Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

Jones pointed a finger at his agent. “Get that bird here fast.”

Frankie had visions of reliving her high school softball days and pitching the limb into the reflecting pool from twenty yards away, but her sensibilities stepped in and drove her to draw much closer before letting the hunk of metal and plastic fly. She slid to a stop and watched it tumble end over end through the air, sailing into the wind, diving for the rippling surface of the pool, and finally splashing foot-first into the water. It disappeared beneath the surface, the wake disturbance rolling over to cover it. Frankie bent forward, hands on her knees, took a deep breath of relief, and spit it out with eyes gone wide as the limb bobbed to the surface. It was floating.

Lee Highway was completely blocked in both directions by VSP cruisers and FBI vehicles, allowing the Park Service Jet Ranger room to land.

“Park Service?” Bud asked as he instinctively bent forward and trotted toward the blue-and-white helicopter.

“It was the closest thing,” Jones reported. He climbed in, followed by Bud, then Art.

“Everybody ready?” the pilot asked from his seat on the right of the helicopter’s cockpit.

Everyone nodded and slid into headsets. As the bird lifted off and headed west, Art Jefferson did one more thing to ensure that he was ready: he inserted a full magazine into his Smith & Wesson.

If her mind had been racing before, it was on afterburner now. The goddamn thing is buoyant! Frankie looked around for something to weight the limb down with, but could see nothing. She’d just shoot it and hope to sink it that way, but that might just as easily set it off. Her gun would do no good here…

Or would it? Yes! Frankie ran to the pool’s edge, to where the limb had been pushed by the steady breeze, and pulled it out. She laid it on the ground and knelt next to it, removing her belt and the holstered weapon attached to it. She wound the combination around the limb tightly and secured the buckle as tight as possible. It wasn’t the use intended for her Smith & Wesson model 1076, but if its forty-plus ounces would do the trick it would count as straight shooting in her book. Standing once again she underhanded it fifteen feet into the pool and watched it settle into the water, sinking, falling, sinking, and staying underwater.

“Jesus,” Frankie said, watching and waiting, then jumping as a dim flash pierced the surface, which boiled briefly. She became very conscious of the wind in her face, the wind coming at her from the direction of the pool. She held her breath, knowing that would do no real good if any of the VZ had breached the surface, then pulled a lungful in and took stock of herself.

She was alive. She let out the breath and took in another. Then another. The night air tasted sweet to Frankie Aguirre. Sweet with success.

“It’s heading south on I-eighty-one,” the pilot of the Park Service heli reported over the intercom after receiving the radio report from the Virginia State Police heli fifty miles distant. “And the Hostage Rescue Team bird is on-station with them.”

“Good,” Jones said into the boom mic touching his lips. “If I say ‘floor it,’ does that have any meaning to a helo jock?”

The nose of the Park Service Jet Ranger dipped, the pilot smiling as he did the aerial equivalent of putting the pedal to the metal.

Jones looked left to Art. His gaze was fixed forward. “We got it in time,” the director said. That report from the Capitol had come minutes ago. “She’s okay, Jefferson.”

Art nodded.

“HRT is the best,” Jones reminded him over the intercom. “No hostages here, but they’re the best SWAT team in the world. We’ll get them.”

Another nod. Art knew they would “get” John Barrish, but somehow that seemed inadequate. They should have had him a long time ago.

Toby stopped the Honda fast in the driveway and ran into the house. His father and brother were in front of the TV in the living room.

“What happened?” Toby demanded. “The radio said someone broke into the place and ripped his leg off!”

John Barrish sat hunched forward on the edge of his chair, muscles tensed, nostrils flaring with each hot breath.

“That’s what happened,” Stanley confirmed. The TV now was cutting between news crews trying to get information on the happening. They would not be the only ones. “Dad, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“He’s right, Pop,” Toby agreed. He pulled the .38 from his waistband. “They could find us.”

Who? Who had blown it? Who screwed up? WHO RUINED MY PLAN?

“Pop,” Toby pleaded. “Come on. We’ve gotta get out of here.”

John looked to his sons. They were right. They would have to leave, would have to run to fight again. He picked up the Beretta resting on the end table and stood. “Stanley, get your mother. She’s in the bedroom. Toby, throw some food and ammo in the car. Now!”

The FBI and Park Service helicopters landed on State Route 259 near Chimney Rock, two miles from the house to which the blacked-out VSP air unit, flying high and using its FLIR (forward looking infrared), had carefully followed the Honda. A trooper familiar with the area briefed the team on the lay of the land, then all involved piled into vehicles, some commandeered, and headed toward Fulks Run.

“Get the food, Louise,” John commanded. His wife looked at him with dead eyes and dropped canned vegetables into a paper sack.

“Pop, Stan’s grabbing some clothes for us,” Toby said as he popped his head into the kitchen. “I’m putting the guns and stuff in the car now.”

“I want to be on the road in five minutes,” John said.

“You got it,” Toby assured him, then headed out the front. The lights of the Honda were still on. Not good for the battery, but it had only been a few minutes. Toby walked toward the rear of the car, arms full of ammo boxes and extra weapons, his pace slowing as light glinted in several spots from the dark forest. He looked behind. The car’s high beams were reflecting off the large front window and into the trees, illuminating… what?

“FREEZE! FBI!”

Toby dropped the load in his arms and drew the revolver from his waist. He was just bringing it up when a volley of fire came at him. He felt a fire in his belly, fell backward, and crawled toward the open front door, gun in hand. Ten feet was all he could manage before he passed out and died.

“What…” John’s eyes flared. He spun toward the front room. His youngest son ran by the opening toward the front door, Louise following. The leader of the Aryan Victory Organization knew those to be foolish acts. He looked left. A second later he was through the back door and running into the woods lining Fawley Hollow.

“What’s going on?” Jones asked the HRT leader as gunfire erupted up the road that was the only access to the house.

The black-clad agent listened to the radio chatter in his earpiece briefly. “They spotted us coming in. We had to drop one.”

“Is a perimeter up?” Jones asked. Art was listening intently to this question. “Not yet.”

“Dammit!” Jones swore. “Get the helicopter overhead. Now. Jeferso—” He looked past the HRT leader. Art was moving up the road, gun drawn, at a dead run. “Jefferson!”

“Toby!” Stanley yelled at the sight of his brother lying facedown on the cement driveway. A circle of darkness was expanding from beneath his stomach.