Fallen: A Leopold Blake Thriller (A Private Investigator Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers Book 5)

by Nick Stephenson

  “Last on the right,” Ward said, finding his feet. “But you’re wasting your time. I don’t have access to the prisoners.”

  “We’ve got that covered.” Hawkes checked his watch. One minute.

  “Like you had it covered earlier? Looks like you didn’t do your homework.”

  “Seems to be working out pretty well so far.” The colonel increased the pressure on Ward’s spine. “Just keep walking.”

  They reached the farthest cell door and Hawkes ordered the FBI director on to his knees.

  “How long, sir?” Stanton asked, handgun still drawn.

  Hawkes consulted his watch once more. “Three, two, one...” Silence. Hawkes held his breath, listening.

  “Is something supposed to be happening?” Ward looked up at his captors, a wry smile on his face. “Or should I come back later.”

  “Keep it up, Chuckles,” said Hawkes, aiming his weapon at the director’s skull. “I’m begging you. Keep it up.”

  Ward flinched as a piercing klaxon noise filled the hallway.

  Hawkes smiled. Better late than never. “Showtime, boys,” he said, as a clunking noise signaled the cell door was unlocked. He grabbed the handle and pulled it open, pushing Ward through into the interview room. Several chairs were lined up in the center of the room, facing an opaque glass wall and another heavy door in the far corner.

  “This place is going into lockdown,” the director said, wrenching free of the colonel’s grip. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Stanton and Campbell marched in behind them.

  “An unfortunate, but unavoidable consequence. You let me worry about that,” said Hawkes. “Right now, you’ve got more important things to think about.” He pointed the gun at the director’s head one more. “I believe visiting hours are officially open.”

  Chapter 30

  RICHARD WARD STARED down the barrel of his captor’s handgun and tried to figure out his options. He was outnumbered three to one. With little field experience in the last decade, a confrontation would end badly. Especially for him. With the alarms sounding, his chances of talking his way out were practically nil. The intruders would be looking for a quick exit. Ultimately, that left him with two options: he could refuse to comply and hope to hell reinforcements showed up in time, or do as they ask and try to come up with a better plan later. The second option at least left him alive long enough to do something productive.

  He made up his mind.

  “If I open up the cell, it’s only going to trigger another security alert,” Ward said. He tried to ignore the gun pointed at his face and look his captor in the eyes. “There’s cameras in here. Security will be able to find you.”

  “It’s taken care of,” the man said. His voice carried an air of authority. Not particularly intimidating or aggressive, just the air of a man who expects nobody to argue. A classic military trait. He looked a little older than Ward, maybe mid-fifties. Maybe a retired vet with a grudge. It didn’t really matter, other than the fact he was clearly the one in charge.

  The FBI director looked up at the surveillance camera mounted to the ceiling. No red light. That meant no power.

  “What do you want with the prisoner?” Ward asked.

  “Not your concern. You’ve got exactly ten seconds to open up, or we’ll have to get by without you.”

  Ward knew he wasn’t bluffing. Without his help, they might struggle to open the cell. They’d also have a more difficult time getting out the building. But there was always the possibility they’d figure out a way, especially if the security cameras were compromised. They had already unlocked the main door, got this far. The surveillance team wouldn’t be focused on the holding cells, not if they were flying blind. They’d look for the source of the disruption, probably upstairs somewhere. Too risky to assume these men didn’t have a plan B. It wasn’t worth dying over.

  “Fine,” Ward said. He strode over to the recessed panel mounted near the prisoner entrance. The steel door led through into the cell, where Blake was waiting. With a deep sigh, Ward punched in his access code. He considered entering a fake number, but a sharp jab in the back from the leader’s handgun convinced him otherwise. With survival near the top of Ward’s priorities, he figured antagonizing the man with the loaded weapon wasn’t the surest path to success.

  A small LED light flashed red and Ward heard a clicking sound. The door opened.

  “He’s all yours,” Ward said.

  “Cover him,” the man in charge said. One of the others raised his weapon in Ward’s direction.

  The leader of the group pushed through the door. A few moments later he emerged with Robert Blake, who didn’t seem particularly surprised to find Ward waiting for him.

  “Director,” Blake said, with a cursory nod. “Apologies for my rude departure. I’m sure you’ll understand it was necessary.” He looked over at the man in charge. “Hawkes, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  The man called Hawkes nodded. Ward committed the name to memory.

  “Let’s move,” Hawkes said. He grabbed hold of Ward’s jacket and shoved him back toward the exit door leading out to the corridor. The alarms still sounded, shrill and urgent. The noise echoed off the hard floors, bouncing off the walls. Ward gritted his teeth and marched forward, heading back to the elevator with the four men close behind.

  “And how exactly are you planning on getting out of here?” Ward said, as they reached the reception area. He resisted the urge to glance down at the body of Agent Jameson sprawled out on the carpet. A dark red pool of blood had formed underneath him, staining the fibers.

  “The supreme art of war,” Blake said, “is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” He glanced down at the corpse. “Unfortunately, it seems we might have slipped up a little in that regard. But nobody else has to get hurt.” He paused. “You’re going to walk us out of here yourself.”

  “And why the hell would I do that?”

  “Because the rest of my men are currently upstairs sifting through the FBI’s data storage.”

  “And?”

  Blake laughed. “And just how many undercover agents do you have in the field right now? It would be a shame if someone leaked their real names and aliases. A real shame. Think how many people would suffer.”

  Ward felt his stomach turn a somersault. He turned around. “That’s not possible.”

  “Really?” Blake smiled. “We managed to infiltrate this building, got the right codes. Shut off the surveillance. How difficult do you think it would be to get a hard line into the servers?”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Are you willing to take the risk?”

  Ward clenched his fists.

  “I didn’t think so.” Blake gestured toward the elevators. “Now, if you would be so kind.”

  “I’ll track you down, you sick bastard,” Ward said. “If it takes me the rest of my life.”

  “Which is getting shorter and shorter the more you keep talking,” Blake replied. “After this is done, if you still want your vengeance, I’ll be waiting.”

  Hawkes lifted his weapon. “Move.”

  Ward turned back toward the elevators. Hit the call button. The doors slid open.

  “After you.” Blake waved him forward.

  ***

  The elevator felt slower than before. Ward figured his nerves were getting the better of him. The four men stood behind him. Hawkes had his hand on his gun hidden underneath his suit jacket. Ward knew the FBI building would be shutting down, all agents called to their emergency positions. Most would stay put, some of the security personnel would be covering the exits, some would be trying to fix the cameras. A few more tracking the perimeter. Ward wasn’t sure how the numbers stacked up.

  A soft chime announced their arrival at the ground floor. The doors opened. Ahead, the corridors were full of agents and office workers, all marching calmly through the halls. Presumably back to their posts. Better they kept out of the way while security looked for the source of the commotion. The
y wouldn’t have to look for long.

  The J. Edgar Hoover building was old and crumbling, but the alarm systems were top of the line. If Blake’s men had infiltrated the server room, someone would know about it. A team would have been deployed. Metro P.D. would have been informed. Reinforcements would be on the way. Blake couldn’t hold out forever.

  Ward felt one of the men shove him forward. He stepped out into the corridor. A few of the passing agents looked at him briefly, but kept their heads down. Protocol drilled into them from day one. They wouldn’t be looking for anything out of place, too focused on getting out of the way. Ward tried to adjust his body language, make himself stand out. It didn’t appear to work; everyone kept on marching. He might as well be invisible.

  “Head for the lobby,” Hawkes said from behind. “Don’t try anything stupid. First sign of trouble, we’ll release the lists.”

  Ward complied. The four men might have seemed a little suspicious heading in the opposite direction from the flow of foot traffic, but Ward’s presence ensured nobody gave them a second glance. In a sea of dark suits, security would be looking for something, anything, that didn’t fit. But they’d be heading for the server room, checking the stairwells and exit routes. Nobody would think to check the public entrance, not with armed guards already stationed outside.

  “You’ll need to come up with a good reason for breaking protocol,” Blake said, his voice low. “Have the man at the main entrance open up for us. Make sure you sell it.”

  Ward felt something cold and hard press into the base of his spine. He didn’t need the reminder his life lay on the line. Not to mention the lives of nearly five hundred agents in the field. But was the alternative worse? Was dying here today a better alternative than whatever Blake had planned? Ward had no idea.

  But he knew Blake would follow through on his threats, maybe escape anyway. Only a handful of security officers stood between them and the street outside. An escape attempt would mean most of them getting hurt, or worse. Hundreds more to follow once those names and aliases went public. Ward dying, however honorably, would do little to stop that. Martyrdom rarely did anybody any good.

  The lobby drew closer. It looked mostly empty, save for a few remaining security officers manning the booths and checkpoints. Two guards stood outside the door, facing the street, no weapons drawn. Just stood, acting as though everything was five by five. Ward smiled. Public perception is everything.

  Hawkes jostled him forward, his gun still prodding Ward in the back.

  “Time to get creative,” Blake said.

  One of the security officers stepped forward. Middle-aged, a little overweight, he recognized Ward but asked for ID anyway.

  “Sorry, sir,” the officer said. “Gotta check everyone coming through.” He glanced at the men stood behind the director. “We’re supposed to keep everyone inside, sir.”

  Ward checked the man’s name badge. “Good job, Mr. Webb,” he said. “These gentlemen are with me.”

  “Sir, it’s protocol. You’re supposed to stay inside.” The officer shuffled uncomfortably.

  “And who do you think signs off on the protocols?” Ward could tell the man was nervous, probably not used to challenging senior management. His uniform wasn’t FBI, so he was probably a contractor. Maybe even part time. Ward said, “These men need to get out of here. Now.”

  “Sir...”

  “It’s a classified operation, Webb.” Classified operation. The catch-all explanation. “Do I have to remind you the consequences for interfering with a federal investigation?

  “No, sir.”

  “Then log our names and let us get out of here. We’ve wasted enough time already. I’ll makes sure your boss gets word from me later.”

  Webb glanced around. The other guards ignored him, avoiding eye contact. “Yes, sir,” he said, eventually.

  The four men held IDs out and Webb checked them, logged the names in a handheld scanner. Ward tensed, half-expecting something to trigger another alert. But the men had clearly done their homework; the system cleared them after a few seconds.

  Webb said, “All done, sir.” He stepped to the side.

  Ward led them forward, through the turnstiles and metal detectors. He headed for the doors. The two guards turned as Ward opened the door and stepped out. They didn’t say anything, just looked the five men up and down.

  The director headed for the bottom of the steps. The morning D.C. traffic was a mess, cars lined up all down Pennsylvania Avenue, as far as he could see. They were moving slowly, barely any faster than the pedestrians either side of them. In the distance, Ward heard sirens, faint but unmistakable. They didn’t sound like they were going to get to him any time soon.

  “Turn left,” Blake said, as they hit the sidewalk.

  “This is a waste of time,” said Ward. “They’ll know you’re missing from your cell by now. How far do you think you’re going to get?”

  “Keep quiet,” Hawkes said, taking the lead.

  Ward found himself boxed in. They walked for a few minutes, covered a few blocks without incident, weaving in and out of foot traffic.

  Blake continued, “Down here.”

  Hawkes veered off to the left and Ward followed, the others close behind. The sirens were getting louder. The four men kept their heads high, walking at a moderate pace. Nothing about them stood out, nothing to catch anyone’s eye. They reached Eighth Street, the J. Edgar Hoover building no longer visible behind them. The road looked quiet, cars parked up near the sidewalk. Very little vehicle traffic. Ward could see the Smithsonian a block-or-so ahead, a few people milling around on the steps.

  “Here,” Hawkes said, heading toward a black Range Rover with tinted windows. Another, almost identical, vehicle was parked a few cars behind. Hawkes unlocked the doors with a key fob.

  “Get in,” Blake said.

  “Looks like you’re a few men down,” said Ward, glancing at the other Range Rover.

  “Look again.”

  The other SUV’s engine started up, the LED headlamps flicked on. Ward squinted at the windshield. He could see movement inside.

  How the hell did they get out? He kept the thought to himself.

  “Get in,” Blake said again.

  Hawkes held the rear passenger door open.

  “I’m not getting in there,” Ward said.

  “You don’t have much of a choice.”

  “You aren’t going to shoot me in broad daylight. If I get in there, you’ll drive out of the city and put a bullet in me.”

  “If I wanted to kill you, I would have taken you down a blind alley and left your body in a dumpster,” Blake said. “Besides, I’m a man of my word. I’m sure Hawkes promised to let you live if you cooperated.”

  The man called Hawkes didn’t say anything.

  “Bullshit,” Ward said.

  Blake smiled. “You’re no good to me dead, Director. Now, are you getting in the car, or do I have to start being more persuasive?”

  Ward didn’t move. He needs me alive. Keep him talking. “Where will you go?”

  Blake sighed. “Hawkes, do the honors, please.”

  The man called Hawkes reached into his jacket, pulled something out. Something hard and metallic, from the feel of it smacking into the side of Ward’s head.

  The FBI Director felt his knees give way and two strong pairs of hands wrestle him into the SUV. He noticed the smell of warm leather, and then a spinning sensation, and then he blacked out.

  Chapter 31

  MARY WOKE UP late and felt a shooting pain in her neck. She opened her eyes slowly, and looked around, wondering where the hell she was. She found herself lying on a double bed in a dark room. The curtains were drawn, sunlight visible through the thin material. She noticed four pillows, two of which she’d thrown on the floor during the night. A wooden desk nestled against the opposite wall, or maybe a dressing table; Mary wasn’t sure. A chipped wardrobe stood teetering in the corner, an empty wastepaper basket near the front door. The be
d sheets smelled unfamiliar and the mattress felt thin.

  It took a moment for Mary to remember where she was. She and Marshall had driven out of the city late last night, checked into the first motel they had found that looked like it might not require any ID. Marshall had slapped down three hundred dollars. The clerk had said the room rate was fifty bucks each. Marshall told him to take the difference as a security deposit.

  Not exactly subtle, Mary had thought. But effective, and better than the possibility of their names flashing up on a computer screen somewhere. The clerk had shown them to their separate rooms, left them to it, and gone back to his desk. Mary had said good night to Marshall and passed out on the bed. Now it was late morning, and coffee was most definitely in order.

  A sharp knock on the door came and Mary sat up. She pulled off the bed sheets and found herself still fully dressed. Running a hand through her hair, she padded across the carpet and opened up. Jack Marshall stood outside, two take-out cups in hand. He looked refreshed, as if he’d slept well. Mary felt the pain in her neck again and tried to shake some of the grogginess out of her head.

  “Thought I’d take the liberty,” Marshall said, handing one of the cups over. “I guessed you take it black.”

  Mary blinked hard. “Good guess,” she said, taking the cup in both hands.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah. Sure, go ahead.” She stood back and let him through. Marshall strode inside and pulled out the chair from underneath the dressing-table-slash-desk and sat down.

  He said, “You sleep well?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Liar.” Mary took a sip of her coffee and sat down on the bed. “Coffee’s good.”

  “Gas station across the forecourt had one of those espresso machines.”

  “Thanks.” She looked over at him. Marshall’s suit looked freshly pressed, although he hadn’t had a chance to grab any change of clothes, and Mary suddenly felt very aware of her own substandard appearance. She ran her fingers through her hair again, did her best to tame it into something presentable.