David Baldacci: Divine Justice

Knox nodded. Gray and secrecy just naturally went together. "Is that connected to the usual suspects who have now been taken off the table? I have to say that revelation was a little out there."

The younger man answered. "But not all of us agree with that decision."

Knox looked from young man to old. "So what exactly does that mean? Are they off-limits or not?"

Hayes cast off a smile that was impossible to read. The man could have made a fortune with chips and cards in Vegas, thought Knox.

"Hard to say. As my colleague here mentioned, there's a split decision about that in the corridors that matter."

"So where does that leave me?"

"Treading cautiously, Knox, treading very damn cautiously." He tapped the box. "I was able to collect some things that I've placed in here. Including a few off-the-record items."

"You mean things that technically I'm not supposed to be privy to?" Knox was now missing his book and cozy town house even more.

"We'll just assume that's the case."

"I'm not looking to take a slug in the back of my head over this."

"I would add that neither am I."

"That doesn't give me a lot of comfort, sir, because if you're watching your back, I'm probably already dead."

"I want you to read everything, leave here, go home and think. Then call me."

"With questions or answers?"

"I would hope both."

"The guy's probably long gone by now." Real pros exit as well as they kill .

Hayes lightly tapped the tabletop with his long, bony fingers. To Knox they looked like miniature Medusas in the dim light. "Perhaps."

"Look, I can spin my wheels and report back zip. You tell me the parameters, General. I've played this game too long to get the rookie runaround."

Hayes rose, as did his companion; the master and his puppet. "Read, think, call. Good night, Knox. And best of luck."

Knox glared after the pair until they disappeared down the hall, the aircraft carrier and its faithful destroyer chugging through the storm-tossed seas of American intelligence. He lifted the lid of the box, pulled out a fistful of documents and started to read.

Best of luck said the cobra before it struck.

These were precisely the sorts of days where Knox wished he'd followed his old man into the plumbing business.

STONE'S BRIEF SLEEP was suddenly disturbed by what sounded very much like a fight. He blinked awake and looked around. The woman next to him was comforting her crying baby. Stone stared over several rows of seats at the cause of the ruckus.

It looked to be three against one, all in their twenties, where the testosterone surge frequently overrode all safety valves. Two held one while the third pounded away. Some of the passengers were making halfhearted calls for the men to stop, but no one had climbed from their seats to really do anything. Stone looked around for the conductor but didn't see anyone in uniform.

The kid being held was the one Stone had seen before, the former high school quarterback who held an angry chit against the world. His handsome face was taking another right cross to his already swollen left cheek. Blood ran down his nose as he struggled to free himself. He kicked and spit and lunged, but couldn't break loose as the third fellow laughed and landed a kick to the gut that doubled over Mr. Quarterback.

Okay, that's enough.

Stone sprang up from his seat, and when the hitter swung back to let fly with another blow, he grabbed the fist and pulled hard, almost knocking the fellow off his feet. He jerked around and stared at Stone, his anger dissolving to amusement.

The kid was at least five inches shorter than the six-two Stone, but nearly forty years younger and fifty pounds heavier.

"You want some of it, old man?" the kid mocked, raising his fists. "You want some of this?" He danced and juked around, his belly jiggling, his meaty arms flapping and the bling on them jingling. It was all Stone could do to keep from laughing.

"Just let him go and we call it square."

"He's a card cheater!" yelled one of the other punks as he gripped the quarterback's hair and ripped his head upward. "He cheated at poker."

"And I think you taught him a real tough lesson. So why don't you let him go."

"Who the hell are you giving orders?" the beefy kid with the cocked fists said.

"Let's just call it a day, fellows. You made your point. He's banged up pretty bad."

"Yeah, but you're not."

"Just trying to make the peace." Stone looked at the other passengers, many of whom were elderly. "You've scared everybody pretty bad."

"You think we give a shit?" He pointed at Stone. "Now, what you're gonna do, old man, is say you're sorry for bothering us and you're gonna turn yourself around and go sit down if you know what's good for you. Otherwise I'm gonna have to kick your ass too. Hell, I just might do it anyway 'cause I feel like it. How 'bout that?"

It had been a long day and Stone was already pissed that he couldn't even get ten minutes of sleep, so he said, "Just you? Or with your two buddies there helping?"

The kid smiled. "Oh, just me, granddad. But I tell you what, just so's my kicking your ass won't be over too fast, I'll only use one hand." He gave a little jab and Stone darted his head out of the way.

"Oh, looky here, pops can dance. You a good dancer, pops?" The kid suddenly kicked at Stone, who seized the leg and held on to it with an iron grip.

Beefy's face now turned scarlet as he hopped around on one leg. "Let me go, or I'm gonna hurt you bad. Let me go!"

"You get one more chance," Stone said.

The kid swung a fist out. And missed.

Stone's elbow to the side of his head didn't. Neither did the blow to the nose, with the kid's bone breaking on impact. The punk crumpled to the floor moaning and twitching.

The other two dropped the quarterback and started forward. One fell like he'd been axe-cleaved when Stone's foot smashed his crotch and then collided with his head. The other never saw the fist slam into his gut and then shoot up and crush his chin. He ended up on the floor of the train car next to his friends, holding his stomach and his face.

"What the hell's going on here?"

Stone turned to see the rotund conductor racing down the aisle, walkie-talkie and ticket puncher in hand and his Amtrak cap bouncing on his head.

Before Stone could say anything one of the punks he'd laid out yelled, "He attacked us."

The other passengers immediately started talking, telling their version of what had happened, but it all came out pretty garbled.

The harried train conductor looked over the mess of bodies on the floor, then turned to Stone and said, "You're the only one left standing. So did you hit these men?"

"After they attacked me. They said they caught that one cheating at cards," Stone said, pointing to the "glory days" kid who sat on the floor holding his bloody nose. "They wouldn't stop pounding the crap out of him and then they came after me." He pointed to the crowded floor. "You can see it didn't turn out the way they probably intended."

"Okay, let me see some ID," the conductor said.

"What about their IDs? I'm just the Good Samaritan. Ask any of these folks."

"That may well be. But I'm starting with you and I'll work my way through all of them. How's that for a plan?"

Stone didn't want to give the man his ID, because he knew if he did it would end up in an official record somewhere that the folks coming for him might be able to find and use. Besides it was a fake ID and wouldn't pass muster under a database check.

"Why don't you start and end with them while I just take my seat? I wasn't really part of any of this."

"Either give me some ID or I radio ahead for the cops who'll be waiting at the next stop." He pointed to the young men. "You too."