by J. L. Brown
The agent looked at him. “I wanted to make sure everything was okay in here.”
“Never better. In fact, if you’ve got a little time, sit down. I’m on TV.”
The agent shook his head. “No, thank you.” He did not turn to leave, but instead removed his glasses. He stared out the large window and scanned the room’s interior, taking in each of the children. His eyes rested on Ryan. He smiled the indulgent smile that adults tended to give children. Cole’s attention drifted back toward the television.
Ryan smiled back at the agent. “Thanks for my soccer ball.”
Cole froze. The glass slipped from his hand, as if in slow motion, the thick carpet muffling its landing. The amber liquid spread, seeping into the beige carpet.
The agent whipped a gun out from under his FBI coat. “Everyone freeze. Do not scream or I will start shooting.”
Three of the kids started crying. The others appeared confused, not sure whether this was for real or they were being punked on a reality-TV show.
The agent pointed to another couch.
“Kids, I want you to go sit over there.” He jerked his head at Ashley. “You, too.”
“I’m not leaving my husband,” Ashley said, her tears not masking her resolve.
“Madam, this is between your husband and me. I don’t want to hurt you. Your children will need you.”
Ashley, puzzled at first, understood. She glanced at Cole. He nodded. She kissed him on the cheek and moved toward her children. She opened her arms and held as many of them as she could.
Cole’s initial fear was gone. He was angry. “You come into my house and scare my family—” He started to rise.
The agent waved Cole down with his gun. “Sit down, old man. As always, you talk a good game, but you never do anything. I know you. I know everything about you.”
“You don’t know me. Why don’t we go into my office? We can talk in there. Man to man.”
“I know this is your favorite room in the house. So, I think I want to sit right here. I have some things to say to you and I wouldn’t mind an audience.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Bethesda, Maryland
Christian parked the car at the curb.
Jade glanced at him. “I feel like I need to take a shower.”
“Come on, now, it wasn’t that bad.”
She threw him a look and moved her hand to the door handle. “We don’t need waterboarding. Let’s force terrorists to listen to Cole Brennan for a few hours. They’ll talk.”
Christian laughed. They got out and strolled down the street toward the agent in charge standing near a Suburban SUV parked in front of Cole Brennan’s house. Christian and Jade had come here to conduct a routine check on the surveillance.
Jade surveyed Brennan’s expansive lawn, stopping at the red front door in the distance. She eyed the agent. “Anything?”
The special agent in charge said, “Nah, it’s been quiet,” he hesitated, “but—”
Christian stepped forward, invading his space. “But what?”
“After the family returned from the conference, an agent told me he was going to check on them. I was on the phone with HQ, not paying attention. I didn’t even see who it was. That was twenty minutes ago.”
“And he hasn’t come back out,” Christian said.
The agent shook his head.
Jade gazed up at the red door again. “He’s here.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Bethesda, Maryland
The fake FBI agent sat in a chair opposite Cole. Legs crossed, his pants were creased in the right places. With one hand, he smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle. The gun rested on his leg, the finger in the trigger, a casual gesture. If not for the weapon, an outside observer would surmise the two of them were having a normal conversation. Cole couldn’t ignore the queasiness in his stomach. He shouldn’t have goaded this killer into coming into his home and terrorizing his family.
The agent bestowed on him a condescending smile. “Do you believe all the shit that you say?”
“Yes, I do,” Cole said. “And watch your language.”
The agent raised an eyebrow, surprised. “My language? Do you realize how many hurtful things you say on any given day?”
“It’s the truth. If some people find it hurtful, they have the right to listen to another station.”
“You talk about circumstances about which you know nothing. You do not understand what it is like to be a minority or a pregnant woman or gay.”
Cole laughed, a harsh sound. “And you do?”
“At least, I can empathize with them. Try to put myself in their place. Would you oppose marriage equality if you were gay?”
“Gay marriage has nothing to do with equality. Two people of the same sex shouldn’t be together. It’s in the Bible. That’s just another politically correct term dreamed up by liberals to get public acceptance.”
The agent ran his fingers through his hair. “Will you please answer the question?”
“What was the question again?”
“Would you oppose gay marriage if you were gay?”
“But I’m not.”
“But what if you were?”
“I wouldn’t be.”
“So, you think your sexual orientation is a choice.”
“Yes.”
“And you choose to be heterosexual?”
Cole wanted to wipe that smile off his face. “No! It’s what I am!”
The agent considered Cole, disdain written all over his face, as if Cole weren’t his intellectual equal.
“You proved my point. Gays do not have a choice, either, and should have the same rights we do.”
“Marriage is between a man and a woman.”
“I guess if you repeat that often enough, it must be true.”
The smugness of this guy wore on Cole’s nerves. He couldn’t stand these intellectual-elite types, always trying to show off how smart they were. Cole took in the agent’s good looks. Something about him seemed familiar. Was he in the business? “Do I know you?”
From the couch, a male voice, which only a couple of years ago was one octave higher, spoke up.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with gay marriage.”
Cole forgot about the killer sitting across from him for the moment and flashed a look at his namesake. “What’s that, son?”
Cole Jr. regarded him. His hair, longer than it should be, brushed his shoulders.
“Why shouldn’t gays be allowed to marry whom they love? How does that hurt you, Dad?”
Cole’s emotions, shaken by the presence of a killer in his home, now roiled with the realization his son might be a liberal. Or worse. Please, God, don’t let him be gay. He shook his head, exasperated. “Please tell me this isn’t happening.”
The agent laughed at Cole’s discomfort.
Cole wanted to kill him.
After a beat, the agent stared up at the ceiling. “Are you willing to die for your country?”
A few of the kids began bawling.
Cole glanced over at his children. At Ashley.
The agent turned toward the kids. “Shut up!”
Cole started to rise. “This is my home. Don’t you dare talk—”
The agent waved his gun again for Cole to stay seated. “Answer the question.”
“Yes,” Cole said. He studied his large hands. “No.” He didn’t care he was crying in front of his children and his wife or that snot was running over his lips or he was about to plead for his life to a liberal madman. “Man, I just want to be with my family.”
The agent leaned forward. He smiled at Cole, his eyes fixed, unblinking. “Then, don’t speak.”
“What?”
“Don’t speak.”
“What do you mean? Now? I don’t get it.”
“I will let you live if you promise to cancel your show and stop writing your incendiary books.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Bethesda, Maryland
&nbs
p; Jade stood with the members of CIRG—the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group—as they congregated around a Suburban, an architectural layout of Cole Brennan’s home and its surroundings on its hood. After several minutes of quiet discussion, the CIRG team broke off running toward the radio host’s house in different choreographed directions. She started to follow.
Christian put a hand on her forearm. “They’ve got this.”
She tensed at his firm touch, ready to argue. This was her case. Her perp. Her agent. This was for Austin. She wanted to be the one to bring this guy down. She glanced at Christian and stared at his hand on her arm. She gave him a crisp nod. He removed his hand.
Another agent handed her a headset so she could listen to the CIRG leader.
She heard nothing for a few minutes. Then, a hushed voice said, “The family is in the great room. I have a visual on our suspect. He’s sitting on a chair across from them. Armed. Handgun. They seem to be”—the CIRG leader’s voice ringed with amazement—“having a conversation.” Silence. More minutes passed. “Brennan appears as if he’s trying to stand up. The UNSUB’s waving the gun around.” Silence. “Our sniper has a clear shot.”
Jade didn’t hesitate. “Go.”
A minute later, breaking glass.
And another shot.
Jade threw her headset on the ground. She, Christian, and the rest of the agents ran toward the back of the house. Jade arrived first. The large bay window overlooking the back yard now had a big, jagged hole in it. Jade jumped from the lawn to the brick patio and through the window, ignoring the shards of glass stuck to her clothing. She took in the situation. Brennan’s kids were screaming. Cole Brennan and his wife held one of their daughters, tears streaming down their faces.
Brennan didn’t take his eyes off his daughter. “He missed.” He was crying. “He missed her by inches.”
Ashley peeked up at Jade. “When the window exploded, the man’s hand jerked and his gun went off.”
Jade crouched next to them. She reached her hand out toward the girl but placed it on her own lap instead. She whispered to no one in particular. “Where did he go?”
Brennan cocked his head to the left but continued to stare at his daughter. “There’s a side door off the kitchen. He went that way.”
“Radio an ambulance,” Jade said to Christian. She sprinted in the direction of the kitchen.
Christian called after her. “Jade, wait!”
The door had been left open. She didn’t break stride as she went out the door and back into the night.
*
For once, Jade was grateful for the big yellow FBI lettering on the back of their jackets. It made following him easier. TSK sprinted toward the woods bordering Cole Brennan’s large backyard. Jade figured he had a hundred yards on her.
As she entered the forest, she slowed down, fearful she would sprain an ankle on a tree root or the uneven terrain. She didn’t want to risk losing him, though.
The killer didn’t slow down. He had been here before.
After what seemed like a mile, the woods gave way to grass and, beyond, the parking lot of a sizable, suburban shopping center.
She was gaining on him.
Signs for Macy’s, Nordstrom, and Bloomingdale’s were alight in large letters. The shopping center was closed at this time of night. Her suspect sprinted up the outside stairs to the second floor and jumped with ease over the sagging, useless chain at the top of the stairs.
She followed.
She ended up on the wide terrace of a restaurant. Tables, with chairs stacked on them, were pushed against the wall. The commingled aromas of steak, chicken, and fish permeated the air.
He was waiting for her.
He stood in the shadows, leaning against a table, his hands clasped in front of him. He had removed the FBI jacket. It lay on the floor nearby. Dressed in all black, he now wore a balaclava with only his eyes and mouth showing.
“Hello, Jade,” said a soft, familiar voice, but she couldn’t place it.
Jade said nothing.
After all the long months, thinking about this guy and talking about this guy and visualizing catching this guy, it felt surreal coming face to face with him.
“You are wondering why I did it,” he said.
“I know why.”
“Oh, you do? Sometimes, there is more to a situation than what meets the eye.”
“I’m listening.”
“Those conservatives were such horrible human beings.”
“Does that mean they had to die?”
He smiled. “Yes . . . and no.”
He lifted a Glock 23 in front of him with the barrel pointed up at a ninety-degree angle. FBI-issued. One of theirs. He caught her staring at it.
“A gift,” he said, “from Austin.”
The blood rushed through her veins. She took a step toward him, gun or no gun.
He held his hand up. “Don’t. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.”
She stopped.
He paused, and then placed the gun on the table next to him. He strode toward Jade and started circling her.
She still did not move.
“They were despicable creatures and our country is better off without them. You cannot disagree with me on that.”
“If I disagreed with their points of view, it wouldn’t mean I would want them to die. What about freedom of speech?”
“Ah . . . but what choice did I have? Their vitriol gets worse every year. You cannot debate someone who argues only with emotion, irrationality, or outright lies.”
“You can use your vote.”
“Yes, but you know as well as I that the Super PACS and corporations control elections today. No”—he tilted his head, a brief thought—“this was the only way. Besides, don’t you want a woman president?”
“Not at any cost.” She paused. “Is that what this is all about?”
After he completed his 360-degree examination, he stopped in front of her. The Brennan boy was right. He was tall. She continued to stare at the killer.
He crouched into a martial-arts sparring stance.
Jade hid her surprise. Does he want to fight me?
His eyes bored into hers. “I like this. Mano y womano. This is how it should be. Come now, Agent Harrington. You have trained and competed in tournaments for all these years. It is time to fight for real.”
How did he know? Max’s assessment came back to her. The UNSUB is a planner. He studies his victims’ daily patterns and knows when they’ll be alone. He has some degree of superior intelligence.
Why wouldn’t he have studied her as well?
She didn’t see the round kick coming.
Too late, she lifted her forearm to block it. His foot grazed up her arm and landed on her temple. She stumbled, before dropping to the designer concrete floor, dazed. On instinct, she shot back up on her feet.
She tried to steady her breathing, while calculating if she could draw her weapon before he neutralized her.
She went into her sparring stance.
He smiled again. A hideous smile, made more so by the balaclava. “You are not the only one with martial arts skills. Fifth degree. Jiu-Jitsu.”
Her instinct to get off the ground had been correct. Jiu-Jitsu was a grappling martial art.
They circled each other.
He moved in to tackle her. She lifted her leg straight up for an inside crescent kick, bringing it down on his collarbone. In the still of the night, the crack of the bone was audible.
He bent over, holding his shoulder. He gritted his teeth. “Very good.”
She stood over him, reaching for her handcuffs.
He shot up, still grabbing his shoulder, and punched her in the nose.
As her head popped back, he tackled her, knocking the wind out of her.
The pressure increased as he straddled her chest with all his weight.
Groggy from the kick and the punch, blood poured from her nose. The killer loomed over her. His face came into f
ocus, tinged with pity.
“I know you’re only trying to do the right thing. ‘Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity,’ and all that. But I’m sorry, Agent Jade Harrington. Despite your athletic exploits, your life will be a footnote in history. A casualty of freedom.”
Jade spit out the blood that had seeped into her mouth. She held his eyes with hers. “You’ve got one thing right. You will be sorry.”
He laughed. “I like you. And I love your confidence.”
He encircled her neck with his hands, cringing as if he did not like her blood touching his skin. He squeezed.
She couldn’t breathe.
Pinpricks of light darted behind her eyelids. Her brain was going to explode. Where was Christian? The rest of CIRG?
No one was there for her. Again.
Darkness started to descend. She thought of Austin. Zoe. Card. Max. Her parents.
The hand on the side of his body with the broken collarbone struggled to maintain its grip.
A calmness came over her, overriding the strong beating of her heart and her need for oxygen.
She had one chance.
Jade summoned all of her energy and lifted up her chest as high as she could. She slithered her arms through the opening of his legs, clasped her hands together, and brought them down on his injured shoulder.
He screamed in pain as he fell off her.
Jade scrambled away, coughing and holding her throat with one hand. They stared at each other, she clutching her throat, he clutching his shoulder.
They both rose and faced each other.
She relaxed every muscle as Master Ho had taught her. Control. Trust your training.
Jade struck him with a left knife-hand strike to his right temple, followed by a right knife-hand strike to his left temple. Before he reacted, her body coiled, twisted, and lifted higher and higher into a spinning hook kick. She hit his left temple again with her left heel, the same kick she had used at her fourth-degree black belt testing a lifetime ago.
The killer staggered backward, his lower back hitting the railing. He tumbled over it, out of sight. Jade clutched the railing with one hand, her throat with the other, and peered down.
The man was sprawled on the asphalt, his body positioned like an old police chalk outline. Light from the tall parking lot pole illuminated the dark liquid seeping from his head.