Max Collins - Fate of the Union

Reeder looked toward the service road, but the tree line blocked his view — not that the Nissan was likely still around.

Breathing hard, intermittently coughing, Rogers plopped down, sitting in the snow, her back against the driver’s side door. Reeder’s own breathing was labored, too, smoke mingling with cold air to burn his lungs.

Reeder asked, “What were you thinking?”

“I knew he was probably dead, but with him there, on the floor... just inside the door? Had to try. If you’d seen him first, you’d have done the same thing.”

“Hell I would.”

“Oh, you didn’t follow me in there?”

“You weren’t dead. Yet.” His breath was beginning to slow. “Those two SUVs? Guys in them set the bombs. Their leader was in that Nissan, giving them time to get well away before he detonated the charges.”

“Then... then we showed up.”

“If he recognized me as we drove past — this was likely our blond perp — he knew he’d scored a bonus round. If you and I hadn’t chatted a while in the car, we’d have already been inside when he hit the detonator.”

“We... we’d have been... scattered all over this parking lot... with the rest of the debris.”

Sirens sang their distant song. This was the boonies, but somebody had seen the flames rising into the sky, and/or heard the big boom.

Their breathing slowing, the air clearing some, the smoke on its upward trajectory, the two got up and had a look at their rescued corpse. Only the figure’s back was charred black, the front of him appearing relatively normal — his expression almost serene, as if he’d slept through the other side of him getting cooked.

“Dead before the explosion,” Rogers said.

Reeder pointed out the two punctures in the blackened back of his neck — barely visible but the indentations were there, all right.

“Double-tapped,” Rogers said.

Reeder nodded and looked back toward the trees on the other side of which was the service road. Just then flames illuminated something over that way, and glass winked and blinked at him.

A sniper scope.

“Gun!” he said, and then came the muzzle flash.

They both hit the snowy cement, sending up puffs of white, then each scrambled around behind the car, Reeder around front, Rogers around back. The shooter had seen that action through his scope, because two more rounds slammed into the car, and then another took the back left tire, which hissed as if a villain had come on stage, and hadn’t he?

Each sat with their backs to the passenger side of the Fusion. Breathing hard again, Reeder said, “You got extra magazines?”

“Yeah. Two.”

“Good. Keep him busy.”

“What do you mean, keep him busy?”

“Do it.”

From around the rear of the car, Rogers threw shots into the line of trees. She had a handgun and the shooter had a rifle and the advantage of firepower and distance were his. But she kept it up, the sharp cracks of her Glock rising over the rumbling murmur of the burning buildings.

She was shooting as Reeder took off, very low, right toward the facing fires, running between them and skirting around the building at left and staying parallel to it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d run on snow. He was trying to be careful in the dark, trying not to trip over any chunks of debris, and was grateful for the minimal moonlight and even fire glow, assuming it didn’t give him away.

As he reached where the building ended and concrete parking lot yawned to a strip of snowy landscape with the line of trees waiting, he climbed out of his Burberry and left it behind, his dark suit better suited for his purpose.

With the night alternating pops of the Glock and resonant reports from the rifle, Reeder headed over to where the service road curved around behind the buildings, the line of trees ending where that curve began. As the shooter exchanged shots with Rogers, the rifle’s scope would not be swung way the hell over here. Or so Reeder told himself as he kept very low on the asphalt, as low as possible and still run.

Any other Tuesday night, this industrial park would be all but silent. An occasional car would thrum by, the odd owl might hoot, tree leaves might rustle with wind; but tonight was a cacophony of howling flames, screaming sirens, crunching snow, all punctuated by the bellows of his own labored breathing.

Reeder wanted to surprise the shooter, and if he made it to that stand of trees, he just might do that. One small detail, though: he was unarmed. He rarely carried a gun and his extending baton was back in his car at Constitution Hall, where he’d left the weapon before passing through metal detectors and security.

And in the midst of his unarmed pursuit of a man with a rifle, it came to him: the would-be assassin had gotten a .45 into the event! How the hell had he managed that?

That thought he filed away for later use, should he survive this lopsided encounter.

But as he reached the row of trees lining the service road, he tucked himself behind the nearest one, peeking around to see what his options were...

... and the guy, all in black, including a stocking cap (blond under there, he’d bet), was leaving his position between trees to jog to the parked Nissan. With sirens growing ever louder, the guy was bailing, just getting the hell out.

That was a kind of break, because the unarmed Reeder could pursue the shooter, since a rifle was a poor weapon to try to use on the move. With some luck he could come up behind him and take the man down; but the black-clad figure heard Reeder’s running steps in back of him, glanced over his shoulder, and kept going, even faster.

Reeder summoned more speed somehow and was closing the distance when the shooter reached the car, spun and raised the rifle to his shoulder like a hunter who just spotted a very stupid deer.

The night-shattering report was in his ears as Reeder dove for the asphalt, then rolled onto snowy ground and scrambled into the trees, ducking behind the nearest one, which took a shot meant for him, spewing fragmented bark and splintered wood.

When Reeder eased out for a look, red brake lights signaled the Nissan’s hesitation just before the vehicle turned onto the road, and was gone.

For perhaps thirty seconds, Reeder — his shoulder screaming louder than the sirens — leaned forward with his hands on the knees of legs whose muscles were burning with an intensity to rival the buildings, and he breathed slowly, slowly, slowly, trying not to die.

Rogers came trotting up through the trees. “And you gave me shit for trying to save somebody in a burning building?”

“You can’t... can’t... save... a... corpse.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know it was a corpse. And you knew that was a guy with a rifle. You aren’t armed, are you?”

He stood erect. Shook his head.

She came over and took his arm and squeezed. “You okay?”

“Let me ask you something,” Reeder said.

“What?”

“Metal detectors, security people, how did our ex — Ohio state trooper get into Constitution Hall?”

“This came to you now?”

“Just now.”

Her eyebrows lifted as her breath smoked. “Well, I imagine Bohannon and Wade are all over that. We can check with them. But let’s deal with this first.”

Walking between trees, Rogers supported Reeder by the arm, and back across the snowy ground and then snowy cement to where fire trucks and police cars were parading into the lot.

Rogers had her cell out. “I’ll make sure Bohannon and Wade are as smart as you are, and then I’ll let Miggie know what happened here.”

While she did that, Reeder went over to speak to the first uniformed policeman on site. He still had the FBI consultant’s ID in his billfold from last year, and he hoped that would suffice.