Ark of Fire (13 page)

Holding a museum map in front of him, Boyd Braxton rechecked the exits.

He had Sanchez on the Mall exit, Harliss at Constitution, Napier across the street at the East Wing, Agee manning the Fourth Street exit, and Riggins posted at the Seventh Street exit. Experienced war fighters, one and all, each of ’em was equipped with a Ka-Bar knife and two ID photos: one of a dark curly-haired bitch and the other of a tall redheaded bastard.
And the best part?
To the man, they were decked out in D.C. police uniforms. Given that the National Gallery of Art was swarming with every badge the city could rustle up, no one would give them a second glance.

The op in play, Boyd secured a communications device to his right ear, enabling him to speak to all five of his men. “You’ve got your orders: take out both targets. Edged weapons only. We want this to go down swift, silent, and deadly.”

“Copy that, Boss Man,” Riggins replied, speaking for the group. An expert at close-quarter fighting, Riggins knew how to wield a knife with lethal proficiency. Better yet, he
enjoyed
wielding a blade. Close-range combat appealed to a particular kind of warrior: the kind who liked to look his victim in the eye when he went in for the kill.

“Okay, boys and girls. Let’s go have some fun,” Boyd said, grinning, confident that this time there would be no more fuck-ups. “And don’t forget . . . we go with God.”

“Amen, brother.” This from Sanchez, a former Army Ranger and Afghanistan vet well experienced in slaying the godless.

As he headed toward the Fourth Street exit, Boyd glanced at the ring he wore on his right hand; the cluster of silver crosses was a constant reminder that he and his men were soldiers in God’s army. Holy warriors not unlike the crusaders of old. The colonel often spoke of the men who, a thousand years ago, went forth to conquer the Holy Land.
Hugues of Payens. Godfrey of Bouillon. Yves of Faillon.
Boyd felt a kindred link to those knights of old who fought with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other. The sword he had great experience with, having spent fifteen years in the Corps. The Bible was new to him; his old man had not held the Good Book in very high regard. In fact, Joe Don Braxton hadn’t held much of anything except a bottle of Old Crow. And he’d held that damned near every night. Rumor had it there was a half-drunk fifth of bourbon clutched between Joe Don’s thighs the night he drove his Dodge pickup into a stand of poplar trees.

Approaching the museum lobby, Boyd jutted his chin at the Rosemont man standing sentry near the coat room; Agee was a good man to have in a tight fix. The silent greeting was returned with an innocuous nod.

Not about to stand in line, Boyd slid his hand into his coat pocket and removed a leather wallet. Flipping it open, he thrust the D.C. Metropolitan Police badge at the same guard he’d tinned when he first entered the museum.

“Detective Wilson,” the guard said by way of greeting. “Hell of a mess we’ve got on our hands, huh?”

“Just another day in Sin City. Anyone get a look at the bastard who fired the shots?”

“As a matter of fact, one of the museum patrons was able to videotape some of it on his cell phone.”

Hearing that, Boyd froze.

Within hours his face would be plastered on BOLOs, You-Tube, and all of the major news outlets.

“Glad to hear it,” he replied, his facial muscles taut with a fake smile. “Keep up the good work”—he glanced at the man’s name badge—“Officer Milligan.” He had no idea if security guards were addressed as
Officer
, and at the moment he didn’t much care. The fake grin replaced with a grimace, he headed for the plate glass doors, shoving aside a couple of jabbering tourists.

Once outside, he came to a standstill, his booted feet planted on the cobbled stone driveway that fronted the entrance. Ignoring the two-way traffic jam of human bodies—badges heading into the museum, touristos heading out—he raised his head to the gray sky above. And prayed.
Hard.

Boyd didn’t want to let down the colonel. He owed everything he had to Colonel Stan MacFarlane. Sometimes, when his mind wandered, he liked to imagine that the colonel was the father he never had but always wanted. Stern, but fair. Righteous. A man who’d never hit you unless he had just cause.

Like a soothing balm, the gently falling snow cooled his brow, its big fluffy flakes sticking to his eyelashes, his lips, the tip of his nose. It put him in mind of the first time he’d ever seen the snow fall from the sky during a tour of duty in Japan. A backwater kid from Pascagoula, Mississippi, he’d only seen winter snow on celluloid. He well remembered standing there, a bad-ass, two-hundred-thirty-pound jarhead, sorely tempted to lie down, flap his arms and legs like an epileptic, and make angels in the snow. Come to think of it, it’d been snowing the day he made his first kill. A Jap with an attitude had accused him of stiffing on the sake bill and had followed him into the alley, attacking him from behind while he took a piss. He killed the slant-eyed shitbird with a backward jab of the elbow, ramming his nose all the way into his skull. A ruby-red bloodstain on virgin white snow.
It had been a beautiful sight.
Like a silk-clad whore spreading her legs for a li’l game of peekaboo.

Reinvigorated, the blood pumping through his veins fast and furious, Boyd straightened his shoulders as he strode past the black Jeep Wrangler. The colonel said that God was a fine one for testing the faithful. Maybe that’s what all this fiddle fucking was about—he was being tested.

If that was the case,
bring it on!

He was up to the challenge.

Sticking the key in the trunk of the Crown Vic, he opened it and removed a drawstring pouch. Inside the ditty bag were two spare cell phones, coiled wire, duct tape, and a small block of C-4. Everything he needed to make things right.

Glancing at the plate glass doors that fronted the Seventh Street museum exit, Edie figured the headline story on the local newscast would be “Gunman Goes Berserk Inside the National Gallery of Art.” Particularly since the Channel 9 and Channel 4 news vans had just pulled up outside the museum and a bevy of technicians were hurriedly unloading their camera equipment.

As she continued to observe the action on the other side of the exit door, it appeared that a great many people were unloading equipment from the back of official-looking vehicles. EMTs unloading stretchers. Firefighters unloading axes and water hoses. D.C. police unloading orange traffic cones. The museum had become a scene of industrious purpose—patrons exiting one door, first responders entering through another.

Still seated in the wheelchair, she sat quietly as Caedmon rolled her over to a large Chinese vase set inside a wall niche.

“Time for milady to exit her carriage.”

Edie hurriedly extricated herself from the wheelchair, her legs so wobbly she unthinkingly grabbed the Qing dynasty vase to keep from falling.

Caedmon wrapped an arm around her shoulders, gently removing her hand from the priceless objet d’art. “Steady as she goes,” he whispered in her ear. “Deep breaths will slow your heart rate. Leastways, it always works for me.”

She nodded her thanks, surprised by the admission. Though she barely knew him, Caedmon Aisquith seemed to have been born with the proverbial stiff upper lip. No deep breaths required.

“Given the well-orchestrated attack, we must assume that our adversaries will attempt to track our movements via electronic transactions.” Removing his billfold from his pants pocket, Caedmon peered into the worn brown leather. “I’m afraid that my assets are somewhat paltry. Seventy-five dollars U.S. and three hundred euros. How much do you have?” he bluntly inquired.

The question caught Edie off guard. Her eyes suspiciously narrowing, she said, “I have three thousand dollars. What’s it to you?”

“I say! You must have cleaned out your bank account.”

“In a manner of speaking,” she mumbled, unwilling to elaborate.

“Very well, then. I suggest we assume two aliases, Mister and Missus Smythe-Jones, or some such rot, and check into a hotel.”

“The two of us? In a hotel?” Edie had given no thought as to what would happen once they left the museum, having assumed they’d go their separate ways. She’d come to the National Gallery of Art only to warn him of the danger, not to hook up with him.

Although she supposed there might be some truth in the old adage about safety in numbers.

“Yes, a hotel,” Caedmon reiterated. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in dire need of a soft bed and a stiff drink.”

“Bed and booze. Okay, I’m in.”

Caedmon motioned to the throng of people lined up to exit the museum. “Shall we join the multitude?”

As they approached the line of people being searched by museum guards, Edie surveyed the crowd of museum goers, most of whom were excitedly chatting about what they’d seen, what they knew, or what they’d heard.

She nudged Caedmon in the arm. “Did you hear what that man just—” She stopped suddenly, catching sight of a familiar face out of the corner of her eye.

It was the dirty cop she’d seen in the alley behind the Hopkins Museum.

“To your left! It’s the killer’s cop buddy!” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth.

Without so much as turning his head, Caedmon swerved his gaze to the left. “The bloke with sandy blond hair?” When she nodded, he said, “Did he catch sight of you at the Hopkins?”

“No. But they have my driver’s license photo. They know what I look like.”

“Right.”

An absentminded look on his face, Caedmon patted his breast pocket, giving every appearance of a man searching for a pen or a pair of reading glasses. It took a moment for Edie to realize that he was very carefully casing the joint, his eyes moving from left to right and back again.

“In a few seconds there’s going to be a frightful stampede toward the door,” he said in a low voice, taking her firmly by the upper arm as he spoke. “Be ready to run for your life.”

Edie nodded, knowing he spoke literally, not figuratively.

“Good God!” Caedmon suddenly boomed in a loud, forceful tone of voice. “There’s the gunman! That man standing by the elevator doors!”

At hearing Caedmon’s commanding voice—which sounded an awful lot like a trained Shakespearean actor bellowing about kingdoms and horses—every head in the lobby abruptly turned.

A second of shocked silence ensued.

Then, in a tremendous burst of explosive energy, the façade of order gave way, there being utter disorder in the ranks.

Like rats jumping ship, the museum patrons closest to the plate glass doors rushed outside. All four museum guards and every policeman in sight charged in the opposite direction toward the elevators.

That being their cue, Edie and Caedmon ran to the door, elbowing their way to the head of the pack.

Several seconds later, they burst free of the building.

“Hurry!” Caedmon ordered, taking her by the hand as he descended the portico steps that fronted the museum. “I suspect we fooled everyone save the man searching for us. What is that across the street?” He pointed beyond the traffic jam of news vans and patrol cars to the grove of leafless trees on the other side of Seventh Street.

“That’s the outdoor sculpture garden.”

“And in this direction?” He pointed toward Constitution Avenue.

“Federal Triangle.”

“Am I correct in thinking there’s a tube station near at hand?”

“There’s a subway station a couple of blocks away. On the other side of the Archives.”

“Right.” Still holding her by the hand, Caedmon scurried past a coterie of beat cops attempting to hold back curious onlookers with a flimsy strand of yellow crime scene tape.

“In case you’ve forgotten, my Jeep is parked—”

“Not now!”

Knowing their first prerogative was to escape the sandy-haired cop she’d seen in the lobby, Edie held her tongue. They could hash out the specifics of the escape plan once they were free and clear of the museum.

Breaking into a run, they crossed Seventh Street, Caedmon leading the way to the sculpture garden. Through the sparse foliage Edie saw a steel sculpture on the right and a bronze sculpture on the left. Ahead of them was an outdoor skating rink, where a trio of skaters gracefully glided across the smooth ice, blissfully ignorant of the pandemonium on the other side of the street.

Still leading the way, Caedmon skirted to the right of the rink, turned right yet again, then made a sharp left. For a man unfamiliar with the city, he was doing an excellent job of maneuvering them through the garden maze.

It wasn’t until they emerged onto Constitution Avenue, some two blocks from the Seventh Street museum exit, that Caedmon slowed his pace.

Her lungs burning with the frigid December air, Edie came to a grinding halt, unable to catch her breath. When Caedmon put a steadying hand on her shoulder, she instinctively hurled herself at his chest.