“Got any more?” Uzi asked, settling down next to him.
DeSantos folded the paper in quarters, pulled out a pack of Juicy Fruit, and offered it to his partner. “I haven’t been able to find anything linking Harmon, Fargo, and Ellison, or any of them to Rusch. About the only thing they had in common was their NFA membership.” DeSantos looked off at the Washington Monument in the near distance.
“National Firearms Alliance?” Uzi asked. “That’s interesting.”
“No, it’s not. I was just throwing that out because I didn’t have anything else to say.”
“Serious? They were all NFA members?”
“Them and seven million others.” DeSantos blew on his hands. “It’s not a crime. They do some good.”
“They do more harm.”
“Not worth the debate, my friend.” DeSantos tucked the folded Post beneath his arm, then stood. “Point is, it’s not a big deal that they’re all members.”
Uzi rose and followed in step as they crunched down the fine gravel path, heading west toward the monument.
“I’ll bet my salary that every single person associated with ARM is an NFA member.”
“So what? I bet they belong to the NRA, too.” DeSantos shook his head. “You’re trying to create a link where there isn’t any.”
“Far-right militias and NFA are in bed with each other. That fact can’t be ignored.”
“First,” DeSantos said, “I’d verify that little assumption before calling it a fact. But fine, don’t ignore it. Look into it. I just don’t think there’s anything there.”
“Rusch is pro-gun control because of what happened to his sister. Killed by an illegal thirty-eight special. Robbery attempt—”
DeSantos held up a hand, then stopped walking. “She wasn’t killed by a gun, Uzi. She was killed by the asshole who pulled the trigger.”
“That’s a classic NFA argument.”
“Look, boychick. All I’m saying is that if a guy takes a hammer to his best friend, we don’t talk about banning hammers. We prosecute the guy who swung it.”
“And all I’m saying is that Rusch is not NFA’s best friend.” He waited to read DeSantos’s blank face. When DeSantos didn’t react, Uzi continued. “Motive. They had a reason to eliminate him.”
“Now you’re way out in left field.”
“No, go with me on this.” Uzi thought for a second, allowing the theory to form. “Let’s say the NFA was concerned about Rusch’s gun-control agenda. The only way to prevent a disaster — from their point of view — is to get rid of him. They find an ally in ARM and launch their plan.”
“Too much of a leap for me. This isn’t a goddamn spy movie, Uzi. And this isn’t the Middle East. Don’t forget we work for the US government. Like it or not— and I usually don’t— there are legal and political checks and balances. There needs to be proof of a connection, a solid case. Not some hare-brained theory about the NFA and right-wing militias plotting to kill the next president of the United States.”
“This from the guy who’s been on more black ops than the government will admit to? You know what’s out there, what’s possible. Even with 9/11, America’s only gotten a taste of the twisted minds these terrorists have. You and I… We’ve seen it up close.” Uzi paused, looked away. “And personal.”
DeSantos’s moment of pause told Uzi that his partner agreed with him.
“Still,” DeSantos finally said, “we don’t have enough to go on.”
Uzi chomped on the gum, his thoughts churning in unison. “So we need to dig some more. Find those connections.”
“No,” DeSantos said, poking at Uzi’s leather jacket with an index finger. “You need to find those connections. I’ve got some other things I’m looking into.”
Uzi started to object when his smartphone began ringing. He listened for a second, then caught DeSantos’s eyes with his own. “Let’s go,” he said, jogging toward his Tahoe.
“What’s going on?”
Uzi chirped his remote and the doors unlocked. “Tell you on the way.”
Uzi put his magnetic light on the roof and drove like an Israeli, zipping through traffic and arriving at the National Military Medical Center in under fifteen minutes. He had been told that Glendon Rusch remembered something about the explosion and thought it might help their investigation.
As they approached, the fifteen-story tower of Building One rose like the guardian of the hospital complex, appearing like it did on any other dreary Maryland day.
Uzi turned his credentials wallet inside out and slipped the end into his coat’s breast pocket so his Bureau ID was visible. Because of his olive complexion, slight accent and casual dress, he did not want to be profiled incorrectly by the military police. On high alert with heightened tensions, the scene could get ugly very fast.
They cleared security and hurried through the lobby — but before they could make it to the elevators, the ground shook. In the next split second, Uzi wasn’t sure what he felt first — the concussive force against his chest, the rumble of the floor, or the sensation of being weightless and flying backward through the air.
The ear-shattering burst thumped his tympanic membrane like a punch to the nose: numbness at first, followed by the sequelae of pain and muffled hearing.
He gathered himself up from the floor, fine soot and shit coating his tongue and face — and looked around for his partner. “Santa,” he shouted. He thought he shouted it — the strain on his throat felt like it — though he was not sure. “Santa!”
He got to his feet and saw DeSantos a few yards to his left, slowly getting up.
“You okay?”
DeSantos staggered, then caught himself. “I’ve just been knocked into a wall by a fucking bomb. No, I’m not okay. You?”
“I’m in one piece and I can kinda sort hear. All things considered, I feel great.”
The wall behind them was partially missing, smoky daylight filtering through. Off in the distance, multiple car alarms wailed, followed seconds later by sirens. They stumbled through the rubble and emerged in the parking lot, where chunks of displaced asphalt littered the road. Piles of pulverized tempered glass covered the ground as if a dump truck had spilled a load of sparkling diamonds.
“Jesus,” DeSantos said as they walked, leaning against one another for support.
“What do you want to bet the target was Rusch?”
“Better he’s the target than the victim.”
A physician in a white lab coat came rushing toward them. “You two okay?”
Uzi waved him off. “Fine. Shaken, not stirred.”
DeSantos play-slapped his shoulder. “Shaken, not stirred? If I didn’t know you better, I’d think the explosion caused some brain damage.”
Uzi smirked. “Let’s go check on Rusch.”
Slowly, as their balance was still lacking, they took the stairs — which were littered with concrete fragments and glass shards. The fire door was twisted, but they were able to pry it open enough to squeeze through.
As they headed down the hall, Uzi’s phone rang. “Phone works.”
“That’s a good sign,” DeSantos said.
“Except that it’s my boss. That’s not a good sign.” He brought the handset to his ear.
“Uzi,” Shepard said, “get over to the military hospital, get over there right now.”
Uzi thumbed the volume switch and maxed it out. “Let me guess. There’s been another explosion.”
“You already know?” Shepard asked. “Who called you?”
“DeSantos and I were onsite. Pretty fucking intense. Almost took us out— Too close for my taste. We’re on our way to Rusch’s room.”