Chapter 21
The place was busy… real busy. I went for a sandwich from the cafeteria and when I came back, an agent I didn’t know was at my makeshift workstation, working a phone and computer terminal as Red coordinated a half dozen things.
The main monitor had a map up of the country showing the killer pharmacists’ track of death, and every local field office on that route was active.
The frenzy of activity paused as another set of screens lit up with two different television networks’ coverage of the White House press conference breaking the story.
Director Brown did most of the speaking, President Stormer standing right behind him.
They fielded questions and one reporter asked why it took so long to discover the crimes.
Director Brown shot back that it was amazing the FBI had detected the crime spree at all.
“None of these murders, not a single one, was flagged as suspicious, let alone foul play,” he said. “These crimes were almost perfect… as long as they went undetected.”
“How did you discover them?” the same reporter countered.
“Highly advanced pattern recognition work that is currently classified,” Brown said without hesitation.
I snorted at that, softly, but Agent Carmine heard me and turned to give me a wink.
After that, the frenetic pace picked up again and I was clearly just in the way, so I went back to the cafeteria floor and sweet-talked the workers into some cookies, crackers, and some apples.
I do try to eat healthy (hence the apples), but my overactive brain also burns calories like a boiler.
So, snacks in hand, I retired to my FBI-provided hotel room in the middle of the biggest combined task force in the Bureau’s history ( I know ’cause I read it on the plaque on the wall by the elevator).
I did some PT work to remind my body that it was supposed to stay in shape, then settled in to watch Netflix.
Two episodes into a new Harlan Cobin series and the door suddenly burst open. Rose Carmine rushed in and then stopped when she spotted me nestled on the couch.
“We couldn’t find you. Well, I couldn’t find you,” she explained, looking slightly embarrassed.
“I wasn’t needed and I was very clearly in the way. But this show clearly needs me to point out a few plot holes.”
“I thought you left the building,” she said, stepping over and sitting in the lone chair next to my couch. She barely glanced at the television.
“The super-duper high security FBI building?” I asked.
“Tell me you couldn’t get out if you wanted to,” she said, arching one brow.
“Why Agent Carmine, you seem to have reversed your opinion of my humble talents,” I noted.
“Kessler’s been talking to some military buddies, and I have a few contacts myself. The consensus is that your dad was world class.”
“That’s my understanding too,” I said.
“And you’ve had a seriously unusual upbringing.”
“I guess,” I said. She frowned at me in disbelief. “Okay, sure,” I allowed.
“Picking out snipers on an infiltration course? Flying Blackhawks in a simulator?” she asked. "Who else does that as a teen?”
“I remember everything about the infiltration field. When the students make little movements or shift position, I see it immediately. They kind of hate me.”
She nodded. “That’s who you are—how you’re wired. But then you’ve learned a whole lot of stuff on top of that, right?”
“They like to teach me. I remember everything they show me, whether on purpose or not.”
“And you never forget anything?” she asked.
“Never. Hey, does the food floor have pizza?” I asked.
“They do. Hungry?”
“Almost always.”
Ten minutes later, we had hot slices of fresh pepperoni and cheese pizza, and it was good. Each slice was giant: you know, so big you needed to fold it in half lengthwise and then tuck the tip over backward before you could wrangle it into your jaws.
“It’s pretty authentic,” Rose said. “Close to New York style.”
A trio of uniformed armed people, two men and a woman, came in and headed for the food line.
They each carried a heavy-looking locked case in their left hands.
One, a tall Black male, glanced our way, and his eyes slipped right over me to fix on Rose.
“Yo, Carmine,” he called, heading our way. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here, Tison? Why are you in my building? I thought you left the Bureau?” she answered, rising up to meet him halfway and shake his hand.
“I did. Went to work for a Bureau-approved armored transport company. We’re here for chain of custody evidence transport on this big serial killer case,” he said.
One of the other two, the male, looked at Tison and I saw his face as I tilted my own head down over my pizza. Instant recognition flooded my system and every cell in my body went on alert. The third person, the woman, glanced at me and then turned away.
“Tison,” the male called.
“Gotta go. On a tight schedule,” Rose’s friend said.
She came back over and sat down. Glancing my way, she almost froze.
“Natural. Act natural,” I said. The trio was at the food line and far enough away for me to speak. I twisted my chair slightly away from them. “The other guy was an armored car guy for William Cramer. I don’t like coincidence,” I said, picking up my plate and glass.
Steele didn’t pick stupid agents, because she didn’t argue, didn’t brush off my comment, and immediately followed my lead.
Ten seconds later, we had dropped our dishes at the waste station and were out the door.
The commissary door window reflected the people behind us, and I saw the woman now staring at my back.
“Stairs, down, HRT,” I said, breaking into a run for the stairwell. Rose jumped forward to flash her ID at the door reader to the stairs as we heard the sound of dishes smashing behind us. We were a full floor down when we heard the door above us crash open and a male voice uttered, “Goddamn it!”
At the third and last floor below the commissary floor, we raced out into a beehive of heavily armed agents. The all looked our way and immediately hands went to sidearms.
“Behind us. Armed hostiles,” Rose said, pulling her own Glock. Just ahead of us, a man stepped out of an office and I recognized the lead HRT agent, whose name tag was E. Hawke.
“Capture team in the building and just behind us!” Rose yelled to him.
“Assume additional teams in the facility from evidence transport,” I said. Shots rang out behind us, bursts of full-automatic fire, muffled by suppressor, my ears telling me it was 5.56 ammo, and the sharp crack of seven or eight pistols firing back.
I heard something metallic ting and ping as it hit the floor and bounced, my brain identifying the sound from memory.
“Flashbang!” I yelled, bending forward as I covered both ears with my hands and opening my mouth.
A roar of sound and a sunburst of light as a concussive wave hit my back and rattled my internal organs.
Rose had covered one ear and looked away, her mouth open to mitigate the blast. As soon as the pressure wave had passed, she grabbed my arm and shoved me into the open office door.
Agent Hawke fired his issue Glock 17M left-handed around the doorframe.
Then I was stumbling forward into the room as Rose bum-rushed me forward.
I took in the space at a glance, then raced for the corner, where a ballistic shield with a viewport was propped.
It came up almost to my neck and it weighed more that I would have guessed.
Adrenaline is a wonderful thing, though, and I had the shield over to Agent Hawke in seconds. He switched his pistol to his right hand, grabbed the shield, and pushed out into the hallway. A second later, another agent fell into the room, his leg a bloody mess.
Rose was stacked up behind Hawke, leaning out to fire double taps on his left side.
I was on my own with the wounded agent, but I was able to drag him farther inside.
Blood was gushing from his left thigh and the word femoral popped into my head.
An armored combat vest was hanging on a rack by a filing cabinet and I grabbed a CAT tourniquet off it, shook out the CAT, and fastened it around the man’s leg.
Once it was tight, I took the attached windlass and twisted it as hard as I could, the man yelling in pain from my efforts.
The gushing stopped, though, and with a twist, the end of the windlass slipped under its locking clip.
“Rifle, code 4473,” Hawke yelled from the door. An HK416 was racked on the wall, a four-digit combo lock in place. The lock yielded to the code, a mag already in place, so I racked the charging handle, slipped the safety to full auto, and handed it to Hawke as he holstered his pistol.
The vest carrier held rifle and pistol mags, so I grabbed two of each, handing Agent Carmine a full Glock mag and holding the two rifle mags ready for Hawke.
Rose grabbed the ballistic shield so that Hawke could man the rifle and between the two of them, they laid down impressive counterfire.
Then another set of weapons opened up from farther up the hall, shooting down to the attackers. Suddenly, it all stopped.
“They pulled back,” Hawke said. “You three secure that door.” He then whipped around to look at me and the wounded agent.
I handed him a rifle mag and he did a tactical reload without looking, his eyes still roving over the office and the hall.
I grabbed the tac radio off his vest and when he turned back with his mouth opening, I handed it to him.
His eyes were wide, but he didn’t pause as he started to issue orders.
I didn’t stay to listen but ran out into the hall.
Four agents were down. One had no pulse but the other three were still breathing.
The worst hit was an agent who was bleeding from a shot to his right abdomen.
I tore off my hoodie, grabbed the guy’s folding knife, and cut pieces of fabric to stuff into the wound.
I had watched trainees at Benning learn to stuff the massive wounds in pot roasts that had been shot with 5.
56mm ammo. The message was to pack, pack, pack, and then pack some more.
Just jam as much gauze, fabric, or bandage material as you could.
Let the doctors curse your name as long as it stopped the bleedout.
Suddenly a whole host of people flooded onto the floor and a complete team of medics pushed in and took over my patient and the others. I just moved back out of the way and sat against the wall.
“Any of that yours?” Rose Carmine asked me, squatting down in front of me.
“No. Theirs.” I waved a bloody hand at the guys on the floor.
“Okay,” she said, looking at my eyes closely.
“Not in shock, but a little stunned,” I said. “Damn near deaf.”
“Alright. Just sit tight,” she said.
“Rose, where are they? The gunmen?”
“These three are dead. Didn’t make it out of the stairwell. There were two other teams. One got captured; the other died like these.”
“Okay. How many agents died?” I asked.
“Just one. Several in bad shape, though. Just… sit here and breathe, okay?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” she said with a little smile, then stood up and headed back into the fray.