Joseph Finder - Guilty Minds

So far the surveillance was going smoothly.

Then, on H Street, an SUV barreled out of a parking garage immediately in front of me, without braking or signaling. I slammed on the brakes and cursed the guy. Living in Boston, I’m used to bad, or aggressive, drivers, but this was a close call. I veered around the SUV just in time to see the white Escalade turning left onto New York Avenue. I made it through the next set of traffic lights, but just barely. We passed the old Greyhound bus terminal, still recognizable even though it was undergoing construction to become an office building, like just about every other building in that part of town.

As we passed Twelfth Street, we entered Washington’s small Chinatown. The FedEx Office sign was half in Chinese, though not many Chinese people lived here anymore. When the light turned green, the Escalade jogged left on Sixth Street, then right on K. I maintained a good distance from Vogel’s vehicle, with two cars between us. I could afford to stay that far back as long as the Escalade was going straight.

I began to wonder where Vogel was going. We’d passed through the part of the city that most people consider downtown, which was the likeliest location for an office, I figured. Now we were entering a sketchier area. On the north side was Capitol Hill. I wondered if Vogel was heading to the Capitol, maybe to the Senate or House office buildings. But the white SUV kept going, into Northeast, still a few car lengths ahead of me. I still hadn’t been made, as far as I could tell.

Then the Escalade came to a traffic light as it was turning yellow. It barreled right through the intersection, and the Audi right in front of me braked.

I was trapped on the wrong side of the light. The Escalade kept going straight.

On my right was a Citgo station, situated right at the southeast corner of the intersection. I swung into the gas station, cut through the lot, turned left and then right, and I was able to catch a glimpse of a white vehicle halfway up the block. I accelerated, wove through traffic, and confirmed that it was Vogel’s Escalade.

We were driving through a landscape of liquor stores and car dealers and gas stations. The Escalade turned left on Franklin Street, and I followed, apprehensive. This was a lightly trafficked street in Brookland, the neighborhood around Catholic University. Even though I slowed to keep a good distance between us, I was still immediately behind them.

I didn’t understand why Vogel’s driver wasn’t taking evasive measures. How could he not have detected me by now? I’d followed them for miles through the city.

Either he wasn’t any good — not operationally skilled — or he wasn’t looking for a tail. Which was sloppy. Maybe the Centurions’ reputation for black-ops expertise was just overblown.

I passed by a block of connected brick row houses, each painted a different color. I followed the Escalade as it turned onto Rhode Island Avenue, which was heavily trafficked. I was relieved, because the traffic would provide cover. I let the Escalade get a few hundred feet ahead of me and watched it turn left onto Reed Street, which was small and not at all busy.

I hesitated. If I turned there, too, I’d be made right away. I’d already pushed my luck almost beyond the breaking point. Vogel’s driver still apparently hadn’t noticed me.

Unless he had.

And this was his attempt at a kind of countersurveillance called “dry-cleaning.” And he was waiting for me to turn left onto Reed Street — at which point he’d have flushed me out.

Or maybe this was a trap.

So I had a decision to make. Abandon the tail outright, which seemed foolish after coming this far. Or keep at it, and risk a confrontation, possibly armed. Those were the only choices I could see.

I turned slowly into the narrow street. Just in time to see the Escalade turning left again, a few hundred feet away.

I accelerated up the street and then stopped at the point where the Escalade had turned. It wasn’t a street so much as an alley, a cul-de-sac. On either side, a row of brick warehouses, hulking and dismal. Many of the windows looked broken. Some of the warehouse units appeared to be abandoned. But maybe not all of them. The Escalade had parked most of the way down the street, on the left. I saw Vogel and his driver get out of the vehicle and enter the last entrance to the warehouse row. Just before entering, Vogel glanced around.

The fact that the driver didn’t remain in the car told me this was probably not a business meeting. Was this, then, Centurion headquarters, in this mostly abandoned warehouse building?

It seemed possible. If not headquarters, then at least some kind of rendezvous location, and it bore closer inspection.

I parked the car on Reed Street. There were no other cars in the alley; driving down the cul-de-sac and then parking there would be risky. Approaching by foot would be risky, too. But less so.

With the scope I examined the section of the building that Vogel and his driver had just entered. No movement that I could detect. Still, I waited about fifteen minutes. No other cars approached. No one else came in or out.

Curtis Schmidt’s Glock was loaded — I’d bought a couple of boxes of ammo at a gun shop in McLean — but out of force of habit I thumbed the cylinder release latch and checked again. Jacketed hollow-point ammo to increase the odds of stopping them. Then I pulled out my shirt and stuck the pistol under my belt, under my shirttails, and got out of the car.

I started out walking along the row of warehouses, keeping close to the brick wall, approaching slowly. When I reached the doorway to the last warehouse, I stopped, kept still, listened.

The distant low murmur of voices from within told me there were at least two men inside, Vogel and his driver. Maybe there were others, but at least the two.

Given the element of surprise, I could easily handle two. More I could handle, just not as easily. After all, I wanted only to talk to Thomas Vogel.

I pulled out the pistol, cocked it, and, holding it in a two-handed grip, swiveled around to the entrance until I faced all the way in, the weapon at low-ready.

No one there.

Up six steps to a black-painted solid metal door. I stopped, listened. I heard the voices again, somewhat more distinctly. Shifting the gun to my right hand, I pulled the lever to the door. Very slowly. It moved; it was unlocked.

Now there was no turning back.

I made a split-second decision. The front doors of most homes swing inward, but the entry doors in most public buildings swing outward. For fast egress in case of fire. It’s common fire-safety building code.

So with one violent movement I yanked the door open, the pistol trained on the area to my right.

I was looking at an office room of some kind, plain and functional. I processed the details at once: a metal receptionist’s desk with a computer on it, a coat tree, a few chairs, gray wall-to-wall carpeting.

And on my left, a guy with a gun.

Pointed at me.

“Freeze,” he said.

Now I understood.

I stood still, the Glock I’d confiscated pointed at the guy.

His weapon was a semiautomatic pistol as well. It was matte black and looked like a Glock, too. He was a young guy, in his twenties, with a military haircut, high and tight. He was holding his pistol two-handed, his grip and stance expert. But he looked tense. He was blinking rapidly.

I didn’t like that. A tense guy with a gun could easily do stupid stuff.

“Put the gun down,” he said. His voice was high and strained.

“You first,” I said.

I was cursing myself for doing this without backup, a team, without at least one other guy. That had been both sloppy and arrogant. Or maybe I was simply being driven by my anger, which made me careless. Because I’d just walked right into a trap.