by Slaton Smith
Brian started getting dressed. He looked over at his vest on a leather chair in his room. He hated wearing it, but he knew it served a purpose. He picked it up and pulled it over his head and fastened it and then put on his shirt. The vest was hot in the summer, but with winter coming, it actually helped keep him warm.
Across the street, in a blue Malibu, John watched the lights go on in Brian’s house.
“Shit. So much for killing him in his sleep,” he said aloud. “I’ll just walk in and shoot him while he eats his cornflakes.” He checked his suppressed Heckler & Koch USP Compact Tactical pistol. He figured it would do the trick. After all, he was just killing a cop today. He also decided to bring along a M67 grenade. “Just in case,” he thought to himself. He placed the grenade in the front pocket of the blue windbreaker he was wearing. He looked at the gloves he wore on his hands. He always had them on. His hands were scarred from the burns he suffered in Iraq. People always stared. He hated it. He got out of the car and jogged across the street towards the house. The gun was down at his side.
Brian finished getting ready. He attached his radio to his shirt and checked his service weapon, a Glock 22. He went downstairs with Bailey not far behind him. Moving slowly with steps that made him think he was still half asleep, he picked up the remote on the living room couch and turned on the TV. The inane banter of the local morning show made him quickly decide to make some coffee and go to work. He turned the lights on in the kitchen, opened the dishwasher to get out a coffee cup and started the coffee maker. Bailey was patiently waiting by the back door.
“Sorry, girl. I bet you have to go.” He opened the old kitchen door to the deck and backyard. The cool morning air blew a couple of dried leaves into the kitchen. He shut the door when Bailey ran outside. The glass rattled in the frame. A 90-year old window will do that.
John was now on the front porch. He looked in the window and could see Brian fiddling with something in the kitchen, but did not see the dog, which was good. He hated dogs. The MPs always had dogs . . . .
“I think I’ll just kick in the door and kill this cop right in his kitchen,” he said to himself as he lined up his size fourteen boot.
Brian was taking a sip of coffee when he heard the front door explode with a violent crash as it was smashed off of its frame. The noise made him jump and drop his coffee cup, which fell and shattered on the granite countertop. Outside, Bailey heard the noise and ran to the kitchen door, barking wildly. Brian quickly moved towards the noise and was met by a huge man walking through the threshold of the house and raising a gun. Brian fumbled for his weapon, but was too slow. John got off two quick shots that caught Brian in the chest. The .45 caliber slugs mushroomed on his vest, but the tremendous energy expelled by the impact knocked the wind out of him and slammed his back into the edge of the counter. He slumped to the ground but instinctively toggled his radio.
“OFFICER DOWN! SHOTS FIRED. 728 SAINT JAMES!” he screamed into his radio, pulling his gun and returning fire. His shots missed wildly, smashing the TV, hitting the couch and splintering the kitchen doorframe.
Pittsburgh Police Dispatch responded in seconds.
“All units respond. Officer down. Shots fired. 728 Saint James.”
There were two cars sitting in the parking lot of one of the Carnegie Mellon dorms, one car at a C-store on Ellsworth and two more patrolling not far from Brian in Squirrel Hill. All five cars hit their lights and screamed towards St. James. They all knew who lived there. They were twenty seconds away.
“How’s that vest officer?” John taunted from around the corner of the living room wall.
Brian did not respond. He tried to get a better angle and cover by moving slightly behind the counter. His ribs were killing him and he was certain they were broken or at the very least bruised.
Bailey was barking and jumping against the kitchen door. The glass was rattling in the frame.
“Not much of a shot are you officer?”
Brian fired a couple of shots into the wall in the direction of the voice.
“These old houses have nice thick walls,” John laughed, as he quickly pivoted and fired a third shot that hit Brian square in the chest. The force slammed Brian back down to ground and against the kitchen door. The impact caused him to drop his gun.
Bailey heard the thud of Brian’s body hitting the door. She stopped barking and took a dozen steps backwards.
“Those vests are amazing ain’t they, officer? I bet those ribs hurt. Don’t worry. The next one is for your face!” John shouted from the cover the wall afforded him.
The sirens were now right outside. Blue lights were filling the first floor of the house. The Pittsburgh Police were desperately trying to make it in time. They knew every second counted.
Hardwired in Bailey’s soul was the instinct to protect her family - with her life if necessary. Brian and Sean were her family. She ran towards the door and with her powerful back legs launched her 75-pound body through the old glass window.
The window exploded above Brian’s head and glass was propelled all over the kitchen.
At the same time, John entered the kitchen to kill Brian. He fired and the shot that left his gun intended for Brian’s head, caught Bailey in mid-air and pierced her shoulder. The force of the shot spun her around and she landed hard on her side with a sickening thud, four feet in front of Brian.
Bailey had bought Brian a second chance and he wasn’t going to let it go to waste. In a flash, he grabbed his service weapon and got off two quick shots. One caught John in the shoulder.
John staggered back into the living room. There were two police cars on the lawn and three more behind. John was not going to be taken alive. He charged out the front door with his gun up, firing. The police returned fire. Three shots hit him immediately. He tried to reach into his pocket for the hand grenade, but was too slow. He fell to his knees. His shots went wild and hit the windshield of one of the police cars. He did not get up. The police fired twenty-nine rounds. Twenty-three found their mark. John’s head was nearly blown off his shoulders and his chest was mostly pulp from the barrage.
The shooting stopped and three officers ran through the yard, jumping over what was left of John’s body and into the house.
There was the sound of an ambulance in the distance.
“Pittsburgh Police!” two officers screamed, with their weapons still drawn. They quickly made it into the kitchen and found Brian on the floor holding a Boxer’s head in his lap.
“Brian! Are you OK? What the hell?” one of them shouted, checking Brian. One of the officers ripped open Brian’s shirt to find three mushroomed slugs pressed into the vest.
“We have to get her to a vet,” Brian said, trying to get up.
“No! You are going to the hospital,” one of the other officers answered.
“SHE SAVED MY LIFE!” Hot tears were running down his face.
The three of them looked at each other and then at Brian on the floor.
“You got it!” They helped Brian to his feet. His ribs really felt like they were broken. Nonetheless, he bent down and picked up Bailey. He would not let the other officers touch her. The broken glass crunched under their feet, leaving deep gouges in the hardwood floor. The cool breeze and more leaves came through the broken window. Brian’s coffee was dripping down the side of the counter.
“Brian, you have been shot. Let us,” one of the officers insisted.
“No! I have to do it!”
Brian carried Bailey out the back of the house, and down the driveway with two officers in front and one behind. They were approaching the front of the house when they heard someone yell,
“GRENADE!”
They had found the grenade in John’s pocket. They all immediately backed up as they had no idea if the grenade was wired to the body. An officer was already on the radio, calling for the bomb disposal team.
Brian kept walking.
The street was now filling up with police cars. Brian carried Bailey over t
o a waiting car, placed her in the back and got in next to her. Two of the officers from the house got in front. The third got into a car behind them.
“There is a 24-hour emergency clinic in Bloomfield! Hurry!” Brian yelled to the driver. He hit the siren and the lights and took off. The second car was right behind them.
The two cars blew through eight sets of lights and slid to a stop in front of the clinic. Brian was drenched with sweat. The pain from the gunshots was intense, but at the same time a welcome feeling. Without the vest he would be dead. He picked up Bailey and carried her into the clinic, while two officers held the door open. The two girls working the reception area jumped to their feet.
“HELP! SHE’S BEEN SHOT!
They both ran around to help Brian. Two vets appeared from around the corner and motioned to bring her into an exam room. Brian carefully placed Bailey down on the table and stepped back. The vets asked what had happened as they listened to her heart and examined her. She was bleeding badly. The two vets shook their heads, sadly.
Two more police officers came into the room. They took off their hats.
“I am sorry there’s nothing else we can do. She has lost too much blood.”
“No.” Brian sobbed. He placed his hands on her head.
Bailey died shortly thereafter.
No one spoke for a few moments. Brian kissed her on the head and stroked her one last time. Finally, one of the officers spoke.
“Brian, we need to get you to the hospital. We will stay behind to make sure she is taken care of.”
Brian nodded at him. It was all he could muster. He staggered out of the exam room into the waiting room of the veterinary clinic. It was full of police officers, hats off. There were a dozen cars in front of the clinic. There was also an ambulance. EMTs met Brian as he came out of the front doors. They placed him on a gurney and hustled him into the ambulance. Another police officer climbed in and they took off for UPMC. Once inside, the EMTs cut off Brian’s uniform, carefully removed the vest and dropped it on the floor. The officer riding along picked it up and held it in his hands looking at the mushroomed slugs. The EMTs cut off his t-shirt and took a look at his chest. The .45’s did not penetrate the vest.
It had saved Brian’s life.
Actually, Bailey did, by giving her own.
VII
Slippery Waters
Deputy Director George Price’s Office
Washington - Early Monday Morning
“What do you mean, he never got off the plane?” Price asked, rising out of his chair, the phone in his hand.
On the other end, a bead of nervous sweat rolled down the agent’s forehead.
“He never got off the plane and when we checked the airline’s records, he never got on the plane at Reagan. The team in D.C. left when he passed through security.”
Price remained standing, listening. He grimaced.
“Don’t you think that was an oversight?”
“Yes,” the agent answered, looking across the room at his team.
“So, Robert Waters could be anywhere. I suggest you find him! Report back to me midday!” he demanded and slammed the phone down. He looked at his computer and his schedule for the day. As usual, it was packed with appointments. He didn’t care. He needed to get out of there. He punched a button on his phone and his assistant picked up.
“Yes, Mr. Price?” she answered from just outside the door.
“Becky, please reschedule my appointments. I am going to be out of the office for several days.”
“Certainly. Even the meeting today with Director O’Connor?” she asked.
“Especially my meeting with the director,” he replied and then wished he had not said it that way.
“Thank you,” she said and hung up.
Price looked around his desk and pushed a handful of things into his bag. He opened the top drawer to his desk, pulled out the file that Waters had thrown at him the night before, opened it and flipped through a couple of pages.
“Jesus, what was I thinking?” he said aloud, looking at the damning papers.
He placed the folder into his bag and picked up the phone again.
“Becky, please get protective services on the line for me.”
“Of course, is everything alright?” she asked, suddenly alarmed.
“Nothing to worry about. I am going on a quick trip and need a little extra support.”
“Right away, Mr. Price.”
Price sat down as he was connected with the protective services team. He made up a phony reason for the extra security and was assigned four additional men who would travel with him. He tried to tell himself it was enough, but deep down he knew his days were numbered. However, he would be damned if he would go down without a fight. Waters certainly would reach out and strike at him. Naturally, the obvious solution was to eliminate Robert Waters first. “Waters was not the only person in the world that had access to unsavory types,” he thought to himself. The agency’s protective detail would support him while he got his things together in Florida and at the same time he would send a group of “special men” after Waters. He opened his wall safe and took out a small black book, flipped through a handful of pages and came to the number of the man he was looking for - Claude Kruger. He dialed the number.
“Yes,” a man with a slight South African accent answered.
“It’s George.”
The man paused for a moment. He knew Price and since he knew Price, he did not trust him, but he knew that if George Price was calling it meant a quick payday.
“Yes?”
“If you’re interested, I can put $250,000 in your pocket in the next twenty-four hours.”
“I am listening.”
“I need for you to track and eliminate Robert Waters,” Price said, point blank.
The man paused. This was more than shooting some random jerk from 500 meters. He knew who Waters was. And since he knew who he was, he also hated him, but also knew that $250,000 was cheap for a high value target like Robert Waters.
“I hear you right?” Kruger asked.
“You did. Yes or no?”
“Half a million,” Kruger countered.
Price did not hesitate with his response. He did not try to haggle. Even at $500,000, it was still a bargain.
“Done!”
“Send me the details.”
“You will have it in ten minutes. I have a feeling he is still in D.C.”
“You know where to wire the funds,” Kruger said and hung up.
Price smiled to himself and leaned back in the chair. If he could remove Waters and thus his link to the program, he might be in the clear. He took a thumb drive out of his safe, slid it into his computer and went to his file on Waters. Aliases, a list of cell phone numbers he used, associates, everything he had on Waters. He sent it all to his new best friend. He then said to himself that hiding out in South Africa might not be a bad place and made a note to ask Kruger about it. He needed to keep his options open. If Waters did leak information regarding his involvement, he would need to flee the country.
Kruger hung up the phone on his end and got to work. He had two men that would be perfect for the job. He contacted them and arranged a meeting. True to his word, Price sent the file in less than ten minutes. Kruger forwarded everything to a geek that he used for these types of things, picked up the phone and called him.
“Hello.”
“Sal, its Claude. I just sent you a file and I need you to help track down a guy for me. Everything you need is there.”
“I am kind of busy,” Sal whined. He was actually watching a rerun of I Dream of Jeannie and eating microwave popcorn.
“Quick job. $10,000.”
“I think I might be able to find some time,” he said, pausing the TV, opening up his laptop and scanning the information.
“I think he is still in the D.C. area,” Kruger added.
“OK. Give me a couple of hours.”
“Call me in one,” Claude said and hu
ng up.
Sal sat down at his workstation. He pushed a couple of empty Mountain Dew cans to the floor and fired up his system. Sal was an accomplished hacker and a MIT dropout. Although, it was more like kicked out than dropped out. Academic dishonesty is frowned upon at MIT. Despite this slight setback he soon discovered that he did not need the degree to make some serious coin. Now, it meant working for some unpleasant people, such as Claude, but the rewards outweighed the risks.
Sal loaded all the data he had received on Waters into a program he developed. The program would take all of the aliases and all of the phone numbers and run a detailed search. The program would reach out and breach every firewall and search the databases for every airline, every bus, every train and every motel or hotel in a given area. Since Claude narrowed it down, it made the process one hundred times faster. The computer came back with an answer in thirteen minutes and Sal saw that Waters was booked on a USAir flight earlier that day traveling from Reagan to Logan in Boston. He picked up a boarding pass, but never got on the plane. He then saw that a man named Steve Radford, one of Waters’ aliases, rented a car from Hertz and shortly there after, checked into the Willard Hotel and was enjoying a BLT and French Onion soup, courtesy of room service, in room 619.