Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

You cover here , Art mouthed to the director. He pointed up, then down, then to the front of the house. Jones nodded and slid a bit to the left. When he looked behind Art was already heading fast up the stairs.

Mustafa glanced at his watch. A minute and a half already. It seemed more like an hour. He had already discarded the M79 in favor of his Ingram, suppressor off like the others, and was hunched down between a government sedan at curbside and their minivan. Windows all along the street had lit up, and he was beginning to hear sirens in the distance. Things were going to have to happen fast, or else it would get—

Movement to the right!

He rose up, looking over the roof of the car, catching only a glimpse of a shadow, but that was enough. The Ingram bucked as he aimed and tapped the trigger. Sparks flashed off the sidewalk as wild rounds hit the cement. Auto glass shattered. Metal was punched. Orange flashes…

The lone surviving Secret Service agent fired from over the rear deck of one of the Crown Victorias, taking one of the attackers by surprise. Six rounds from his Sig Sauer pistol found their mark, felling Mustafa Ali. He fell into the open side of the minivan, then to the ground. The agent, sporting some nasty but superficial shrapnel wounds to his head and shoulders, backed away to the other Service Ford and got immediately on the radio. He passed out after putting out an “agent needs help” call.

Art was up the stairs to the second floor and moving down the hallway he hoped led to the main staircase as fire from outside made him pause. When it died he continued, stopping as the upstairs landing opened before him. He peered carefully down, trying to keep his cover, and saw Moises Griggs standing at the bottom of the staircase.

Dear God, don’t make me have to kill him.

Director Jones held the Smith & Wesson 1076 two-handed, wondering if the lessons he’d learned so long before as a Bureau street agent would help keep the bureaucrat he’d become alive. One thing was certain: his ears were still good. They were easily picking up a clearly identifiable sound: shoes on broken glass. And it was getting closer. Much closer. Just on the other side of the counter.

Art knew what he might have to do. And he would…if it came to that. But there was another avenue of approach.

He saw the Griggs kid keep shifting his gaze from the study to the rear of the house, completely ignoring the stairs and the landing. If he could get close enough, just close enough to—

Coventry had a napkin from a drawer pressed against the NSA’s head wound, but that wasn’t enough to staunch the flow of blood. The sticky liquid already covered Bud’s face, and most of his shirt. The secretary needed to get pressure on the wound, something to hold it tight. My tie . He pulled the striped piece of silk loose, and looked toward the front of the kitchen, where the director was…

No . Above the counter, silhouetted in the light, a dark figure was advancing, pointing some sort of gun into the kitchen and right at—

“Gordy!”

Art heard the yell and saw Moises step away from the stairs. He took that opportunity and made his move. With his weapon trained on the young man, he ran onto the landing and down the stairs, reaching the third step and vaulting the banister with one hand as shots rang out from the kitchen.

Director Gordon Jones made his move, too, with fear but no hesitation, and as he did he saw the barrel of the easily recognizable Ingram submachine gun swivel from its aim at his friends farther back in the kitchen to him. His own weapon was coming to bear also, quicker, and he fired two center-mass shots at the gunman.

Darian Brown felt the shots impact like large spikes. It startled him, but he pulled the trigger of his weapon anyway and swung it right, stitching a path of bullets across the kitchen until the magazine was empty. Then two more spikes drove into his chest and he fell backward, eyes open, but only blackness before them.

Art came over the banister and onto Moises Griggs with one hand around his neck and the Smith & Wesson pressed into the soft back of his skull. They tumbled backward to the debris-littered foyer, Art spinning him facedown as they did. The Ingram was pinned to the floor under Moises Griggs, his hand still gripping it.

“Kid, show me your hands! Now!”

Moises pulled at the weapon, trying to get it free.

Art pressed the barrel hard into the back of Moises’ head and put as much weight on his body as he could. Sirens blared outside, getting louder. “I WILL KILL YOU!”

“Go ahead!” Moises screamed and tugged.

“Don’t do it, Moises! They set you up! They used you! Used you all!” Finger on the trigger, ready to pull.

Moises eased his struggle a bit, the claim from the pig striking a nerve. “What do you mean?”

“Who were you doing this for, Moises?! Huh?! DO YOU EVEN KNOW?!”

Doing for? How does he know about… “Why?”

Less resistance now. Keep it up, Arthur. “Because they tipped us off!” Art had to take another shot now. He had to reach the kid. “They were white, weren’t they?”

Stillness. “How…”

“Moises, they were the ones that killed your sister. The same ones.”

What? “Tanya? No.”

“Were they young or old, Moises?” Art saw in his peripheral vision the director step into the open to cover the kid.

Tanya? “Young.”

The voice was almost resigned now. Art recalled what he could of Barrish’s sons. They had to be the ones dealing with the NALF. John Barrish would have been too recognizable. He had to convince Moises. “One of them, did he have a lazy eye?”

Eye? Oh, God, no! Brother Darian had talked about the white boy’s weird eye, even calling him Popeye a few times. “Yes. God, no, please. It can’t be!”

Art holstered his weapon and pulled at Moises’ gun arm, freeing it — empty — from under his body. With no resistance from the now sobbing young man he brought both hands back and cuffed them together, then rolled him off the Ingram and pulled him to the stairs. He then looked to Jones. “Is everyone in there all right?”

“Bud is hit, but it’s a head graze,” Jones reported. Anything on the head had the potential to be a bleeder. “Jim has it covered.”

“You got one, sir?”

Jones nodded without glee. He’d never shot his weapon in anger during his entire career. This was a hell of a way to make up for that.

All at once there were screeching tires and sirens droning to a stop in the street out front. Virginia State Police officers were in and around the house without delay. Art, however, was not finished with Moises Griggs.

“Look at me.” When the young man didn’t Art lifted him by his jacket and pinned him against the wall. Moises made eye contact then. “I want you to listen good, because I have no time to fuck around.” Art glared through the young man’s tears. “What else did you do? The nerve gas? Where is it?”

Moises hesitated, not knowing what to do, what to think, or even if he should be alive. He was lost where he stood.

“Moises, don’t fuck with me. Is it at the Capitol?”

No response, just mild sobs.

Hit him with it, Arthur . “Moises, your parents are there right now. Tell me! What else did you do?!”

Mom? Dad? No. God, no…

“WHERE IS IT?!”

Then it came like a flood. Art, however, heard only the first three words. Once he did he let Moises Griggs fall to the ground and ran outside to his loaner, calling Agent David Rogers at the Capitol and agonizing through each ring.