by David Perry
The agent nodded and flashed his badge.
“I want to let you know—” Peter lowered his voice so the smattering of guests and hotel staff did not hear him. “I have a weapon on me. But I have no intention of using it here.”
Two large agents approached the former marine from behind, each grabbing an arm. They forced him to the nearest wall with surprising ease. One conducted a pat down and removed the gun from his waistband. The pistol disappeared inside a suit coat.
Noticing Peter’s wounded leg, they then literally lifted him off his feet, carrying him to the elevator. On the fifth floor, Broadhurst slid a magnetic key into the door of the room. Inside, Broadhurst nodded to the bed. Peter was deposited on it as Broadhurst moved in.
“How did you know about Anaconda?”
“It was given to me by a friend. His name’s Tom Johnson. He works counterfeit in the Secret Service.”
“If he works counterfeit, he wouldn’t have it.”
Peter opened his mouth, but Broadhurst cut him off. “Where’s your brother?”
“I don’t think I like your attitude.”
“I don’t give a shit what you like or don’t like! Your brother is a suspect in a murder. When the local cops searched his house, they found classified documents about the christening. He is considered a threat to the president. Where is he?”
“He’s being framed. They murdered Jason’s ex and set him up. It’s the same group that’s trying to kill the presidents.”
“You and he are working together.”
“Only to get out of this friggin’ mess! You think we’re trying to kill the president? So the first place I run to is you?”
“How do you know the code—Anaconda?”
Peter let out a long breath. “I told you. Tom Johnson. He works for the Secret Service in the counterfeit division. We were in the same unit in the corps during Persian Gulf One.”
“How did he get it?”
“Someone gave it to him.”
“Who?”
“Woody Austin. Director of the presidential protection division.”
Broadhurst sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
Peter continued, “Austin told Johnson the entire security network of the service—electronic, wireless, landlines—is compromised. He wanted me to deliver this message in person.”
“Why didn’t he send an agent down here, or someone at the Richmond or Norfolk field offices?”
“I don’t know. I was told he only trusts you. Evidently, the infiltration is significant.”
Broadhurst studied Peter, weighing his credibility. “What proof do you have of the assassination plot?”
Peter explained about the recording of Zanns and her cohorts. Broadhurst cut him off. “We know about it. But until I hear for myself, it’s just a fairytale. Where’s your brother now?”
“I’m not saying for the moment. He wants to stop this thing. But he doesn’t trust anyone, and I don’t blame him. He has a copy of the recording on a flash drive.”
“If you have it, why didn’t you bring it?”
“We’ll get to that.”
The steel in Broadhurst’s voice softened. “Can you talk him into coming in?”
“If I tell him it’s safe, he’ll come in. But we need a guarantee you won’t just turn him over to York County. The guys up there want his head on a platter.”
Broadhurst searched Peter’s eyes. Peter sensed an internal battle raging inside the man. “If he’s truly innocent, he’s got nothing to worry about from the law.”
Peter smirked. “Spare me the bullshit, will you! Jason’s wanted by the locals. What are you going to do to protect him?”
Broadhurst’s shoulders sagged. “Here’s the deal,” he began. “Your brother is still technically in custody. If he turns himself in, I’m required to hand him over to the locals. I don’t have much choice. We’d have to interrogate him in jail.”
“No can do, Agent,” Peter spat. “You guarantee his safety until after the christening, or Jason stays in hiding and you deal with these assassins yourself. You see, my brother is the only one who can help you. He’s the only one who can identify all the players.”
Broadhurst studied the former marine. “I can just waltz over to the Colonial and enlist the help of one of Zanns’s other employees.”
“What about Jasmine, the doctor? Do they know what she looks like?” Peter paused, then answered his own question. “I don’t think so!”
“What does your brother want?”
“Keep him, both of us for that matter, in your custody until this is over. We’ll deal with the locals later. Jason will assist you however he can to stop Zanns. Then later, after you hear the recording, you help to clear his name.”
“Can he identify Zanns and these other people?”
Peter nodded.
“And if I don’t?” Broadhurst asked.
“We don’t help you and the recording goes public.”
“My ass will be in a sling if I don’t turn your brother over immediately to the local cops.”
Peter held his hands up as if to say, “Oh, well.”
Broadhurst rubbed his chin. “I need to talk to this friend of yours in the counterfeit division.”
CHAPTER 85
“Tell me what you know,” Broadhurst demanded over the phone.
Tom Johnson spoke calmly, but with determined emphasis. “I contacted Woody Austin after Sarge—I mean, Peter—told me about the recording and the code names.”
“Just like that? You took Peter Rodgers’s word for it?”
“I served in Iraq and Kuwait with him, Agent. The man saved my ass on two occasions.”
The statement hung there for a second before Johnson continued. “I told Austin there might be a problem. He already knew there was trouble. Don’t ask me how, but he did. He asked me to meet him at Union Station, away from the Executive Office Building. His orders were to get in touch with you through Peter outside normal channels. He said the service had been compromised.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, and he wouldn’t explain. I’ve met Austin on several occasions at a couple of functions. He didn’t seem himself. He looked stressed.”
“Go on.”
“He told me to pass on Anaconda through Peter.”
“It’s the code we use to communicate a threat to the president.”
“Austin said people were going to die. It was personal. The man was a wreck. I think he was under duress. He said so in so many words.”
“So now you’re a goddamned psychiatrist!”
There was no animosity in Johnson’s response. “No, just a trained agent.”
“I need to speak with Woody.”
“No can do, Special Agent,” said Johnson.
“Why not?”
“He was found dead outside his Watergate apartment this morning. Apparent suicide. Jumped off his balcony.”
CHAPTER 86
Jason had been checking the parking lot every three minutes and was wearing a path into the already-threadbare carpet. He peeked through the drapes, not liking what he saw. A female police officer was taking way too much interest in the stolen Lincoln. She was back in the cruiser, talking into the radio.
Jason whispered several curses. They shouldn’t have left the car parked so close to Jensen’s apartment. It was a huge—and potentially crippling—oversight.
His mug shot was probably digitally flying to every police force in the area, maybe the state. Armed and dangerous, an alleged murderer, his capture would be priority one. It was only a matter of time before this officer called in for backup and they started knocking on doors. He figured he had fifteen, thirty minutes, tops.
The desire to run was overwhelming. Jason jogged to the rear of the apartment, opened the back door and took one step onto the patio.
Lurking in the reeds, halfway between the adjacent neighborhood and Jensen’s apartment, was the killer from the hospital, still wearing his windbreaker. The m
an brought his weapon up for a shot.
* * *
“Where’s your brother now?” Broadhurst asked as he escorted Peter to Barbara Jensen’s Honda Accord.
After his conversation with Tom Johnson, Broadhurst had phoned a colleague in the Executive Office Building, where the Secret Service was headquartered, asking to speak with Woody Austin. The agent on the other end of the line confirmed that Woody Austin had apparently jumped to his death from his tenth-floor balcony.
“What about me and my brother?” Peter demanded. “We want protection.”
“You’ve got it. Now, where is he?”
“He’s at the apartments behind the mall,” Peter replied.
“We’ll take my car. Let’s go!”
Broadhurst had received what little data the intelligence division had on the three people Peter Rodgers was accusing. Lily Zanns, Sam Fairing, and Jasmine Kader were ghosts. The search had turned up nothing except driver’s license data, vehicle registration, and Social Security numbers. Zanns and Fairing had never filed a tax return. He had photographs of the three of them from the Virginia DMV, but they were of poor quality and relatively old. He couldn’t even be sure it was actually them. The employees of the medical practice and the Colonial could identify them easily, but rounding up those people could take hours. Hours that Broadhurst didn’t have. There was one person intimately familiar with all three, according to Peter Rodgers: his brother, Jason. Broadhurst punched the accelerator. The SUV lurched forward, fishtailing around a corner as Peter gave directions.
* * *
Jason’s eyes never left the crouching man as he backpedaled and slammed the door shut. A round thudded into wood. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and rammed it through the window, smashing glass, making as much noise as possible. He aimed it at the killer. Alerted by the noise, the assassin saw the gun protruding through the jagged glass. He dropped into the cover of the tall grass. Jason held his fire. The report would attract the attention of the police officer out front. The assassin’s progress had been halted for the moment. The killer would pause, knowing his quarry was armed. Jason backed deeper into the apartment, breathing heavily.
In addition to the killer waiting beyond the back door, no doubt equally dangerous accomplices lurked out front. Not to mention that the police officer would soon be joined by an army of cops who wanted him for murder, kidnapping, and auto theft. But if he were to surrender to the cops, Jason wasn’t confident they could protect him. He’d already been in jail once and had nearly ended up on a cold slab. Surrendering, to either party, was out of the question.
His mind working frantically, he cycled through several options, discarding them as quickly as they revealed themselves. Then the rudiments of a plan took shape.
Before he and Jenny had saved enough money to buy the house in Running Man, Jason had lived in an apartment complex similar to this one. Like this one, their apartment was old and had been built long before fire codes had been updated. There were still a few in the area. The rents were cheap and the walls thin, not separated by concrete firewalls. The blaring music coming from the apartment next door sounded like it was inside Barbara Jensen’s place.
The aging apartment and the loud music sparked an idea. Jason rummaged around the apartment, looking in closets and the bathroom, violating the sanctity of his former technician’s domicile. He found what he needed under the kitchen sink.
CHAPTER 87
Officer Karen Nolo keyed her radio. “This is Nolo, requesting backup. I think I’ve found the vehicle the two men stole from the hospital.”
Finding the missing pharmacist had become the police department’s only priority, it seemed. Every available body was taking part in the manhunt. The radio crackled every few minutes with bursts of traffic. Throwing this much manpower at your average, run-of-the-mill killer was unusual. But the brass had insisted the man be found. Something big is going down, she thought. The shit just keeps getting deeper.
Finding the stolen car had been pure luck. She’d decided to cruise through the apartment complex, just a quick pass before heading for lunch, when she spotted the Lincoln. The Smithfield PD had sent out a bulletin on the make, model, and tag numbers. She had just run them through the system when she got a hit. The car, though stolen, had been rented from an agency at the airport.
“I’m going to knock on some doors and see if anyone knows anything about this vehicle.”
“Roger that,” came the reply from the dispatcher. “Be careful, Karen. This guy’s dangerous. The report said there were two men in the car when it left the hospital.”
Nolo alighted from the cruiser. Smoke hit her nostrils before the door thunked closed. A cloud of grayish white vapors filled a passageway between two apartment buildings.
Forgetting the stolen car, she ran toward the smoke. “Anybody in there! Open up! Police!” Nolo pounded on the door of the ground-floor unit.
Thin wisps roiled from under the door. She covered her mouth with a handkerchief, but still choked on fumes. Brief flashes of orange flame lit up a window. She thought she heard a banging noise coming from inside, but through the crackling and roar of the flames, she wasn’t certain. She grabbed the knob and burned her hand on scalding metal.
She raced up the steps of the open-air hallway, shaking her blistering hand, and banged savagely on a second-floor apartment door. When no answered, she kicked it in. Empty. The floor was warm, the heat from downstairs radiating up. Nolo climbed the third and final flight to the highest apartment. A woman answered with a small child in her arms.
“Get out now! The place is on fire!”
* * *
Broadhurst pulled the black, government-issue SUV into the courtyard. The sight of smoke and flashing lights caused both men to lean forward.
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me,” Peter said, spotting the source of the smoke. “That’s the apartment Jason’s in.”
The SUV skidded to a halt. Broadhurst sprinted toward the blaze, watching the safety of his presidents literally going up in smoke. Peter followed, limping badly.
A female police officer was banging on an upper-level apartment door and hollering. The agent covered his mouth with the crook of his elbow and tried to look in the first-floor apartment. He, too, was overwhelmed, and retreated. Peter caught up with him, trying to push past the special agent. Broadhurst grabbed Peter’s arm. With his wounded leg, Peter was no match for the taller, stronger man. His progress was halted instantly. “Let me in there!” Peter demanded.
“It’s no use,” Broadhurst said, placing both arms on Peter’s shoulders.
Peter ripped himself away, stumbled, and fell.
“Stay here!” Broadhurst helped him up and pushed him away from the blaze onto the grass.
Sirens closed in as the gathering crowd mushroomed. A shrill scream from an apartment pierced the air. Broadhurst ran in that direction. A woman, wet and wearing only a towel, raced out of her apartment. Broadhurst yelled, “Is there anyone else in there?” She screamed, too panicked to respond, and rushed past him into the courtyard, clutching only the towel.
Broadhurst entered her space, managing a quick look around. The blaze was in the next-door apartment, and tendrils of smoke seeped in from a large hole in the common wall. Flames licked through the opening, beginning to roar with force. With the danger mounting and convinced the naked woman’s unit was empty, Broadhurst left.
He returned to the courtyard, looking for Peter Rodgers. He was gone. Turning to an onlooker, he asked, “Where did that man go? The one who was limping?”
“He ran into that apartment, man. That guy’s got a death wish.”
Broadhurst’s eye followed the onlooker’s pointing finger. Gigantic eruptions of flame and smoke exploded from the lower windows, blackening the upper floors, melting the siding. Columns of black roiled skyward. An acrid, bitter smell filled the air. The crowd of gawkers was growing.
The only two men who could help him sort out this mess were roasting i
nside the apartment.
CHAPTER 88
Broadhurst contemplated going in after them, but nixed that idea quickly. He was no good dead, either to the service or his president. At this point, he expected to recover two charred bodies.
“Look!” someone shouted. “Someone’s coming out!”
Smoke steaming from his clothes, Peter staggered into the courtyard. He collapsed on the grass as Broadhurst reached him. Flames licked the back of his shirt. Broadhurst patted them out with his bare hands. The policewoman helped the special agent roll him over. Peter’s hands and the edges of his face were burnt and blistered.
“Are you okay?” asked Nolo.
Peter coughed. A mouthful of smoke shot from his lungs. “Just peachy. He’s not—in there.”
“You didn’t see a body?”
Peter shook his head.
“Where the hell is he?” Broadhurst asked.
* * *
Jason opened his eyes. He peered into a gray-black, crisscross pattern that wavered every few seconds in the breeze. Crooked lines and odd shapes jostled in the breeze. His mind gradually surfaced from the murky depths. The boughs of the elms and maples created a maze, bathed by the moonlight. When he’d lain down on the cold ground blanketed with pine needles, the sky had been awash in the golden glow of late afternoon. Now clouds blotted out the stars. Hours had evaporated.
He pushed himself to a sitting position. The gun, still clutched in his fingers, felt welded to his hand. Though he hadn’t pulled the trigger, it had saved his life.
He sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, and spasmed into a barking cough. His whole body convulsed, trying to expel the inhaled poisons. With each paroxysm, his side burned and nausea waved over him.
After escaping the burning apartment, Jason had run until his lungs wanted to burst. He’d stopped in a clearing between the gravel company and the railroad tracks just beyond Jefferson Avenue.
Setting the fire had been his only option.