by A S Bond
Chapter 35
Scott’s condo was an older building on a tree-lined street in the northwest part of the city. He’d bought it six years ago because it was close to the Metro, but far enough away from downtown that he had a sense of separation from the office. The walk from the Metro was usually just long enough to mentally file away the day’s work before he turned his key in the lock.
This night though, Montana wouldn’t have been far enough. When the official car let him off in front of his place, he got out and tried to clear his head before going upstairs. He’d received no call from work, no summons to the office. He wanted to chalk it up to the attack on Mike earlier, and his superiors’ consideration for his feelings. But he knew better than that. Damn it. He’d never bought into conspiracy theory bullshit before, but nothing made any sense. And was the Apache affair really connected to this attempted attack on the city?
He had a nasty feeling that David might have been right when he suggested it could be Brooke on that ship, and a renewed sense of urgency drove through his grief over Mike and sent him up the stairs to his apartment two at a time.
As Scott fumbled for his key in the hallway outside his door, he heard, in that night-time stillness, the sound of his answering machine clicking on. A man’s voice rumbled through the door. Scott thought he caught the name ‘David’, but the connection was poor. Yet as he started to turn the key in the lock, he heard something else that made him freeze. The machine’s mechanical voice cut jerkily through the quiet.
“Message deleted.”
There was someone in his apartment.
Holding his breath, Scott withdrew his key and stepped away from the door. At a safe distance, he began to run down the stairs to the front exit, where he turned right. His building sat at the end of the block, so he was soon in the alley that ran behind the buildings. The fire escape was out of reach, but Scott climbed onto a limo parked below it and, standing on the roof, jumped for the bottom rung of the ladder.
His right hand closed over metal, but the sharp edge was new and it cut into his palm as he swung there for a moment. Insensitive to the pain, Scott then got his other hand and a leg hooked on to the ladder, and he was up. Counting floors and windows as he climbed the ladders between the landings, Scott reached the fourth floor and flattened himself against the brick wall outside the window to his living room. It was dark, of course, but a window on the other side of the room allowed in enough light from a streetlamp that Scott could see inside.
There was just the one man, he was fairly sure. Whoever it was clearly expected to have the element of surprise. It was probably planned to look like a burglary gone wrong. The assassin would almost certainly be armed, but he would need a clean shot; there wouldn’t be enough time for a second attempt. Unlike some parts of Washington, gunfire was rare enough in his neighborhood to draw a crowd, not clear a street.
Scott eased along the metal fire escape. He often left his bedroom window open a crack. High on this floor and beyond the edge of the fire escape balustrade, it was scarcely an easy route in for burglars - or for him. His overcoat restricted his movement, so he took it off and climbed over the edge of the rail, shivering a little as the cold breeze cut through his shirt.
The fire escape formed a right angle against the rear of the building and, facing the wall, Scott leaned away from it, reaching across to the side. With one hand on the rail, the other reached for the edge of the brickwork around his bedroom window. His fingers found the edge and he steadied himself, refusing to give in to the temptation to look down. His weight still safely on the fire escape, he knew he needed to cross the gap between it and the wide stone window ledge. It was a good four feet, he guessed, with nothing to hold onto once he was there.
In a single movement, Scott swung his right foot over to the ledge and hung for a moment, spread-eagled against the rear wall of the building. Willing himself not to think, simply to do, Scott let go of the rail and shifted his weight across the gap so both feet balanced on the sill. Gasping with adrenaline, Scott shuffled across the ledge to get a better purchase on the stonework with the balls of his feet. He pressed himself into the space in front of the glass, but his heels still bounced in thin air. For a minute, he stayed as still as he could, and listened. There was no sign his movements had been heard by whoever waited within, so he raised the toe of his shoe, finding the small gap of the open window. Bending his knee, he raised the windowpane until he could reach the edge with his fingers and pull it up further without becoming unbalanced. It would only slide halfway, but that was enough. Scott slipped one leg through the gap and dropped into a controlled roll onto his own bed.
The springs creaked and he froze, listening. Nothing. His assassin was probably waiting for him to come through the front door. Still lying as he fell, Scott felt along his nightstand to the back edge and slid his fingers between it and the wall. His eyes closed for a moment in thanks. It was still there. Scott worked the small pistol out and flicked off the safety. He always kept it loaded.
He had been so long in the dark, the light blinded him for a second, but he was off the bed before his sight cleared, and the bullet fluffed harmlessly into the pillow with a small ‘pop’. The assassin was using a silencer. A professional, of course. He was a big man; heavyset but muscular and agile, and he was already halfway across the room when Scott fired. The bullet hit the man’s upper arm and the force of it spun him sideways long enough for Scott to jump up and kick the weapon out of his opponent’s hand.
Scott’s advantage was short-lived, and his distant field training was no match for this trained killer. Rather than reach for the lost gun, the assassin met Scott’s lunge head on, spinning him around and smacking his arm against the door jamb until he dropped the pistol. He then forced Scott backwards into the living room, his fingers around Scott’s throat, tightening like steel whips. Unprepared for the force of the attack, Scott choked, and he felt the strength beginning to leave his legs. But his weakness played to his advantage when he tripped and fell, dragging his assailant down on top of him. They crashed onto the floor together, demolishing a cheap wicker coffee table, but the grip on his throat didn’t weaken. Scott knew he would black out soon, and he had to do something. Now.
He jabbed a thumb into his assailant’s bullet wound and dug down hard. The man half roared, half screamed with pain, and Scott used the momentary lessening of the grip around his throat to flip his attacker over and smack his head against the wood floor. Scott staggered onto his feet, his breathing strained by the relentless pressure on his windpipe. The image of the dropped guns passed through his mind and he lunged for the bedroom a few feet away. But the would-be killer was too quick, and now he was also mad with pain. He too was on his feet, reaching, grabbing at Scott to stop him finding the pistol. But the man was off-balance, vulnerable. Instead of staying out of reach, Scott turned and used the man’s own unfocused momentum to ram him, head-first, into a glass-fronted cabinet. It shattered but, rather than stunning him, as Scott had anticipated, his attacker dropped forward, a jagged shard slicing up through his throat. He hung there for a moment, twitching and foaming at the mouth.
“Dammit!” Scott shouted, “who are you working for?” A dead assassin could tell him nothing. With all of his strength, Scott yanked the man backwards and looked at his face properly for the first time. The man was unfamiliar to him, and Scott checked his hand; four fingers and a thumb. Scott dropped him onto the sofa. The man’s eyes were glazing, but his heart was still beating, if the amount of blood flowing down his shirt was anything to go by.
“Who are you working for?” Scott shouted again, grabbing a fistful of greasy black hair and lifting the man’s head. But it was too late. The eyes were dead and the body went limp and still. Scott let go in disgust and stepped back, pacing the room. A sudden coughing fit brought him to his knees. Scott concentrated on breathing steadily and felt his throat. It didn’t seem like there was any lasting damage, but he didn’t have time for that just now.
A siren wailed in the distance.
Then, another ringing sound cut through his thoughts. A phone. Not his. Scott scrabbled through the man’s clothing and found a small cell in the back pocket of the pants. The caller’s number was barred and no name was displayed, but it continued to ring. Scott paused. Hell, he didn’t have a better idea. He pushed the green button and grunted.
“Is it done?” The voice at the other end of the line was male, matter-of-fact.
And familiar. Very familiar.
Scott stood unmoving in his living room, covered in the blood of the dead assassin, unable to believe what he was hearing.
“Well?”
He had to take a chance.
“Yes.”
“Good, now get over to the safe house in Virginia; we may need you tonight.” The line went dead.
The siren got louder. One way or another, he had to get out of there. Scott ran to the bathroom, ripping off his shirt and pants as he went. He turned the tap on full and sloshed water on himself. Then, rubbing his face and hair dry, he struggled into clean clothes. He could see colored lights against the wall now. They were at the other end of the street. His neighbors’ voices buzzed in the hallway, but no one rang the bell. Jamming his shoes back on his feet, Scott slipped the pistol in his pocket and ducked out of the window, stepping back onto the ledge.
Pressed against the wall, he watched two police cars go past the end of the alleyway and heard them stop outside the front of his building. Concentrating on not letting his haste make him clumsy, Scott edged to the corner of the fire escape and swung back over the rail. He picked up his coat and slid, fireman style, down the metal ladders, jumping onto the car and walking halfway along the alley before the police reached his apartment door. Taking a sharp left and then a right, he emerged from the alleyway and strolled along a neighboring street. He wore no tie, but he tucked his shirt into his pants and pulled up the collar of his overcoat. There was no reason to stop him.
Scott put his hand into his coat pocket and found his work pass and keys. Sweating, he zig-zagged back towards the other end of his street, to where he had parked his little sportscar, a British MG Roadster, for the occasional weekend when he needed to get out of the city. Or, apparently, leave the scene of a murder.
The MG was an old girl, a classic 1972 convertible in red, and decidedly temperamental. But tonight he really needed her to start, the first time. His fingers trembled as he turned the key. The lights still flashed in front of his building, and they were joined now by an ambulance. A small crowd had gathered, and police were holding them back behind a yellow tape.
“C’mon, baby.”
The car’s little engine sparked, turned over, then roared, settling down into a steady hum.
Gently, so as not to attract attention, Scott rolled onto the street and turned in the opposite direction to the crowds, heading south.
Chapter 36
Scott sped under the beltway, heading straight for downtown.
He looked at the speedometer: seventy-five. Christ, he’d have to slow down if he didn’t want to get pulled over. He made a conscious effort to relax and loosened his grip on the steering wheel. He let up on the gas, and the MG cruised at 55mph, down streets usually choked with traffic.
He glanced at his watch: He had a few hours yet before the first of the early morning commuters started to clog up the highway.
But as he got closer to Foggy Bottom and the government buildings, Scott noticed more and more police. The city-wide alert was still in place, and now he knew why.
Scott skirted central downtown and crossed the Potomac into Virginia from Georgetown, avoiding the main streets. Arlington was quiet, and Scott pulled into the underground parking lot at the Pentagon without being stopped or challenged, but as he emerged to cross the street, he saw the area was floodlit and full of cops. A young policeman stood guarding the area before the entrance to the Pentagon.
“Can I see your pass, please, sir.”
Scott tried to look calm and slightly irritated by the request. He flashed his ID at the cop, who looked as though he’d been on the force for about a week and hadn’t bargained on getting caught up in a major incident before he got his first paycheck.
The cop nodded and Scott walked as confidently as he could through the plate glass doors. He was meant to be dead, but he was counting on that message not being received by the Department’s security systems just yet. Two members of the security detail stood by the metal detectors as usual, but beyond them, Scott could see secretaries rushing about, frowning and clutching files. Every office was occupied, every TV and computer screen casting flickering images of drama at the wide-eyed staff.
“Scott? What are you doing here?” Vince Tomasso paused to glance in his direction. Scott made it through security and picked up his pass from the tray.
“What do you mean? Everyone’s here.”
Vince was already halfway down the corridor, walking backwards, a look of concern on his face.
“We were told you were on compassionate leave; you know, after Mike....
“You know about that?”
“Yeah, what a tragedy. It’s all happening tonight, eh?”
So that was how it was going to be played, Scott thought. My body’s not scheduled to be found just yet. But the clock was ticking. Scott hurried to his office and found it just as he had left it that morning. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
He shut his door and turned on his computer. The password box flashed on the screen. Scott’s fingers hovered above the keyboard for a moment, then he jumped up and strode down to the end of the hall, where the open plan office was divided into cubicles for the administrative staff. He’d had a better idea.
“Rosie.” Scott leaned on the corner cubicle, wearing his best smile.
“Scott! I thought you were on leave!” The twenty-something blonde flashed him a smile that was calculated to make him take a second look. He usually did, too.
“In this madhouse? Not a chance.” He glanced around. Everyone was too busy to pay them any attention. “Listen, Rosie -” he did his best to make it sound like “sweetheart” without actually saying the word, and he leaned in to her. “I really need to get some data from the archives. It’s not loaded on the system and I have to get into another damn meeting.”
Rosa nodded sympathetically. No one liked working through the night.
“Could you do me a huge favor? Run downstairs and get it?” Scott scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” With a coy flick of her hair, she disappeared down the hall.
Okay. Scott sat down at her terminal. He knew her password, or at least he did at one time. He typed it, hoping nothing had changed.
Valentine. He glanced at the photo of a small, fluffy white dog pinned to the corner of her message board.
Bingo. Rosie was a senior administrative officer, with a lower security clearance than Scott, but it was enough to access the list of safe houses, although not who was occupying which ones, or why. Three addresses popped up for Virginia. One was listed as unavailable, so that left two. Scott scribbled down the details and was halfway back to his office when Rosie caught up with him.
“Here you go.” She handed him two manila envelopes.
“Thanks.” He glanced at her. “I...I’ll see you tomorrow, Rosie. Try to get some rest.”
Dawn was still an hour or so away as Scott sped across the Roosevelt Bridge and wound his way through the intersections to join the Memorial highway through Virginia. The first address was on the edge of Brookeville. Scott sensed it wasn’t the place he was looking for as he pulled up.
The street was quiet, as it would be at that time of day, but there were no lights on in the clapboard, one-story house. Thick bushes screened the front, so he left the MG, careful not to slam the door, and walked along the side. A chain-link fence, woven through with weeds, made the place hard to get to.
Scott crept back to the front and eased between the bushes. Flat against the wall, he peered into the first window. Nothing. No lights, no movement. He looked around the edges of the property. No security or surveillance detail. It was as he thought. The place was empty.
That left one more address. It was in an area Scott wasn’t familiar with; rundown, commercial. The sort of place you go to buy cheap office furniture from a big guy named Ernie.
The number turned out to be crumbling concrete, metal windows, what looked like a small office park. There was a parking lot behind it, and Scott was glad to get off the street. The D.C. police might be looking for him by now, after that mess he’d left behind in his apartment.
From the rear of the building, Scott could see there was a light on in the building. A single car, an elderly Pontiac Grand Am, sat in the lot. No surveillance that he could see. Scott considered for a moment how to play it: official visit, or rescue attempt? The gun sat snugly in his right-hand pocket. His official pass still hung around his neck. Play it by ear, he decided, as he walked over to the building and pushed open the door.
He listened for a moment, then decided there was no point in trying to disguise his presence, so he walked towards the source of the light: a door ajar at the end of the hallway. He pushed it open firmly, his right hand in his pocket, just in case. A small scream startled him and he swung in its direction. An older woman, maybe 50, stepped back from what she was doing, her hand over her mouth.
“Who are you?” Scott said, looking around the room, which seemed like nothing more than an empty office.
The woman seemed to regain her composure.
“You’re trespassing. Get out before I call the police.”