Katazin turned toward the front entrance and was stunned to see the door open and Walsh standing there with another man. The second man was short and pudgy and clearly over fifty. He looked like he might be some sort of law enforcement officer. Katazin didn’t understand the situation, but he knew that it was a rare opportunity. He didn’t want Walsh to see his face, so he turned quickly, looking directly at Jerry, and said in Russian, “The younger man in the white shirt. He’s our target. Shoot him and meet me back at my car.” Katazin waited until recognition swept across Jerry’s face. He was confident the big moron would do his job, and at this point Katazin didn’t care if he shot the other man, too, as long as Walsh was killed. Katazin wanted to escape, so he abandoned his own desire for elaborate revenge.
He stepped away and cut through some low bushes to reach the sidewalk before the shooting started. He watched as Jerry carefully reached under his loose shirt to pull a pistol. Katazin intended to be on his way across the street by the time he had the gun on target.
He felt a certain measure of satisfaction knowing this end of the investigation would be over. He just hoped Walsh hadn’t had time to explain everything he knew to the cops. After Walsh, there was only one other person he needed to deal with, a person in this same building. He knew he was sacrificing Jerry to get this done, but it didn’t bother him. At least not nearly as much as shooting Alena in the head to make her drop the grenade. That was a real decision. That would haunt him. No one would miss a steroid freak like Jerry. He’d pay a small fine to the organized crime family that allowed Katazin to rent their man, but that would be the end of it.
It was what came after that concerned Katazin. He would be on the run unless he could utilize some of the measures he had put in place years ago to hide effectively within the borders of the United States.
Or he could always take a trip back home.
Moving through the great glass door to the courtyard, Derek Walsh was about to spring to freedom away from this angry FBI agent who clearly had his own agenda. Even if he was handcuffed, he’d be able to outrun this moron. With his hands free, his sprint would put him out of reach within a matter of seconds.
He scanned the courtyard and saw that it was nearly empty. He wouldn’t have to do any complicated weaving to make a break for the far end and then into the maze of streets that would offer him sanctuary. There were two men right near the door off to the side, but as they reached the top of the stairs, one of the men turned and hurried off toward the street. The other man, a muscle-head who stood at least six foot one, turned and assessed them with dark eyes. Something about the man’s demeanor and interest in them caught Walsh’s attention, and he kept his focus on him.
Just as they were about to step down onto the first stair, Walsh realized the man was reaching for a pistol and saw a flash of blue metal come out from under his loose short-sleeved flannel shirt. Without hesitation, Walsh stepped to the side, grabbed Martin by the arm, and pulled him along with him over the side of the landing so they would have the cement staircase as cover. He only had time to shout, “Gun.”
Walsh heard the FBI agent mumble a protest as he was jerked off his feet. They sailed the four feet through the air, and somehow Martin ended up underneath Walsh as they hit the bushes and grass of the ornamental area. The FBI agent acted like an air bag, taking the brunt of the fall plus the added weight of Walsh on top of him. His breath rushed out in a loud “Ummph.”
Just as he rolled off the FBI agent, Walsh heard the first shot and saw it ping off the edge of the landing. He knew there would be more bullets coming his way and the man would run to the edge of the stairway in a moment. He looked down and realized Frank Martin was out of the fight for at least another minute, so he reached to his side and felt for the gun that was in his right hand before they fell. It was loose on the ground, wedged against the FBI agent’s ribs. Walsh picked up the Glock model 17 and fired a round before he even stood up. He just wanted to scare the man away if he could. When he peeked over the edge of the stairs he saw the man still standing with his pistol up. Walsh fired two quick rounds and ducked as the muscle-head returned fire.
Now Martin was catching his breath and struggling to his feet. He motioned for Walsh to hand him the pistol. His attitude toward Walsh had clearly changed drastically since Walsh had kept him from being shot.
Walsh couldn’t help but peek over the top of the stairs as the FBI agent did the same with the pistol up in front of him. The muscle-head had backed away from them and still had the gun in his hand. Martin popped off two quick rounds, which made the man turn and dart toward the street. The muscle-head fired one round wildly, which struck the front door of the building, causing an odd crack that almost looked like a professional cut down the middle of the door. The FBI agent returned another round.
This round went wide right and struck the windshield of a car coming down the street. It was a gray Dodge Charger and was traveling on the fast side. It swerved for an instant, the driver obviously distracted as the windshield spidered into a thousand cracks. The driver righted the car just as the muscle-head stepped into the street. The sound of the impact was sickening as bones snapped and tires squealed. The muscle-head flew into the air and landed in a lifeless heap on the opposite sidewalk.
The FBI agent calmly looked at Walsh and said, “I didn’t expect that at all.”
41
It had been nearly an hour since Walsh had witnessed the muscle-head assassin run down by a car in the street. They had tried to give the man aid, but he was dead by the time Walsh had reached him. The FBI agent checked for any sign of life, but the impact from the car had been devastating, leaving the man’s neck twisted at an odd angle and his left arm splintered in several places.
After the events of last few days, this one seemed relatively tame by comparison. It had taken a while to straighten out the scene, and quickly Walsh understood why Tonya Stratford’s partner had his job. He was calm, cool, and collected at every moment and explained exactly what was going on. He answered questions from his supervisors, then immediately came upstairs to join Agent Stratford and Walsh. He clearly appreciated Walsh’s efforts to keep him from being shot.
Now Walsh sat on a padded bench near his old desk while Cheryl Kravitz, his immediate supervisor, argued with Tonya Stratford about allowing anyone access to the network until she had cleared it with both their IT and legal departments.
Cheryl said, “Can’t we hold off on doing this for a little bit? I mean, you just killed a guy out front.”
Frank Martin leaned forward and said, “Technically the car killed him, but this smart guy saved my ass, so you’re gonna shut the hell up and run along. We have work to do.” He patted Walsh on the shoulder.
Walsh suddenly realized how entertaining the FBI agent was when his anger wasn’t directed at him. His attitude was sort of like the marines: Americans loved them; everyone else wanted to avoid them. That was a handy reputation to have. It was effective, too, as Cheryl turned on her heel and marched away to confer with Ted Marshall, who was busy in his office.