Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

How could anyone do that responsibly? Freedom of speech, maybe? Bullshit, Art thought. It was worse than publishing the designs for a nuclear bomb, even. You couldn’t readily get plutonium or uranium, but you damn sure could buy any chemical you wanted. Even those who made narcotics illicitly bought their bulk chemicals from reputable supply houses. Idiocy!

“Hey, I agree with what you’re thinking,” Orwell said. The agent’s reaction to the revelation was quite clear through his faceshield.

The heavy release of breath crackled through the amplifier in Art’s mask. “Well, Allen may have known how to make C4 or Semtex, but I doubt he could have either dreamt this up or carried it out himself.”

“No noise factor,” Frankie said in agreement. But why was Allen involved in this then?

“Where’s the other guy?” Art asked.

“Come on.” Orwell led them into the blacked-out house.

Art followed the captain’s lead and turned on his flashlight, as did Frankie. They turned right at the first hallway and immediately came upon the body.

“Do you have a name on him?” Frankie asked.

“I’m too busy worrying about the contamination,” Orwell answered. “Maybe the sheriffs department does.”

Art sidestepped by the captain and knelt next to their one unknown victim. Next to the fiftyish male body was a stainless-steel cylinder about a foot long and two inches across. Both ends were rounded, with a squarish valve assembly at one. “This is it, right?”

“From what I can tell it has to be,” Orwell said. “There’s a lab set up in one of the back bedrooms, but I haven’t been able to find any other signs of the agent. No other containers. Just supply bottles and condensers with residue. I’ll have those analyzed by morning to be sure that this was it, but best-guessology is yes, that’s it.”

“Did you see anything else of interest?” Frankie asked.

Orwell’s head moved up and down behind the face shield. “A bunch of cash in a bedroom. One of my men did a quick count — twelve thousand.”

“I’m not surprised,” Frankie said.

There was no need being delicate now, Art figured. He rolled the man sideways in the cramped hallway, but found nothing in his pockets. Easing him back, Art next picked up the cylinder, testing its weight with small tossing actions, “This thing is small.”

“It doesn’t take much,” Orwell commented.

Art thought on that for a moment, looking around the confined hallway. “How did all this happen?”

“An accident,” Orwell said. “It has to be. Probably when this guy was handing it off to your fugitive. That valve on top probably also activates the mixer.”

“You say ‘probably’ a lot,” Frankie said from behind the captain.

“We prefer absolutes,” Art said. “It makes the report writing a whole bunch easier.”

“What else could it be?” Orwell wondered. “This guy here prob — makes a batch of VX for Allen, then, when he’s giving it over something goes wrong. It makes sense.”

Art nodded halfheartedly and set the cylinder down. He could feel the sticky liquid even through the sensation-numbing gloves. “Probably.”

“Can we get a forensic team in here tonight?” Frankie asked.

“Sure, but they won’t be able to take anything out. We’ve got a camera the haz-mat team set up that can feed pictures back to the van. That’s about the extent of what they’ll be able to take — pictures.”

“We’ll take that,” Art said, standing and pulling back.

“Ten minutes’ lead time,” the warning came over the radio on Orwell’s belt.

“Sarge is on top of the time,” Orwell explained. “Time to start heading back.”

This time Frankie was in the lead as they left the house, but Art and Captain Orwell almost ran into her as they came through the door.

“What is it, partner?” Art asked, knowing Frankie’s I see something posture even through the added layers of protection.

“Allen’s waistband,” she answered, walking toward the fugitive as the artificial rain pelted her from above.

Art came around the captain and joined his partner once again next to Allen’s body, still rolled on its side. That had not changed. But something had. The thoroughly soaked jacket, which had clung to his body, had slid under the weight of the continuing downpour to the ground, revealing the back of Frederick Allen’s waist.

Frankie eased the pistol from its place tucked in the small of Allen’s back. It was a .380, she saw. Then she saw its other distinctive feature.

“A silencer?” Art said, cocking his head to look at Frankie. “Why the hell…”

“Maybe he was planning to use it,” Frankie suggested. “Freddy liked noise, but maybe this needed to be used quietly.”

“Against John Doe inside,” Art added. “He makes the stuff, then when Freddy comes to pick it up he also plans to cut the trail off by killing him. But the guy decides to use the stuff on Freddy when he gets wise to what’s going to happen.”

“ That makes more sense than an accident, considering Freddy’s nature,” Frankie said. Allen was a thug, pure and simple, and he preferred to solve situations with force. That fit the scenario they were envisioning, but not his involvement in the bigger picture. There was almost too much finesse in all this. Too neat for Allen.

“A gun,” Orwell said, looking over their shoulders.

Art stood up again. “I think your accident theory needs reworking. But we may be glad Freddy acted true to form.”

Even Frankie didn’t follow Art’s line on that comment. “How do you figure?”

“If he had just been an honest thug the transfer might have gone down without a hitch,” Art posited. “Then this shit would be out there somewhere. And I gather from what you’ve said, Captain, that he could have killed a hell of a lot more people than we lost here.”

Orwell nodded. “Many more.”

“Let’s hope this was all they were able to make,” Frankie said.

“It probably is,” Orwell semi-assured her.

“Make sure ,” Art said. “Allen may be dead but he hung with some folks who wouldn’t hesitate to use any weapon they could get their hands on. I want to be damn sure none of this stuff got into the wrong hands.”

“I’ll know by tomorrow afternoon,” Orwell promised.

“Good.” Art looked down at the grouping of bodies one more time, focusing on the youthful face of Luis Hidalgo, Jr. He saw a bright, smiling, eager expression that practically screamed at the world to Watch out, I’m coming! That was the day of the young man’s college graduation, Art remembered. That face now was locked in a grimace, its mouth, eyes, and nose blotched with purple discoloration around their edges. But that was not how Art wanted to remember him. Unfortunately, it was probably all that Luis Hidalgo, Sr., was able to think of right now.

“Let’s get out of here,” Art said, taking the lead this time. Frankie and the captain immediately had trouble matching his pace.

Bud DiContino pulled the mouthpiece of the phone away and sipped his coffee from the mug emblazoned with the unit flash of the 358th Tactical Fighter Wing. The reunion of his old buddies from those “interesting” days flying suppression in Nam was four months past now, but he still felt a grin coming whenever the mug they’d presented him neared his lips. Awarded to him for being “Most Likely to Suck Seed,” it was ostensibly an informal commendation for being remembered as the lowest of the low when it came to flying, precisely where the Wild Weasel pilots had to drive their Thuds. Bud thought there might be something else in the wording of the award, though. Something to do with his present position in the West Wing. Something much less flattering.