by Mark Greaney
Time to run.
Court turned to his right and raced for the embankment. He had taken only a few steps in this endeavor—he was still twenty feet from the steep concrete slope to the Beltway below—when gunfire erupted in front of him.
What the fuck? Court thought. The cops were just gunning him down, not even giving him a chance to surrender.
Within the first five cracks of incoming fire, Court felt a sharp sting wide on his right rib cage. His gray parka ripped, and he doubled over while running. He stumbled almost all the way to the ground, to the point that his hands went flat on the street, but he kept moving, rose back up, and leapt over the railing of the overpass without taking time to look below.
Court dropped six feet through the air and landed on his right hip on a thirty-degree concrete incline. He rolled end over end several times, then righted himself and began skidding on his back, picking up speed towards the Beltway below. Above him the gunfire had stopped, but he had no doubt it would resume again as soon as this group of overzealous Washington cops got a bead on him from the overpass railing.
He made it to the bottom of the hill, staggered up onto the shoulder, and looked to the oncoming traffic.
An idea came to him quickly and he didn’t pause to second-guess it. He timed his move, then jumped in front of a speeding semitrailer. He raised his hands, shielding his eyes from its headlights.
He knew the vehicle would not be able to stop in time.
The semi driver slammed on his brakes, the air brakes squealed and the tires burned and skidded, and the semi’s load began to jackknife.
Court leapt out of the way, ran off the shoulder and several feet back up the concrete embankment. As he did so he felt blood on his stomach, soaking the elastic band of his warm-up pants.
As soon as the semi came to a complete stop Court drew his Smith and Wesson pistol, ran with the gun in his right hand and his left hand clutching his wounded rib cage, and reentered the Beltway under the cover of the overpass. Behind the semi trailer a maroon and white taxicab had slammed on his brakes to avoid a rear-end collision, and Court ran around to the driver-side window and banged on it with his pistol.
The cabbie opened the door and raised his hands. He screamed something in a foreign language. Court thought it might have been Swahili, but he wasn’t sure.
“Out!” Court yelled, and the man seemed to understand because he complied instantly.
Court climbed behind the wheel of the cab, and threw it into gear. He lurched forward onto the shoulder, did a quick and dirty three-point turn, and then bounced into the grassy median between the eastbound and westbound lanes. He drove across to the westbound and entered the Beltway here, and he stomped on the gas, trying to get as much speed as possible before showing up below the far side of the overpass. He could only hope that the cops above him had not been able to see the carjacking or the maneuver, and that they would only find out about it as soon as they spoke with the furious cabbie.
His plan paid off, and within minutes he was miles to the west, clear of the area and hunting for a place to dump a stolen cab with blood all over the driver’s seat.
29
Denny Carmichael sat at his desk, his head in his hands. He was back in his suit and tie now, though as soon as he got the energy he would again dress for bed. Two and a half hours ago he was moments from flipping off the lights and lying down on the couch, but then came the suspected sighting of Violator at the Babbitt home in Chevy Chase, so he stood by in his office. When the police were dispatched to the scene he’d received a call from Suzanne Brewer in the Violator tactical operations center on the fourth floor, telling him something he already knew, but he sold his surprise as genuine. He hurriedly dressed and rushed down to the TOC, and here he sat while Brewer and Mayes furiously worked their team of targeting officers. They sent the JSOC special mission unit into the area, but by then Gentry was long gone.
And then, an hour and a half after the assassination, Brewer and Mayes departed for the scene of a carjacking of a taxi a mile and a half north of Babbitt’s house, thinking it possible Gentry was involved in this, as well.
Denny Carmichael had not heard a word from Kaz since sending the text ordering the Saudi kill team to the scene of Babbitt’s killing shortly after eleven, and he had no idea if Kaz’s men had gotten anywhere near Gentry, so he just sat here at his desk waiting, trying to get the energy to climb back to his feet.
His mobile chirped with the sound it made when an encrypted call was waiting. He glanced down at it and saw it was Kaz, and as he snatched the phone off the desk he found the energy reserves he was looking for.
“Talk.”
Kaz said, “My men made contact with the target.”
“When and where?”
“Forty minutes ago, about two kilometers north of the original event.” Carmichael knew this would be the carjacking Mayes and Brewer were en route to inspect.
He asked, “How did you find him?”
“Process of elimination. We saw where the police were focusing their attention. It was mostly to the west, because that was the direction he was last seen moving. But from the radio reports we determined Gentry originally tried to go south, but that was when he knew he was being pursued, so we felt he was leading forces away from his planned exfiltration route. That led us north. I positioned men in five choke point locations, and simply waited, thinking he might still be on foot.”
“What happened?” Carmichael caught himself squeezing the phone so hard he ran the risk of breaking it.
“Two of my men saw a lone man fitting the general description. They stepped out to follow him. When my other assets arrived, the man began to run. We engaged and, I am told, there was blood at the scene. We are confident that we wounded him.”
Carmichael snapped back, “But you didn’t put him down, did you?”
“He managed to escape in a hijacked vehicle. Understand, Denny, this operation my men conducted was completely in extremis. If we’d known something about the person the Gray Man was targeting, this Leland Babbitt, we could have been in a much better tactical position.”
Carmichael growled now. “We didn’t know Gentry was after Lee Babbitt, either.”
Kaz clearly did not believe this. “You contacted me within moments of the first shots being fired in Chevy Chase. The only way you could be so on top of the situation like this is if you had some sort of advance warning.”
Carmichael could not tell Kaz the truth: that they had no advance warning, but had instead been targeting the same man and just stumbled onto Gentry in the commission of their assassination. Instead he changed the subject. “How badly was he injured?”
“My assets had to leave the scene before the police arrived. All I know is Violator has been shot.”
“Very well. I’ll try to do better next time with the quality of the intelligence. It would be helpful if your men do better next time with the quality of their marksmanship.”
Kaz took his time before replying. “We remain at the ready.”
Carmichael said, “Don’t remain anywhere. Keep shaking the trees. He’s out there, and he’s hurt. He’ll be easier to hunt.”
—
Court lay in a shallow ditch on his left side, his ears tuned to the sounds around him so he could make sure there was no traffic on the residential road above. After a full minute like this he felt secure enough to proceed.
He used a small penlight to illuminate the right side of his rib cage. Slowly and gingerly he pushed his torn gray parka out of the way, pulled up his blood-soaked gray thermal shirt, and held the light a little closer.
He lifted his head to get a better look, then he dropped it again.
Court closed his eyes for a moment, willing away the sight.
He knew he’d taken a bullet, but he was hoping it was nothing more than a slight graze. He’d seen enough gu
nshot wounds in his life to know sometimes rounds could just barely break the skin if they traveled along at the right angle, and these types of superficial wounds could nevertheless be incredibly painful.
But now that he’d seen the result of his latest near-death experience Court realized that even though he would not die from this wound, it was no mere superficial scrape. The bullet had failed to penetrate his rib cage, but it had definitely ripped skin, muscle, and other tissue away, all the way to the bone.
It burned and throbbed and stung and ached all at once, and now that he knew what it looked like, it hurt even more.
Court made himself look again. A smear of blood covered the right side of his torso all the way down to his waistband, and with help from the flashlight he could see plainly the dull gray white of bone in the wound—one of his lower ribs was exposed in the seeping hole.
He spoke slowly and softly. “Fu-uck.”
He couldn’t stitch this up. A half-inch-wide and one-and-a-half-inch-long swath of skin and muscle was gone, so there was nothing for the sutures to hang on to. Instead all he could do was clean the wound and cover it with a sterile compress, and tape that down nice and hard so the bleeding would stop. The compress would foul with the coagulating blood and he’d have to peel it away a couple times a day to clean the wound, an excruciating process he’d have to keep repeating for at least a week.
He’d hurt from this, to be sure, but he’d survive, and he told himself this wouldn’t slow him down. He’d compartmentalize the pain and keep going.
Court pushed it out of his mind now and thought about his situation. He had dumped the stolen taxi deep in the woods in Bethesda, near the Grosvenor metro station. It would be daylight before it was found; he was certain of this. Now he just had to get himself out of this ditch and make his way to an all-night bus stop, then use the mass transit system to get back to his Ford Escort.
His mind went back to the second shoot-out of the evening. He found himself astonished that a half dozen D.C. Metro police officers opened fire on him like that when he had no weapon in his hands, and without saying anything to him before the shooting began.
Cops don’t do that, do they?
For a brief moment he wondered if those men might have been SAD Ground Branch paramilitary officers disguised as police. No, that didn’t make sense to him. On occasion the Agency could be bold as hell when operating in other countries, but if they were chasing him here in the nation’s capital, there was no way they’d be playing by a rule book that allowed them to impersonate police in the course of an extrajudicial assassination.
That was just too ridiculous to contemplate.
Court lowered his shirt, closed his jacket, and looked at his watch.
It was nearly three a.m.
He had to move, he had to get someplace to get the supplies he needed to treat his injury, and he had to get home before first light.
“Move your ass, Gentry.” He said it to himself, and it worked. He pulled himself up into a sitting position and then, with one hand pressing on his right rib cage, he struggled to stand.
As a shock wave of pain jolted him with the movement, he managed to stifle a scream, but he could not manage to suppress a long low groan.
Once up, Court adjusted the position of the Smith and Wesson pistol in his waistband, slipped his backpack over his shoulder, and slowly climbed out of the ditch.
30
Catherine King and Andy Shoal stood on the shoulder of the Capital Beltway under the Rockville Pike overpass. Two of the three lanes of traffic had been pyloned off for the police cars, ambulance, and wreckers, so even though the two Washington Post reporters had to park up on Rockville Pike and then scoot down the concrete embankment, once they were here, at least, they were able to walk around the scene and observe the two dozen or so Maryland State Police at work.
A helicopter circled overhead, its spotlight scanning around the Beltway below, and this, along with passing headlights, flashing red and blue lights from the officers’ cars, and a burning flare in the road next to the jackknifed semi, gave a dreamy psychedelic feel to the scene.
The two reporters arrived directly from the scene in Chevy Chase twenty minutes earlier after being frustrated by police tape and unhelpful law enforcement there. They’d learned next to nothing about the murder of Leland Babbitt, but when Andy heard the call on his scanner about the violent carjacking on the Beltway, he gave Catherine his professional opinion that there was no way in hell both these things could happen in tranquil western Maryland on the same night without being related, so they set off for the second scene.
And here they’d had a little more luck getting information.
The semi was more than halfway off the road, with the front wheels of the cab in a ditch next to the shoulder. A group of troopers and other law enforcement officers stood around it. Andy didn’t know these men; he visited three or four crime scenes a day, but always inside the borders of D.C. That said, he did know how to talk to cops, so he finessed his way through the tape and introduced himself to a young detective who helpfully mentioned that the troopers had found blood traces on the concrete embankment and on the shoulder of the Beltway. The CSI units were just now setting up lights and starting to crawl around, looking for more samples.
The cabbie sat in an ambulance, although he didn’t seem to be injured. To Catherine’s astonishment Andy finagled his way through troopers to the open back door of the ambulance and asked the witness for a description of the criminal.
The driver was from Mozambique, and his accent was incredibly thick, but he told Andy the man who’d jacked him had been white, in his thirties, carried a black pistol, and had driven off to the west.
Andy wrote the cabbie’s name down, making him spell it out slowly and carefully, and then he made his way over to the driver of the semi, who had finished giving a statement to the police and was now waiting for his company to send a tow truck. From him Andy got essentially the same description, with the additional information that the man was wearing a red or burgundy cap and a gray jacket. He said the man came down the embankment, stood by the side of the road for a few seconds, and then purposefully leapt in front of the tractor-trailer.
Andy walked back over to Catherine, who had knelt down over a splatter of blood the troopers had already photographed and sampled. He stepped up behind her while she took pictures of the blood with her iPhone. He said, “Both witnesses report one male, thirties, clean-shaven.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Didn’t remember the color of his hair or his height. Apparently the carjacker caused the cab of the semi to skid off the road, and its load blocked the rest of traffic from getting by. When the cab driver stopped his taxi behind the truck the armed assailant showed up at his window.”
Catherine asked, “Did either of them mention the gunman being injured somehow?”
“No.”
She put her phone away and motioned to the red splotches on the side of the highway. “Is that a lot of blood?”
Andy shrugged. “I’ve seen crime scenes with about five hundred times more.”
“Sure,” said Catherine. “But there is more blood over there, and CSI found drops on the pavement on the embankment.”
“Right.”
“And the Babbitt shooting happened a little after eleven.”
“So?”
“So let’s assume the shooter is the same person as the carjacker.”
Andy smiled. “I’d stake my limited reputation on it.”
“Well,” Catherine continued, “I’m trying to picture someone bleeding like this for two hours.”
Andy thought he understood. “You are saying you don’t think the shooter was hurt during the shoot-out in Chevy Chase?”
“What do you think?”
Andy looked at the blood again, both here and on the embankment. �
�I’m not a doctor, but I’ve seen a lot of crime scenes. This isn’t arterial spray, or anything like that, but this guy was most definitely draining blood. You’re right. No way he bled like this for an hour and a half. He’d be dead, or at least unconscious.”
Catherine said, “If neither witness said anything about the man getting hurt here, there must be a third crime scene somewhere, and that’s where he was injured.”
Andy said, “You’re pretty good, Ms. King.”
“I don’t have all the answers,” she said. “But I know where we can go to get them.”
“Where?”
Catherine looked behind Andy, and he turned his head to follow her gaze. There, just climbing out of a black Suburban, were Jordan Mayes and Suzanne Brewer. They both wore black overcoats, and Mayes had two bearded bodyguards with him.
Jordan Mayes flashed his credos to the detective in charge of the carjacking scene and took the man aside. While the two of them stepped off beyond the jackknifed semi, Suzanne Brewer walked over to the truck driver and began talking to him.
“I’ll be damned,” said Shoal. “Are you going to ask them what they’re doing here?”
Catherine said, “We both are. Divide and conquer. I’ll take Mayes.” She started to walk off, then she turned back to Andy. “Don’t mention Brandywine Street. You’re just here because this is a crime, and I’m just here because of the Babbitt killing nearby and his ties to the intelligence community.”
“Got it,” Andy said.
—
As soon as Suzanne Brewer finished talking to the truck driver, Andy Shoal caught up to her. “Hello? Excuse me.” She stopped and turned, extended a hand. Andy knew she thought he was a detective, and he was about to ruin her night. “Andrew Shoal from the Post. Can I get your name? Do you have a card?”
She pulled her hand away quickly. “No, sorry.”
“Are you law enforcement?”
“Homeland Security,” she said, and she turned away, making a beeline to the police tape around the blood spatter, thinking it would keep Andy back.