2 A Month of Mondays (7 page)

Boys of Summer

Jake finished his chicken and waffle sandwich from Change Up
Chicken and looked out toward the first base line. The second game of the
double header was almost ready. The manager had withheld Todd from the first
game of the double header. Jake watched him in the bullpen along the left field
foul line as he joked and fraternized with the pitchers. The Orioles had lost
three runs to two, but Todd’s spirits seemed upbeat.

Jake adjusted his glasses and waited for Hallie to get back.
She had accompanied Senator Robert Swane to the concessions. Jake yawned,
stretched, and wadded up the paper wrapping from the sandwich and stuck it
under the seat next to his black bag.

He nudged it, feeling the weight of his FN P90. It was field
stripped, but he could assemble it in under thirty seconds. Knowing it was
there were both a relief and a concern. If he needed to protect the senator’s
son, it would be invaluable. In a stadium full of people, he hoped he would not
need it.

Jake tried to relax. He was sure he had never felt the siren
call of America’s pastime. He found it boring. It was more interesting to watch
the spectators. Spectating the spectators was a game all in itself. He set his
mouth in a grim line and scanned the row of people just in front of him. Several
families struggled with children or sat reading programs.

Perhaps the most intriguing event during the first game was
the Presidential race between Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and the newest
edition, William “Bill” Taft. Of course, Teddy didn’t win. The Orioles’ mascot
tripped him. Evidently it was a running gag.

During the game he had noted the smells of beer and popcorn,
the noises of fans yelling player’s names, babies crying, and people talking. One
thing Jake found interesting about baseball was that from a spectator’s
standpoint, the molasses pace of the game gave the viewers in the stands more
opportunity to socialize.

His vantage point along the visitor’s side was a sharp angle
to the Orioles’ dugout. Unless a player stepped out onto the field, all Jake
could see was baseball caps bobbing and hunched shoulders. It occurred to Jake
then that the greatest danger to Todd’s well-being was when he was on the field.
He glanced over at the empty seats in right field and made a mental note to
watch that area carefully.

This sort of exercise was helpful to keep his mind off of
New York. At least temporarily. Soon, he lapsed back into self-pity and
self-loathing.

He had a daughter. A wife. A life that was dedicated to a
just and honorable cause. How could he have traded that in for the life of
hired murderer?  How could he ever look Hallie in the eye?

They had shared a bed since his return. She was welcome and
compassionate. He was grateful, but ashamed. It was not that he could not
imagine himself attracted to Hallie, but rather he struggled with the idea that
he could be loved. When he thought of Macy—cheerful, energetic, and unabashedly
loving—he could not help feeling maybe he should stop feeling sorry for
himself.

Jake heard someone laughing behind him and he half turned. The
senator walked down the steps toward him, beaming. He held a slice of pizza in
one hand and a clear plastic cup of beer in the other. Hallie came behind him,
shaking her head and smiling as though they had been sharing a funny story.

“You have quite the partner here, Mr. Monday. I have to say,
I never imagined your outfit would hire a husband and wife.”

Jake smiled. It was a wonder to him as well.

“We watch each other’s backs,” Hallie explained as the
Senator took his seat beside Jake.

The senator nodded.

“I can see how that would work,” he indicated the dugout
with his eyes. “My son going to play this game, you think?”

“I talked to the manager. He was holding him out of the
first game to give him some rest. He thinks it will help him get out of the
slump he is in,” Hallie explained.

The senator put the beer between his feet. The senator had
fierce eyes overshadowed by thick white eyebrows and a high forehead. His hair
was thick and white and combed to one side, his sideburns neatly trimmed. He
was wearing an Orioles jersey, but no number or name.

“Well, I think a fella would find it hard to concentrate
knowing someone wants to put a bullet in your head because you went one for
four and committed an error verses the Yankees.”

“It is enough pressure to perform just from the expectations
of the team and the player himself. The added pressure of unrealistic
expectations of fans would certainly affect performance,” Hallie said.

She sipped a soda. Jake watched her. She looked so at ease
here. It was like she was born to be here. The waning light sparkled in her
hair and she glanced at him with a shy smile when she realized he was staring
at her.

Jake wished suddenly that he had taken the opportunity to
make love to her when they were in New York. They had slept together, he had
held her in his arms, but he had hesitated to go any further. She had not repudiated
him, but she seemed to understand that he needed more time. Looking at her
smile and remembering all that he had put her through, Jake was overwhelmed
with regret that he had chosen to deny her the intimacy she probably craved.

Heck, he craved it. Something about it had seemed wrong,
though. He failed to remember the reason now.

“I haven’t seen anyone suspicious yet,” Jake said, turning
his attention to the stands again. He allowed his eyes to roam the lower
sections. They had brought several other agents in to wander the upper vantage
points, and the empty skyboxes. The parking garages surrounding the stadium had
all been checked by local D.C. police. A surplus of Secret Service Agents from
the Uniformed Division with their bright white shirts served as a highly
visible reminder to anyone who intended to commit a crime. Perhaps the best
deterrent, though, was an anti-sniper team deployed in the construction site to
the west of the stadium in what would eventually be an eleven-story apartment
building.

Jake stifled a yawn. As far as he was concerned, they had
all the bases covered. He mentally patted himself on the back for his clever
turn of phrase.

“Don’t get too bored, handsome,” Hallie chided. “We are the
eyes and ears here, too. Our instincts could prove important.” 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Monday. I have trouble staying awake for
two games as well. Why, once, when Todd was at Miami University, he had three
games in two days because of a previous weather delay. I snored all through the
double header that second day. Todd hit two homeruns and had six runs batted in.
I missed them all.”  The senator finished his slice of pizza and wiped his
hands with a napkin.

“Hmm. I guess I’m not a big baseball fan, I am afraid,” Jake
admitted.

The senator waved off the admission.

“Don’t worry, son. The game is losing its appeal. I
understand. I suppose I will sound old when I say that it ain’t what it used to
be.”

Hallie was nodding in agreement.

“The players have more physical gifts and are built stronger
and faster than before, perhaps, but the sheer love of the game and pool of
athletes that grow up wanting to be a Major League Baseball player has
dwindled,” she added.

“It is a shame. Replaced by soccer,” Senator Swane lamented.

Hallie shook her head and glared down toward the field. She
sighed.

“Nah. Video games. The decentralization of families. Too
many single parent families. Too many families where both parents work and
there is no time to encourage young boys to play.”

Jake could hear her concern for Macy in her voice. He knew
he should say something consoling, but he just picked up his binoculars and
scanned the park again.

About an hour later the game finally started. Jake was
restless. His butt was numb. His back was sore. His neck felt like someone with
large hands had been gripping his spine. His mind wandered as Hallie and the
senator discussed baseball, raising children, and politics. Jake had nothing to
contribute on any of these subjects.

All he could think about was a silver locket. Or, a woman
lying dead at his feet on the grass. A knife flashing in the dim light of an
alley. A business executive falling from a tall building in Tokyo. A seventy
year old French parliament member drowning in his pool.

He had killed these people. He had pulled the trigger,
slipped a knife between their ribs, pushed them from a precipice, or pulled
them under the water. There were more. In his years as an undercover assassin,
he had killed close to two dozen people. He knew this fact but could not
recollect their faces, the details, or even his horror at his brutality and
lack of humanity.

Jake gritted his teeth. He could not help being angry. He
was angry with himself, angry with the Service, and angry with Hallie. He
discovered that instead of feeling grateful that she had saved him, he resented
that she had allowed him to go in the first place. It was irrational, he knew,
but it existed, nonetheless.

It was the fourth inning. Todd had been to bat twice already.
He hit a pop fly to the shortstop and had gotten on in the third inning but was
left stranded. He was in the field now, pounding a fist into his mitt, spitting
sunflower seeds all over the well-manicured grass of right field. He leaned
forward, his eyes scanning the crowd. Jake wondered if he was looking for his
father or an angry fan.

Then, Jake saw it.

Along the right field line at the edge of the cheap seats, a
big man in a Washington Nationals hat and a blue blazer walked briskly toward a
fan who had previously been holding a sign near the green wall that extended up
fifteen feet above the field. He was in the first row of seats. He had a gun.

A murmur arose among the crowd as people nearby saw the
weapon. A panic began. The security official leaned forward and grabbed the man
by the arm, spinning him around.

Hallie saw it, too. He saw her tense as she reached across
her body to extract her Sig .45. Jake reached across the senator’s lap and
touched Hallie’s elbow to stop her.

“Wait. Not yet. Nothing we can do from here, anyway,” Jake
said. He narrowed his eyes and watched the drama play out.

“What’s happening,” Senator Swane said as he sensed
something wrong as well. The smell of fear was in the air.

Time slowed for Jake.

The security guard struggled with the man for a second and
the gun dropped out of sight.  Jake could feel his senses awake. Alarms were going
off in his head. He tried to focus through the din. He tried to tear his eyes
away from the struggle. The entire stadium sat at attention or stood in
alarm—people pointing, women screaming, children wailing in confusion at the clamor.

Jake watched as a dozen officers, some Washington PD, some
Secret Service UD, converged on the gunman and the security guard. By this
time, the guard had the perpetrator turned over the wall, his hands cuffed
behind his back.

Jake felt something behind him and glanced back to his right.
A man in an Orioles jersey was descending the stairs. He was bearded, but his
face looked hard, harsh. His eyes were ice, and his fists were clenched. Besides
Jake he was perhaps the only person in the stands not watching the drama play
out in the right field bleachers. Instead, he stared directly at Senator Swane.

What Jake saw there in his eyes was defiance. Anger. Hatred.
Jake knew that look. Jake understood then. The display in the outfield, the
death threats meant for Todd, they were all distractions. The real target was
Senator Robert Swane.

Instincts that he had forgotten he possessed kicked in
automatically.

With his left hand Jake pushed the Senator’s head down as he
rose and turned his body to block the man’s view. Someone behind him yelled a
curse.

“Sit down!”

Jake launched himself forward, lowering his shoulder, but
keeping his head up. Commissioner Goodell would have been proud. He hit the man
near his hip. Jake felt a sharp pain in his collarbone. Jake and the attacker
fell into a couple of empty infield club seats. Jake heard one of the plastic
seats buckle. He smashed his knee on a metal post as they tumbled into the
chairs.

He heard the man grunt as they connected and then shriek
with anger and disappointment as they hit the chairs. Jake had his face buried
in the man’s gabardine slacks. Before Jake could register the oddity, he felt
the man twist beneath him. Jake knew he was reaching for a weapon.

Jake pushed back, putting his hand on the back of the seat
and standing up and leaning back.

The blade missed his face by inches. The man was quick. The
bright arc of the knife’s edge broke the air for a moment and then his attacker
burst forward, lunging with the knife in a desperate attempt to impale him.

Jake turned a hasty pirouette and slapped the man’s extended
elbow with the outside of his palm. He heard the knife drop to the ground.
Amateur
.
Improper grip, overextension of his arm, telegraphing his aim. Nice knife,
though, Jake noted.

Jake stepped back, allowing the man to stand. He nursed his
elbow and stared at Jake with disbelief.

“I know you,” he said, contempt and wonder mixed evenly.

Jake shrugged.

“Perhaps then I can convince you that it will be best for
you to just surrender and face your fate,” Jake offered.

The man shook his head.

“You can’t stop me,” he said. He pulled an ivory-handled
Colt Combat Elite chambered for the .45ACP from behind his back.

So predictable
, Jake thought.

“Stop right there!” Hallie shouted. Jake had almost
forgotten about her during the tussle.

He did not turn, though. He knew she would be standing
protectively over the Senator, a two-handed grip on her SIG-Sauer, her feet set,
and her aim true. He did not doubt it. It seemed his wife was a good agent. She
was doing her job and doing it right. By the book. Something told him that
maybe that was why they were together in the first place. He did not do
anything by the book. They complemented each other.