Irreparable Harm (10 page)

Washington, D.C.

“Welcome to our nation’s Capitol,” the pilot said through his tired, plastered-on smile.

Sasha smiled back and slung her backpack over her shoulders as she stepped off the plane into the tunnel leading to the gate. D.C.’s Reagan International was quiet at this hour. Although it was just past nine thirty, the smoothie stands and pizza places were all closed and the sports bar was almost empty. She walked along the hushed terminal, head down, checking her phone for e-mails, voicemails, and texts.

She managed to catch the last flight out of Pittsburgh and had spent the drive from the office to Pittsburgh International working her cell phone, making flight and hotel arrangements, leaving messages for Naya, Peterson, and the team, and repeatedly trying Warner’s cell phone with no success. While she was out of reach during the short flight, she knew Naya would be busy getting Sasha the information she needed.

As Sasha boarded the escalator down to the ground transportation area, she found what she was searching for: a text from Naya with Warner’s home address. Because she was Naya, she had the foresight to also include the neighborhood and a suggested route.

Sasha shivered against the chill in the air in line at the cab stand. As much as she wanted to stop by the hotel and change into warm, comfortable clothes, she didn’t want to waste any more time. She’d go straight to Warner’s apartment. Another hour or so in heels and a suit wouldn’t kill her.

“Virginia, Maryland, or D.C.?” the airport worker asked, handing her an information sheet about D.C. taxi fares.

“D.C.”

He motioned to the cab second in line and the driver popped the trunk. Sasha shook her head and clicked it closed, before sliding into the back seat with her backpack in hand.

“How are you, tonight?” she asked the cab driver, whose license hanging from the passenger side sun visor identified him as Hakim.

“Very good. Nice weather, no?” Hakim smiled at her in the rearview mirror.

“Yes. I’m going to 3426 16th Street N.W. in Mt. Pleasant. Between Newton and Monroe.”

“You wanna take Rock Creek Parkway, yes?”

Sasha checked the text from Naya. “No, let’s take 15th to 16th, please.”

Hakim nodded his approval and pulled out. D.C. cab drivers, in Sasha’s experience, were always asking you what route you wanted them to take. But, politely suggest a route to a New York cabbie and you were likely to find yourself on the receiving end of a tirade, if you were lucky, or deposited on the side of the road, if you were not.

As Hakim cruised up the mostly empty streets, she tried Warner once more and, again, got no answer and no voicemail. So, she settled back and listened to Hakim’s cell phone conversation with a woman, presumably his wife. He was speaking Amharic. There was a large Ethiopian population in D.C., and Sasha had heard plenty of Amharic during her college years at Georgetown.

She knew enough phrases to order dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant, but not enough to understand the cab driver’s end of the conversation. But, she could hear the unmistakable, universal wailing of a colicky baby coming through his handset, even in the backseat. Hakim spoke rapidly in a soothing tone, but it didn’t seem to be helping either mother or child.

He hung up abruptly and pulled into a courtyard that fronted two massive, white brick Wardman buildings dotted with stone balconies. An old-fashioned street lamp sat in front of the entrance to 3426, the larger of the two, and cast a glow on Hakim’s cab.

“Do you need a receipt, miss?”

“Yes, please.” It remained to be seen if this trip would qualify as a business expense or a personal frolic and detour.

Sasha handed him a twenty and took the receipt. He waited for her to tell him how much change to give back.

“Keep it.”

“Thank you, miss. I can wait for you?”

Sasha looked out the window and saw a steady stream of headlights headed southbound, toward the Madison and downtown. Most of those cars would be cabs.

“No need. Please, buy your wife some flowers, though. And tell her to hang in there.”

He smiled at her in the rearview mirror. She grabbed her backpack and got out of the cab.

As Hakim pulled away, she checked the apartment number that Naya had texted. 840. At the entryway, a metal box listed resident names and codes. She punched in the number for Warner’s apartment and waited. No response. As she was reaching for her phone to try to raise him on his cell phone again, the lobby door swung open. A sweater-wearing beagle and an enormous muzzled dog, a Belgian shepherd maybe, came bounding out the door, followed by a small, dark-haired woman, not much taller than Sasha.

“Oh, hold that, please!”

The woman stopped the door with her foot and Sasha slipped in, shouting her thanks over her shoulder, as the dogs and their owner headed out for their walk.

The lobby was faded with time. Its gray-veined white marble, ornate gold-framed paintings, and vases of fresh flowers were leftovers from a more glamorous past.

Sasha boarded the ancient elevator and pressed the button for the eight floor. The only sound was its groaning.

She stepped out into a narrow hallway. Her approach to Warner’s door was silent, thanks to the thick, wine-colored carpet. She could feel her heart thumping as she approached the apartment.

She raised her fist to rap on the door. As soon as she touched it, it swung inward slightly. Not locked. She pushed it halfway open and tilted her head to see around it. The entryway was dark. Streetlights shining through the French doors that led to the balcony cast some light, but all she saw was the outlines of furniture.

“Tim? Mr. Warner? It’s Sasha McCandless. Hello?”

No response.

She hadn’t come all this way to stand in the hallway. She walked in and reached down to turn on a small lamp sitting on an antique, or at least old, telephone stand.

As she straightened to standing, she turned and found herself staring at the barrel of a gun. She estimated it was eight inches from her face. Maybe closer.

“Don’t move,” said its owner in a soft voice. He looked to be about six feet tall, solidly built, but not bulky. He had a lean, fit runner’s frame. Part Asian, maybe? Definitely big for an Asian guy. He wore neat, close-cropped dark hair, a clean shave, and a decent suit. He assessed her with a calm and serious look.

Her brain clicked off and her training kicked in.

She stood completely still, her hands at her side, and waited for the man to tell her to put her hands up.

“Put your hands up.”

As instructed, Sasha raised her hands up and also moved them forward, pushing the gun to the side and away from her face.
Redirect
.

At the same time, she wrapped her left hand around the barrel and pointed it down toward the man’s hip.
Control.

She drove the blade of her sharp, bony right elbow into his sternum and used that momentum to hammer his nose with her right fist. As his head bobbled back from the blow, she brought her right hand down to the base of the gun’s grip. With both hands now tight around the gun, she twisted them sharply, rotating the gun 180 degrees.
Attack.

His bone made a sickening crack as his trigger finger broke, and she turned her hands back, and pulled the gun from him.
Take
.

She held the gun with both hands. With a deliberate motion she pointed it at the center of his chest and hoped he couldn’t tell she’d never handled a gun before.

The entire sequence had taken less than a second.

He stared at her, blood pouring from his nose, his right hand dangling awkwardly by his side. Then he started to laugh.

“You could have just returned my call, Ms. McCandless.”

She didn’t speak.

He started to extend his hand, as though to offer her a handshake with his mangled, swollen finger.

“Don’t.” She raised the gun and aimed it at his head.

He stopped mid-gesture. “I’m Agent Leo Connelly, Department of Homeland, with the Federal Air Marshal Service. I wish I could say it’s nice to meet you.”

She kept the gun trained on him. “ID. Slowly.”

He reached into his jacket pocket with his good hand and retrieved a worn, brown leather wallet. One handed, he fumbled with it until it flipped open to display his credentials.

She leaned in to look at his identification, keeping one eye on him and the gun raised.

“May I have my gun back now?”

“Not yet. Why didn’t you identify yourself when I came in?”

“No time, Ms. McCandless. You were too quick for me.”

“I said my name. Why did you draw your gun?”

“I may know who you are, Ms. McCandless. That doesn’t mean you aren’t a threat.”

“You can call me Sasha. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Do we really need to have this conversation at gunpoint?”

Sasha lowered the gun to her side. “No signs of Warner?”

“No. The place is empty.” Connelly was speaking through a continuous stream of blood from his nose.

“Sit down. I’ll get you a towel.” She headed for the kitchen, following the glow from the stovetop light.

“And some ice.” Connelly yelled, “I think you broke my finger.”

Sasha returned with two striped dishtowels. One for his nose, the other wrapped around a cold pack she found in the freezer.

“I’m sure I broke your finger,” she told him. “That was the goal, at least.”

He shook his head, spraying blood on his shirt.

“Either Warner is a total slob or someone trashed this place pretty thoroughly,” Sasha said, finally looking around.

The couch had been overturned, its cushions sliced open with foam spilling out of them. The desk chair was upside down. Its leather seat had also been slashed. Warner’s unopened mail and piles of magazines cascaded across the floor. The drawers had been pulled out from the desk, their contents scattered. Two cheap art prints were leaning against a wall, their glass cracked.

“Someone was looking for something,” Connelly agreed. “Any idea what?”

“How should I know?” She wasn’t about to tell a federal air marshal they were looking for files Warner had removed from Patriotech at her request.

“What are you doing here?”

She answered truthfully, if incompletely. “Warner left me a voicemail message tonight. Not long after you did, actually. It was interrupted when his doorbell rang. And I heard some kind of altercation, it sounded bad.”

“So you just hopped on a plane and flew down here to see if he was okay?”

She shrugged. “That’s the kind of girl I am.”

“Huh.” Connelly examined the bloodied dish towel, then leaned forward and pinched his nose. “I think you might have broken my nose, too.”‘

Sasha wasn’t sure how to respond, so she didn’t. She walked through the dining room into a short hallway that led to Warner’s bedroom. She flipped the light switch and stuck her head in.

The bedroom had been torn to pieces, too. Dresser drawers emptied. Boxes, bags, and entire shelves pulled from the closet. Another framed print—this one of waves breaking against a lighthouse—was propped against one wall, its glass splintered. The king bed had no pillows or linens, just a bare mattress.

She turned out the light and returned to the living room. Connelly was perched on the edge of an armchair that had been cut open. Stuffing and springs stuck out all around him.

“Did you notice his bed has been stripped?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not good,” Connelly told her.

Sasha had already surmised as much.

She didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, she asked him, “Did you find a cell phone? Or hear one ringing?”