Power Play (An FBI Thriller) (28 page)

Perry Black’s condo

Sunday evening

P
erry was looking at photos of Colin Kaepernick taken with fans at the game in London with the Jaguars this past October, and she smiled. The English loved him—understandable, since he was cute, well, downright sexy, and he looked different enough to fascinate. And all those tattoos—they fascinated the English as well. Perry wondered what Colin would think of his tats in twenty-five years or so, say, when his own son graduated from high school.

She laughed at herself. Who cared about twenty-five years from now? He was young and that was wonderful, even with all its stupidities. And talk about stupidities, look at her. She had this guy sleeping on her sofa she hadn’t known existed a week ago and yet here he was, protecting her and giving her grief. She had to admit he appealed to her right down to her toes.

She realized she wasn’t concentrating, looked at her watch, turned off her notebook, and flicked on the TV. It was time.

The man himself came out of the kitchen, wearing jeans, boots, and a white shirt rolled up to his elbows, his Glock on a clip at his
waist, a cup of tea in each hand. The whole package was as potent as a guy in a sparkling white navy dress uniform. She frowned at him. “I see I’m starting to train you pretty well. Shut up, sit down, and watch with me.”

He merely grinned at her, handed her a cup of tea, and slouched beside her on the sofa, his feet plopped up atop a pile of magazines on her coffee table. In another minute, Edward Rose of Fox News was welcoming her mother in the studio here in Washington. Her mom looked great, in charge as usual, Perry thought, dressed in a navy-blue suit and a white blouse with a multicolored scarf that showed off her vivid hair. Perry sipped her tea and sat forward.

Rose said, “Ambassador Black, thank you for being here tonight. And I must say we all as a nation are happy to see you are looking well. There have been news reports of an assassination attempt on you at your home as recently as this past Friday. Can you verify this and tell us what is being done to find the person or people responsible for these continuing attacks on you?”

So there would be no more questions about her lying, Natalie thought, no more hints she was making anything up. After Friday night, she would be treated as a brave victim, a heroine. She remembered Hooley’s blood on her pajamas, the gut-wrenching fear and anger. She looked at Edward Rose’s carefully made-up handsome face with the touch of gray at his temples, and into his sincere blue eyes. She smiled. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of an ongoing investigation, but I will say, though, that the president and I both have confidence the FBI will find the person or people behind these attacks.”

“Attacks, Ambassador Black. You were also attacked in England, were you not?”

“Yes, that’s right. There was a hit-and-run attack on me there
that Scotland Yard is investigating. I have been assured they are cooperating closely with the FBI.”

“And we all hope they succeed. Ambassador Black, I understand you will be speaking tomorrow morning at the United Nations. Will you be discussing your thoughts about these events on that world stage?”

Natalie smiled. “No, that will not be part of my address. I will not be asking the UN to take up my personal troubles. Tomorrow I will be doing my job, as always. The State Department has asked me to address the General Assembly about the status of bilateral tariff reductions we’ve been exploring”—she spoke fluently and quickly, expecting Rose to interrupt her if she gave him the chance. It was “dead air” time for Fox, the concession to her the network had to make before Edward Rose could continue asking her questions the viewers really wanted to hear.

When she closed, he said, “I imagine many of the UN representatives will want to know about all your personal difficulties, Ambassador Black, as do many of our viewers.”

She shook her head. “I tend to doubt that, Mr. Rose.”

“How will you deal with those questions if asked?”

“I’ll tell them what I’m telling you, that all the weight of the United States government and the FBI are behind me.”

“Ambassador Black, Viscount George McCallum, your fiancé, his death marked the beginning of these attacks on you, did it not?”

She let a punch of grief pass, then answered, “George McCallum was a wonderful man. His death was a great loss to me. Scotland Yard is investigating how and why that accident occurred. There is speculation his death and the attacks on my life may be connected, but I don’t know how or why.” She hadn’t meant to say that; it gave away too much. To her surprise and relief, Rose let it go.

Instead, Rose brought up the press release of William’s photo, identifying him as an insurgent fighting in Syria. “Two weeks before the viscount’s tragic death, is that correct? And the rumors of your own culpability began?”

Natalie said, “That’s correct. William Charles McCallum is now Viscount Lockenby himself after his father’s death. We understand he was seen fighting in Syria against the Assad regime. That is a conflict with many factions, and, of course, a great tragedy.

“Since I have not been in touch with William—indeed, I’ve never met him—I have no personal information to offer as to his current whereabouts or his intentions.” She looked directly into the camera. “I do know William loved his father and he grieves as deeply as I do. I hope he will contact me so that we may grieve together. I hope he stays safe.”

“And you stay safe as well, Ambassador Black.”

“I’ll certainly do my best. You know, Mr. Rose, some of the English people still like to refer to us as Yanks. And one of the things they know about us is that we don’t run from threats.”

Edward Rose wanted more, but he had run out of time. He thanked her. It was over.

Perry turned off the TV and went online to read some of the early buzz the interview had already started on YouTube and Twitter. “She’s got one more interview tonight. Then it’s on to New York and the UN, with Aunt Arliss paving her way.”

Davis was sitting back on the sofa, his arms loose at his sides, his eyes closed, his head leaned against the cushions. He said, “I love your mother.”

“I do, too,” Perry said. The front window exploded inward. A bullet smashed the vase on the side table next to Davis.

B
efore they could move, bullets crashed through the front window, another hitting the coffee table, a third hitting the wall above his head. Davis jumped on Perry, knocked her to the floor, covered her.

A semiautomatic, probably a rifle, Davis thought, as more bullets hit the wall over their heads. He said against her forehead, “Don’t move, you hear me?” He got to his feet, his Glock in his hand, raced crouched over across the room, and flipped off the lights. He pressed against the side of the front door, listening, and waited. Perry stayed where she was. He could hear her breathing.

He leaned over and unlocked the door, shoved it open hard and fast, and flattened his belly to the floor.

More bullets shattered a mirror on the hallway wall, blew out the lovely etched-glass panels on either side of the front door. He heard Perry move. “Perry, no, stay perfectly still. I know you’re thinking about your Kimber in the bedroom, but forget it. Stay put, face against the floor.”

He heard her fierce voice. “I’m calling nine-one-one. Stay put yourself, and be careful, you hear me?”

Davis didn’t answer; he was looking out into the darkness. It was now dead silent. Who was out there? It was time to push. He leaned up and turned on the porch light, and fired off his entire
magazine at the bushes nearby, fanning back and forth low to the ground.

He heard it—across the yard maybe, forty feet away, a muffled hiss, like a snake. Had he hit the guy?

Davis shoved a new magazine in the Glock, elbow-crawled out the front door, jumped to his feet, and ran, firing his Glock toward where he’d heard the sound. He stopped behind an oak tree and listened. The gunfire had sounded battlefield heavy, loud, sharp, and he knew a dozen neighbors had called 911. The shooter knew it, too. He couldn’t stay around much longer. Davis leaned out from behind the tree, scanning for movement.

A single bullet clipped off the bark not three inches from his face. He fell belly flat to the ground, didn’t move.

“Davis?”

She didn’t sound scared, she sounded mad. Amazing. He called out, “Don’t come out, Perry. The guy’s still somewhere out here. The cops will be here in a couple of minutes.”

“More like a couple of seconds, I hope. You’re okay, right?”

“Yes, stay put.”

They heard sirens coming.

Lights were going on all over the neighborhood, but no one appeared in their doorways or their porches just yet. They were peeking out from behind curtains, around cracked-open doors, waiting for the cops. “The shooter’s got to run from those sirens, Perry. Keep down.”

“That idiot destroyed my beautiful Tiffany lamp. And the etched-glass panels beside the front door? Shattered, both of them. Do you know how much I paid for those? They were a gift to me from myself when Mike Ditka called me to thank me for a story I’d done on him and the Super Bowl Bears from long ago.

“I’d like to kick his tonsils into his brain. Who was it, did you see?”
No,
she thought, it couldn’t be William. He was wounded, hiding somewhere.

“I didn’t see him, but I may have hit him, I don’t know.”

Perry came running up to him, grabbed his arm. “What did you do? How could you let this happen?”

He couldn’t answer her because three cop cars screeched to a halt ten feet away, men and women were shouting as they bounded out, guns trained on him. Davis dropped his Glock and shot his hands over his head, waving his creds. He yelled, “FBI agent! Someone fired on us. FBI!”

Since the cops weren’t stupid, they kept their weapons trained on him and Perry, and came steadily closer. He called out, “This is Perry Black. I’m guarding her! The shooter’s getting away. Find him!”

At a nod from the sergeant, cops fanned out into the neighborhood, shouting to neighbors to get back inside and turn the lights out. Sergeant Woollcott, carrying twenty more pounds that he should, checked Davis’s creds and holstered his gun. He said in a cheery voice, “If the guy’s still out there, my people will find him. Both of you are still alive, and that’s got to be good, right, Agent Sullivan?”

Davis didn’t have a chance to agree with him because Perry had grabbed his arm and was shaking him. “You turkey! You absolute mutton brain, really, how could you let this happen?”

He frowned down at her. “I couldn’t prevent the guy from shooting at us, Perry.”

“No, not that, I mean your face. You’re bleeding.”

“She’s right, boy,” Sergeant Woollcott said. “Now I’ve got some
light, I see you’re alive but you’re not looking pretty. The paramedics will fix you up.”

What with all the shooting, Davis knew the paramedics, two women and a man, were expecting to see a slaughter. But all they’d get was his bloody face.

One of the paramedics ushered him inside the condo. She stepped gingerly over a crashed lamp, sat him down, positioned him under the light of the small reading lamp that had escaped destruction, and got to work. The alcohol burned, but he kept his mouth shut, aware that Perry was standing close, her arms crossed over her chest, daring him, he imagined, to make a sound. “Hmmm, it really looked impressive, but fact is, there’s nothing much here. Looks like a bit of oak bark sliced you. A bit of iodine, some Steri-Strips, and you’ll be good to go. We heard there was a war on out here. Lucky nobody was really hurt.”

The iodine hurt, but he didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Perry, her sarcasm so heavy Davis was surprised it didn’t flatten the paramedic, said, “Sorry we couldn’t oblige you.”

The woman waved her hand, impervious. “I prefer it this way, darling,” she said, and continued to examine the thin slice on Davis’s cheek.

“Would you like me to get you a Band-Aid?”

The paramedic grinned over at her. “Nah, we came loaded for bear, so we can handle this little cub here, no problem. Hey, Curry, want to bring over that dressing kit for our FBI agent here?”

“Look at my living room, Davis. My notebook—it’s wrecked. The insurance company isn’t going to be happy.”