Дэвид Балдаччи - The Sixth Man

“Sean was right about you and national security, wasn’t he?”

“Not that I like to broadcast that, but yeah, I am. Counterterrorism unit.”

“So national security and Edgar Roy. The connection?”

“All I can tell you is that when he was arrested and got sent up here the FBI received an order from very high up to put a tag on him. He was a special person of interest and we were to keep a close eye on him. There, I said it. Now what can you tell me?”

“We have some things in play, but nothing definitive.”

“Care to share?”

“No. You called me. You said you had some things to tell me. I’m listening. If you wanted this to be a two-way I wouldn’t be here.”

“Okay, okay, fair enough.” He spit out the gum. “I went to see Edgar Roy today.”

“Why’s that?”

“Just to talk to him.”

“And did he talk back?”

“Not so much, no.”

“Not so much?”

“Okay, nothing, nada. Guy never made a sound.”

“So?”

“So I never expected him to. He’s a genius. So smart, in fact, that he’s a very valuable asset of the federal government.”

“Is that right?”

He cocked his head. “Why do I think I’m preaching to the choir?”

“On the contrary. This is fascinating stuff.”

He stepped closer. “Okay, let’s cut to the chase. I did some hard digging. Called in a few favors and finally hit the mother lode. I know what Roy was doing for Uncle Sam. And I also found out that there are persons in D.C. who might have reason to wish Mr. Roy harm.”

“Who?”

Murdock drew closer. Only a few inches separated the two. “You ever heard of the E-Pro–”

Michelle felt like she’d been slapped. She tasted the liquid that had appeared on her face and then spit it out. The pain in her arm was mildly annoying. When Murdock fell into her two seconds later, she realized what was happening. She gripped him by the shoulders and jerked both of them behind her truck. The next shot hit twenty feet behind where she had been standing. It cracked the asphalt, sending pieces spiraling off into the grass. One shard hit the mailbox and left a deep gouge in the blue-painted metal. If she hadn’t moved, Michelle’s brain matter would have collided with the mailbox instead of the asphalt.

More gunfire opened up, different from the two rifle shots.

Dobkin.

Murdock was lying on top of Michelle.

“Murdock? Agent Murdock!”

She rolled him off her, checked his pulse. There was none. She looked at his face. Glassy eyes. Mouth slightly parted, blood trickling out. He looked surprised. She saw the hole in his shirt, stained red. She turned him over. Entrance wound midspine. Kill shot. She looked down at herself. Blood on her face. His blood.

She looked further down at her arm.

My blood.

The round had exited his chest and found her arm. She slipped off her jacket, rolled up her sleeve. It was only a nick. Something scrunched underfoot. She picked it up. It was the misshapen rifle round. She placed it in her jacket pocket.

She pulled out her gun and her phone. She hit 911, relayed what had happened.

Someone was still firing out there. Pistol. She was pretty sure it was the reports of Eric Dobkin’s H&K .45. Then the shots stopped.

She phoned his cell. Four rings and she was thinking maybe something was wrong, or he was dead too, when he picked up.

“You okay?” Dobkin said immediately.

“I am. Murdock’s dead.”

“Thought so when I saw the round hit.”

“Did you see the shooter?”

“No, but I worked back the trajectory and fired that way. Eight shots and then I moved in. I called in backup.”

“So did I.”

“There’s no one around that I can see.”

“Escaped through the woods again. Enough with the damned trees already.”

“Is Murdock really dead? You’re sure?”

She looked down at the still body. “Yeah, he really is. No chance. Shooter knew what he was doing.”

“And you’re sure you’re okay?”

“Nothing that a Band-Aid won’t fix. If I were you I’d watch myself out there until help arrives. I know we were pretty exposed here, but it was still a fair shot. He could be far away and still nail you. Keep your head down.”

“Okay. Did he tell you anything?”

“Unfortunately nothing I didn’t already know. But he couldn’t have known that.” She hesitated, the words not forming the way she wanted. “He was trying to do the right thing.”

She clicked off and slumped next to the dead man. Counterintuitively, with a long-range rifle round the farther the bullet traveled the more damage it could actually do to the target when it hit. She took the fired round out of her pocket and studied it. Then she gauged the size of the hole in Murdock’s back. From that she reverse-engineered the flight length of the bullet.

The shot had come from over five hundred yards.

She hadn’t cared very much for Murdock, but he was a Fed. She had been a Fed. There was an unspoken bond there. When you killed a Fed you took a little bit of the soul from all other Feds. It could not be tolerated. It could not be left to pass without consequences, severe consequences.

She ripped off part of her shirtsleeve and wound it around her wound, neatly stopping the minimal blood flow. Her injury seemed grossly lame in the face of the mortal wound suffered by Murdock.

She opened her car door, snagged a bottle of water, and used it to wipe the blood off her face.

His blood.

She gargled, spit out more of it from her mouth, tried not to think how much of it she had inadvertently swallowed, how salty it tasted.

Finished, she looked down at Murdock again. She knew she shouldn’t do it, screwing with a crime scene, but she reached over and lifted out his wallet. Flipped it open.

Three kids. Three little tow-headed boys and a woman who looked like any mother with an overworked and always gone FBI agent husband and three little balls of energy: tired.

Michelle put the wallet back, leaned against the running board. She tried not to, but she just couldn’t help it.

She covered her eyes but the tears still trickled out.

“WHAT ELSE CAN WE DO HERE?” asked Sean, as they sat in the small apartment.

“Not clear,” said Paul.

“Bunting had no incentive to frame your brother.”

“No. But that’s not the same for Bergin or Dukes,” she replied. “Bergin’s death delays the trial. Dukes might’ve screwed up somehow and made the wrong people nervous.”

“Granted, those are motives to kill. Although with your brother unfit to stand trial, killing his defense lawyer probably wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

“If it was even fifty percent necessary they would do it. And they might have been afraid Bergin would find something out.”

“Bergin was my friend,” said Sean.

“He was my friend, too. I’m sorry I ever got him involved in this.”

Sean’s phone rang. He answered. “Michelle. What? What’s wrong? Slow down. Okay, okay. Murdock?” He listened in silence for about sixty seconds. “I’m on my way. Be there as soon as I can.”

He clicked off and looked at Paul.

She said, “Murdock’s dead, isn’t he?”

“How did you know?”

“I wondered who Bunting was talking to so animatedly back there.”

“You think he ordered the hit on Murdock while we were watching him? While he was out walking with his wife and kids?”

“I didn’t say that. But Bunting is never off the clock, Sean. So you’re going back to Maine?”

“I have to. And Michelle told me something else.”

“What?”

“She went to do a recon on Cutter’s.”