WINNER TAKES ALL

by Robert Bidinotto

  He opened his eyes. “She was holding this doll.”

  “Jesus Christ . . .”

  “They were right over there . . . So pretty. Both of them. Golden hair, just like this. So happy . . . So full of—” He stopped. “Her husband had just taken their five-year-old boy to pre-school . . .”

  “Dylan, I’m so sorry.”

  “. . . and they were just out for a walk after breakfast. Because it was such a nice day.”

  He could feel nothing, but a distant part of him saw that the hand holding the doll was trembling.

  “They died . . . just because it was a nice day.”

  He felt the hand tighten on his shoulder.

  “It’s got to stop, Grant.” He gestured with the doll’s head, pointing the ugly metal shard at the ruins across the street. “This has got to end.”

  “And it will. Trust me, son, I’m going to put everyone and everything into—”

  “No,” he interrupted softly. “Not you.” He pointed the spike again, toward Groat gesturing in the midst of the army of cops and investigators crawling over the rubble. “Not him. Not them. You can’t do it. Not your way.”

  “Dylan, I—”

  “Remember what you told me at the Jefferson Memorial that day? When I said these people think they’re untouchable? You told me you didn’t know what people like us could do about it anymore—not when the system got this corrupt. Because the people who did this—they run the show. They’ll run the investigations. They’ll make sure to protect themselves. They’ll bury the truth. And good people like you won’t be able to stop them. You’ll want to, and you’ll try. But you won’t.” He paused, then added: “Not your way.”

  He gently shrugged off Garrett’s hand. Pulled himself to his feet.

  “But they are going to be stopped.”

  Now he felt something. Felt it come alive, pushing out through all the deadness. Felt it rise through his body, surge through his arm, pour into the hand holding the doll . . .

  Dylan Hunter brandished the doll before Garrett’s ashen face. Shook it. The sun flashed off the metal spike.

  “Enough!”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Garrett rose from his knees. Brushed off the dirt. Nodded.

  “Okay. I know better than to try to talk sense to you when you’re like this.”

  “Good. I’m not in the mood for lectures.”

  Garrett coughed again. “Goddamn it,” he said, shaking his head, “my lungs can’t take any more of this. There’s nothing else we can learn here, anyway.”

  He motioned the security team to join them. They made their way back toward the SUVs.

  “I just realized,” Hunter said, “they’ve cordoned off this entire area by now. So how do I get my car out of here?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Just down this street. Past 17th.”

  “Okay. We’ll escort you out of here.”

  They piled back into the Agency’s SUVs, turned around on the deserted street, and headed back. Once again, Garrett badged them through the blockades. As they came up to Dylan’s car, a beeping sound filled the back seat. Garrett dug out his phone.

  “Talk to me . . . Oh, it’s you again, Harry.”

  He listened. His eyes widened.

  “Great. Tell them to hold the guy till I get there. Do not call in the FBI, do not tell anybody else you have him, and nobody talks to him. You okay with that?” He listened to the reply. “How long? . . . All right. I understand. Whatever time you can give me, Harry. Thanks. I owe you.”

  He turned to Hunter. “We just got lucky. That was the D.C. police chief. An old buddy; we swap favors. His cops just grabbed the missing terrorist from the Jewish center. They’re in an apartment on Corcoran Street, near Dupont Circle. Just a couple minutes away.”

  Hunter seized his arm.

  “Once Groat gets him, the guy will go all Miranda and clam up.”

  “That’s why I told Harry what I did. We need to talk to him first—and fast, before the Bureau hears about it and gets there.”

  “You realize we’ll have to make him talk.”

  Garrett raised a brow. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “No, not you . . . Grant, you asked me months ago whether I would come in and work for you again. And I said no. All right—I’ll do it. But just this once. And my way.”

  Garrett nodded, while rolling his eyes toward the two security men in the front seat. “I can’t accept whatever you may be suggesting.”

  “I understand. It’s your call, of course. So I’ll just tag along. I’ll follow you out of here in my car.”

  “Well, hurry. Harry can’t give us more than a half hour, if that.”

  Hunter jumped out and ran to his BMW. He tossed the doll’s head on the passenger seat. Lit up the car’s own strobes. Did a fast K-turn in the empty street. He was burning rubber after them within twenty seconds. At 18th they turned a few short blocks north, to New Hampshire. Two quick rights, and a half-block east on Corcoran. Three patrol cars had pulled over next to a narrow, three-story row home with an open front door. Garrett’s car arrived first and he was trotting up the stairs when Hunter arrived.

  He flicked the hidden panel release for the storage compartment between the seats. Pulled out a sheathed combat knife; shoved it inside his boot. Then his favorite firearm—the Sig-Sauer P228, loaded, plus an extra 13-round magazine. He tucked the Sig, in its belt holster, behind his back and under his jacket; the mag went into his jacket pocket.

  Leaving the strobe flashing, he locked up, then ran up the steps, past a plastic bag of spilled groceries.

  2

  An elderly woman huddled on a sofa in the front room to his left, softly crying. A young cop sat beside her, talking to her soothingly. Hunter followed the voices along the hallway, past a powder room, to a bedroom on the right. Garrett’s team stood outside. He squeezed by them and entered.

  He recognized the terrorist as the rental truck’s passenger. Wearing a torn windbreaker and jeans, he lay face down on the bed, hands cuffed behind him. Another beefy young cop gripped the back of the guy’s neck, holding his head down, and kept a knee against his lower back, preventing him from moving. A much older cop stood at the foot of the bed, bringing Garrett up to speed.

  “. . . dumps the AK-47 back there and walks here. Probably heading for the Dupont Metro station.” He nodded at the cop on the bed. “Officer Jenkins is driving by, recognizes him from the APB, and pulls over. The guy goes rabbit, then spots the woman entering this apartment with her groceries. He shoves past her to get inside. Maybe he thinks he can run out the back, or something, but then—”

  “You all did great, Sergeant,” Garrett interrupted. “But we still have an active terrorism emergency. Others may be out there, about to strike. We have to talk to this guy right now and see what he knows.”

  “No problem. I just got a call about that. From Chief Landrum himself. He says, whatever you need, I am supposed—”

  “Right now,” Garrett continued, noticing Hunter enter, “we need to be alone with the suspect, since anything he says may impact national security. So I’d like you to clear the building for us. Keep everyone outside and away. That includes anyone else who shows up here—I don’t care what agency, what titles they have. We need time with this guy. A lot of lives hang on what we learn in the next few minutes. Can I count on your cooperation, Sergeant Devers?”

  The cop raised his chin. “Absolutely, sir. I’ll get everyone out. Shall I leave Officer Jenkins here to keep the suspect under control?”

  “No need for that,” Hunter interjected. “We’ve got this, Sergeant.”

  “Sergeant,” Garrett said, “stay here one more minute. Dylan, come with me.”

  He led Hunter into the hall and away from the others.

  “Dylan. We need to have an understanding.”

  “What am I supposed to understand?”

  “I know what you’ve just gone through. I know you’re thinking about that mother and
baby. But you need to keep your eyes on the prize. This character is our only link to the people behind this. He’s just a bit player. Kill him, and you let his bosses get away. Is that what you want? Do you want to give them a pass? A chance to kill more babies?”

  He saw the baby girl waving her doll . . .

  “Dylan, look at me. I expect you to act like the pro I know you are. If you have to rough him up to get him to talk, do it. But I expect him to be alive and intact afterward. Do we have an understanding?”

  Hunter felt himself climbing to his cold, high place. He nodded.

  “We do.”

  They went back into the room.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Garrett said. “I’ll be sure to let Chief Landrum know how well you and your officers performed.”

  The two cops left. Immediately, the terrorist tried to wriggle off the bed. Hunter stepped over, raised a boot, and stomped the back of his thigh. The guy howled, falling back onto the bed, face down.

  Hunter turned to Garrett.

  “Perhaps you ought to wait outside too, Grant.”

  “Perhaps I should.”

  He grabbed a pillow, stripped off the pillowcase, and tore off a piece.

  “I want to call my lawyer,” the guy on the bed moaned, his accented voice muffled against the bedcover.

  “Dream on, asshole.”

  “You know you can’t do this! I have rights. I—”

  Hunter punched him solidly in the right kidney. The guy gasped.

  “Sure you do. You have the right to remain silent. But only for another minute or two.”

  He balled up the piece of cloth, grabbed the back of the guy’s hair, yanked his head off the bed, and jammed the cloth into his open mouth.

  He knew that the combination of the punch and the gag would make it hard for him to breathe. That was the idea. He wanted him to know exactly what that felt like.

  He also wanted to muffle any screams to come.

  Hunter seized the handcuffs behind the guy’s lower back and slowly raised his wrists, straining his joints.

  A muffled, gagging scream . . .

  “You know, if I tug just a wee bit harder on these cuffs, something is going to pop. I wonder which will go first? An elbow? Nah, I bet it’s going to be a shoulder.”

  The guy’s squirming began to slow. He couldn’t afford to let him to pass out, so he lowered his arms again. Flipped him over onto his back. Straddled his stomach. Reached down to his boot and pulled out the knife.

  The terrorist looked woozy, eyes unfocused; his face was red from lack of air. Hunter slapped him, hard, and pulled out the gag. The man coughed and sputtered, then gulped for air.

  Hunter waved the blade in front of his eyes, letting it flash in the overhead light till those eyes came back into focus. And widened.

  “Listen to me, very carefully. I know you think you are a big, brave, devout Muslim. I know you think you’re going to defy the infidels. You think you won’t talk and betray your pals. You think you can hold out.

  “But you’re wrong. I have dealt with other big, brave, devout Muslims before. In Pakistan and Afghanistan. They were just like you. They weren’t going to tell me a thing. But you know—they did. They always did. Some of them held out on me. One guy even lasted, oh, ten minutes. But in the end, they always wished they hadn’t tried, because of what I did to them. And because they ended up talking, anyway.”

  Hunter grabbed his beard, pulled down to open his mouth, and tapped the blade against his teeth.

  “What a terrible waste,” he continued. “To lose your eyes, your ears, then your balls—only to wind up screaming out all the answers to my questions, anyway. I hope you’re smarter than that. You’re still young enough to father children. But one way or the other, you will tell me everything I want to know, within the next five minutes. If you try to hold out—if you want to be as stupid as they were—well, here is exactly what happens next.”

  Hunter explained his six-step interrogation sequence. When he had finished, he leaned over, inches from the man’s sweat-soaked face.

  “Did you understand what I just said?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” the quivering terrorist replied, tears flowing over his cheeks.

  “Do you really want any of those nasty things to happen to you?”

  “No! Please! I’ll tell you!”

  “Well, that’s good. That’s very good.”

  He straightened. Then gently, carefully, he lay the knife blade flat along the man’s left cheek, and held it so that its point was barely touching his lower eyelid.

  “Okay, so here is my first question. Please—answer truthfully. And quickly.”

  He did.

  3

  Eight minutes later Hunter emerged from the apartment. Garrett stood like a tall gray pillar at the bottom of the steps, while the others waited next to their cars.

  “Okay, he’s back in your custody, Sergeant,” Hunter called out to the older cop, then descended toward the CIA boss. He continued past, toward his car.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Garrett called out, hustling to catch up.

  “I don’t have a minute.”

  “I need to know what condition you left him in,” Garrett said, lowering his voice.

  “Don’t worry, he’s fine. He’ll have only a sore leg—you saw how that happened—and a bruised kidney. You know—typical injuries sustained while resisting arrest.”

  “But did you get what we need out of him?”

  Hunter stopped at the door of the BMW and faced him. “Enough for now.”

  “That didn’t take long. I’m surprised he didn’t try to resist or hold back.”

  “Not after I told him what I’d do to his eyes and balls if he did.”

  Garrett snorted. “So the idiot really believed you meant it.”

  “The idiot could tell I really meant it.”

  Garrett raised a brow. “Wow.”

  “Look, Grant, I’d love to continue this delightful chat, but I have to follow up on what he told me.”

  “Which was?”

  Hunter pulled out his notepad, thumbed it open, tore off a page.

  “This. The name and address of the guy running their cell. Ali Shishani. Nickname is ‘The Chechen.’ Run that through the databases. The guy inside didn’t know anyone but his other cell members. He said Shishani coordinated with all their outside contacts for money, weapons, and explosives. So he’s our key to finding out who’s behind all this. It’s a long shot, Grant, but if he’s still at his apartment, maybe I can get to him and squeeze him before the feds read him his rights and ship him off to vacation in Guantanamo.”

  “Don’t you want backup?”

  He tapped the roof of the car. “I have what I need in here. But why don’t you give me”—he looked at his watch—“one hour. Till 1300. If you don’t hear from me by then, take that as a bad sign and send in the Marines.”

  He reached to open the car door. Felt Garrett’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Try not to tempt fate again today,” Garrett said.

  “So far, fate hasn’t been tempted. Tell Annie I’ll call as soon as I can.”

  4

  Ali Shishani was half-listening, half-watching the TV news coverage as he finished tossing the last items into his bug-out bag.

  He paused occasionally to watch a few minutes of video from the bomb site, and to gloat at the carnage and chaos he had engineered. The scene reminded him of how the Moscow apartment building had looked back in 1999.

  He had already run any incriminating papers through the shredder and carted the trash bags to a suburban dump two days before. And he had packed his SUV last night with suitcases and supplies for the long trek back to the Mexican border.

  It pissed him off he had to leave America again. This country had so much more to offer than Russia. But he knew how investigations worked. Even though the cell members were all dead, it wouldn’t take long before the American FBI would be crawling like cockroaches through their apartmen
ts looking for clues. It would take time, but it was certain they would eventually find overlooked—how do they say?—yes—“loose ends” that would lead them back to “the Chechen.” A receipt from a gas station, a crumpled note in a wastepaper basket, video from a store’s security camera, GPS coordinates from cell phone records. They would piece together these scraps, and the trail would lead them to Ali.

  So of course he had to leave. But he would leave much richer than when he arrived. He smiled. Lasher would be here in a few minutes with the rest of his cash, and then he would be on his way.

  And when he got back to Moscow, he would ask his contact in Dignity and Honor if next time they could send him to a nice place. Maybe Switzerland. He had never seen the Swiss Alps . . . Or maybe Amsterdam. Yes—even better. He wondered if they still had naked whores in store windows, right on the streets. Imagine, window-shopping for ass, just like for clothes! Yes, the real thing—so much better than stupid videos on the internet. And he would have the money to buy the best, too . . .

  The doorbell chimed.

  His heart leapt . . . then suddenly turned cold. What if something had gone wrong? What if it was the cops, not Lasher, at the door downstairs?

  He shut off the TV so that he could hear in the silence. Hurrying to his shoulder bag, he withdrew the loaded Smith & Wesson .38 from its hiding place under a folded shirt. Then he went to the intercom near the door and pressed the button.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me, Ali.”

  Relieved, he pushed a second button. Heard the buzzer downstairs, then the door click shut, then footfalls on the creaking stairs. He unlocked his door and left it ajar. Realizing the gun was still in his hand, he jammed it into his belt.

  Time to celebrate. He rounded the corner to the fridge, grabbed a couple of cold beers, brought the bottles to the kitchen table. They could spread out the cash here, and he would count it. Every last bill. There was something about the pretty boy he didn’t trust. He was too—what? Smooth. No, slick. Yeah, like oil. He wouldn’t put it past the prick to skim off some of the cash.