“Drop it!” she said, stepping toward the man on the bed. His gun was pointed at Sullivan, who was half lying, half sitting in the corner nearest the bathroom.
“I’ll kill him!” Jorge screamed, his words broken as though tortured by pain. Tears streamed down his face, and the pistol trembled slightly in his hand. But he kept it pointed directly at the whimpering reporter. His finger pressed on the trigger a hair.
“AND I WILL BLOW YOUR FUCKING BRAINS ALL OVER THE ROOM!” Frankie said, stepping still closer. And closer. And closer, until the smoking barrel of her weapon touched Jorge’s temple. He winced as the hot steel burned the tender skin on the right side of his face.
Art swung into the room as Russo and Mercer approached from Twelfth. “Behind you, Frankie,” he said. A quick look to the ground at his right confirmed that the guy in the doorway was very dead. He knew that to his rear Burlingame and Smith were covering the other two recipients of Frankie’s shots, though he didn’t know their condition.
He also didn’t know the condition of his partner. Slowly he slide-stepped toward her and the perp, coming up easily on her right.
“I said drop it,” Frankie repeated, her grip steady, the Smith & Wesson barely moving. “Now.”
Jorge squeezed the trigger a slight bit more. “I mean it. I’ll kill him.” Another gun appeared to his front, and his eyes shifted to see straight into the barrel.
“She means it, too,” Art said, his own finger applying pressure to the trigger. “So do I.”
Death suddenly seemed certain for Jorge. Death. The end. Over. Defiance and bravado lost their appeal with that revelation. He did not want to die. Not for the sake of finishing a lousy job. No way. He backed off pressure on the trigger. “Okay. Okay. I give.”
“Finger off the trigger, and lay it on your lap,” Art directed. The perp followed the instructions without hesitation. “Cover me, partner.”
“Got him,” Frankie said robotically as Art reached in and picked up the Browning.
“You all right?” Art asked Sullivan, who sat wide-eyed, his chest heaving, in the corner.
“I… I… I…” It was all George could get out as his breaths came in deep, heavy waves. He was alive. Alive! “I’m alive.”
“Yeah,” Art reacted. “Good for you.” Fucking idiot. There would be time for that later. “We got him.”
Frankie pressed the barrel harder against the perp’s head, until he began to lean away and down to the pillows. You killed Thom. YOU KILLED THOM!!!
“Partner.” Art swiveled his aim slowly left until it was centered on the man’s head. He didn’t want to move it anymore. “Frankie.” Don’t make me do it. Not again. “Frankie.”
She heard her partner’s words. They were almost pleas, but pleas for what? For her not to do something? Just like this scum hadn’t done anything to Thom. Like… Like…
“Bring your right hand slowly to your back,” Frankie said, waiting for the suspect to comply before having him bring the other back. “Cuff him, Art.”
“Gladly.” Art holstered his weapon and brought out his handcuffs. A sigh of relief escaped his lips, for many reasons. Their suspect was now in custody.
Frankie backed away and holstered her own weapon. She felt as though she hadn’t breathed in hours, in days even, and took in a deep, cleansing taste of air. Looking down, she saw Sullivan, now in a semi-fetal sitting position, his chin tucked between his knees. He looked like shit, and she hoped he felt like it, too.
“Next time, hotshot, someone might not be there to save your ass,” Frankie said directly to him. His eyes came up, then looked away. Frankie walked through the door without commenting further, passing Dan Burlingame on his way in.
“You keep your face down,” Art said to the suspect. “You so much as move, and I’ll shoot you just for the fun of it.”
Burlingame came up from behind. He eyed both Sullivan and the perp before speaking. “The two outside are dead, Art. Three total.”
The sound of approaching sirens began. Art knew there’d be a symphony of them in the next minute. “Jesus, Dan.”
“Hell of a job of shooting,” Burlingame commented. “Four on one, and she cleaned up.”
“Yeah,” Art agreed without glee. Killing was killing, even when justified. It was never the best way. Sometimes it was the only way. This time it didn’t have to be. “Watch him,” Art said to Burlingame. He was standing over Sullivan a second later.
“You sorry sack of shit.”
George looked up, his eyes red but dry. There were no more tears left in him. Hardly any emotion. Just a sobering realization that his life was poised on the edge of the drain and ready to slide in.
“You nearly got my partner killed ‘cause she had to save your ass,” Art bellowed. “And why? Why the fuck did you come looking?”
“I… I needed the story.” Sullivan swallowed hard. “I need something.”
Art spit out a disgusted breath. “Yeah, you need something, all right. You need a fucking lesson in life. Look around, huh. You see what you caused? What you caused because you ‘needed a story’? Bullshit! You’re a fucking crybaby who only has his booze to keep him company!”
“No more booze,” George said simply.
Art wondered if the claim was true. Probably not, despite the fact that the guy seemed stone-cold sober. “Wonderful first step, hotshot. Now try and fix all this.”
Sullivan looked to his left, leaning forward to see past the plain wooden dresser. The body of the man who had dragged him in the room lay against the doorframe. Beyond that, in the parking lot, were what looked like two more bodies. And farther still, leaning against the hood of an awkwardly parked car, was the woman who had saved his life.
“Tina,” Art said, calling the other agent in. He took what he hoped would be a final look at Sullivan, and he didn’t know what to feel about him right now. It couldn’t be pity; that would be too generous. Hate? For what, for being an idiot? Anger in part. But what else he should think of George Sullivan eluded him. Only distaste was prevalent in his mind at the moment. “Get him out of here.”
Art turned away as Mercer lifted and led Sullivan from the room. He took a few steps toward the bed and rolled the suspect over. The movement caused a grimace of pain. “Listen carefully, whoever you are, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent….” Art finished the Mirandizing of their suspect, then lifted him with a one hand grip of the man’s shirt to a sitting position against the headboard. There was another wince. “Now we’re gonna have to talk.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CONNECTIONS
General Walker finished relating what he had just been told a few minutes before. The story was met initially by silence from Marshal Kurchatov and Colonel Belyayev.
“You have just answered your own question, General Walker,” Kurchatov said. “I, too, would activate the Moscow ABM system if such a thing had been told to me.”
“Yes, but this appears to be an action taken not because of prudence, but because of mistrust,” Walker explained. “Your president’s tone was very provocative, I am told, and I say that not to challenge his motivation, but just as a point of concern.”
“Well, President Konovalenko, unfortunately, has more than just himself to answer to. And those who demand such satisfaction in times like this are not the most accommodating people.” Kurchatov smiled with the knowledge of one who had juggled both the political and military hats in his career, a process he knew was unfamiliar to CINCNORAD. “And distrust is their ally, not their enemy.”