Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

“You’re not in charge here,” Rayner said. “Why should I have to listen to you?”

“Mutual assured destruction. That’s why.” Tim stared at Rayner until Rayner looked away, then slid into his chair. “Your comments were unsubtle and reckless. Don’t do that again, or anything like it. If something shows up in the press, I’ll know if it smells like you. Before we act, we agree on matters here. That’s an inviolable rule.”

The others were present, but without Dumone there seemed an imbalance. Some element of gravitas had been lost. Before, they’d been a commission; now they were just six pissed-off people in a room.

They all kept their picture frames turned in like mirrors; the Stork alone positioned his facing away from him. To Tim’s right, Dumone’s wife peered out from her still-present frame, gazing at the empty black chair before her. Not for the first time, Tim thought about what cheap props the photos were. Facile, like a gimmick for one of Rayner’s chat shows.

Ananberg observed Tim silently from the seat beside him. She looked spent, strung out on an adrenaline hangover. They were all beaten up-Robert in particular. He still hadn’t raised his head. It had been a hellacious twenty-four hours, between the Debuffier execution and Dumone’s stroke. Only the Stork and Rayner, shielded by their inherent yet opposite superficialities, remained imperviously alert.

Rayner took a sip of water. “I’d like to finish the media recap now.” A shuffling of papers. “On CNBC last night-”

“The instant we became aware that Debuffier had a live victim in hand, the sole objective should have been rescuing her and saving her life.” Tim spoke with Dumone’s resolve and authority, and, as when Dumone spoke, the others were silent. “The only valid reason to kill Debuffier would have been as a necessary tactic to extract the victim, which it was not. I had injured him nonfatally-”

Robert spoke slowly and vehemently. “I shot Debuffier because it was the quickest way to get to the victim.” He finally pulled his head up, revealing his face.

“No. You shot him because you wanted to play hero.”

“We voted he should be executed,” Mitchell said. “He was executed.”

“There was no longer a need to execute him. He was committing a crime that could have put him away. We could have secured him and turned matters over to the proper authorities.”

“Then we would have had to stay with him and gotten caught,” Robert said.

“We do not kill people to avoid getting caught,” Tim said. “If covering your own ass is your primary objective, you don’t belong here.”

“Come on,” Mitchell said. “The guy had a torture victim captive in his basement, for Christ’s sake. What are the odds that we’ll stumble into a situation like that again?”

“These are not predictable situations. We never know what we’re going to stumble into.”

“Then you should be grateful I thought to come prepared, since you sure as hell weren’t. You were busy riding my ass for bringing my det bag. Without it we wouldn’t have gotten through that door.”

A laugh escaped Tim. “You hold that to be a well-planned, well-executed mission? You think you can take control operationally? With that?” He turned to Rayner-who wore a worried, atypically passive expression-and Ananberg, looking for support.

“We met our mission objective,” Mitchell said.

“The outcome isn’t the only thing that matters,” Ananberg said.

“No? Isn’t that our argument? The ends justify the means?”

Robert was gazing at the table, fingers drumming the granite; Mitchell had become the mouthpiece.

“The means are the ends,” Tim said. “Justice, order, law, strategy, control. If we lose sight of that when we operate, the whole thing comes unwound. Results do not override rules.”

“Look, what happened, happened-there’s no need to go pulling pins on a sweat grenade now. Robbie got a little fired up and jumped the gun on our basement entry-”

“He was unpredictable, dangerous, and off his game.” Despite the heat the argument was generating, Tim had yet to raise his voice, a restraint Dray abhorred in him.

“People fuck up sometimes.” Robert seemed unsettled and highly agitated. “No matter what happens, an operation can spin out of control. We’ve all had that happen.”

“Calm down, Robert,” Mitchell said sharply-the first severe note Tim had heard either twin use with the other.

“The guy was poking holes in her.” Robert’s voice, unusually high, shook from the memory.

“We can’t act emotionally during a live operation,” Tim said. “An untimed entry like that gets us killed five times out of ten. We lose our angle, our element of surprise, tactics, strategy-everything.”

Mitchell leaned forward, his jacket bunching tight at the biceps. “I understand.”

Tim turned his stare to Robert. “He doesn’t.”

Robert rose to a half crouch above his chair. “What’s your fucking problem, Rackley? We killed the prick. Instead of riding my ass for going in two seconds early, why don’t you think about what we did accomplish? Think of the puke off the streets, put down, never again eyeing a sister, a mother, a girl at a bus stop.”

Even across the table, Tim picked up a hint of alcohol on his breath. “The point of this, of us, is not merely to kill. Do you understand that?” Tim waited impatiently, glaring back at Robert. “If not, get out.”

Tim found himself thinking about what angle he’d take on a jab if Robert came across the table at him. Mitchell rested a hand on Robert’s shoulder and pulled him gently back down into his chair. The Stork’s head was bent; he rubbed his thumbnail with the pad of his forefinger, an annoying, repetitive gesture that called to mind autism.

Robert’s voice was so low it was barely audible. “Of course I get it.”

Tim fixed him with a stare. “Why the face?”

“What?”

“You shot him in the face. That’s a highly personal kill shot.”

“Your blowing up Lane’s head I would hardly label dispassionate,” Rayner said.

“Lane’s head shot was strategic to ensure the safety of those around him. This was specifically not. You’re supposed to aim at critical mass. If the gun kicks high, you still get the neck. A chest shot has more stopping power, too, especially with a big guy.”

Rayner’s eyebrows were raised, frozen in an expression of distaste or respect.

“So I shot Motherfucker in the face. What are you saying?” Robert was flushed, the muscles of his neck pulled taut.

“You’re not starting to enjoy this, are you?”

Robert stood up again, but Mitchell yanked him back down. He stayed in his chair, eyeing Tim, but Tim turned to face Mitchell. “And what’s this about a rare explosive wire linking the explosives?”

“It’s media horseshit. I use standard wires. There’s no way they could link them.”

“Well, someone in forensics knows the two executions are linked and leaked that fact, with a slight skew, to the media. How do they know? And so quickly? It had to be the explosive.”

Mitchell grew finicky under Tim’s glare.

“That wasn’t a commercial blasting cap, was it, Mitchell?”

“I don’t use anything commercial, not for a key component. Don’t trust it. I make all my own stuff.”

“Great. So could forensic analysis determine that the initiation portion of your homemade blasting cap was similar to the earpiece device? This is LAPD bomb squad we’re talking about, not some Detroit Scooby-Doo with a magnifying glass.”

“Maybe.” Mitchell looked away. “Probably.”

“Who gives a shit anyway?” Robert said. “It doesn’t affect anything.”