Дэвид Балдаччи - Long Road to Mercy

Pine checked her watch. “Okay, you still have time to catch your flight. You have my number and I have yours. Let’s keep in touch.”

Fabrikant seemed surprised by her acquiescence. He said, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We don’t know what tomorrow holds.”

They rose and walked together to the gate, where they ran into two uniformed men.

And then all bets were off.

Washington Metropolitan Airport Authority.

That was what the emblems on their uniforms and their shiny badges said.

There were a pair of them, lean, muscled, veined forearms, each with dead-eye stares, each with one hand on the gun belt buckle and the other close to the butt of the holstered pistol.

The man on the right looked at Pine. “Special Agent Pine?”

Pine inclined her head, her eyes running from the top of the cop’s head to his feet. She returned her gaze to his face. “What’s up?”

The other cop said, “We’ve got instructions to take you in and hold you.”

“Instructions from whom and hold me for what?”

“We weren’t given those details, ma’am, only to take you in and hold you until persons come for you.”

“Where do you intend to hold me?”

“We have a facility here.” He glanced at Fabrikant and Blum. “And your friends, too.”

Fabrikant said, “I have a flight to catch.”

The first cop shook his head. He took his cap off, revealing his buzz cut, and wiped his face. He replaced his cap. “No can do. Sorry.”

Pine said, “Your instructions said ‘friends and acquaintances, too’? ‘Take and hold’?”

“We just do what we’re told, ma’am. Please come this way.” He pointed to a door to his left. It was a secure door requiring a key card entry.

Pine glanced at it and then looked around the crowded airport. “Okay, let’s go.”

They escorted them to the door where one of the officers swiped his card and opened it. They passed through into an empty hallway.

“Where to now?” asked Pine. “You have a holding cell down here somewhere?”

“That’s right.”

“Can I make a phone call?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Just following instructions.”

“You say that a lot.”

“I say it because it’s true.”

“Can I talk to a superior then?”

“Why? You have a complaint?”

“Yeah, I do, but on second thought, I’ll just deliver it directly to you.”

Pine landed a roundhouse kick to his head that dropped him on the spot. When he tried to get up, she put him down for good with a brutal elbow jab to the back of his head. He fell heavily to the floor and didn’t move.

When his partner reached for his gun, Blum already had hers out and pointed at his head.

“Just keep your hands right where I can see them, and we don’t have a problem. You make a grab for that gun, I will shoot you very, very dead.”

She had assumed a classic Weaver’s shooting stance that demonstrated quite clearly that she could easily execute on her threat.

“You’re making a big mistake,” growled the man.

“Christ!” exclaimed Fabrikant. “You just attacked a cop.”

“That’s right, she did, now put the gun down,” the man said to Blum.

“That won’t be happening,” said Blum.

Fabrikant said, “Please do as he says. We could get shot.”

“If I put down my gun, we will get shot,” replied Blum.

Pine pulled her weapon and said to the man, “On your knees, now.”

The man exclaimed, “You’re in a world of trouble, lady.”

Pine flicked her pistol. “On your knees. I won’t ask again.”

The man got on his knees.

As soon as he did, Pine clipped him on the back of the head with the butt of her pistol. He grunted in pain and fell forward, unconscious.

With Blum’s assistance, she pulled the men together and zip-tied them.

“Brings back fond memories of that rest stop in Tennessee,” noted Blum. “Men doing stupid things. It never seems to have an end.”

“Oh my God,” cried out Fabrikant. “You attacked two police officers.” He added angrily, “And you made me an accessory. I could go to jail.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Pine.

“But I saw you do it. You can’t deny that.”

“That’s not her point,” said Blum.

Fabrikant snapped, “Then please elucidate the point , because it is not obvious to me.”

“Her point is that they’re not real police officers,” said Blum.

Fabrikant retorted. “What are you talking about?” He pointed down at the men. “They’re in uniform, for God’s sake. They were taking us into custody.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Pine. “They’re fakes.”

“How do you know that?”

Blum pointed to the chest of one of the men. “No name tags. Big mistake number one. No cop forgets their name tag. In fact, you don’t get cleared to go on duty without it. Have to have a face with a name for lots of reasons.”

“And they’ve got on the wrong shoes,” said Pine, pointing at the men’s loafers. “Those are no-no’s for active duty time.”

She next pointed to one of the holsters where the muzzle of the weapon was sticking out of the bottom. “Not to mention, ‘real’ police officers do not keep suppressor cans on their pistols.”

“Three strikes and you’re out,” opined Blum.

Fabrikant looked down at the men. “You’re saying that these men are imposters?”

Pine nodded. “Seems to be a recurring theme in this case.”

Fabrikant looked at her, stunned. “Then... they were going to...”

“Shoot us in the head with suppressed rounds, I imagine,” said Blum calmly.

Pine said to Fabrikant, “Okay, go get on your flight. And find out what you can. And let me know ASAP.”

“But what about this?” he waved his hand at the men.

“They’ll be discovered at some point. And hopefully then their asses are going to be in the fire for impersonating two airport cops. Not my problem — which is good, because my bandwidth is limited.”

He nodded, looked once more at the fallen men, and bolted through the door. Pine and Blum followed and then headed in the opposite direction.

Pine said, “Okay, it was just like I was afraid of. Those two guys obviously had access to the TSA log that we were entered into to get through security.”

“They acted fast.”

“If you have the resources, you can act fast. But when you rush, you miss the small details. Name tags, shoes, and suppressor cans. That last one was actually a biggie.”

“Thank God for big mistakes, then. We get to live another day.”

“Day’s not over yet,” said Pine.

Pine fieldstripped both the Glock and the Beretta and took her time cleaning every molecule of both weapons.

Blum sat across from her while she did this at the kitchen table.

“Let me guess, your stress-relieving technique?” she said.

Pine didn’t look up. She ran a bristle down the muzzle of the Glock.

“Focus enhancer. Which also relieves stress,” she conceded. “You screw up on maintaining your weapon, it could cost you your life.”

Blum sipped a cup of tea and looked around the confines of the kitchen.

It was early the next morning, not long after dawn had broken, and light had started to seep in through the windows.

Both women looked tired and disheveled. Sleep evidently had not come easily to either.

Blum said, “When I was young, I could have seen myself happily cooking in a kitchen like this with six rug rats running around underfoot.”

Now Pine looked up. “But you did that, right?”

“Oh, I had the kids. But I didn’t have anything like this. We lived in a trailer that was about as big as this kitchen. Scott, my ex, couldn’t even afford a double-wide. He was too busy drinking his paycheck away. When he had a paycheck, that is.”