Dead Wrong (18 page)

Hansen took off at a brisk pace, Sikes following. Sikes yelled over his shoulder to Lange. “You need me, call my cell.”

But Lange was right on his heels.

C
UNNINGHAM FELT HIS cell vibrate against his thigh. Keeping it under the table where only he could see, he checked it. Good Lord, Sikes again. A momentary rush of optimism said good news. But this was quickly followed by a flood of pessimism that his initial premonition earlier today was correct: The mission was snakebit. Totally and completely. To have an agent and a civilian gunned down during a simple operation would stir up a raft of shit. In Afghanistan collateral damage had been an unpleasant fact of doing business, something easily covered up or glossed over. But a simple intelligence operation in downtown Seattle? Not fucking likely. How could Sikes allow that to happen? Especially his best operative, the one who never made mistakes, the one who always conducted successful missions. A bit of a hothead at times, but hey, working under stress like that, who wasn’t?

Cunningham pushed up from the chair, nodded for the person talking to continue, and slipped out, the phone vibrating in his hand like a rattlesnake.

Out of immediate earshot of anyone in the corridor, he connected and said, “I assume this means things are under control.”

“Yes, sir. Lewis caught him hiding in a closet.” Sikes sounded uncharacteristically out of breath, pissed, and rattled. Not a good combination.

“You’re out of breath. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, sir. Ran down nine flights of stairs. Calling to give you a heads-up, is all.”

Cunningham didn’t like “heads ups,” especially the way things had gone so far today. Particularly when it included bullshit like Sikes out of breath from running
down
stairs? Not fucking likely. “Stand by a moment.” He cast another glance around to make certain no one within earshot, lowered his voice. “Continue.”

“Got ourselves a bit of a SNAFU, sir. Apparently McCarthy contacted a lawyer before we captured him. Apparently this guy’s a heavy hitter, name Palmer Davidson. Ever heard of him?”

“No.” And there was little reason to have. Cunningham ignored anything concerned with the West Coast, considered it irrelevant to the functioning of the rest of the country. That place was inhabited solely by tofu-eating liberals who worshiped Hollywood at an altar of silicon breast and lip enhancements. All pussies, all one hundred percent of them.

“From what I just heard, he’s not what you want on the other side of the courtroom. A regular Johnny Cochran with an ACLU membership.”

Not surprising, considering the location. Fucking liberals. But having a lawyer involved at this point was worrisome and could cause serious problems. And it brought up the question of how Sikes had allowed McCarthy an opportunity to contact him in the first place. “What are you saying, the lawyer’s with him? I understood you to say you had the bastard nailed.”

“Yes, sir, I do. My information is that McCarthy has only talked with Davidson on the phone, no eyeball-to-eyeball at all.” Sikes sounded as if he was cupping the phone with a hand. “Davidson’s already gone public by making two demands.”

“Bullshit. He’s in no position to make demands.”

“Well, apparently he just did. Here they are: First, he wants a negotiated surrender. Second, he demands McCarthy not—I repeat,
not
—be placed into our custody. He says McCarthy will only surrender to the local law enforcement. No feds.”

“Why are you whispering? Someone with you?”

“Affirmative, sir. Head of hospital security and a detective.”

A cute air force second lieutenant marched by hugging a sheaf of manila folders to her breasts, her hip-emphasizing blue skirt an eye magnet. After a momentary longing, Cunningham snapped back to the subject. “What’s the problem? We don’t negotiate, Lieutenant. Not to this dipshit, not to anyone. Especially since you’ve got McCarthy in your possession. This is a matter of national security. Take McCarthy to a suitable place and interrogate him properly, then complete the mission as originally stated. Do you read me?”

When Sikes didn’t answer immediately Cunningham’s suspicion spiked. “You
do
have McCarthy in custody, do you not?”

“Yes, sir, one of my men does. I’m heading there now. But it’s not that simple. This detective,” his voice now barely audible, “is a real hard ass. Name’s Lange. Claims the double homicide makes this
his
jurisdiction. See the problem? He claims McCarthy is his. What I’m saying is he needs serious and explicit direction from his superiors. Understand what I’m saying?”

Cunningham’s jaw muscles cramped. Goddamned locals, always underfoot, demanding cohesive collaboration yet never coming through when the ball’s in their court.

Sikes added, “I told him this is a national security issue. But he’s not listening. That’s why I you need to lay down the law with his superiors soon as we hang up.”

Made sense. Nothing trumped national security. What did it take for a bunch of hicks to understand a simple concept. Cunningham jerked a ballpoint and piece of paper from his breast pocket. “Give me Lange’s first name again.” Top down, chain of command, was the only way to deal with his kind. A few well-placed calls and Lange would hear loud and clear: Back The Fuck Off.

“James.”

“He’s a detective? What department?”

“Yes, sir. Homicide.”

“And he’s with you now?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

Cunningham’s irritation intensified while he mentally rehearsed the words he’d use. “I’ll call his CO immediately and make damn certain we have an unambiguous understanding. In the meantime, you tell Lange the official government stance is that McCarthy’s a terrorist. There is to be no confusion on this. Our government has an unfaltering policy: We do not negotiate with terrorists. And for good reason. That simple principle should be easily understood. Make certain Lange does.”

“And Davidson?”

“What about him? All the more reason to get this over with quickly. McCarthy is in possession of Washington’s gun, isn’t he?”

“Roger that.”

“Well then, your course of action should be obvious. The man’s armed and dangerous. Kill him before Davidson has an opportunity to make a big deal out of this. Especially if he intends to involve the media. Which is something those glory-hogging assholes inevitably do. We can deal with Davidson later.”

“Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

W
YSE DIDN’T DARE leave his office for fear of missing an update from Cunningham. With his luck, the phone would ring the moment he stepped out of earshot. There was nothing on his schedule this afternoon other than paperwork and rounds. Fuck rounds; this trumped it.

The phone rang. Wyse had it to his ear before it could ring again. “Wyse here.”

Someone with a familiar voice, Cunningham, said, “You know of a lawyer named Palmer Davidson?”

A lawyer? Why would … “No. Why? Should I?”

“He represents McCarthy now. Supposedly he’s got the reputation of being one difficult hombre.”

Well, fuck the bad-ass reputation. No fucking lawyer was going to stand in his way of having McCarthy dead and out of the picture. “What are you saying, McCarthy’s still
out there
?”

“Not exactly. We have every indication he hasn’t escaped the medical center. But in the unlikely event that he does, we need a strategy for finding him. What I’m asking is, do you have any idea who he might ask for help? Other than this Davidson character.”

Wyse kicked the wastebasket. “How the fuck should I know?”

“Because you know him a hell of a lot better than I do.”

True. They did have a history back to medical school.

Cunningham added, “The other thing you need to know is a local cop—Detective James Lange—is now involved. Apparently SPD agreed to work with Sikes’s crew, so if you can think of anything that might help find McCarthy, call Lange. But call Sikes first.”

Wyse thought about that a second. “Call Lange? I don’t get it.”

“We’re giving SPD every appearance of full cooperation because it’s possible they might find him first. We need to be on their good side.”

Wyse tightened his grip on the phone. “McCarthy’s still on the loose? What the fuck are you guys doing?”

W
YSE STOOD AT the north window staring out at the city, sorting through every bit of information about McCarthy he could dredge from memory. Problem was, since medical school, he’d emphatically ignored the prick, leaving him nothing substantive to pass on to Lange.

Then it clicked: Originally McCarthy had consulted on the Baker woman because of a psych resident. Her name was included on the request for medical records. Might they be in on this together? Would she know where he might be? That was a long shot, for sure, but at this point anything was worth a try.

What the fuck was her name? He glanced at the desk but realized the request was long gone, balled up and thrown in the trash weeks ago. Hmmm …

Wait a minute, the name was like a president: Jackson? Washington? Hamilton? Hamilton! Could it be?

He grabbed the phone, dialed Doctors Hospital, and was connected with the paging operator. “I’d like to speak with a psychiatry resident, a Dr. Hamilton I believe is her name.”

“That would be Dr. Sarah Hamilton. One moment and I’ll page her.”

Smiling, Wyse disconnected and dialed Detective Lange’s number.

M
CCARTHY PIVOTED RIGHT, swinging the pipe like a baseball bat, connecting with Lewis’s shin in a sickening crunch, the force of the kick knocking McCarthy backward. Both arms windmilling, McCarthy stumbled but managed to stay upright without dropping the pipe.

Lewis screamed in pain. His supporting leg buckled and he crumpled to the floor but immediately began to scramble back up on his feet.

Tom yelled, “Don’t!” and raised the pipe overhead in a two-handed grip.

Lewis raised his arm to ward off the blow and stayed down.

For a moment they remained like this, Lewis warding off what would be an arm-breaking blow, Tom fighting back an adrenalin-fueled urge to kill the bastard.

“They’re going to get you, McCarthy. And when they do, believe me I’ll be first in line for payback.” Lewis slowly lowered his arm. “You’re one dead motherfucker, you know that.”

Tom backed up a step but didn’t turn away. “Assuming you catch me.”

Grimacing, Lewis tried to glower but couldn’t mask the agony of what had to be a broken bone. He shifted weight off his injured leg.

Tom transferred the pipe to his left hand, reached behind his back, pulled out Washington’s gun, and aimed at Lewis. “Your gun. Pull it out slowly and slide it over here.” He tossed the pipe aside.

Lewis did as instructed.

McCarthy squatted, set down the pipe, retrieved Lewis’s gun, and, using only his left hand, ejected the clip into a large garbage bin, and dropped the gun into the sink Lewis just urinated in. He opened the door and scanned the hall, saw no one coming.

He heard movement from behind, turned to see Lewis reach for the gun, another clip in his left hand. “I’m going to fucking kill you, McCarthy.”

McCarthy sprinted across the hall, rammed his hip into the horizontal push bar on the fire door, threw it open, then went flying down stairs.

Enough of this. The longer he remained in the building, the more he risked being captured. Why not just take a chance and make a break for it? He thought about a side door two floors down—it opened onto the shipping dock where they transferred tanks of gases—oxygen, nitrogen, and such. The area wasn’t all that heavily used or known, so, odds favored it’d be unguarded. And if someone were there, why not just blow past and run like hell? What would they do, open fire on him? Doubtful, especially when surrounded by full tanks of pressurized gas. Maybe he could get in a couple blocks before security or the cops could respond.

His plan sounded better every second.

Once clear of the building, he could call Davidson. He might even get lucky and flag a cab. For that matter, Davidson could drive over and come pick him up. The point was: get the hell out of the building. Simple enough.