Stuart Woods - Two-Dollar Bill

STONE SAT in his study with Lance. They were on their second Knob Creek.

"Don't worry," Lance said. "These fellows are very good; when they're through, not even luminol will pick up the bloodstains."

"That's a great comfort," Stone replied. He stared at Lance, who seemed perfectly calm, even a little bored. "I don't understand you," he said. "Two of your men are dead, and you're just sitting there, calmly drinking bourbon."

"What else is there for me to do?" Lance asked. "I've alerted my people to look for Billy Bob. I'm here now, only to see that the cleanup people do a good job, so you won't think I left a mess."

"The two dead guys are a mess."

"They've been cleaned up, too."

"What about their families? Shouldn't you be contacting them?"

"They don't have families," Lance said, "and they didn't seem to love anyone, except each other. It's one of the reasons I chose them, along with their special-operations backgrounds."

"So, they were trained killers?"

"Indeed."

"It seems that Billy Bob was even better trained."

"I've been pondering that," Lance said. He must have had a knife they didn't find when we picked him up. When they untied him to undress him, well…"

"So, where did Billy Bob get good enough to kill two of your former special ops guys with a knife?"

"He had the advantage of surprise."

"There are only two ways somebody could do that-training or experience. Or both."

"There's always luck," Lance said.

"You don't believe that for a moment."

"No, I don't. We're doing a records check on Harlan Wilson; if that's his name, and if he was ever in some special unit, we'll find out. We're also questioning the driver of the Hummer and going over the car for fingerprints. One way or another, we'll find out who he is and where he sprang from."

"Let's get back to you," Stone said.

"Me?"

"Who the fuck are you, and how did you get to be this cold and hard?"

Lance shrugged. "I am who you know me to be. As you said, training, experience. Both, actually. And commitment. You lack commitment, Stone."

"Commitment to what?"

"To anything."

"I'm committed to the law and to…" Stone stopped.

"Yes? Finish that statement, please."

"No, you tell me what you're committed to."

"I," Lance said, "am committed to the preservation and success of my country and its way of life, and to the means my people have contrived to ensure that state of affairs."

"Well, that's succinct. Do you have no doubts about the means?"

"Not so far," Lance said. "Perhaps one day I'll run into a situation that might cause doubts. If so, I'll deal with them as best I can."

"Where do you draw the line? Murder? Mass murder?"

"The people who oppose us have no line," Lance said. "Otherwise, the World Trade Center would still be standing and three thousand dead people would still be alive. We cannot fight this enemy with reservations and qualms. If we do that, they will win."

"And how long must we do that? A year? A century?"

"For as long as it takes; forever, if necessary. Until we kill them or until they crawl back into their holes and pull the dirt in after them."

"There are hundreds of millions of potential recruits for them, standing in line, waiting their turn."

"They'll tire of their sport, when they don't win. Anyway, perhaps our leaders and diplomats will eventually find a solution someday. Until then, there is only me-and people like me-to stand between them and my country, between them and you."

"And what about Billy Bob? Is he worth the effort you're making, the price you've paid?"

"Billy Bob is one of an army of ants, and the only way to stop ants is to kill them all. He's a particularly harmful ant, since he's found a way to help that army use our own deadliest weapons against us. By the way, he took back the two grenades we found on him, so he has all thirty-six again. Do you want to see them used in Times Square on New Year's Eve? Isn't it worth whatever we have to do to Billy Bob to keep that from happening?"

"I wish I knew," Stone said.

"And what are you willing to do to him, Stone, to keep him from killing you? That seems to be his most immediate plan."

"Yes, he told me. I'm willing to kill him, if I have to, to keep him from killing me, but I'm not willing to torture him to death."

"Would you be willing to torture him to death to keep him from causing the deaths of those thousands in Times Square?"

"I don't know. I envy you your certitude, Lance; it relieves you of conscience or ethics. You're like those religious fundamentalists who believe that they know all the answers."

"Who knows?" Lance said. "Maybe they do."

"People who believe they have all the answers are always wrong," Stone said.

"I know my position may seem harsh, but I wouldn't trade places with someone who can't decide what his position is."

A man Stone hadn't seen before came up the stairs from the basement, carrying a wooden box, half the size of a briefcase. "They're about done down there," he said, "and they did a good job. You want to check?"

"Yes," Lance said, standing up.

"And you asked me to bring this." The man held out the box.

Lance took it and handed it to Stone. "This is for you."

Stone opened the box and found a Keltec.380 pistol, a silencer, three loaded magazines, one in the gun and two in a pouch, and a small holster.

"This is my personal advice to you, Stone, off the record," Lance said. "When you encounter Billy Bob again, shoot him twice in the head immediately. If you try to take him or reason with him or wound him, he'll kill you. My people don't want him dead, and that's supposed to be what I want, but I'm fond of you, in my way, and I wouldn't want to lose your life because you underestimated Billy Bob, as I have tonight."

Lance went down the stairs, leaving Stone alone with his conscience.

STONE SLEPT, or rather, didn't sleep, with a.45 under his pillow, cocked and locked. As his mind raced through the night, considering alternatives, he considered Arrington. He had been out with her in public twice, and had perhaps been photographed or videotaped in her company, and that troubled him. He waited until after 7 a.m. to call her.

"Hello?" she said sleepily.

"Hi, it's Stone."

"Good morning," she said, her voice husky with sleep and, maybe, something else. "Did you conclude your business last night?"

"Not really," he said. "May we have breakfast together in your suite?"

"All right."

"Order me some bacon and eggs; I'll be there by the time room service delivers."

She gave him the room number. "See you then." She hung up.

Stone grabbed a shower and threw some things in a bag, then packed a Halliburton aluminum case with a couple of guns and ammunition. Then, with considerable reluctance, he went down to the garage. The place looked as it had before two men had been murdered there, but cleaner and neater. He got the car started and backed into the street, checking all around him, fore and aft, for any strange vehicle.

He pulled away and turned up Third Avenue, watching to see if a car, any car at all, followed him. None did. He drove up to the Carlyle on the Upper East Side, parked his car in the hotel's garage and walked next door to the lobby, again watching his back.

Arrington answered the door in a beautiful nightgown with a matching pegnoir, her blond hair brushed back but with no makeup. "Good morning."

"I'm sorry to get you up so early," he said, "but it's important."

The doorbell rang. Stone sent Arrington back to the suite's living room and looked through the peephole. A room-service waiter gazed blankly back at him. He let the man in and let him set up the rolling table; Arrington signed for their breakfast, and he left.