Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

I glance back at Tommy once. I grip my gun and crouch, waiting for the lull that has to come.

Everybody has to reload sometime.

The automatic weapon fire seems to go on forever. I know that this is an illusion; time elongates in battle, or becomes meaningless altogether. Sweat pours down my forehead. My head is throbbing, and the cordite in the air is starting to give me a metallic taste in my mouth. The silence is shocking when it comes. Its absence, after all that roaring, is almost a sound of its own.

I see Callie whip around the pillar, gun ready, and I'm rising as well, looking across the lobby now, searching for the hard-faced man--

I stop. My gun screeches in rage.

The front of the lobby is empty.

50

I RUN TOWARD THE ENTRANCE, FLY THROUGH THE METAL DETECtors, they squeal in protest. I register the unmoving body of a security guard. I can't tell if he's alive or dead.

I hit the doors with my shoulder and burst out onto the steps, breathing too hard, my gun in a two-handed grip.

Nothing!

I race down the steps and out into the parking lot. I whip my head left and right, trying to spot him. I hear the doors open and Callie arrives next to me, followed not long after by Alan.

"Where is he?" Callie snarls. "He just left!"

We hear the growl of a powerful car engine and the squeal of tires and I run toward the sound. I see a black Mustang racing away, lift my gun to fire . . . and then I realize: I can't be sure it's actually him.

"Fuck!" I scream.

"You got that right," Alan mutters.

I bolt back up the steps, taking them three at a time, through the doors again. Callie and Alan are on my heels.

The lobby is a picture of carnage. I see three bodies down and being attended to by other agents. At least four others have their guns out, while Mitch, the head of security, is talking on his walkie, his face grim. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with a trembling hand, and try to still my internal stress-and-battle voice. I'm still thinking in flashes. I need to move fast, but slow down inside.

"Check on James," I tell Callie.

I go over to Tommy. He looks a little better. His face isn't as white, though he's obviously in a lot of pain. I crouch down next to him, grip his hand with one of mine.

"You saved my life," I say, my voice shaky. "Stupid, heroic dingleberry."

"I--" He winces. "I bet you say that to all the guys who push you away from flying grenades."

I look for my own witty comeback and find that I can't speak for a moment. I don't love Tommy, not yet, but he matters more than any other man in my life since Matt. We're together.

"Jesus, Tommy," I whisper. "I thought you were d-d-dead." My tongue feels Novocain-numb and my stomach is fluttery and queasy. He stops trying to smile. He pins me with his eyes. "Well, I'm not. Okay?"

I don't trust my voice right now. I manage a nod.

"James is fine," Callie calls over, startling me, "but he'll need some stitches."

I look at Tommy. He smiles.

"I'm fine. Go."

I squeeze his hand a last time and stand on legs that I'm grateful to find steady. The elevator doors open up and AD Jones strides out, his weapon at the ready, a phalanx of armed agents at his back.

"What the fuck happened?" he barks, a near-yell.

"An intruder came in and tossed two grenades into the lobby," I say. "Then he opened up with an automatic weapon. He escaped out the front."

"Casualties?" he asks.

"I don't know yet."

"Do we know who the intruder was?"

"No, sir."

He turns to one of the agents who had come down with him on the elevator.

"I want agents guarding the front door. No one in or out other than medical personnel unless I personally authorize it. Get paramedics here fast, and in the meantime, triage the wounded. I want the agents that are most confident about their first-aid skills to get cracking."

"Yes, sir," the agent replies, and gets into action. AD Jones watches as the agents begin to move, as chaos starts to resolve under the dual dictates of training and command.

"You okay?" he asks me, giving me a critical eye. "You look a little gray."

"Stress," I reply. I reach back and feel my head where it had hit the marble floor. I'm relieved to feel just a bump and not blood. My headache is lessening, so I'm not worried about a concussion.

"We need to find out who this was, and what just happened," he mutters.

"Yes, sir," I reply.

He sighs in frustration and fury. "You saw the guy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was he Middle Eastern?"

"No, sir. Hispanic. Late thirties, early forties, maybe."

AD Jones curses at this.

"How the fuck did he get past security?"

"He didn't. He came through the front doors, lobbed some grenades, opened fire, and left."

He shakes his head. "How am I supposed to protect my people from that kind of threat?"

I don't reply. He's not really speaking to me.

"What do you want us to do, sir? Me and my team?"

He runs a hand through his hair, surveys the scene.

"Give me Alan," he decides. "Take Callie and follow the line on the subpoena."

In light of the moment, I'm dumbfounded.

"But, sir . . ." I wipe my forehead again. "Look, if you need us here, we're here."

"No. We're not stopping what we do because of this. Screw that. We'll have video of the perp from the security cameras in the next half hour. Between the agents in the building and the team Quantico's sure to be sending, manpower is going to be the least of my worries."

I don't reply. He scowls at me.

"I'm not asking, Smoky."

I sigh. He's right, he's the boss, and he's pissed, an unbeatable trio.

"Yes, sir."

"Get to it."

I move to Callie. James is standing now, but his gaze is unfocused. He's holding a handkerchief to the wound on his head. Blood has run down his face and neck and soaked his shirt.

"It looks like someone buried a hatchet in your skull," I say to him. He smiles, a real smile, and now I know that he's out of it.

"Just a scalp laceration," he says, still smiling. His voice has a floaty sound to it. "They bleed a lot."

I look at Callie, my eyebrows raised. She shrugs.

"I tried to get him to stay seated." She gives James a critical look. "I have to say, I like him much better this way."

"You know what, Red?" James says, overloud, teetering a little as he leans into Callie. "I need you like . . . like . . . I need a hole in my head." He cackles at this and then weaves on his feet, unsteady. Callie and I each grab an arm.

"Hey, you know what?" he says in that floaty voice, looking at me now.

"What?" I say.

"I don't feel so good."

His legs turn into noodles and Callie and I struggle to lower him to a sitting position. He doesn't try to get back up again. His face is pale and greasy with sweat.

"He needs a doc," I say, concerned. "I'm guessing a bad concussion."

On cue, the doors open, and the paramedics come rushing in, flanked by agents with their weapons out.

"Ask and ye shall receive," Callie remarks. She leans down, pats James on the arm. "They're coming to take you away, honey-love."

He looks up at her, bleary-eyed. He seems more there, now, more focused. He swallows and winces.

"Good" is all he says, and he sits so that he can put his head between his knees.

"So what's the plan?" Alan asks, coming up next to us. I give him a once-over. He appears to be uninjured. There's blood on his hands, though, up to the wrists. He notices me looking.

"Young kid," he says, his voice toneless. "He was bleeding out from an open stomach wound. I had to reach in and pinch off the bleeder with my hands. He died." Silence. "So again, what's the plan?"

I find my voice. "You're staying here at the request of AD Jones. Callie and I are going to take the subpoena and go see Gibbs."