Max Collins - Fate of the Union

“Is that like... protective custody?”

“Yes. You may be a material witness in this case. The blond who followed you is someone who doesn’t just look dangerous. And what we’re investigating isn’t merely one crime, but a series of ongoing crimes.”

“Like Karma’s murder.”

She nodded. “That reminds me — would you mind sitting down with a forensic artist, to come up with a likeness of Karma’s older gentleman friend?”

“I could do that. Anything for Karma.” He smiled and it was a dazzler. “Anything for you , Agent Rogers.”

Was he flirting with her? And was she liking it? She didn’t even know for sure what this guy was — gay, straight, bi — and then Reeder kidding her on the same subject flashed into her mind and she shifted gears back to business, where she belonged.

“Shouldn’t be tough,” Kevin said, “getting a decent likeness.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He was pretty distinctive looking.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, he had this scar. Not very long, maybe an inch and a half or so — right here?” Kevin indicated his right cheekbone.

She did a quick Internet search on her phone and brought up a photo of Adam Benjamin’s majordomo, Frank Elmore, whose scar she’d noticed at Constitution Hall.

“A scar like this one?” she asked, holding up her phone screen.

Kevin’s eyebrows rose. “You are good. That’s him.”

“Karma’s generous john?”

“No question. Swear to it in court.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. What do you remember Karma saying about him?”

“Just that he had plenty of money, but was somebody we could never talk about.”

“So... money and power.”

Kevin shrugged. “That’s typical in this town. Anybody tricking, like Karma, knows to be discreet, or...”

“Or it might get you killed?”

Kevin paled. “I never thought of it like that. Just that this was a sugar daddy, probably up the political food chain, with a wife and kids, and... you know, the old story.”

Rogers’s mind went from zero to bullet train in milliseconds. Did Adam Benjamin have a traitor on his staff? A man with the kind of background that made hiring a mercenary for a professional killing a no-brainer?

Or was this just a well-off guy having a sketchy hookup with a transvestite hooker, a misjudged affair that led to having the hooker killed? In this cruel town, that scenario made sense.

But not when Karma was just one in this unending line of double-tap professional killings.

Rogers wanted to get this in front of Reeder, but right now getting Kevin to safety was the priority.

She said to him, “Tell the cashier you’re going.”

“Pinky already knows that’s a possibility.”

He took a moment with the henna-haired gal at the register while Rogers left a five for the coffee. Then she and Kevin went out into the tiny parking lot where Rogers slowly scanned the sidewalk out front (and across the street) and the other cars in the modest lot.

Cold wind, bright sun. They walked quickly toward her car and were almost there when, just ahead of them, a backseat window exploded in a spray of safety glass pebbles. Rogers pulled Kevin down to the gravel and threw herself on top of him. She’d seen no muzzle flash, heard no report, but it sure as hell hadn’t been a brick that took that window out. Rifle or handgun, she couldn’t say — in either case a sound suppressor was in use — but she couldn’t even be sure which way the shot had come.

“Stay down,” she said.

“No problem!”

A second shot ricocheted off the concrete next to her, sending up sharp shards of cement, one of which nicked her cheek. She rolled off Kevin, said, “We’re moving — stay low,” and they crawled between two cars, getting behind one.

Both leaned against the rear of the parked vehicle. Neither was even breathing hard, it had gone down so fast, though Kevin wore an understandably startled expression.

“You hit?” she asked, her Glock out from her hip holster and in her right hand.

“No, I’m okay. Is it... the evil Beach Boy?”

“Not a clue, but we can’t stay here.”

The shooter — knowing he’d been seen, realizing the FBI agent would be armed — might have fled by now. But he could just as easily be waiting for them to present him a better target.

She said to Kevin, “Give me a shoe.”

“What?”

“A shoe. Give.”

He gave her his left loafer — a pity, as it was a nice Italian job — which she flung over to their right.

A bullet clanged off metal.

So the shooter hadn’t fled.

“Why is he doing this?” Kevin shrieked.

“Because he thinks you know who killed Karma.”

“I don’t !”

“ I know you don’t. But somebody doesn’t. Don’t you go all Virginia on me now, Kevin. If there was ever a time for you to man up, this is it.”

“Sorry.”

“That shot came from the other side of the lot. I think behind that out-of-business gas station next door.”

With her in the lead, they duckwalked back around toward the front of the car. When they were at the front bumper, she stopped.

“We have two choices,” she said. “Stay here and hope he doesn’t go looking for us in this lot. Or make it to my car before he does.”

“How about none of the above?”

She pointed up and over the car they hid behind. “We’re only two spaces over. I’ll unlock it from here. It’s the green Ford Fiesta. I’ll go around on the driver’s side, and if he’s still here, that’ll draw his fire. You get in on the left, and stay low, get down on the floor if you can.”

“We can’t just wait it out?”

“He could already be stalking us in this lot. We’re doing this.”

But before she could start, a couple came out of the diner, putting themselves in full view of the defunct gas station.

Without popping up, Rogers shouted, “Get inside! Someone’s shooting!”

The couple did a deer-in-headlights freeze.

“Now! Federal agent! Call 911!”

That immediately thawed the couple, who scrambled back inside, a moment before the shooter fired another round that shattered the driver’s side mirror of the car they were using as cover.

Kevin said, “Jesus!”

“Quiet. That was helpful.”

“Helpful!”

“He hasn’t changed positions. He’s shooting from behind the gas station, all right. We’re making our move.”

She got the car-key remote from a peacoat pocket, clicked it, causing a honk, which unfortunately might’ve alerted the shooter. A risk but she had to take it.

Coming up in a crouch, on the move, Rogers fired off two rounds toward the rear of the gas station, a couple of cowboy shots that wouldn’t do more than keep the shooter tucked behind his wall momentarily, but that was all she was after. Kevin’s feet on the gravel told her he was just behind her.

As she got to her parked car and came around the front to the driver’s door, the shooter popped out from behind his corner, but she was ready and sent him three more quick shots, whipcracks in the afternoon. He ducked back to safety and then she was inside the car, and Kevin was already in on the other side. She switched her Glock to her left hand as she got the car started. Kevin was tucked low, an oversize fetus jammed as close to the floor as possible.

The car was parked in a slot next to the sidewalk, but taking the exit, over to the left, would put the Fiesta in harm’s way, so she gunned it and ran across the sidewalk and over the curb and into traffic, causing a symphony of screeching brakes, but nobody hit her.

Best of all, the shooter didn’t hit them, either. He didn’t even bother to shoot again.