Andrew Gross: Reckless

“No one does.”

The police were still a long way off on the other side of the tracks. O’Toole took a step back on the platform, his only chance.

He said, “I served my country.” His gun was trained on Hauck’s chest. “But you probably know that, don’t you? I was a goddamn kid out of Oklahoma and they taught me how to use a gun and a knife. And I did it well. I don’t back down.”

Hauck met his eyes with equal intensity. “Nor do I.”

“Why?” O’Toole winced from the wound in his leg. “What’s your stake in this anyway? You’re not even a cop anymore. The girl I know-but you, why do you even fucking care?”

“You killed someone…”

“I killed a lot of people.” O’Toole chortled.

A siren blared from the parking lot as cop cars streamed in. Now O’Toole’s only way out was to go through Hauck to the woods. “Sorry, man.” He pointed the weapon at his chest. Hauck stiffened. “You’re just one more.”

He never heard a shot.

All he saw was O’Toole’s legs begin to buckle and reach for his back.

The first shot slammed in between his shoulder blades, straightening him. The second hit him in the thigh, making him stagger backward. His foot caught only air and he slipped through an opening in the railing, lunged to right himself, his hand grasping the platform just as he was about to fall over the edge.

O’Toole’s gun toppled over the side.

Hauck looked down. He saw Naomi, on the tracks, her arms still steady and extended, her gun raised.

He reached down for O’Toole.

“Lift me up,” the man said. He was about to fall and was clinging to the railing.

The front lights of the oncoming train were approaching fast.

Hauck wrapped his hands around the man’s wrists and pulled against his weight.

“Come on,” O’Toole urged him. Hauck gazed into the struggling man’s eyes.

And then he stopped.

O’Toole just seemed to hang like a sack of wheat, trying to climb Hauck’s arm. His gaze flashed to the advancing train and he said, “I can bring people down. I know things you would want to know.”

“I already know what you know,” Hauck said. “You asked me why. And I said you killed someone…” He felt the rumble of the oncoming train. O’Toole’s face started to grow panicked, and he grasped Hauck’s arm more forcefully.

“I told you I killed a lot of people…”

“I heard you”-Hauck looked in his eyes-“but I only care about one.”

He dangled O’Toole over the tracks as the trestles started to rattle. “You shot her in the closet, with her daughter, back in Connecticut…”

“I was paid to do that. To make it look like a break-in.”

“Her name was April, you sonovabitch. And this is a promise I made to her.”

O’Toole’s face froze. His gaze shot to the train that was almost upon him. A sheen of understanding lit his eyes.

Hauck let him go.

He fell, a dead weight, bouncing onto the lead car of the train. There was a thud and the body simply fell off to the side and disappeared, dragged under the wheels as the Metroliner rumbled by.

Hauck watched, the bridge trestles shaking, and bowed his head. He didn’t feel anger or satisfaction, just resolution. It was a promise I made to her. He heard the massive train’s brakes hiss and watched it come to an abbreviated stop.

When he looked up again, Naomi was staring at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Hauck stood with her off to the side while the EMTs lifted O’Toole’s body. He pressed a damp cloth against the burn on his own arm. Naomi had her shoulder immobilized under her jacket in a makeshift splint, but she’d declined any further treatment. “I couldn’t hold him,” he said. “He slipped out of my grasp…”

“We could have used his testimony,” Naomi said.

Hauck shrugged. “We don’t need it.”

“What was it he said to you up there?”

“That it wasn’t always like this. That he served his country.” Hauck picked up O’Toole’s hat, from the 101st Airborne, from the track. “He asked why I was here. What was in all this for me.”

“And what did you answer?” Naomi asked. She looked up at him in the same direct way she had after O’Toole had slipped to the tracks.

“That I was in it for a friend,” Hauck said. He eyed her wound. “You ought to get that shoulder looked at. Take it from a pro.”

She shrugged. “The bullet’s gone clean through. Makes me seem tougher. Anyway, the day’s not over. We still have some work left to do.”

“Yeah, I guess we do.” He grinned. “Any chance we can go the rest of the way by car?”

Naomi smiled, looking at him, and started to head back along the tracks in the direction of the station.

“Hey,” Hauck called after her, “one more thing…”

Naomi turned, a hand over her eyes, squinting against the sun.

“I have a daughter.” He tossed O’Toole’s hat back on the tracks and caught up to her. “I bet right now she’d like to put her arms around you and thank you for a helluva shot. As would I.”

Naomi smiled. She turned and headed back along the tracks. “Told you I knew how to use this thing.”

Only moments before, Thomas Keaton had stood behind the president on the White House lawn, outlining the details of the administration’s aggressive plan to brace the deteriorating economy.

His government car had just dropped him off at the guarded gate off Fifteenth Street behind the Treasury building, and he hurried through the marble three-story lobby where Alexander Hamilton, Salmon Chase, and Henry Morgenthau had all walked, followed by Mitch Hastings, his chief counsel, a group of House members expecting him upstairs.

Naomi stepped up. “Secretary Keaton…”

The Treasury head appeared caught by surprise. His gaze flashed to her arm, loosely hanging in a sling under her suit jacket. She stood, looking up at him, with a quiet but resolute stare that seemed to disarm him. “Agent Blum… I heard you were…”

“Heard I was what, sir, detained?”

“I heard you were injured,” he said, showing surprise. “But I’m relieved to see you’re okay. Come, walk me up to my office. I’ve just come from the president. I was told about Hassani. Dismal news…I’d like to hear your report.”

“This is Ty Hauck,” Naomi said. “I think you know his name.”

From against the wall, Hauck, his sport jacket ripped at the arm, came up to them. He stared into the shifting eyes of the white-haired government man who had come from years on Wall Street, where he had had a distinguished and lucrative career.

“Mr. Hauck.” Thomas Keaton extended his hand. “It’s great to finally meet you. You know Mitch Hastings. I’ve heard we owe you quite a debt of gratitude for what you’ve already done on this matter.” Hauck took his hand and stared into his eyes. The man seemed to flinch. “Walk with me. I’d like to hear what you both have to say.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Naomi said to him. “I was hoping we might spare you that and have that conversation here.”

The ruddy-complexioned, dark-suited Treasury man looked perplexed. “Spare me?” He glanced at Hastings.

“I’m afraid the secretary has an important meeting scheduled. There are House members who have carved out time from their schedules waiting for him there-”

“Which is why,” Naomi said, cutting him off, “it might be better if you heard what we had to say down here.”

An intransigence dug its way into Keaton’s jaw. Clearly, he wasn’t keen on being dictated to by an investigator. And one from his own staff. “Alright…” He stepped over to an isolated spot in the corner as people rushed by. “I’m listening, Agent Blum. Go on.”