Stephen Hunter - Point Of Impact

“Swagger, we have six eight-man reactive squads in the area. We can have a SWAT team here in three minutes. We have choppers and dogs. You’ll never get it done. It’s over. You shouldn’t have come back.”

“I came back to bury my old dog, and nobody’s going to stop me. Now let’s get going.”

The three of them walked stiffly through the swinging doors.

“Now up here, to the left. You boys put him in the human morgue. That’s proper, because he’s a better man than most men, I’ll tell you.”

They reached the morgue.

“Here we are, Memphis. Don’t fuck this up like you fucked up Tulsa. You hit the first time, Pork.”

Nick blanched; his shame, yanked up out of the past on him. How had he known?

“Yes?”

It was Nivens, the county coroner, who’d done the autopsy on the dog.

“Uh, Dr. Nivens, my name’s Nick Memphis, FBI,” Nick said. Nick drew out his credentials and the three of them faced the runty little doctor.

“We’ve, uh, we’ve decided to send the dog’s body on to Washington for further testing and – ”

“Oh, God, Bob, Jesus, don’t shoot – ”

The doctor had recognized Bob even as Nick was talking. So Bob pulled the Colt out and said, “Now, don’t do anything stupid, Doc, I just come to get my damned poor old dog. Give him to this young fool here.”

But in the face of the pistol, the doctor simply surrendered; he was one of those natural victims eager to give up. He went to his knees and blubbered at Bob not to shoot him because he had three children, a mortgage, a sick wife.

“Where’s the dog, dammit?” Bob asked.

The doctor mumbled something about Number 7, and Bob gave Nick a shove in the direction of the drawer marked 7. Nick ambled over to it. He had a Colt Agent.38 snub in a ballistic nylon holster strapped to his ankle, in accordance with the new Bureau reg that permitted backup guns in units with high-contact probability, but the problem with an ankle carry is its awkwardness. He’d never get to the piece, get it unstrapped, get it into his big hands and find a shooting position before Bob had shot him several dozen times. But he knew that Howard had a piece on his ankle also and he was afraid that Howard, now furiously ashamed to be taken so easily and caught up in the drama of a collapsing career, might lose it and go for the piece and get himself and probably everyone else in the room killed.

Nick slid open the drawer; it was cool inside. The dog, wrapped in a human body bag, was light enough. He hoisted it.

“Fine,” said Bob, watching him, watching the doctor, watching poor Howard, “now bring him over here.”

“Swagger, give it up,” said Howard, “before somebody innocent gets hurt.”

“Now, sir,” said Bob, courtly as ever, “you just mind your own business and nothing sudden will happen to anybody. All’s I want is to bury my dog.”

Suddenly, they heard sirens.

“Colonel?” It was one of Payne’s men, an ex-cop, and he’d just caught up with Shreck in the corridor.

“Yes?”

“It’s Jack, in the Electrotek 5400 in Arkansas. He’s just monitored an FBI report from outside Blue Eye to the effect that they’ve got Bob Lee Swagger caught in the Polk County Health Complex. They’re just this second bringing in their SWAT teams and snipers, and the state cops and the local cops are pouring all kinds of stuff into the place.”

Shreck’s eyes acquired the color of ball bearings.

“I want you to get to Operations and bring it up off the shortwave on loudspeaker. I’ll be there in a second. And clear the room. I want to hear this one without a lot of asshole chatter from the teams.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right,” said Shreck.

He felt nothing: no elation, no dizzying blast of happiness, no relief. He was a professional. But in the tunnel that was his mind, he had just a split second of pleasure. It was about to end.

He raced toward Operations.

“All right,” said Bob, gesturing to Howard and the doctor. “Y’all lie down on the floor. Keep your heads down and don’t try anything foolish. You, chubby, you’re coming with me. Bring the dog.”

Abruptly, they stepped through the swinging doors, leaving the stunned victims in the morgue.

“Hold it,” Bob commanded.

He positioned himself next to the doors, and two seconds later they blew open to reveal Howard with his little.38 on a rampage, and Bob simply clipped him between the eyes with the hard butt of the.45, in a kind of insolent, backhanded swat, sending him down to the floor with a thump, his little revolver clattering away.

“Wasn’t he the stupid one?” he said laconically to Nick, who watched the whole thing in astonishment. “Now, this way,” Bob directed with his.45, as the sirens grew louder outside.

“You got every SWAT team in six states on your ass,” said Nick.

“Pork, you’re here to carry the dog, so why not just keep that mouth buttoned up?”

Everywhere they ran through the building they encountered frightened people who melted away with shrieks or faints. But no officers; Howard hadn’t gotten any men into the building yet and probably wouldn’t until the evacuation was complete.

Nick felt his Colt Agent jostling in the ankle holster; but he still had no good shot at getting it out, not with the eerily aware Bob shoving him down the hallway toward God knew what.

“Where we headed?” he asked.

“Shut up, Pork,” said Bob.

Suddenly the loudspeakers boomed through the hallways.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the FBI requests that you stay in your offices. There’s evidently a felon loose in the complex.”

“Jesus,” Nick said, “they got you now.”

A state police car whirled down Route 71 from Mena toward the health complex, siren blaring, blowing by the Electrotek van, which had been discreetly parked at a wayside stopover. Behind the police car came another and another. A helicopter churned overhead.

In the van, a scrawny ex-cop named Eddie Nicoletta and called Eddie Nickles, said, “His ass is grass.”

But Jack Payne didn’t say a thing. He just sat there listening to the orchestration of the law enforcement units over the radio intercept. Nothing showed on his mean little face.

The radio chattered on.

“Command, I got three State teams coming in.”

“Okay, good, Victor Michael Five, I want you to work ’em around back and coordinate with our sniper post.”

“Ten-four, Command. Are we green light?”

“That’s a negative, Victor Michael Five, we have a federal officer as a hostage, I repeat, we have a federal officer as a hostage. I’ll call the shot if it goes to it.”

“But suppose we get him clean?”

“Ah, we’ll have to get back to you, Victor Michael Five,” said the command voice.

“Fuckin’ feds,” said Nicoletta, “they take over and then they don’t know what the fuck their policy is. I remember this time, working narc, when – ”

“Shut up, Nickles,” said Payne. Then he turned to Pony, a Panther Battalion communications technician really named Pinto, and asked, “They getting this back at Dulles?”

“Loud and clear,” the Salvadoran said. “I tell you, man, with this stuff you could start a radio station.”

Another chopper roared down the road.

I want to be there , thought Jack Payne suddenly, a yearning going off in him like an inflating balloon.

But he sat tight.

“Don’t touch that dial,” he said.

Bob stopped to pull on the padlock of a door marked ENGINEERING ONLY. Magically, the lock popped open.

They stepped into a little closet. There was a grating on the floor and Bob bent to open it; beneath, Nick could see a metal ladder.

“That’s our ticket out, Pork. Get your ass and a half down there and then go to prone, on your belly, legs and arms spread. You make a stupid move, I’ll have to dump your bones here. Sad for a big boy like you to have to die over a dead dog.”