Part 1 (2/2)
”It's him,” said Robert, opening the pa.s.senger door. ”Let's go.”
”We should call and get back-up,” said Thorne.
”No, we'll catch this guy then call the troops.” Before she could answer, Robert bolted across the dimly lit street.
She ran after him, her Mosberg pistol-grip shotgun dangling from her shoulder like a purse.
They followed the same path as their target, easily scaling the wall.
Robert's recommendation that the judge bathe his house in floodlights went ignored. A mistake.
”Should we call inside to warn them?”
”No,” said Robert. ”That might scare this guy off, besides, I don't want John Wayne in there to come out blasting. We'll catch this guy inside, beat him down til he pa.s.ses out, then call the police.”
”I like it,” said Thorne.
Robert smiled. ”I knew you would.”
Judge Shaw's two-story colonial, large, but simple, stood behind four ivory pillars, with green and white shutters framing each window. A light snow covered the expansive yard, undisturbed except for the a.s.sailant's footprints.
Stooped behind a large barren cherry blossom tree, they watched the dark clothed figure climb the side of the house, using a white ivy trellis to pull himself up. Removing the trellis; another idea dismissed by the judge. The killer easily used it to reach a window on the second floor.
”This guy's done his homework,” said Robert. ”That's the guest room. It's unoccupied.”
”He's inside,” said Thorne. ”Let's go.”
They sprinted across the snow-powder. Robert tugged on the trellis to test its strength. Thorne went first, reached the window, and slipped inside. When he made it in, she stood ready at the bedroom door, peering down the hall.
”The master bedroom's fifteen feet down the hall to the right,” whispered Robert. ”No kids, no pets.”
They slipped out of their black leather jackets. Robert unlatched the holster strap on his Berretta 9mm and peeked into the hallway. A woman's terrified shriek cut through the air. They bolted and burst through the door.
The killer stood over a horrified Judge Shaw, gun to the magistrate's head. Mrs. Shaw, clinging to the headboard for life, screamed louder when she saw them.
Robert crashed into the a.s.sa.s.sin. The gun discharged, but missed.
Their momentum carried them over the bed to the floor. The killer scrambled to his feet and pointed his gun down at Robert's head.
Thorne racked her shotgun. ”Drop it m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka!” The killer hesitated. She placed the tip of the barrel between his eyes. ”And don't make mommy tell you twice!”
The killer froze, carefully lowered his gun and dropped it on the floor.
”You black b.i.t.c.h,” he uttered.
Yeah, that was real smart, Robert thought, recalling the last time he heard the word ”b.i.t.c.h” tossed Thorne's way.
She swung the pistol grip fast and hard across the masked man's face, knocking him out cold. Robert smiled. It wasn't the first time his best friend came to his aid. They'd been trading the favor since junior high.
”I owe you one,” he said, joking.
”h.e.l.l, I could buy half of Virginia with what you owe me.” Thorne turned on the lights. Judge Shaw stood in the doorway petrified, his eyes teary, hands quivering. Mrs. Shaw lay crumbled in a heap on the bed weeping into a pillow. Thorne walked over and sat beside her.
”It's okay Mrs. Shaw, it's over,” she said, gently stroking her frazzled hair.
Thorne never ceased to amaze Robert. She looked like a beauty queen and could be quite kind. In a fight, she hit with the bite of a Great White.
Robert held down a b.u.t.ton on his cell phone. Their contact at the FBI answered. He explained the situation, hung up, then turned his attention to Judge Shaw, who, known in the courthouse as tough, dismissive, and arrogant, tried to mouth words, but none came. He stumbled over, took Thorne's place next to his wife and held her, his sobs now audible.
Thorne walked over to the attacker. ”Let's get a look at this jacka.s.s,” she said, her shotgun poised.
Robert pulled off the killer's ski mask. ”His jaw's broken.” He leaned in close. ”It's not him,” Robert said, looking up at Thorne. ”It's not the guy we're looking for.”
Thorne smiled and laughed. ”Think we'll get paid for this?” Three hours inched by. Robert and Thorne answered a barrage of questions from the FBI, Secret Service, and D.C. police. Agent Douglas Sams, their liaison at the FBI, stomped around the house, peeved they didn't call before rus.h.i.+ng inside.
”If we'd waited the judge and his wife would be dead,” said Robert.
”We didn't have time,” Thorne added, nodding in agreement.
”Who is the guy anyway?” asked Robert.
Agent Sams eyed them suspiciously and sighed. ”His name's Lucas Garland, an Aryan Nation thug.”
Thorne's face lit up with recognition. ”I remember him. Murder, right?”
”Right,” said Sams, crossing his arms. ”Judge Shaw gave him life about a year ago. He escaped from the West Virginia State Penitentiary last month.”
”Guess he was looking for a little payback,” said Robert. ”Trying to make it look like our guy.”
”Look,” said Agent Sams, pointing his finger at Robert. ”Next time call us. If you don't want to play ball with the team, then take your blood money and leave.”
Robert smiled and leaned forward. ”You're just a field hand Agent Sams, remember that. It's not your call.” Agent Sams' rugged good looks twisted with contempt and he stormed away. Robert and Thorne slipped through the sea of reporters a.s.sembled outside and jumped into her Rover.
Well past midnight, the frigid capitol slept. A few cars, limos, and taxicabs inched their way through the icy streets. A light snow fell.
Robert stared out at the well-lit monuments visible from the freeway, sank back into the new leather, and closed his eyes. Wynton Marsalis poured soft tones through the speakers. He relaxed.
When he signed up to work for Uncle Sam, Robert never imagined he'd be chasing down international criminals, terrorists, and killers for money. After a stint in the Marines, he ended up working as a Special Forces Black-ops Field Commander. Thorne was his second in command. They figured they'd spend a few years as spooks, and then grab a couple of lucrative security gigs with Fortune Five Hundred companies. It seemed a plausible plan, until Desert Storm.
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