I regarded Jason's corpse. One shot had entered his mid-chest, and two had punched into his forehead and gone straight through, blowing his brains across the room. His eyes were locked open, his pupils rolled upward-as though he had tried to watch the bullets pass through.
From down the hall, by the bedrooms, came a really loud boom-we both recoiled from the shock. Another percussion or stun grenade went off, followed by more yells and more shots. A real battle was going on back there.
"Come on." Jennie took my arm and pulled me along. I followed, a little dumbstruck. Outside and about fifty yards from the townhouse were parked two armored trucks, and we sprinted down the sidewalk and ended up taking cover behind the nearest one.
We stood for a moment, winded, a little unsteady. Then Jennie reached over and touched my face. Actually, not touched, she wiped. She said, "You're bleeding a lot."
Until that moment, I hadn't realized that glass splinters from the porch door had sprayed me. Blood was streaming into my face from my scalp, and a quick visual inspection revealed a number of cuts on my chest, my arms, even my legs. Now that I realized they were there, they hurt like hell.
An agent dressed in an urban commando getup, a flak vest, and a royally pissed-off expression approached. He walked straight to Jennie, got two inches from her face, and barked, "What in the hell were you doing?"
"Getting my man out."
"I told you, Agent, nobody enters till the Hostage Rescue Team gives the all-clear."
"I recall that."
"This was an outrageous breach of procedures. I could care less if you're a supervisor. I'm gonna report this."
Jennie looked at him, not giving an inch. "Go ahead. I told my hostage I'd guarantee his safety. I meant it."
Mr. Macho saw this was going nowhere, apparently remembered he had a firefight on his hands, and stomped off in a nasty huff.
Did I suddenly feel bad, or what? I said, "You were coming in to get me?"
She did not reply
I squeezed her hand. "Thank you."
She looked very unhappy, distracted even, and I thought I knew what was going on here.
After a moment, I asked her, "Jason was your first kill. Right?"
"Yeah. My first kill. A man with his hands tied behind his back. I… well, I…" Her eyes became misty.
"It happens, Jennie. You couldn't know his hands were tied behind his back. For all you knew, he had a weapon. Through the smoke and dust, that's what your eye saw, and what your mind registered. In the heat of action, the eye overrules the mind, and the finger on the trigger doesn't discriminate."
She looked at me and said nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Within three minutes, the hostage rescue team leader must've radioed out that the deed was done, because everybody suddenly relaxed. Actually that might be overstating it, but a few agents lit up cigarettes, and a few people wandered out into the open from behind the vans.
A forensics team was sent into the townhouse, followed closely by four teams of medical technicians bearing stretchers. Then lots of unmarked sedans Med with Johnny-come-latelies began pouring down the street. On their heels followed the ubiquitous TV news vans, prenotified, I guess, so the public could witness this effervescent moment in FBI history But I wasn't being judgmental-the Feds had bled and suffered for this one. What little credit was due, they deserved.
Somebody with bad manners in a gray suit kept ordering me into an ambulance. I insisted I was fine, and swore I could and Would swagger out of here on my own two feet. It was all macho posturing from big bad Sean, of course. I get a little weird standing around in public in my undershorts.
Also Jennie remained very hurt and uptight, staring off into space, absorbed in her own thoughts. I held her hand and I figured-no matter how silly-that I was helping her hold it together.
But the FBI has a lot of rules, and rule number one is follow all the rules. So somebody went and found the commander of the HRT, who approached me and said, "Drummond, right?"
"No. He's the tall, good-looking guy wearing all his clothes."
"One of those splinters fly into your brain or something?"
I checked my groin. "Nope."
He laughed." I heard you were crazy as hell. Listen, you did a good job. We appreciate it."
"Aw, any dumbass could've done it."
"My thoughts exactly." He stopped smiling. "Now, are you getting into that ambulance or do I put your ass in?"
Through the corner of my eye I saw a few TV cameramen taking shots, and one was about ten feet away and just starting a sweep in our direction. Before I made Five O'Clock Live in my present condition, I stepped into the back of the ambulance.
I even got a ride in a wheelchair once we arrived at Arlington General and was hustled toward the operating room. A pair of young docs had a field day, digging shards of glass out of my skin and stitching me up. One even offered me the fragments, suggesting they would make a very memorable stained-glass mosaic. Another noted the scars from my old war wounds and remarked upon what a terrifically popular person I must be. They were very funny Seriously.
I swallowed three aspirins, and one of the docs told me to wait thirty minutes for observation, in the event I had a sudden attack of common sense, unlikely as that might be. I was given a set of genuine surgeon's scrubs to wear, which was pretty cool. I was assured it would be on my bill of course.
I was allowed to walk on my own out to the waiting room, and I found a chair off in the corner, where, for the first time in two days, I was alone and could think.
Starting from when Jennie picked me up at the George Bush Center for Intelligence, the past forty-eight hours had been like some Hollywood action movie at 78 rpm, a blur of gore, emotional chaos, and frantic confusion. I had seen enough death and misery for a lifetime, and those images were imprinted on my brain. I had set up four people to die, and I had a few misgivings about that. I had a lot to contemplate.
But there happened to be a TV perched on a nearby wall bracket, the evening news was on, and the shootout was the story of the hour, the day, and probably the month. I leaned back into my chair, put my feet up, and started watching, when a voice inside my head screamed, Hey idiot, you haven't slept in two days.
Then somebody was shaking my shoulder, asking, "Hey-you all right?"
I saw Agent Rita Sanchez, holding two steaming cups of coffee, bless her heart. I had not a clue how long I had slept, nor was there a way to tell. In hospitals there is no day and no night.
Rita fell into the seat beside me. She handed me a cup, and I took a long sip. She informed me, "Jennie said you might need a ride home. She's real busy right now."
"I'll bet."
"How you doing?"
I could answer that two ways-honestly or not. So I lied. "Fine. Glad it's over, glad the good guys won…"
She smiled knowingly "You got postpartem blues. All that adrenaline gets pumped into you, then it just goes, like a petered-out balloon. I see it all the time."
"You don't see it this time."
"I think I do."
"I think you don't. The knights slew the dragons, I'm glad."
"Sure you are." After a moment she added, "We're gonna need a statement. You're the only person who actually spent time with these people."
"The only one who survived."
"Same thing."
"No, it's not the same thing."
Rita detected that I was in a queer mood and decided not to press it. Changing the subject, she said, "They put up a hell of a battle at the end. The HRT guys said they fought like wildcats. The woman went down last. She ran out of the bedroom spraying her M16"
"In fact, I was wondering about that."