Greg Rucka - Patriot acts

"No, thanks," I said.

His response was to tilt the glass and deliver half of what he'd poured down his throat.

The room was a queen, and Trent had kept it orderly. On the nightstand closest to the window he'd placed the photographs of his wife and daughter. The golf bag he'd used to transport the rifle was visible leaning against the wall beside the closet, and the weapon itself was lying on a bath towel on the bed, as if he had just completed a fieldstrip of it. Perhaps he had. The rifle was a Robinson Armament M96, the same model that Natalie had favored, the same model that Alena had used to kill Oxford three and a half years earlier.

Trent finished his drink, and set the glass down on the papers resting on the desk. From where I was standing I could see the rows and columns of numbers Alena had helped him to prepare.

"She liked you," Trent said, and he was looking at the pictures on his nightstand. "That counts for something, I guess."

"She loved you," I told him. "That never changed."

"No, it wouldn't have." He kept his eyes on the photographs, speaking to them as much as to me. "I wanted to protect her. I hated that she followed me into Sentinel because I worried she would get hurt, and I loved that she wanted to follow her father."

I rolled the suppressor out of my pocket and into my left hand, then took the Smith amp; Wesson from my waist. The suppressor fit it perfectly, tightening smoothly into place.

"She was the most precious thing in the world to me."

Trent coughed, clearing his throat, then faced me again.

"I don't care why you do it, Atticus," he said. "Do it for your country. Do it for the money. Do it for her. But make that bastard pay."

"We all do," I said.

Then I shot him twice in the head.

According to Panno, the fallout went like this:

Fifteen hours after I'd killed him, Elliot Trent was found dead in his room by housekeeping. The hotel called the police, and shortly after their initial analysis of the crime scene, a homicide lieutenant with the Baltimore Police Department in turn called the FBI. Said lieutenant then informed the Special Agent in Charge that he had reason to believe the murder victim discovered in the Baltimore Marriott Waterfront Hotel had been planning to assassinate White House Chief of Staff Jason Earle.

The FBI took over the investigation, and as a matter of course, took all of the evidence that the Baltimore PD had collected, including the victim's personal belongings and those items deemed to be in his possession at the time of his death. They found a high-powered rifle, suitable for sniping. They found two maps of Chevy Chase, Maryland, and each had been marked with notations by a hand determined to be Trent's, and each highlighted Earle's home, as well as the most likely routes he was liable to take to and from work. They found three sheets of what at first glance were determined to be math computations, but were quickly identified as firing solutions of the kind that would be prepared by a sniper. They found two photographs, one of Trent's late daughter, another of his late wife.

They found nothing by way of evidence that might explain who had murdered Trent, or why.

Three days after the discovery of Trent's body, a special agent from the Bureau's headquarters in D.C. met with the White House chief of staff to brief him on what had been found. While the identity of Trent's killer remained a mystery, the circumstantial evidence surrounding the discovery of Trent's body led to an alarming conclusion. At the time of his death, Elliot Trent had quite clearly been planning to assassinate Jason Earle.

Whether or not the attempt would have been successful, the agent could not say. But without a doubt, Trent's intention, ability, and willingness to attempt the act were clear. As to his motive, all the agent could offer was that, given the presence of the two photographs, it was possible that Trent felt that Earle was in some way responsible for the deaths of his wife and daughter. Why Trent would think that was anyone's guess.

Upon being asked, the agent assured the White House chief of staff that every effort was being made to locate and apprehend Trent's killer. The agent confessed that, without either witnesses to the crime or any evidence at the scene, he didn't hold out much hope. Even before Trent's body was discovered, I was back in Alena and Panno's company, this time in Charlotte, instead of Wilmington. With Trent's death, the location on Peden Point had to be abandoned, and upon my departure the two of them had gone to work on the house. They'd removed all signs that anyone other than Trent had ever lived there, and left behind just enough of the research we'd done on Earle to hopefully support the FBI's theory of the crime should a search of the premises take place.

Then Panno and Alena drove the almost four hours to Charlotte. By the time I met up with them shortly after one the next morning, they were already settled into the house Panno had rented off Commonwealth Avenue, opposite a power substation. It was a small place, two bedrooms and one bath, and with the three of us in it and the strange energy now flowing between us, it was going to be both awkward and intimate. Alena greeted me with a wan smile and a cup of herbal tea. Panno took my arrival as his cue to start drinking.

Panno left for D.C. the following afternoon, and for the next eight days, Alena and I occupied ourselves as best we could. Mostly, we stayed indoors. The Danielle and Christopher Morse story had all but vanished from the news cycle at this point, but we were still wary.

Elliot Trent had gambled his life on a chance at drawing Jason Earle out into the open. Neither Alena nor I wanted to do anything to diminish that sacrifice, nor to squander the opportunity we hoped it would create. Panno returned nine days after Trent died, arriving in the early evening and driving yet another car, this one a big blue Ford pickup. He'd brought groceries and other household necessities to restock our stores, and as we unpacked everything in the kitchen, he told us the good news.

"Earle's scheduling appearances again."

Alena, who had been sorting the fresh fruit and veg into the refrigerator, actually blew out a sigh of relief.

"What do you have?" I asked him.

In answer, Panno handed over four folded sheets of paper, and I settled with them and him at the kitchen table. Alena finished with the groceries and then went to fetch the MacBook, and when she joined us I gave her the pages and booted up the Web browser, jumping online via a neighbor's unsecured wireless connection.

"It's a pretty full schedule," I remarked to Panno.

"Figure he's been saying no so often he was eager for a chance to start saying yes." Panno scratched at the rough stubble along his cheek. "You guys took a hell of a risk. Hell of a fucking risk."

Alena, looking over the schedule, said, "Earle had to believe the danger Atticus and I pose to him is ended. By making Trent the threat, and by allowing Earle to conclude that we were the ones who dealt with it, he can now believe the matter is finished."

"And that's not assumptive as all hell? You don't think that Earle just looked at the situation and concluded that instead of just one threat-the two of you-there were actually two of them?"

"Assumptive or not, his schedule tells us he bought it," I said.

"Or maybe his schedule is telling you that you're being set up."

Alena was on the third of the four sheets, and she didn't look up. "That is, of course, possible."

"But you don't think it's likely."

"Maybe," I said. "Earle's spent four years trying to solve the problem of Alena and me, John. He's burnt capital, connections, favors, and something like twelve of Gorman-North's best guns. He has to want this over and done with as much as we do. He wants to believe we're walking away."