wheeling out ]Lord and the woman. His turn would come in tomorrow’s
paper. Jack Graham and a homeless man. Twin gumeys. Of course they’d
work it so Jack would be blamed for having done in the poor, wretched
street person. Jack Graham, from partner at Patton, Shaw to deceased
mass murderer.
“It matters to me.”
“So?” Collin moved forward, placed both hands on the butt of his weapon.
“Fuck you, take it!” Jack flung the box at Collins head right as the
muffled explosion occurred. A bullet tore through the edge of the box
and imbedded itself in the concrete wall. In the same instant, Jack
hurled himself forward and made impact. Collin was solid bone and muscle
but so was Jack. And they were about the same size. Jack felt the man’s
breath driven completely from his body as Jack’s shoulder connected
right at the diaphragm. Instinctively, long-ago wrestling moves came
flowing back to his limbs and Jack picked up and then body-slammed the
agent into the unwelcoming arms of the brick floor. By the time Collin
managed to stagger to his feet, Jack had already turned the corner.
Collin grabbed his gun and then the box. He stopped for an instant as
sickness enveloped him. His head hurt from having struck the hard floor.
He knelt down, fighting to regain his equilibrium. Jack was long gone,
but at least he had it. Finally had it. Collins’s fingers closed around
the box.
Jack flew past the kiosk, hurdled the turnstiles, raced down the
escalator and across the train platform. He was vaguely aware of people
staring. His hood had fallen off his head. His face was clearly exposed.
There was a shout behind him. The kiosk guy. But Jack kept running and
exited the station on the 17th Street side. He didn’t think the man had
been alone. And the last thing he needed was someone tailing him. But he
doubted if they had both exits covered.
They probably figured he wouldn’t be leaving the station under his own
power. His shoulder ached from his collision and his breath came in
difficult gulps as the cold air burned his lungs. He was two blocks away
before he stopped running. He wrapped his coat around himself tightly.
And then he remembered. He looked down at his empty hands. The’ box! He
had left the goddamned box behind. He slumped against the front glass of
a darkened McDonald’s.
A car’s lights came down the road. Jack looked away from them and
quickly moved around the corner. In a few minutes he hopped a bus. To
where he wasn’t sure.
THE CAR TURNED oFF L STREET AND oNTo 19TH. SFm FRANK made his way up to
Eye Street and then turned toward 18th.
He parked on the corner across from the Metro station, got out of his
car and went down the escalator.
Across the street, hidden behind a collection of trash cans, debris and
metal fencing, the products of a massive demolition project, Bill Burton
watched. Swearing under his breath, Burton put out his cigarette,
checked the street, and made his way quickly across to the escalator.
As he got off the escalator, Frank looked around and checked the time.
He wasn’t as early as he thought he would be. His eyes fell upon a
collection of junk that lay against one wall. Then his gaze drifted over
to the unmanned kiosk.
There was no one else around. It was quiet. Too quiet.
Frank’s danger radar instantly lit up. With an automatic motion he
pulled his gun. His ears had pricked up at a sound that came from his
right. He moved quickly down the corridor away from the turnstiles.
There a darkened corridor awaited him. He peered around and at first saw
nothing.
Then as his eyes ad)usted to the diminished light he saw two things. One
was moving, one wasn’t.
Frank stared as the man slowly rose to his feet. It wasn’t Jack. The guy
was in a uniform, a gun in one hand, a box in the other. Frank’s fingers
tightened on his own weapon, his eyes locked on the other man’s weapon.
Frank stealthily moved forward. He hadn’t done this in a long time. The