Last Man Standing (35 page)

“My phone’s in the car.”

“Well, don’t try and get it. Whoever’s out there knows what he’s doing.”

They waited another five minutes and no more shots hit; then they could finally hear sirens in the distance. Web edged his
head up over the side and looked through the car’s windows. He didn’t see any more reflections from the woods.

The police finally showed and Web and Romano held up their creds and motioned for the cops to get down. After another few
minutes Web crawled over to the squad car and explained the situation. No more shots came and then apparently all the county
cops showed up, along with a half dozen state troopers. The woods were combed without finding anyone, although a dirt road
leading out to the main one on the other side of the subdivision Cove lived in had fresh tire tracks. And they also found
a number of spent rifle shells. Romano had been right: steel-jacketed .308s.

Chris Miller was officially pronounced dead and the ambulance came and took him away. Web noted the wedding band on his finger
before they zipped the body bag shut. Well, Mrs. Miller was going to get the dreaded visit from the Bureau tonight. He shook
his head and looked over at Romano.

“I’m really getting sick of this life.”

W
eb and Romano had given their statements about three times each. And Bates had come down and had taken a bite out of Web’s
butt for conducting an unauthorized investigation.

“I told you they’d be gunning for you, Web. But you stubborn son of a bitch, you just won’t listen,” ranted Bates.

“Hey, take it easy,” said Romano.

“Do I know you?” said Bates, as he got right in Romano’s face.

“Paul Romano, Hotel Team assaulter.” He put out his hand.

Bates ignored the gesture and turned back to Web. “Do you realize that Buck Winters is looking for any excuse to squash you?”
He glanced at Romano. “To officially cremate all of HRT? And you’re playing right into his hands.”

“All I’m trying to do is find out what happened to my guys,” rejoined Web. “And you’d be doing the same thing if you were
me.”

“Don’t you throw that bullshit in my face.” Bates stopped cold because Web was holding up the newspaper clipping.

“I found this in the house.”

Bates slowly reached out and took the clipping.

“You want to talk about it?” asked Web.

Bates led them away from the crime scene and over to a quiet slice of ground. He glanced at Romano and then at Web.

“He’s okay,” said Web. “Cleared for all sorts of top-secret stuff.”

“Even did joint VIP protection on Arafat once,” said Romano. “Now, you talk about a target, lots of people after that man.”

“You didn’t mention you were working with Cove when his family was killed,” said Web.

“I don’t owe you my life story,” snapped Bates.

“Maybe you just owe me an explanation.”

Bates folded the clipping up and put it in his pocket. “It was really nobody’s fault. Cove didn’t mess up and we didn’t either.
It was a fluke and the Russians got lucky. I wish I could take it back, but nobody can. Randy Cove is a hell of an agent.”

“So Cove has no reason to be seeking payback?”

“No. I’ve talked to him. He almost got popped not that long after Charlie Team. He said he saw that building filled to the
brim with everything that was supposed to be there.”

“So his story is he got set up to feed us bad intel. Out went the files and in came the guns?” said Web.

“Something like that. It was a short time fuse. Cove said he was in the building shortly before you guys hit it. He thought
he’d infiltrated a big-time drug op.”

“Perce, I’m not looking to tell you how to do your job, but the smart thing may be to bring him in. With his cover blown,
he sounds like he needs protection.”

“Cove can take care of himself. And he can do more on the outside. In fact, he might be getting close to a big-time drug supplier.”

“That I don’t care about. All I want are the guys who set us up.”

“That’s just it, Web, they might be one and the same.”

“Well, that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Why would a drug supplier want to have the Bureau coming after them loaded for bear?”

“There could be any number of reasons. Paybacks, to keep distributors in line. Even to set up a rival to take the heat and
reduce the competition.”

“You let me have a crack at those guys,” said Romano, “and I’ll reduce something, like their life span.”

“So I take it he’s not reporting in regularly,” said Web.

“How’d you know that?” said Bates.

“If he’s really that good, he’ll know that everybody thinks he’s in on it. So he lies low, doesn’t trust anybody and goes
about his own investigation, trying to get to the truth before somebody gets him.”

“That’s a pretty good deduction.”

Web said, “Actually, I’m just speaking from experience.”

“Speaking of experience, I finally got a call back from Bill Canfield. I’ve got an appointment to meet him tomorrow at his
farm. Care to join me?”

“I said I would. You want to come too, Paulie?”

Bates stared at him. “Are you the same Paul Romano that was with Delta Force and then New York SWAT?”

“There’s only one Paul Romano,” said Romano without a trace of conceit.

“Arafat, huh?”

“Hey, when you want to send the very best . . .”

“Good, consider yourself temporarily reassigned. I’ll talk to your commander.”

Romano looked stunned. “Reassigned doing what?”

“Doing what I tell you to do. See you two tomorrow.”

W
eb dropped off Romano at home.

Before he got out, Romano said, “Hey, Web, you think this new gig pays more? Angie’s been talking about getting a new washer-dryer
and maybe finishing the basement.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t mention anything like that to Angie. You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t pay less.”

Romano shook his head as he got out. “Story of my life.”

Web pulled away and drove aimlessly. He felt miserable about Chris Miller and didn’t envy the people who would have to tell
his wife. He hoped Miller didn’t have any kids, but he looked like the kind who would. Damn, there was just too much misery
in the world. Finally he decided he needed another dose of old-fashioned police work.

Web took the outer loop of the Capital Beltway around to Interstate 395, headed north and steered the Mercury Bates had gotten
for him across the dilapidated Fourteenth Street Bridge that an airplane taking off from National Airport in a snowstorm had
actually fallen on years ago. He pointed the car toward an area of town where few law-abiding citizens, other than those who
were lost or those who carried a gun and a badge, ever dared venture, especially at this hour.

The scene was a familiar one to Web. It was the same route his squad had followed their last night on earth. Web knew the
car and its government plates just screamed “Fed Man,” but he really didn’t care. For an hour he cruised up and down every
dead-end street, every alley, every hole in the wall that looked promising. Several times he passed patrol cars that were
nosing around looking for trouble, which here was akin to being a cat in an aviary: What you wanted was damn near everywhere.

He was just about to give it up when his gaze caught on the flash of red under a streetlight. He slowed the car, grabbed his
trusty binoculars from the bag and got a better look. It was probably nothing, for many wore the do-rag here and many of them
were red. Red for blood; even people down here had a sense of purpose and also humor about their work. A few seconds later
Web’s pulse kicked to a higher gear. The gent was even wearing the same clothes. A tank shirt over barbell shoulders and shorts
below the butt crack. It was his good old neighborhood purveyor of fine crack cocaine and other illegal drugs from the alley
where Charlie Team had run its last lap.

Web cut the car’s engine, let the car drift to a stop and quietly got out. He thought about taking his shotgun but then decided
his pistol would be enough. It was hard to pounce holding a shotgun. He gripped his pistol and slowly made his way down the
street, keeping to the shadows. There was a streetlight under which he had to pass on his way to the kid. Just when he stepped
into its pool of light, there came a scream from somewhere. The kid looked up, saw him. Web swore under his breath and took
off running.

“Still want to deal on my rifle?” Web called out to him as he hustled forward.

The kid bolted down the alley. Web knew he shouldn’t do it, not even armed, and he stopped. Going down that alley without
any backup, he might as well phone in his casket order. It was still a tough decision because Web wanted Bandanna Boy in the
worst sort of way. In Web’s connect-the-dots manner of thinking, maybe Bandanna was the one who hit the remote that had activated
the laser that had tripped the machine guns that had sent Web’s dearest friends into oblivion. He finally made up his mind.
Another night, my friend. And next time I won’t stop until my hands are around your damn neck.

Web turned to go back to his car. That’s when he saw them coming. They seemed in no hurry. There were maybe a dozen of them.
Along with their elongated shadows against the brick he saw the array of weapons they were carrying. Cut off from his car,
Web ducked down the alley and started running hard. He heard the group behind him do the same.

“Shit,” he said to himself. Could anybody say setup?

The light from the street lamp was quickly left behind and Web could only rely on the presence of some dregs of ambient light
from the sky and the sounds of running feet ahead and behind him. Unfortunately, in this high-walled labyrinth the echoes
were not reliable guides. Web made lefts and rights until he was hopelessly lost. He turned one last corner and stopped. He
imagined half the group had probably headed around to block his escape, though for all he knew he was running in circles.
He thought he could still hear them coming, but he couldn’t tell from where. He ducked down another alley and stopped. Listened.
Quiet. Quiet he didn’t like. Quiet meant stealth. He looked left, right and then up. Up. Up sounded good. He climbed a nearby
fire escape and then froze. The footsteps were close. He soon saw why. Two of them came around the corner. They were tall,
lean, with shaved heads and dressed in leather and baggy low-riding prison shuffle jeans and big jailhouse shoes with thick
heels they were no doubt just itching to grind into Web’s face.

They halted and looked around. They were directly underneath him. Just like Web had done, they looked left and then right.
He figured it would only be a matter of seconds before—as he had done—they looked up. So he swung down and each foot collided
with one head and both men slammed into the brick wall. Web landed a little awkwardly, his ankle twisting under him. Since
each husky fellow was groaning and attempting to get up, he landed the butt of his pistol against the backs of their necks,
and they went down for a long winter’s nap. He grabbed their guns, threw them all into a Dumpster standing nearby and then
sprinted off.

He could still hear running feet and also an occasional gunshot. Web didn’t know if it was his pursuers or simply your run-of-the-mill
gangbanger dispute that happened around here every night. He rounded another corner and was hit low and hard. The impact knocked
him off his feet, and he lost his weapon as he sprawled on the asphalt. He rolled and came up, fists cocked.

Bandanna Boy was standing there, a knife almost as big as he was in hand. He was grinning the same shit-eating grin that he’d
had in the alley on the night that Charlie Team had disappeared.

Web noted he held the weapon with some skill. The kid probably had fought a hundred knife fights. He was shorter than Web,
yet more muscular, probably quicker. This was to be a classic test of youth against experience. “Well, come on and eat some
experience, young man,” muttered Web as he prepared to defend himself.

The kid lunged at Web, whipping the knife blade around so fast Web could hardly follow. Yet he didn’t really have to, because
Web executed a loop kick that clipped Bandanna’s legs out from under him and he went down hard. The kid was up quickly, but
only in time to take one of Web’s size twelves to the head. With the kid stunned, Web was all over him. He locked down the
arm holding the knife and proceeded to break Bandanna’s grip on both the knife and his forearm. With his security of the blade
gone and a jagged shaft of his forearm staring him in the face, the kid fled, his cries of pain sweeping the alley with him,
and his shit-eating attitude lying next to the knife on the bloody ground. Web shook his own fuzzy head clear and started
to stumble over to retrieve his gun. He never made it.

Web could only watch silently as the group of men appeared from all corners, blocking the path to his weapon. They carried
sawed-off shotguns and pistols. Web could sense they were all so very happy to see him here, outnumbered as he was ten to
one. Web figured he had nothing to lose by taking an aggressive posture. He held out his FBI shield. “I could bust every one
of you on weapons charges. But I tell you what, I’m feeling generous and not up to all the paperwork, so you just pack up
and go about your business, and we’ll forget about it. For now. But don’t be pulling this shit again.”