“Of course. Anything. Who is it?”
There was a false note of concern, almost of eagerness, in Haskel’s voice, Kranemeyer thought, confirming everything that Shapiro had told him. “Long story,” he said, inclining his head toward the bar. “And I could use a stiff drink.”
Haskel waved his hand. “Be my guest.”
Pain. Harry closed his eyes as Carol probed his side with her fingers. “I don’t think the ribs are broken,” she observed, her tone studiously neutral. “But the flesh is already starting to purple. You’re going to have a painful bruise.”
“No kidding,” he whispered, looking over to where his tactical vest hung over the back of the chair. Both bullets were visible, the slugs nearly buried in the plating.
He reached out for her as he stood, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “You’re going to get through this,” he breathed, ignoring the pain with an effort. “This is all going to be over soon. All of the killing, all the deception. All of it past. I want to start anew, leave all of it behind.”
“Can you?” came the quiet, piercing question, sadness in her voice. He stood there as she pulled away, the words on his very lips.
If you come with me, I can. The one thing he found himself wanting more than anything in the world. A normal life — the American dream. The strength of the desire frightened him.
And the words remained unspoken. He watched her move to the far side of the desk, cursing himself bitterly beneath his breath. He knew what to say — knew exactly what to say, but after all of the lies…
He reached for his shirt, buttoning it over his bare chest. A vague sense of misgiving entered his heart and he shrugged on the tactical vest over his head before reaching for his Colt. Han should have returned by now.
Five minutes, Harry thought, glancing at his watch. The SEAL had only gone out to the car, the sedan they had stolen from the freeway the night before. “Everything okay, Sammy?” he asked, keying his mike.
Nothing. Something was wrong, very wrong.
“Stay here,” he ordered, shooting her a look. “And keep your head down. I’ll be back.”
He reached for the door, bringing the Colt up as he exited the office trailer. Stepping into the night.
Nothing. Everything was still, barely a whisper of wind stirring through the bones of long-deserted industry. “Sammy?”
Gooseflesh rose along the skin of his arms as he sprinted across the gravel toward the nearest cover. A fear that perhaps he was too late.
Voices. He could hear someone speaking. Rising from his crouch, he moved among the pallets of abandoned equipment until he could see the pumpjack where Korsakov had died.
Threat. It was that, and yet something more. Han stared into the muzzle of a Glock, watching tears run down the face of the boy holding it. Tears of anger and grief.
“You don’t want to die,” Han warned, keeping his hands well away from his sides. From his own gun. “Not like this.”
The boy seemed to waver, the Glock’s barrel trembling as he extended it in one hand. Indecision.
It was good, Han thought. He could talk him down, could talk him into lowering the gun. He wouldn’t need to kill him — no one else needed to die.
What was life, without a friend? Viktor glanced down at Korsakov’s broken body, at the once-kind eyes now lifeless. He scarcely even heard the man’s lies.
Lies, the story of his short life. Everyone had lied to him, everyone except Korsakov. They had lied to him when his parents had died, leaving him an orphan at ten. Come along, there’s a nice home waiting.
He could still remember the first time, the drugged stupor — a man’s hands sliding along his young body. A demon’s voice at his ear and again, the lies. This won’t hurt.
Countless lies. He choked on a sob, remembering his friend’s last words. “I’ll be back soon, Vitya. Don’t worry.”
Had even that been a lie? No, no, it couldn’t have been. He stared down the barrel of his Glock at Korsakov’s killer, watching his face, his lips moving. “Just give me the gun — no one needs to get hurt.”
More lies. A scream of impotent fury escaped his lips, his left hand coming up to support the Glock, his mind consumed with a single purpose. Kill.
Dimly, as if through the haze of a dream, he heard an explosion to his left, felt a pair of bullets rip into him.
Falling. He hit the ground hard, his hand reaching out in an attempt to pull himself up. His side felt suddenly warm, his movements sluggish. Ever weaker.
Then darkness closed over him and he never felt anything…ever again.
“He wasn’t going to give me the gun…was he?” Han asked as Harry emerged from the shadows.
“No — no he wasn’t, Sammy,” came his friend’s reply. Without a word, Harry stooped down, prying the Glock from the boy’s lifeless hand.
He had known it, the SEAL thought, forcing his breathing to slow — the knowledge frightening him even more than how close he had come to death. In the face of everything that he knew, all of his old training, he had wanted to believe that he could talk the boy down. Emotion overruling the cold realization of what he had to do.
You’ve been out of the field too long.
And sooner or later, it was going to kill him, he thought — looking over to where Harry stood, a dark, forboding form in the pale moonlight. Him…or someone else.
“To the confusion of America’s enemies,” Haskel said with a smile, taking the tumbler of whisky from Kranemeyer’s hand.
The irony. The DCS favored him with a dispassionate smile, raising his own glass in salute. “I’ll drink to that.”
He took a slow sip, watching as the FBI director drained his glass. “You know, Eric — I’ve heard it said that the ritual of touching glasses in a toast came about so that, as liquor splashed from one to another, both parties could be assured that the drink wasn’t poisoned. Or that could just be an old wives’ tale, of course.”
Haskel chuckled. “I suppose it’s nice to know that paranoia isn’t a product of our modern age.” A puzzled frown furrowed his brow as he glanced over, taking in Kranemeyer’s coat, gloves. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable, Barney.”
“They say that even the paranoid have enemies, Eric,” Kranemeyer announced, setting his glass on the endtable with a gloved hand. His eyes locked with Haskel’s. “Why did you do it?”
The blood drained from Haskel’s face as he grasped the import of the question. Of what had preceded it.
His gaze flickered down to the tumbler in his hand, the small pool of amber liquid still remaining in the bottom. There was fear in his eyes, the shadow of an unspeakable question.
Kranemeyer nodded.
“What are you going to do if I call the police?” Haskel demanded. It was a hollow attempt at bravado.
“You would never make it to the door,” the DCS replied calmly, allowing his trench coat to fall open, revealing the holstered H&K.
“You wouldn’t dare.” The FBI director’s words came out in a hoarse rasp.
Kranemeyer inclined his head to one side, regarding his counterpart with a look of contempt. “Shapiro is dead, Eric — took a header off the Key Bridge less than an hour ago. But he gave you up.”
He went on without pausing, his voice level, remorseless. “As the poison works its way into your bloodstream, your muscles will weaken until you can’t even hold yourself upright in your chair. Within two hours, you’ll be dead.”