Extreme Liquidation: Caitlin Diggs Series #2

by Gary Starta

  Diggs stood in an entrance doorway, flanked by two Secret Service agents. Her eyes roved in wonder. Diggs had fallen in love with the Queen Anne style white and gold chairs, the standing bacchante vases filled with pink wreaths and the rococo-revival candelabras. Her admiration for the room’s furnishings segued to contempt when she spied what was resting atop the President’s podium.

  ***

  Ian Fromme stroked his white bushy mustache, contemplating destiny in the front seat of his Audi. He had lived two whole days in his vehicle, waiting outside a Virginia residence for confirmation, monitoring the occupant’s telephone conversations with the aid of a rifle microphone. Fromme had to be sure the two scientists sharing residence in the Annapolis mansion were responsible for procuring the psychotropic drugs responsible for Greg Salinger’s death as well as the Fort Belvoir Massacre. Thanks to the rifle mike, he now was.

  Most disturbing to Fromme was the scientists’ disobedience. He had been quite explicit with his orders. No further testing or use of psychotropic drugs would be tolerated. The military had quietly abandoned the drug trials on the advice of Fromme and his secret society of scientists named the Jasons.

  The Jasons had been responsible for shaping American technology since the late 1960s and had no intentions of quitting now. Fromme, in particular, was quite used to getting his way, even when it came to the President. He had convinced the Joint Chiefs the drugs could not be controlled and would only end up taking more American lives in Iraq. Fromme demanded the research be terminated. The army agreed. The two men inside the blue house had boldly ignored his orders. Ian Fromme didn’t like to repeat himself. The two former DARPA scientists had succumbed to the temptation of money. But money would do these men no good in the afterlife.

  Fromme strolled up to the dwelling, filled with despondence over his responsibility. He had been left with no other option. He must exact punishment so no one else would ever dare challenge his orders again. Fromme spent his life helping to pave America’s future. Sometimes he had to play God to maintain that desired course.

  Fromme accessed the house, waving a small wand-like device in front of a keypad security system. In three passes, the wand determined the correct code to unlock the door. The Jasons had developed this technology. Being refined, they would not stoop to the level of a cat burglar and break glass or doors when it came to home invasion.

  Upon entry, Fromme removed a small canister, a gas mask and a set of latex gloves from a pocket of his overcoat. He applied the mask and gloves first, then set about spraying the room. Waiting for the odorless spray to dissipate, Fromme leafed through envelopes atop the kitchen table. They were filled with thousand dollar bills. He threw the envelopes back onto the table with disdain. He had no desire to confiscate or spend blood money.

  Moments later, he descended a set of stairs to the basement. Just as he expected, the two men had set up a lab here. Beakers, test tubes and microscopes dominated a large ceramic table. Underneath the table lay the two unconscious traitors. Fromme snatched up a beaker of liquid, pouring its contents into a vial. He sealed the vial in plastic and returned it to his pocket. He ascended the stairs casually as if he were walking in his favorite park. At the threshold of the front doorway, Fromme lit a match and threw it down on the living room rug.

  As flames began to lick the carpet, Fromme skipped outside the door and shut it. He waved the wand at the keypad security system, returning the lock back into place. Back in his car, Fromme stripped off his gloves and watched the raging fire cast its reflection in his side view mirror. He nonchalantly turned the key and lightly pressed the accelerator, commanding the car to take him back to his life of secrecy.

  ***

  The pantry door swung open and Rivers met the stare of a charging bull. The bull pushed the cart she was carrying into her. Plates of fish and rice pilaf exploded like a bomb around her. The tray cart overturned onto her foot. The man in black, Domenic Spinoza, seized the offensive, launching a right hook into the surprised face of his victim. Dazed, Rivers stumbled backward, freeing her foot from the cart. She hesitated from retaliating, surmising the other guards would rush to her aid. But they didn’t. Spinoza had already labeled Rivers “a terrorist.” He shouted it so all the State Room could hear. Rivers’s worst nightmare somehow had gotten worse.

  Hearing the commotion, Diggs instinctively jumped to attention. An arm impeded her forward progress.

  “Let the agent contain the situation,” the blond security agent demanded.

  A circle of shocked onlookers piled around Rivers and Spinoza. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the ensuing fight between Commando Man and the Actress at the rear of the room. A voice rose over the din. “I told you she was Halle Berry. She’s probably pulling some kind of stunt to promote a movie.”

  Diggs scanned the crowd, desperately attempting to secure the location of the President. “You’ve got to stop the President,” Diggs implored the guards.

  “What do you mean stop the President?” the blond agent replied.

  “He’s been programmed. He’s going to attack the Iranian delegation.”

  The men ignored Diggs. They could clearly see the President from the entranceway. He was seated at his table despite the commotion. The blond man spoke again.

  “The situation will be contained, Agent Diggs.”

  “No, it won’t.” Diggs argued. She tried to appeal to the other man. He stared blankly into her eyes. “The woman your agent just identified as a terrorist is an undercover FBI agent. She’s not the terrorist, your agent is.” The guard’s face paled.

  At the back of the room, the battle continued with Rivers and Spinoza trading kicks and punches. The pair seemed to be at a standoff until Spinoza ducked and threw his shoulder into Rivers’s chest. The force flung her against the pantry door. She rebounded off the door and right into Spinoza’s arms. He fell onto her, wrapping his arms around her neck, foregoing procedure. He should have trained his gun upon Rivers, instead of listening to his black heart. It told him to sustain the physical assault. He hadn’t listened to his Master and now he was ignoring protocol, obeying an inner demon that lived within him long before he met Connah Hainsworth.

  Spinoza tightened his chokehold. He released one hand to grasp the chain carrying the trust serum and flung it against a wall. Rivers’s right leg flailed in response to her sudden loss of air. Her knee impacted the man’s groin. He loosened his grip long enough for Rivers to inhale and emit a piercing shriek. She recalled how Diggs suspected the perpetrator was a disciple of black magic and that a strong display of emotion might temporarily interfere with his brain waves. The gamble paid off. Spinoza, hands cupped over his ears, swaggered backwards and fell upon his knees. Rivers, back on her feet, threw a roundhouse kick to his face. Blood sprayed from Spinoza’s lips. Rivers toppled onto him, landing two punches to his nose. Spinoza seemed unfazed and on his way to recovery.

  With the scream no longer penetrating his ears, he flipped with the grace of a dolphin, pinning Rivers underneath him. He whispered in her ear, “Now be a good girl and watch your President exterminate humanity.”

  At the entranceway, Diggs capitalized on the guards’ confusion. They had heard her accusations, but her words did not register in their minds. Diggs threw an elbow into the face of the man on her right, the blond. Pivoting one hundred eighty degrees she threw a punch into the gut of a red haired guard, knocking the wind out of him. As Diggs staggered forwards, the President rose from his seat. His right hand cradled a knife. No one seemed to notice, all eyes were still glued upon the commotion at the room’s rear.

  Desperate, Diggs began to implore the President to drop his weapon. He was at least six meters away from her. Could she sprint the distance in time to intercede him, or as crazy as it seemed, could she stop him using only her mind? She employed both options. She ran, and as she did, she thought of nothing but protecting the Iranian delegation. She continued to will the President to drop his knife as he stumbled forward in a zombie
-like gait. He was no more than three meters from the President of Iran, who sat with his back to President Duncan. Diggs’s mind filled in the gaps left by her vision. Sure as sunshine, President Duncan was going to plunge that knife into the Iranian leader’s backside.

  She yelled, “Everybody, I’m FBI, drop to the ground!” The crowd began to comply, with the exception of President Duncan. The President of Iran, who had now left his seat, turned to face Diggs. His eyes grew wide as saucers, realizing his executioner was two meters away. Diggs went for her gun but remembered the Secret Service had confiscated it from her shortly after she waved it in the air. They agreed to let her monitor the State Room unarmed.

  Diggs refocused her thoughts. Drop the knife. Drop the knife! The President’s knife hand began to shake violently. He fumbled to retain a grip. As he struggled, Diggs closed the gap. She dove into Duncan’s knees. He stumbled on top of Diggs, but before he fell, his knife hand slashed in the vicinity of his victim. An accompanying whoosh of air signified the knife had failed to connect with its intended target. The Iranian president ducked and rolled underneath his table. The blade had missed him by centimeters, but Diggs had no time to celebrate. The crazed President now straddled her, spit flying from his mouth, his eyes rolling in their sockets.

  For a fleeting second, Diggs prayed the drug would wear off. President Duncan had awarded her a medal of honor during his first year of office. Maybe he would recognize her as an ally. But Diggs would learn President Duncan wasn’t big on placing names and faces, especially when he was hopped up on some kind of psychotropic chemical. With her free hand, Diggs pushed the President’s wrist back, forcing him to release his weapon. It bounced upon the floor, dangerously close to Diggs’s face. The President scooped it up again, but this time the two Secret Service men Diggs had assaulted had joined the fight, determined to stop the very man they swore to protect.

  President Duncan greeted a bared palm with his face. It sent him reeling off Diggs. He began to engage in a weird dance, squirming and wriggling upon the floor. Saliva formed at the corners of his mouth. The security agents both thought the same thing at the same moment. Somebody turned the President of the United States into a werewolf!

  At the pantry door, Spinoza terminated his assault upon Rivers, now aware his plan had been foiled. He rolled off her body, and retrieved his gun from his holster. A bald-headed Secret Service agent dashed to confront Spinoza. His gun took dead aim on the fallen Spinoza, but the man in black had no intention of killing him. Spinoza turned the weapon upon himself and put a bullet in his mouth. Domenic Spinoza spent his final seconds cursing himself for failing his Master and succumbing to his black heart.

  Panting to regain her breath, Rivers’s body remained slumped against a wall. A voice came from behind the pantry door. It was Ms. Partridge’s. “I warned you to watch him, Ms. Peabody. You must be some kind of man magnet.”

  The blond and red headed security agents whisked Diggs to her feet, while EMTs prepared a stretcher to carry the President to Washington General.

  Later, Diggs watched EMTs transport the President into an ambulance. Duncan, subdued by restraints, continued to contort his body in spastic fits.

  Television reporter Ross Fisher shot Diggs a wink; at least she thought he did. She smiled back, but she wasn’t sure Fisher had acknowledged her. The red light of a camera temporarily penetrated the grayness of a January afternoon. He began his live report.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, President Duncan was just wheeled out of the White House in a stretcher. Reports are sketchy but some believe he has suffered a severe case of food poisoning at this afternoon’s State Room dinner. His condition right now is unknown, but I personally witnessed our commander in chief frothing at the mouth, twitching and gyrating like a werewolf preparing for transformation. Was the President another victim of those who instigated the Fort Belvoir Massacre? Time will only tell. I’ll be back with an update from the hospital in minutes. Until then, back to you Mary...”

  Diggs passed by, unsure if she should divulge exactly what happened. She opted against it. DC Police were demanding a full report as to her appearance at the scene and any prior knowledge that led her to believe a conspiracy was at hand. She also might be asked to explain how she nearly willed a knife out of the President’s hand but she hoped that little detail might have been overlooked. Agent Rivers had already been transported to Washington General for a precautionary checkup. She had suffered a few lacerations about her face and neck. But Diggs knew Rivers would rebound fine, physically and mentally. Because Rivers never identified herself as an agent inside the confines of the White House, Diggs surmised the Bureau would dismiss any further disciplinary action against her. Rivers’s suspension said nothing about impersonating a food server, after all.

  And as these thoughts fluttered and danced in Diggs’s mind, she suddenly stopped cold, a few feet short of her vehicle’s door. What about Dudek? Minutes later, a doctor delivered the bad news to Caitlin via cellphone.

  Chapter 34

  Their coats flapped like flags in the January breeze. Yet the wind could not break the emotional tie between the two grieving women. Agent Caitlin Diggs and Arlene Dudek stood in solidarity, holding hands and crying freely, taking one last glance at the casket before them. The Arlington National Cemetery, a place where the country’s most revered dead are buried, welcomed FBI Assistant Director Andrew Dudek. He would be interred in its hallowed ground in a matter of hours.

  Arlene, her eyes more red than blue and focused on nothing in particular, disturbed the silence of the graveyard.

  “He must have had a really good reason.”

  “Mrs. Dudek?” Caitlin asked.

  “To suspect Director Hainsworth of duplicity. No one at the FBI will confirm what my husband told you in his last breaths.” She turned her face to Diggs. “For my sanity, I have to believe he had good reason to kill. I don’t want to believe somebody drugged him.”

  “I don’t know what FBI heads have told you, Mrs. Dudek, but I assure you Andrew was in sound mind when I spoke to him. He believed Hainsworth had killed innocent people and was about to take the lives of everyone on this planet. His intervention helped save us all.” Diggs gripped Arlene’s hand tighter. “He lived for his job...”

  Arlene finished the sentence. “And he died for it, too.” The widow shook her head. “I suppose there’s nothing else I could have done to save him. He had the will of a bull.”

  “Yes, he did, Mrs. Dudek. And you know what? Gregory Salinger’s widow told me she felt exactly the same way about her husband. Some people, I guess, are destined to take a stand in this world.”

  Diggs escorted Mrs. Dudek to a limousine. As it pulled away, a gray sedan approached from the opposite direction.

  Diggs dotted tissues at her eyes to focus her vision. The driver waved a hand at her. “I’m sorry I’m late, Caitlin,” Rivers shouted. “Why don’t you join me inside, it’s a bit nippy out there.”

  Diggs nodded and entered the car, numb from the wind and grief.

  “I gave your condolences to the widow, Deondra.”

  Rivers stared at the casket. “So is this the end?”

  Diggs’s eyes revealed no clues. Maybe a few endings, Diggs thought. But she didn’t want to discourage her courageous partner. She changed the subject.

  “I heard the store dropped all charges against you, Deondra.”

  “That might not be enough to get my badge and gun back. Deputy Director Seals sent me a letter telling me a board will decide my fate. He said it could take weeks or even months.”

  “I’m confident you will be reinstated. But when you come back, I might not be there.”

  Rivers’s eyes filled with concern, begging for clarification.

  “I’ve been doing some soul searching over the last five days and I believe it’s time for me to find a profession where I can be honest with those I work with. I can’t go on hiding who I really am. You’re the only one in the Bureau who knows about my visi
ons and my recent sensitivity to emotion.” She paused a moment to blow some air upon her frigid fingers. “I also experienced another oddity. It happened at the White House. I think it helped prevent the President from killing.” Diggs’s blue eyes dulled.

  “Please explain, Caitlin. Like you said, I know about everything else anyway.”

  Diggs stared straight ahead, as if her eyes were replaying the event. “It was as if I had the power to will the President to drop the knife. It only lasted a second, but that second gave me all the time in the world. If it hadn’t happened, I don’t think we or anybody else on this planet would be here right now.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you walked away from law enforcement, Caitlin. I don’t know if I could work any job going through the changes you’re experiencing. What have you been considering?”

  “I don’t know right now.”

  Rivers laughed, realizing she too was at a crossroads, not really sure of the path she would take. She had been so sure about the FBI, once upon at time in the not so distant past. She had been a believer. She had believed in the system the way Diggs had for the past fifteen years.

  “I had a similar conversation with Ed the other day. He doesn’t want to stay at the FBI if I don’t come back. By the way, he apologizes for his behavior on Saturday. He told me to tell you there are no bad feelings and that he doesn’t really believe you would ever intentionally put me in harm’s way. He says he had carried a strange, black feeling with him for the past few weeks, but now he’s fine. He says the feeling dissipated over the last five days.”

  “He may have been affected by Spinoza, Deondra. I believe our dearly departed perpetrator may have rubbed some of his will on a vial Ed had examined. Come to think of it, Hainsworth and Spinoza used their will to retain their positions. Deondra, you think...?”