Max Collins - Fate of the Union

She got her cell out and called it in, though she knew damn well the shooter was already making tracks.

Then she asked Kevin, “You all right?”

“I’m all right.” No Virginia in his voice at all, though his face was whiter than his waitstaff shirt.

Sirens announced themselves, and she could have circled around and returned to what was now a crime scene, but she wasn’t stopping till she got to the Hoover Building. She holstered her Glock.

Kevin asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. You did well.”

“You’re bleeding.” He pointed in the rearview mirror for her to check it out.

From the cut in her cheek from the concrete shrapnel, red trickled like tears. She hadn’t noticed, adrenaline rush pushing pain from her mind.

“It’s okay,” she said. “There’s tissues in the glove compartment — get me a couple. If I use my coat sleeve, it might get stained.”

“Can’t have that ,” he said, just a little Virginia in there, and got her two tissues, and she dabbed the blood away. She used the rearview to guide her, but also to make sure nobody was following.

Then she got on her cell again, calling Reeder, filling him in. She didn’t feel she should go hands-free with the witness in the car.

“I can’t let you out of my sight,” Reeder said.

“The other time somebody shot at me today,” she reminded him, “you were right there.”

“But my presence intimidated him and you were fine.”

She laughed. It felt good. “Look, I’ll be there in maybe twenty minutes. Traffic sucks less than usual. Anything to report?”

“Miggie’s been struggling with all the financials — maybe having Elmore’s name to plug in will get things moving. Might have something by the time you get here.”

“Be nice to get somewhere. It’s starting to feel like the OK Corral.”

“You getting shot at,” he said, “is a good thing.”

“Really? Interesting perspective.”

“You’re not dead. You’re not seriously wounded. But think about it — our blond assassin and whatever cronies he’s working with are clearly rattled. After months of clean, professional hits, they’re suddenly a bunch of sloppy amateurs.”

“They’re not the only ones rattled.”

“See if you can get back here without getting shot at again.”

He clicked off and so did she.

Kevin was looking at her with wide eyes. “This is the second time somebody shot at you today?”

“Yes,” she said, “but this time I didn’t get hit.”

He got very quiet after that.

At the Hoover Building, Rogers turned Kevin Lockwood over to Anne Nichols and Luke Hardesy to interview, advising them to get whatever they could from him about Karma’s suitor.

Before he entered the interview room, Kevin said to Rogers, “Thanks. You saved my life. That’s not something I’ll ever forget. Maybe when things settle down and this is all over, we can have a cup of coffee or a drink or something.”

“I’d like that,” Rogers said, wondering if she’d just made a date with a transvestite.

Nichols ushered Kevin inside to the table, but Hardesy lingered.

“Reeder says Kevin — or is it Virginia...?”

“He’s Kevin right now. Respect that.”

“I will, I will. But Reeder says our witness here has IDed Elmore as DeShawn aka Karma’s john.”

“Tentatively, yes. You need to get everything you can out of Kevin about this gentleman friend. Maybe we can pinpoint some dates they were together.”

Hardesy nodded. “Elmore works out of Ohio, like his boss Benjamin, but they both make plenty of DC trips. That’s something to look at.”

Back in the bullpen, Reeder was sitting next to Miggie, who looked up at her with a grin. “Having Elmore’s name,” he said, “made all the difference.”

She pulled up a chair and joined them. “Good to hear. How so?”

“Remember Barmore Holdings? Company that owned the two buildings that blew up in Charlottesville?”

“Yeah, I vaguely remember the two buildings that blew up in our faces. Why?”

“Turns out, the company moniker derives from the surnames of the primary owners — Lynn Barr and Frank Elmore.”

Rogers frowned. “We know Elmore. Who’s Lynn Barr?”

“She’s Adam Benjamin’s VP of Special Projects,” Reeder said. “I met her briefly at that Holiday Inn Express confab.”

She shook her head. “Are we uncovering a palace coup here? Could the majordomo and this VP be behind the assassination attempt on their own boss?”

“Benjamin runs a pretty tight ship.”

Miggie said, “The boss man’s name isn’t anywhere in anything Barmore is involved in.”

Reeder said, “Jay Akers indicated Benjamin’s security was lousy... and proved the point by getting himself killed.”

Rogers mulled that, then said, “We have explosives possibly in the Capitol basement, and people being snuffed out like a room full of candles. Could this be a conspiracy of real size?”

“The Common Sense Movement itself?” Reeder asked. “That’s a hell of a leap.”

“How about a smaller group,” Rogers said, “working clandestinely within Benjamin’s movement? For their own purposes?”

Reeder’s eyes narrowed. “Seems like we need to ask these questions to somebody besides each other.”

“You mean, like Frank Elmore and Lynn Barr?”

“Yeah,” Reeder said. “Like those two.”

Evan Carpenter had long since stopped believing in any notion of doing his duty. That, like many of his brothers in arms, died in a jungle hell.

But he still set stock in doing his job. When he signed on for one, he delivered, as he had when his boss was Uncle Whiskers, before Carpenter wised up and realized he had a marketable skill set. Today and yesterday, his employer got the full benefit of his abilities, just as Special Operations Command once had for far less money.

He didn’t fear dying, but like any sane person, he would do his best to avoid it; and he feared no man, or at least not so far. Other than last week, and most of this week, the gig had been a snap — taking out clueless civilians, one at a time, months apart. Sometimes he felt he was damn near stealing his employer’s money.

Tonight, though, the shit would be deep and he’d more than earn his paycheck. Not that he minded a challenge — that shiver up his spine was not fear, no fucking way fear, but excitement, anticipation, expectation.

The men he would face tonight were the real deal, even if they were getting soft guarding Adam Benjamin. Still, Benjamin delaying the announcement of his candidacy had been a godsend — wading through agents of the United States Secret Service might tax even Evan Carpenter’s abilities. Taking out five mercenaries, a little off their game? That was not only possible, it sounded like fun.

Carpenter, in black duster-style coat, black fatigues, and Kevlar vest, sat in his car outside the Holiday Inn Express, weapons ready. Inside, people had no idea they were about to die. He sat back, scrolled mentally through his plan one last time, breathed deep, exhaled fully, did that again, and once more, then smiled slightly as he climbed from the car, wind whipping the duster skirt. But the cold meant nothing in the face of already pumping adrenaline.

Tonight he would impress his employer, always a plus, but his personal agenda would also be served — he’d have the opportunity to clear away the debris left by this recent bad-luck shitstorm.

Just outside the automatic glass doors of the hotel, he pulled on the black balaclava-style ski mask and withdrew the two sound-suppressed .45 automatics from the deep pockets of his duster. The pistols were in his hands as he went into the lobby, almost disappointed to see the four-man guard team in their usual places, as if they were lulled by the piped-in music (Dean Martin, “Winter Wonderland”).