by Amy Wallace
Whatever tomorrow held, with Gracie at his side, he felt strong. Hopeful.
More than he’d felt in years.
34
Hello, mate. I hear you have some news.”
Tom gripped his new cell phone with sweaty hands, hoping he’d given Joe this number. If not, Joe was right. Tom had no idea how to disappear or utilize an alias.
Wednesday had not begun on a good note.
He walked around his office desk and studied the Kandinsky he’d purchased at the height of his financial prowess. Then his stocks tanked, and he had to live like the rest of the middle class. Except now he had a cool million in an offshore account.
“This has to be fast, Joe. The feds will be clocking in by six.” The placid darkness outside rested in stark contrast to his chaotic life. At least the FBI hadn’t bugged his office. Had they tapped the phones? Probably But he doubted that they had any reason to suspect him.
“Shoot.”
Joe’s word choice sent icy barbs down Tom’s spine. “She’s leaving in two days, bound for Heathrow. From what I’ve gathered in snatches of conversation and paperwork, she’ll be at Hope Ridge until eleven in the morning. Then the Kensingtons will leave together from their residence for an afternoon flight.”
“So my best chance is high noon at the embassy? So American.”
“That’s up to you. I’m done.” Tom ran through his mental checklist while Joe went on with details about Friday. The Brit must have blown a keg last night. Bored or scared, Tom didn’t know. Nor did he care. But the information Joe rattled off would serve Tom well. What a gift a drunk “bloke” could be.
“ … and Bob’s your uncle, mate.”
Tom stopped wearing a path in his thick cream carpet. “What?”
Joe’s long exhalation shouted through the phone. “It means that’s that. We’re done, eh?”
“Yes. Finished. Have a great life, Joe.”
“Supposing that’s your American way of telling me to disappear, let me remind you of a few things. I still control that million-dollar account, and I’ve evaded the FBI for months. You’ve not walked a centimeter in my boots. Watch yerself.”
Tom had reached his boiling point. Nicing things up with a drunken Brit didn’t fit into the schedule today “I’m hanging up, now. Good-bye, Joe.”
“Cheerio, mate.”
He straightened his deep blue power tie and the one expensive suit he planned to pack. Who needed suits to lounge on the beach down under?
In some small way, he hoped his mother would see all his genius in untangling the messes he’d made. Then she’d respect him. Even though he’d never see her again after Friday.
The federal-style brick of the Judicial District Court’s calm and dignified exterior belied the shattered lives represented within.
One of which could be Steven’s. And his son’s.
He tried to focus on the ornate white interior and ignore Angela’s feral pacing of the waiting area outside the courtroom. She’d dressed to impress in her expensive slate-colored suit, as had her husband in his Valentino. Neither spoke to each other or to him.
Steven’s lawyer sat stone-still beside him, sizing up the competition. Suit for suit, they were evenly matched. That fact brought Steven no comfort.
Angela wasn’t evil or trying to destroy him. Maybe that had never been her intent. Even when she left. His conscience shouted that his marriage hadn’t been void of good times. But the scene Monday night and countless others like it screamed that the fight for full custody of his son wasn’t personal. James’s safety was at stake.
Gracie’s hand on his arm provided a small amount of comfort. Her presence, and no doubt her prayers, gave him a reason to hope. Clint and Sara and his family would be praying as well. James too. His son’s light brown hair and blue eyes dominated Steven’s thoughts.
First steps.
Soccer games and playing Frisbee at the park.
Good-night hugs and stories read over and over again.
“I love you, Daddy! You’re the best.” Tears threatened at the memory of James’s words. Words Angela would never hear.
Why he kept coming back to pity and sorrow for her didn’t make sense. It was as if two warring forces vied for his attention, both flinging memories and whispers, none of which he understood.
He hoped God wouldn’t abandon him now. For James’s sake. Surely. He wouldn’t punish James because of Steven’s choices. Still, Clint’s confusing lectures attacked his brain. Clint said he had to face the lies that drove him, controlled him. “Lies like you’re not good enough, Steven. That’s one of your biggest.”
His partner’s deep and compassionate eyes had challenged him with those words. His purpose undoubtedly had been to nudge Steven toward God. All it did was spin him into more confusion.
“You want to walk outside and talk?” Gracie’s soft invitation came with a gorgeous smile.
Steven checked his watch. One-thirty. Their case was first on Wednesday’s docket in thirty minutes. The chilly November air would do him good. Might chase away the hounding thoughts, for a while, at least.
“Sure.”
Angela stiffened as he stood. “If you leave before our case is called, it’s a criminal offense.” She crossed her arms and drummed her peach fingernails on her suit coat. The open foyer echoed her words, despite the large number of people milling around.
He straightened the cross-and-handprint tie James had picked out last night. The same one his son had made with puffy red and yellow finger paints for Father’s Day this year. “I’m not here to pay you back, Angela. You started this process. I’ll see it through to the end. For James.”
She muttered something under her breath. The last few months she’d been on a mission, using perfect manners. Not anymore. Par for the course when it suited her.
Steven shook his head and took Gracie’s hand. He double-checked his watch. Still time for a short escape outside.
The bright sun and cloudless sky did nothing for his mood. “Sorry about that. I know it bothers you to see that interplay.”
“It hurts me for your sake, Steven, and for James.” She turned to face him and rubbed his biceps in slow up-and-down motions. “Remember James. Remember that you did love Angela and you can forgive her.”
He looked down into Gracie’s eyes. She was as much a Christian bulldog as Clint. But for once, it didn’t irritate him. This time it felt endearing. Truthful.
As they walked around the court building, her words about his job flashed to mind. “God didn’t put you here to save the world. He already did that.”
Good thing, because Steven didn’t play the savior role too well.
“You know you’re responsible for the choices you make now. In there.” Gracie pointed her thumb toward the brick building. “Understanding comes after you choose to trust Him. It’s your move.”
Christian bulldog for sure. He stopped walking. “I know I need to forgive Angela. I’m working on that.”
She searched his face with hopeful eyes. “God will hear you, no matter how long it’s been since you prayed.”
He cupped her chin in his hands. “I know you care. And for that I’m thankful.” Softening his voice, he continued. “But I think I’m getting it.”
She blushed.
“And if you keep going. I’m gonna pull out a tape recorder and play the words back to you. Over and over and over.”
She held up her hands, a playful glint in her eyes. “I’m working on it too. Besides, isn’t it illegal to record an American citizen without consent?”
Steven grinned. Then he noticed Angela glaring at them from the courthouse steps.
His stomach acids churned faster. Skipping breakfast and lunch had not been a wise decision. He checked his watch again. “We’d better head back inside.”
Gracie took his hand and matched his quick pace without a word.
She was definitely a reminder that God hadn’t forgotten him.
When their case was called, Steven, Graci
e, and his lawyer followed Angela and Marcus into the courtroom. No one spoke. But the voices of those still waiting for their turn in court blended around them, filling the void.
Two o’clock sharp. At least a few agencies besides the FBI and Secret Service worked on time, if only for today.
Steven tried to block out all the testimony given by Angela and her slick lawyer-husband. They called no witnesses, though, and submitted no documents to the court. Not even her highbrow treatment facility information.
She was running scared. At some point in the last few days she must have considered all the factors upon which the judge would base his decision. If Steven knew how to decode body language, and he did, the judge wasn’t the close personal friend Angela had hoped would adjudicate this hearing either.
Steven gave his testimony, keeping it clear and focused on the facts. No emotional outbursts. No pointing fingers. His lawyer submitted the information about Angela’s drinking, and Steven only affirmed what he’d seen in their six short years of marriage. Worse, what he’d seen Monday night.
Gracie sat behind him. He could feel her presence as he fixed his eyes on the black-robed judge. Steven focused on the gavel, willing it to pound out a decision soon.
Angela shot him a sideways glance and smiled. Her substance abuse weighed against the testimony given concerning her financial prowess, his current lack of a marital commitment, disturbing details of his work requirements, and her impassioned desire for a second chance with her only child. She looked so put together while he felt the tremors in his heart increase.
Mercifully, the judge was ready to declare his verdict before dinnertime.
The lawyers and he and Angela stood.
Judge Larry Benson’s voice boomed through the chamber. “In consideration of the appearance and manner of the witnesses on the stand and their credibility, my decision in particular course after considering all the factors …”
Steven held his breath. God, please. If God really was listening, He’d have to read minds, because Steven couldn’t form any other intelligible communication.
“ … is to award sole physical and legal custody to the father.”
Angela gripped the table in front of her. Marcus moved to her side and kept her standing.
The rush of relief was tangible, but what Steven had thought would bring him great joy only served to sear his conscience. His ex-wife’s trembling hands and streaming tears made victory bittersweet.
Judge Benson adjusted his black robe. “Based on two predominant factors, one being the out-of-state residence of the non-custodial mother and the other being the clear admission of substance abuse on the part of the mother, visitation rights awarded by this court will be at the discretion of the father. It is my opinion that overnight visitation be restrained until further successful rehabilitation is demonstrated.”
Angela flinched with each pound of the gavel.
Justice had been served. James was safe. But as Steven watched his ex-wife leave the courtroom with slumped shoulders and soft sniffles, something in him broke.
Do justly, love mercy.
His father’s continual Old Testament teachings had stuck deep. But in this case, what did mercy mean?
35
Tom tossed his suitcases into the back of his rented silver Impala. The early afternoon sun failed to warm the air, and shivers trailed his spine.
Today was the big day.
He’d leave his mother to sort through what memorabilia she wanted to keep or pitch, including his beloved Vette. He’d find another one in Australia. A convertible, since the weather there was more reasonable than DC’s frosty winters.
Thankfully, all the yuppies and DINKs had vacated the upscale townhome community at the crack of dawn. All the little ants and their high-powered jobs. Not him. Not any longer.
So no one had seen anything. Even if some snoopy neighbor paid attention, he’d be long gone before the local cops got a clue. But he had a lot of work to do before he could start living the good life. Free. With no shadows of the past.
He made his way through traffic on the Beltway and exited onto the Anacostia Freeway First stop—3100 Massachusetts Avenue.
Tom had learned a few things from Joe, even more from the Internet, and he’d drained his savings and bank accounts slowly and steadily with one purchase here and another there. No suspicious activity. Only a few thousand cash.
Parking a good ways from the ambassador’s estate, he found a nice full spot of foliage across the main street at an angle from the British residence. Nearby houses were for the most part uninhabited at this time of day.
He’d scoped out this area at three different times and learned that the afternoon was optimal for his plan to unfold with the least amount of interference.
And now he waited.
Sweat beads trailed down to the small of his back despite the afternoon’s brisk temperatures. Little wind. Low clouds. High visibility. According to his calculations and view through the binoculars, he had a perfect vantage point to the little Kensington family’s last-minute packing.
No doubt Joe did too. But there was so much Joe didn’t know.
And with one move from the British killer-slash-former British Special Forces “mate,” Tom would have one chance to finish his business and move on to stage two. Ending in a late evening flight out of his adopted hometown of Atlanta.
Not that he liked the faux Southern city that moved at the speed of light. But it would be fitting to have started and to finally end his criminal descent in the same location.
If only Kimberly had been faithful, he might have proposed like he’d planned. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d had far too many shots for those wretched backwoods curves. He shouldn’t have taken that last drink. Without it, he might’ve missed that stupid blue van.
A slight glint of metal flashed, and Tom locked onto the coordinates. How fitting that Joe’s money had gained Tom plenty of new toys and weeks of private instruction on how to use them well. Tom adjusted his scope and repositioned the top-of-the-line sniper rifle against his shoulder.
Steven listened to the brittle tree branches snap just yards in front of him.
The steep upward gradient of the British residence gave him the advantage. Clint off to his right and another two-man team approaching from the left provided a constant reminder of the need for a perfect shot.
One chance.
Michael’s team would honor Steven’s order to have first shot! He got into position and waited.
Months of searching. Endless paperwork. Dead end after dead end. Every member of the CACU had a vested interest in ending this case. Today.
Gordon Landridge aimed at the Kensington entourage.
Steven took a deep breath and focused his rifle on Gordon’s chest.
A shot rang out.
Gordon shielded his face from the bark flying.
Someone’s total miss. Before his target disappeared, Steven took a hurried shot and watched more tree bark fly.
Gordon ducked from the second round. They’d missed. Twice.
He left his Barrett sniper rifle and dove for tree cover. Pulling out his Glock 17, he kept going down the hill toward the embassy One chance left. He’d make his mark this time and then leave the United States far behind.
More shots exploded around him. He kept moving closer to the target and opened fire. Sir Walter Kensington disappeared under a shield of black suits.
Gordon fired at the embassy door, stopping the suits by their cars. He was still in control of this scene.
Slamming into a large tree, he fought for balance and aimed again. A flip of blond hair caught his attention. He swung his handgun left and fired. Victoria’s protection shoved the little bird into a black car. He aimed at the windshield. He was far from finished.
But before he could fire another round, heat exploded through his leg and chest.
“Move in. Slow.” Steven barked into his body mic. He and Clint stayed low as they stepped down the stee
p, leaf-covered slope.
The snapping of branches echoed as his FBI team descended. Secret Service cars rushed the ambassador and his family away before he reached the body Michael approached the black-clothed figure sprawled facedown on the ground and scooted Gordon’s Glock out of reach. Blood oozed from the massive leg and chest wounds.
Clint turned him over and felt for a pulse, but Steven, Michael, and Lee kept their pieces aimed at Gordon’s head.
The smell of death clung to the musty woods.
“He has a pulse, but not for long.” Clint cut into Landridge’s clothes and tried to stem the bleeding with makeshift pressure bandages. Lee knelt to assist.
Steven secured his rifle and called in an ambulance.
Michael kept his eyes on Gordon. “One to the chest or one to the head. We’ll take ’em breathing but prefer them dead.”
“So you’re the hotshot who took the first bead.” Steven glared. “I lost my aim when your round sliced the trees instead of Landridge.”
Michael stared at him with a confused look. “I didn’t shoot.”
“You didn’t—” Steven looked around at the other two men. “Clint?”
“Nope.”
“Lee?”
The thirty-three-year-old agent shook his dark head. “Not me, boss.”
Steven’s pulse kicked up with a fury “If none of you took the first shot, where’d the other tree splitter come from?”
There had been no other human noise in the woods behind the embassy He dialed Agent Adams. Within a minute his status report came back negative. No Secret Service agents had fired before the ambush.
Steven’s mind whirled with possibilities. Slipping on gloves, he retrieved Gordon’s knapsack and poked through it, disrupting as little as possible so the evidence team wouldn’t pitch a fit. “Got a key card. No chain logo.”
Michael let down his weapon and bent to recheck Gordon’s vitals. “No pulse. Our perp has expired.”
Clint ignored him and started CPR while Lee kept pressure on both wounds.
“Okay, Michael.” Steven handed him the hotel card. “Follow this trail and see if it leads to whoever took that first shot. You can do that here at the embassy.” He squinted and surveyed the relatively quiet residence below. “I’m gonna see if I can find something else in his pack.”