Against All Enemies Page 7

  “According to the coroner, your attacker’s name was John Doe. Cause of death was a bullet through his heart, though she speculates in the report that the bullet through his liver would also have been fatal, though arguably at a slower rate. I don’t believe that you’re smiling.”

  “I’m sorry,” Haynes said, though he was anything but. “It’s gratifying to know that I hit what I was shooting at. Did I mention that I wasn’t killed? Tell me about John Doe.”

  Stella went back to her papers. “He’s an unknown quantity,” she said. “No ID in his pockets, no hit off of the fingerprints. He’s completely off the grid, and according to the Metropolitan Police, the Capitol Police, and the FBI, no one knows who he is. He never existed.”

  Haynes knew what that meant, and he suspected that Stella knew as well. “No one’s invisible these days unless they are intended to be invisible,” he said.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I don’t have a specific suggestion,” Haynes said, “but I know that Congressman Blaine’s body is still warm, and no one has yet to identify his shooter, right?”

  Stella’s face darkened. “Are you suggesting that they’re one and the same?”

  Haynes shrugged. “I’m suggesting that they could be. How would we know when one shooter is a ghost and the other—the one who actually takes up physical space in the physical world—is dead? As a result of some admittedly expert shooting.”

  “Does the thought of jail appeal to you, Haynes?”

  “Actually, it repels me,” he said. “But for the now, I live in the glow of having beaten the mysterious bad guy to the draw. What’s our next step?”

  Stella looked horrified. “You’re asking me that question? I was going to ask you that question.”

  Haynes took his time considering the problem. Anywhere else on the planet, the fact of his survival while under attack would grant him a free pass, but this was the District of Columbia, where juries tilted in bizarre directions that allowed drug dealing tax evaders to serve on the City Council without consequence while slamming hundreds of dollars in fines against people who parked in spaces where the meters had been broken for weeks. A prominent politician who dared to live might well be at a disadvantage. The fact of his gun would likely be the deciding factor, and the city fathers were likely to take a hard line.

  “I think our best bet is to nationalize the issue,” he said. “But for my illegal gun, I would be dead now. It’s an argument that will get us a lot of national attention.”

  “I think you’re right,” Stella said. “The problem is that your jury is going to be composed of DC residents who will indict whomever the prosecutor tells them to indict, and then the trial jury will be composed exclusively of people without enough clout to get out of their jury duty, and every one of them will be positively giddy at the prospect of sending a senator of your political persuasion to jail.”

  Haynes let the words hang, then said, “Have you considered a career in motivational speaking? Your optimism in the face of difficult news is stunning.”

  “You make light,” Stella said, “but just wait until—”

  “We’ve got time,” Haynes interrupted. “We need to find out who the assassin was.”

  “The FBI doesn’t know who he was,” Stella said. “If they don’t know, how on earth are you going to find out?”

  When she framed the question that way, the answer was as obvious as the sun in the sky. “I know a guy who knows a girl,” he said.

  Chapter Seven

  To call Christyne Nasbe’s place of residence a house would be an overstatement, but neither was it a trailer by any reasonable definition. A single story tall, it was squat and long, perhaps three-quarters as deep as it was wide. Their place sat in the middle of a long line of similar abodes, on a residential street that reflected the tastes of the working class. The tiny lawns were uniformly trimmed to be neat, but nothing was expensive. Jonathan imagined it to be a neighborhood filled with enlisted folks who did not make the cut to live on post.

  Christyne lived in number 104, which was set off the road by maybe twenty feet of grass, surrounded on the sides and back by a chain-link fence. Yellow flowers that Jonathan recognized but couldn’t name grew along the base of the structure in the front, and the windows all but vibrated with colors from bouquets of flowers that cascaded from window boxes that could barely contain them. The place wasn’t much, but it was well cared for.

  Boxers drove the Batmobile past the house on the left to the end of the street, where he turned around and parked on the Nasbes’ side of the street, but five doors down. “Want to watch for a while, or do you want to get right to it?” he asked.

  Jonathan reached into a pocket and pulled out a two-by-two-inch leather pouch from which he withdrew a tiny wireless transceiver. He inserted it into his right ear, while Boxers did the same. He turned the knob of the radio on his right hip and then pressed the transmit button on the earpiece. “Mother Hen, Scorpion. Do you copy?”

  A few seconds passed before Venice’s voice said, “Loud and clear.”

  “We’re on scene at the Nasbes’,” Jonathan said. “I don’t anticipate this being a hot op, but I wanted you to be in the loop.”

  “Understood,” Venice said. “Is Big Guy on the net, too?”

  “Right here,” Boxers said.

  “Here’s to success,” Venice said.

  With that, the stage was set. Jonathan checked his watch. Two-fifteen. “How old do you suppose Ryan is now?” he asked.

  Big Guy shrugged. “At least seventeen,” he said. “Maybe eighteen. Why?”

  The last time he’d seen Ryan Nasbe, the kid was spattered with strangers’ blood and damn near crippled for life as he was being hustled to safety by even more strangers. Jonathan had never had the chance to explain the details of why he was there to rescue him, which was exactly the way it was supposed to be. The last thing he wanted to do was go eye-to-eye with this kid again and ignite old memories. Especially under the circumstances.

  “No reason,” Jonathan said. “I was just curious.”

  “I imagine he’s still in school at this hour,” Boxers said. “I know that would make Mother Hen happy.”

  Jonathan looked to his friend and smiled. Big Guy got it. “All right, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  They locked the Batmobile behind them and as they walked casually up the sidewalk, Jonathan knew without doubt that the phone trees had begun to buzz. In a military neighborhood like this, where roughly fifty percent of the population was on deployment somewhere, anything that was out of the ordinary attracted its share of attention and then some. While Jonathan and Boxers had both dressed to blend in, the temperature was too hot to justify the denim vest Jonathan wore to conceal the .45 on his hip, and Boxers was so large that everybody noticed whatever he did, wherever he did it.

  “Do you miss it?” Boxers asked as they strolled the sidewalk.

  “Parts of it,” Jonathan said. “But not this part at all. I never felt comfortable with the secrecy of deployments.” It had cost him his marriage, in fact. “Do you?”

  “Every friggin’ day.”

  “Even the bullshit?”

  “I don’t even remember the bullshit. I just remember the job.”

  Jonathan craned his neck to look up at Big Guy. “It’s not a lot different than the job you have now.”

  “It’s a hell of a lot different,” Boxers said. “Back then it was for God and country.”

  “Until,” Jonathan said.

  “Exactly,” Big Guy said with a chuckle. “Until God watched the country diddle us in the ass. I didn’t enjoy that part so much.”

  “You can’t have one without the other,” Jonathan said. “It’s all one big diddle.”

  He shifted to more serious issues. “I want you at the back door until we know what we’ve got. No weapons showing, and I don’t for a minute think this is going to go violent—”

  “But nobody ever died from abundance of
caution,” Boxers said. “You know I was here last time we did something like this, right? What do you want me to do if somebody bolts?”

  “Try to stop them. But don’t hurt anybody. I don’t want to be a source of escalation. Yet.”

  Big Guy tossed off a half-salute and peeled off to take a position in the back.

  Jonathan pressed his transmit button. “Be advised we’re at the house,” he said. “I’m going to the front door.”

  “I copy you’re going to the front door,” Venice said. The radio protocols could be a burden on simple operations like this, but the attention to detail kept everybody from becoming complacent.

  “Big Guy?” Jonathan asked over the air.

  “I’m in place on the back side. Be ready for a big dog. Big piles out here.”

  That was an interesting data point, Jonathan thought. While there was a better than average chance that one day he would be ejected from this mortal coil by a bullet, he had no intention of letting his insides spill outside at the whim of a canine attacker. It wasn’t a threat worthy of drawing down on approach, but it was something to be on the lookout for.

  Jonathan pressed his transmit button. “I’m going to the door now.”

  It was a delicate moment. On the one hand, he needed to be aware, but on the other, he wanted to draw as little attention as possible. All he wanted to do was talk. When the talking was over, he wanted to leave the Nasbes in peace, absent the need to explain weird stuff to neighbors. He felt dangerously exposed as he stood directly in front of the door to knock. It was the way regular people knocked, but it was also the best way to guarantee a gut full of buckshot if the party on the other side was having a difficult day.

  He rapped five times with the knuckle of his middle finger. Nothing urgent, certainly nothing police-like. Just an old friend dropping by to say hello. When no one answered after thirty seconds or so, he knocked again.

  “I see movement inside,” Boxers said in his ear.

  Jonathan saw it, too, a shadow moving behind the sheer curtains. “I’m coming!” a voice called from the other side. It was male and it sounded young.

  Oh, shit, Jonathan thought.

  The door opened to reveal a tall, skinny kid of maybe seventeen. His eyes were a lot brighter than the last time Jonathan had seen him, and his face bore a lot more color. Ryan Nasbe looked remarkably like his father, but about fifty pounds lighter. A trail of dark fuzz down his jawline and under his chin marked the place of a future beard. Recognition came after maybe three seconds of confusion, and then all the brightness went away.

  “Hi, Ryan,” Jonathan said. He mustered a kind smile.

  “Scorpion.”

  “You remember. Nice to see you again. You look well.”

  “He’s not here,” Ryan said.

  Jonathan cocked his head. He knew what the kid was talking about, but he didn’t want to let on.

  “My dad,” Ryan clarified. “He’s not here.”

  “I know,” Jonathan said. “We’re not here to talk to him. We’re here to talk with your mom.”

  “We?” Ryan craned his neck to see around the visitor at his door to look out toward the street.

  Jonathan pressed his transmit button. “Come around to the front, Big Guy,” he said.

  And now the pallor returned to Ryan’s face. “That guy’s here, too?”

  “I never leave home without him,” Jonathan said. It was supposed to be a joke, but it fell about a mile short. He cleared his throat. “We’re a team. Is your mom here?”

  Ryan didn’t move out of the door opening, and he didn’t say anything. He looked confused and frightened.

  “We’re not here to cause any trouble, Ryan,” Jonathan said. “I promise you.”

  “Ryan, honey, who’s at the door?” a woman’s voice called from down the hall. Because he knew who it had to be, Jonathan recognized the voice, but he probably wouldn’t have without that prompt. After a few seconds, she tried again. “Ryan? Who is—”

  Christyne Nasbe turned from the cross hall into the living room and stopped dead. Her jaw dropped. “Dylan’s not here,” she said.

  Movement from behind told Jonathan that Boxers had arrived. “Hi, Christyne,” Jonathan said. “You’re both looking well.”

  “I said he’s not here.”

  “I know that, ma’am. We’re not here to see him. We’re here to speak with you.” By now, Boxers’ shadow had joined his across the floor of the foyer.

  “About Dylan?” Christyne pressed.

  “Can we come in, ma’am?” Jonathan asked. “I swear to you we mean no harm.”

  Ryan looked back to his mom for direction, and she remained frozen in place. Neither pretty nor not, Christyne bore the weathered look of an exhausted homemaker with a teenaged son. “Let them in, Ryan.”

  “They want to hurt Dad,” he said.

  “It’s actually the opposite of that,” Boxers said, his first words since appearing in the doorway. “We’re here to help him.”

  The Nasbes stared in unison.

  “We’ve driven a long way,” Jonathan said, “and Big Guy needs to pee. If he does it out here, he’ll kill the plants.”

  Boxers growled.

  Ryan smiled in spite of himself.

  “Let them in, Ry,” Christyne said.

  “Fine,” Ryan said, though clearly it was not. He stepped aside.

  “Thank you,” Jonathan said, and he stepped past the teenager into the foyer, which was really just an extension of the living room, which in turn was an extension of the dining room. Everything appeared to be as neat and organized as the exterior, but the furniture all seemed too big for the space, leading Jonathan to wonder if the move here had been sudden, and by extension, if they considered it to be just a temporary relocation.

  “Nice place,” Jonathan said.

  Ryan didn’t drop a beat. “No, it’s not. It sucks. The bathroom’s down there.” He pointed to a hallway on the left.

  A lot transpired in the two-second silent exchange that followed between Jonathan and Boxers.

  I don’t have to go.

  Yes, you do.

  Asshole.

  Punctuated with a grin from Jonathan. Hey, the kid had called his bluff. What else could he do?

  As Boxers disappeared down the hall, Jonathan turned back to Christyne. “May we sit?”

  She didn’t move. “I don’t know. Tell me why you’re really here.”

  Jonathan took a step backward so he could see both Nasbes in the same glance. He couldn’t tell if the kid was doing it consciously, but by hanging behind Jonathan, out of sight, Ryan was making him very uncomfortable. “I’d prefer you’d stay where I can see you,” he said.

  “Why?”

  Jonathan’s shoulders sagged. “Please let’s not make this a confrontation. We really are here to help Dylan. But to help him, I need information from you.”

  “You want me to tell you where he is,” Christyne said.

  “Mom!”

  A toilet flushed.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Boxers reappeared. “Well, this hasn’t progressed very far,” he said. “How’s the arm, Ryan? Last time I saw you—”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It’s still not a hundred percent,” Christyne clarified. “But it’s going to be.”

  “A lot better than being dead, huh?” Boxers said. Their previous encounter had indeed been traumatic.

  Jonathan watched the realization wash over Christyne. No matter what followed, she owed them more than nasty aggression. “Come in and sit,” she said. “Please.”

  “Try not to break the furniture, Big Guy.”

  “Ryan!”

  The kid’s smile made Jonathan laugh.

  Truth be told, the furniture was anything but fragile. Stoutly constructed and heavily cushioned, Jonathan figured that Dylan must have picked it up in Germany. TDY, maybe—temporary duty.

  Christyne sat with her son on the sofa while Jonathan and Boxers each took
a chair. “I am grateful to you for your help before, but you are wasting—”

  Jonathan held up a hand for silence, and reached for the television remote control. Someone had muted the third reel of Saving Private Ryan, and Jonathan cranked up the volume to a level north of loud, but barely south of painful.

  “Jesus!” Ryan shouted. “What the—”

  Jonathan held up a hand for silence again. He motioned for everyone to lean in closer. “You need to assume that your house is bugged,” he said.

  Christyne’s hand shot to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

  “Are you shitting me?” Ryan said.

  “I can’t say for sure,” Jonathan said, “but for this conversation, it’s not worth the risk.” He shifted his eyes to Christyne. “So, let’s get to it. Do you know—”

  “Uh-uh,” she said, and she held up her own hand. “No answers for you until we get some. Why is the world looking for Dylan?”

  The question seemed to come from an honest place, and it took Jonathan off guard. “You really don’t know?”

  “You’re asking questions out of turn,” she said. “This is answering time.”

  Jonathan shot a look to Ryan. He might be older than last time, but he was still a kid, and there were some things that a boy should never hear about his father.

  “All Ry and I have left is each other,” Christyne said. “What you can say to me, you can say to him.”

  Jonathan didn’t approve, but it wasn’t his call. “Big Guy and I were approached by his former commanding officer,” he said.

  “Colonel Rollins,” Ryan said, as if to emphasize that he already knew some of what was going on.

  “Exactly,” Jonathan said. “He, uh, well . . . Oh, crap. There’s no soft way to say it. He accused Dylan of murder and treason.”

  “Bullshit.” Mother and son said it together.