help you, Ms. Sweeney. Your request reminds me that I have a task or two left undone for myself in that part of the world. I assume my expenses will be paid.”

  “Of course, and you’ll be compensated for your time, too. But, Father, I have to ask you to take care of my concerns first.”

  “Without doubt. Now, may I know the specifics of what you need?”

  Hoping she wasn’t making a mistake, Sweetie told him.

  United States Capitol — Washington, DC

  Auric Ludwig sat on a park bench facing the West Front of the Capitol, looking glum and maybe even dangerous. Two Capitol Hill cops — Congress had its own police department — had stopped their foot patrol a minute earlier and asked what business he had in the area. He didn’t look like a tourist, and there were precious few of them about anyway. The weather, ever since the shooting at the Winstead School, had remained persistently overcast and bone-chilling.

  If that was a sign of divine disapproval, Ludwig thought, God would have to do worse before he worried about it. A plague of locusts maybe. Or True South becoming the peace and love party.

  “I’m here to visit two House members, officers,” he’d told the cops. “I’m a little early and I thought I’d rather look at the Capitol than the Rayburn House Office Building.”

  All of which was true, but the cops asked to see his ID anyway.

  The resulting, red-faced grimace should have identified Ludwig immediately.

  Caricatures of that visage had appeared on every news magazine in the country.

  To his disgust, and just a bit of concern, he went unrecognized and had to show his Virginia driver’s license and his House lobbyist’s ID number. They checked the veracity of both forms of identification, and ignored his business card.

  CEO of FirePower America? They didn’t give a damn.

  Ludwig didn’t have any Capitol Hill cops on his payroll.

  But once he checked out, they did offer him a perfunctory, “Have a nice day, sir.”

  “Do my best,” he replied.

  What he really wanted to do was … no, not shoot anyone.

  More like kick some ass.

  Starting with the city’s goddamn new medical examiner. Ludwig already had enough to worry about. His new lawyer, who was supposed to be a tough SOB, had called that morning and told Ludwig that angling for a plea deal might be their best course after all. Then this new sonofabitch, Dr. Marlon Donaldson, does a TV interview. And what had he said?

  He said goddamn Abel Mays died of a fucking heart attack.

  That made Ludwig’s good guy with a gun look like a prize putz.

  Dumbass shot a guy who was already dead? Some hero he is.

  Ludwig had responded the only way he could. He’d called every hard-right radio host he had on speed-dial. He claimed Dr. Donaldson was a shill for the Grant administration. He said the fix was in because James J. McGill was trying to fleece Jordan Gilford’s widow for all she was worth. On every show, he was asked how he could prove his case if the real shooter, the guy who did kill Abel Mays, didn’t come forward?

  As a response to every talk-show host, he said the same thing, “I’m now doubling my offer to anyone who finds my good guy with a gun, $2 million. And somebody should look into that new medical examiner’s connections to McGill and the president.”

  Ludwig’s increased offer quickly made its way up the media foodchain.

  It went viral on the Internet. People all over the country were looking to cash in.

  Shortly after making his round of the radio shows, news reached Ludwig that the man who had shot the death counter billboard outside his office — his hero of the day — was going to be turned over to the federal courts and would wind up serving his sentence in Alaska.

  Ludwig absolutely would not stand for that, but he wasn’t sure how to stop it. The new governor of Virginia and the state’s new attorney general, both elected only a few months ago, said that Kenton Platt, a convicted felon, would be tried in federal court. Starting to feel more than a little desperate, Ludwig had made an appointment with the two senior Republican members of the House of Representatives from Virginia to plan a political counterattack. They agreed to see him, of course. But not immediately.

  Truth was, Ludwig hadn’t arrived early for his appointment.

  He was cooling his heels, outdoors.

  The fact that Ludwig had a substantial criminal charge hanging over his head had made the normally servile politicians skittish. He wondered what else might go wrong.

  His dismal reverie was interrupted by a cheerful voice.

  “Hey, Auric Ludwig, what are you doing out here in the cold?”

  The gun lobbyist looked up and saw Representative Philip Brock.

  Ludwig knew all five hundred and thirty-five members of Congress at a glance. Brock was a Democrat. Not exactly a member of Ludwig’s hallelujah chorus. Still, Brock had said publicly that even if he didn’t own a gun or like to go hunting or target shooting, he didn’t mind if other folks raised all the gunsmoke they wanted.

  Enablers were every bit as good as toadies in Ludwig’s book.

  “Just waiting my turn to visit with some of your colleagues, Congressman.”

  The fact that Ludwig had to wait for anyone and admitted it registered with Brock.

  The universe was out of balance. Something momentous might be
in the wind.

  Maybe he could stir the pot a bit, cause a little trouble.

  “Come on, Mr. Ludwig. You can wait in my office where it’s warm. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and we’ll talk. See if we might be of help to one another.”

  Brock’s gesture of respect warmed Ludwig’s heart.

  Made him feel strong and important again.

  It never occurred to him Brock might be playing him somehow.

  St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital — Midtown Manhattan

  Ellie Booker pushed the wheelchair with Hugh Collier in it toward the exit where his town car was waiting to take him either home, as his doctor recommended, or to his office, as was his inclination. Ellie had flown to New York in the dead of the night after Hugh had called her from the hospital. He wanted her to produce a big story for WWN.

  Network CEO Shot in New York City.

  The subhead being: Hugh Collier Subdues and Disarms Gunman.

  Ellie had called in the senior anchor of the network’s nightly news broadcast, Jack Clooney, to do a bedside interview with Hugh. Five minutes would run on the news that evening, and two teaser clips of thirty seconds each would rotate on the network throughout the day. Dozens of other media outlets were also clamoring for the opportunity to talk with Hugh.

  Reporters of all stripes were both titillated and terrified by the story.

  One of the big bosses in their business had been shot: That was news.

  The prospect that anyone in the media might be targeted: That was damn scary.

  Christ, was the U.S. becoming as dangerous for journalists as war zones?

  Ellie had directed several large security people, all of them former cops, to keep reporters from other networks and the newspapers at bay. This was her story. Calling on her to work it was Hugh’s way of apologizing for being a jerk yesterday about not wanting to do the story of the gun death counter going up at the Winstead School.

  Hugh’s first-person experience with gun violence had changed his mind about not broadcasting gun death totals on the network news. He had a newfound empathy for shooting victims and the people who loved them. Not that he and Ellie loved each other, not even platonically, but they felt a deep mutual respect as two ruthless news professionals.