David Baldacci - The Sixth Man

Michelle put her sandwich down again. “But that would only be possible if—”

“Excuse me?”

They both looked up to see the man in the jean jacket standing next to their table.

“Yeah,” said Sean, who looked annoyed at having allowed the guy to come right up to the table without him noticing.

“I was wondering if you two could step outside with me?”

“And why would we want to do that?” asked Michelle, whose right hand had snaked toward her own weapon and her left hand had curled into a fist.

“Let’s do this the easy way.”

“Let’s not do this any way at all,” she shot back.

The man reached inside his jacket, which was his first mistake.

Michelle swiveled, and her left leg shot out and caught him right in the gut. He was propelled back and hit the table against the wall.

His second mistake was coming at her again.

Before he could strike, Michelle had tagged him on the chin with a powerful swing kick that lifted him off his feet and put him on his back, out cold on the worn, yellowed linoleum.

Sean stood, looking down in shock at the man.

The few other patrons in the deli, mostly older folks, sat frozen in their chairs at the sudden violence.

Michelle looked at them and said, “Little misunderstanding. Someone will be in to get him shortly. Just return to your meals and, what the hell, order some dessert.” She pointed at the fallen man. “It’s on him.” She turned back to Sean and hissed, “I suggest we get out of here before a strike team interrupts our coffee.”

He threw some cash down on the table for the meal and said, “If he is a Fed we are in deep shit.”

“Look, he never flashed a badge. For all we knew he was going for his gun.” She edged his jacket open with the toe of her boot and the weapon was revealed.

“But still,” said Sean.

“Cross that bridge when we get to it. Personally, I’m a little tired of being pushed around by the badge-and-baton community. And patience has never been my virtue.”

“How is it that you actually passed the Secret Service entry psychological exam?”

“Easy. Lots of Diet Coke and a ton of chocolate.”

They left the deli by the rear door, circled around, and spied another car with another man in it. Michelle edged into her truck from the passenger side followed by Sean. She fired it up and had backed out before the driver in the sedan could react.

As Sean looked in the side mirror he said, “Driver doesn’t know what to do. Follow us or, okay, there he goes inside to check out what happened to his buddy.”

Michelle hit the road and sped up. The car didn’t follow them.

He said, “Two minutes from now there’ll be a BOLO out on us for attacking a Fed.”

“If he is a Fed.”

“Come on, the guy was screaming it.”

“Do we ditch these wheels and get another?”

“They’ll have markers in the system in five minutes. Our credit cards and driver’s licenses will pop up.”

“Then call Murdock, tell him what happened.”

“Are you out of your—” Sean’s face froze. “That is actually a brilliant idea.”

“Thank you. Cut him off at the pass and tell him some armed guy came at us. Wanted to warn him that something was up. When he says why the hell did we attack a Fed, we can plead ignorance.”

Sean was already punching in the number. He spent two minutes on the phone and did not let the FBI agent get a word in edgewise until the end. But whatever Murdock said did not sit well with Sean, by the look on his face.

“Yeah, I can give you a description. And the plate number.” He did so. He talked a bit more, answered two more questions and clicked off.

“Unless he’s a world-class liar, Murdock knew nothing about it.”

“Then the guy is not FBI?”

“So it’s another alphabet agency.”

“What about the BOLO?”

“CIA doesn’t use them. They go systemwide, the spooks have to explain stuff to the cops they don’t like to explain.”

Sean’s phone chirped and he looked at the text. Smiling, he looked over at Michelle. “Want some really good news?”

“That would be a really big yes.”

“This text is from my friendly local prosecutor. The kill round on Hilary Cunningham did not match your weapon.”

“Then I didn’t shoot her?” The relief on Michelle’s face was overwhelming.

“No, you didn’t. Which means someone else killed her either there or somewhere else and brought her body there in order to frame you.”

“Maybe just like Edgar Roy?”

“Maybe.”

“But they had to know the police would get the ballistics run.”

“I didn’t say they wanted to have you convicted of the crime. Just screw things up for you for a while. Mess with your head.”

“Okay, on that point they succeeded. So what did ballistics show? Was it another round from the .45 that almost hit me?”

“No. Nine-by-nineteen-millimeter Parabellum jacketed hollow-point.”

“If you seek peace, prepare for war,” said Michelle. He looked at her curiously. “The word parabellum is derived from a Latin saying that means: ‘If you wish for peace, prepare for war.’ That was the motto of the German weapons manufacturer that made the Parabellum round based on Georg Luger’s design. It’s also called the nine-millimeter Luger, as distinguished from the Browning round, for example.”

“You are a positive treasure trove of ballistic jewels.”

“The nine-millimeter Luger is also the most popular military cartridge in the world and is used by the majority of the police forces in the US. Who was the manufacturer and what was the load?”

Sean looked at his phone screen again. “Double Tap. Gold Dot JHP load. Hundred and fifteen grain.”

“Okay, that has a one-stop rating of over ninety percent and a penetration factor in excess of thirteen inches. Not in the league of a .44 or .357 Magnum load, but still plenty powerful. It can definitely deliver hydrostatic shock wounds.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning a hit to the chest can cause the target’s brain to hemorrhage.”

“So it obviously wasn’t the round used to kill Bergin.”

Michelle shook her head. “No way. That ordnance would’ve gone through the skull at contact range. It never would’ve stayed in the head.”

“That’s interesting. Then the odds are whoever killed Bergin didn’t murder Hilary Cunningham.”

“That’s right. So what now?” she asked.

“I say we go back to Maine.”

“Plane?”

Sean shook his head. “Stop and get a big cup of coffee. We’re driving.”

“Can I get my gun back from the local cops before we go?”

“With my blessing.”

Michelle floored it.

CHAPTER

31

TWELVE HOURS LATER, they were in Boston, where they stayed overnight at a hotel. They hadn’t gone all the way to Machias, Maine, because even Michelle’s mega-caffeine pop had worn off and she’d slid into the backseat for some shut-eye after seven hours of piloting. After five hours at the wheel of the Land Cruiser, Sean’s eyes had begun to close once too often. After a few hours’ deep sleep and an early start the next morning, they pulled into the parking lot of Martha’s Inn in the early afternoon.

Megan Riley met them outside the front door. “Agent Murdock is an asshole,” she snapped.

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” said Sean.

“A nicer way than I would have,” added Michelle.

“What did the FBI want to know?” he asked.

“Everything. But I told them zip. I’m Roy’s legal counsel. They can’t bully me around even though they tried.”