She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) (22 page)

            “Were any of them virgins?” Lorabell asks,
turning further to look at her new boss; wanting to see his eyes.

            “Did any of the young men who went down on you
at the university have their virginity?” Henri asks with renewed poise and
strength.  “Isn’t it true that every time you take a man into your office to
give you oral sex; he’s even younger than the last?  Should we compare notes on
this matter?  Do we want to talk about the cameras you had installed in the
dorms..?  No… None of the women I’ve ever engaged with have been virgins…” 
Henri says, showing bitter contempt for the young Asian woman, ensuring that
his tone is threatening and personal.

            “Okay, you’ve… satisfied my curiosity on that
question…  Thank you!” Lorabell replies as a sudden shockwave of fear resonates
through her.

            “What about this claim that you urinated in
Maxwell’s drink today, and hit him over the head with a statue?  Did you
witness any of this, Ms. Cardigan?” Mason asks with a monotonous stare, giving
her no opportunity to read him.

            “No, Sarah and I didn’t see anything like
that.”  Lorabell blurts out with an empty gaze.  “Maxwell is just… feeling the
pressure from the attack the other day.”

            “Well, what the hell should I do with all this?” 
The General asks, looking at Lorabell and Henri with his hands outstretched. 
“Either you’re all really bad liars, or you’ve decided that you want to take
care of everyone in your unit and give it another chance?  Lorabell, do you
have anything else you want to tell me?”

            “No, Sir.” Lorabell says with a repressed smile,
looking a bit exhausted just from the effort of holding up her head.

            “Henri, do you have anything you want to tell
me?”  The General asks, appearing somewhat annoyed from behind his desk as he
goes through the motions.

            “Yeah, I’d like you to review Maxwell’s
personnel file before listening to anymore testimony from him.” Henri explains
with cool confidence.  “He does have a history of being rather dramatic, in a
deadly sort of way.”

            “I’ll take that under advisement.” The General
states dispassionately, brushing the comment aside in a political fashion with
a lack of patience now showing in his eyes.  “Ms. Cardigan, you’re excused,
we’ll touch base with you after Devlin is apprehended, which might be as soon
as today… Oh, one last thing…”  General Mason begins, holding up his hand for
Lorabell to stay. “Julia Welheim committed suicide while under your
supervision.  Now despite the gas attack, it was our responsibility to keep her
safe.  This is something we’ll have to discuss when you get back.”

            “Julia is dead?” Lorabell asks, as she grabs at
her forehead in shame and her eyes begin to water with emotion.

            “Yeah, she ended her life with a shotgun while
you were in the hospital, which goes a bit of the distance to prove Henri’s
theory, but it doesn’t look good for the program.”  Mason confides with a
somber stare.  “Again, the attack by Devlin will let you off the hook for now,
but we WILL be investigating deeper when you return.”

            Lorabell forces herself to maintain composure,
falling apart beneath the surface at the news of the fallen woman who was in so
much pain.  The young professor rises from her chair, feeling like the Hitler
of her generation, and watching Henri with suspicion as she walks past the
leather sofa to exit the large corner office.

            “So The President sent you in to babysit my
sorry ass?” Henri asks in devious manner once Lorabell has left the room.  “…Nothing
better than being watched by a guy who has more dirt on him than you.”  He adds
with a wide smile.

            “The President sent me in here to deal with your
level one threat,” General Mason begins with a smirk, “but I can take care of
your sorry as too.  How have you been, old friend?”

            “I have been nearly dead.” Henri says, sitting
up with a sober expression, looking squarely at General Mason.  “That man is
more dangerous than I ever gave him credit for… and I gave him a lot of credit
before this most recent attack.”

            “We have good news for you then,” General Mason
replies with a smile, “the tracker that Maxwell found on Devlin’s dog is
active, and we’ve traced him to a mall just outside of Chicago.”

            “I’ll be dammed,” Henri says with a slight grin,
“Devlin still has a compulsion to go shopping when he feels a lot of pressure. 
He’s got some weird, posttraumatic stress- deal that can only be calmed down by
spending money on expensive clothes… How are you going to take him down?”   

            “No worries,” The General says with a reassuring
expression, “I have a very large team, and they’re almost the best we have for
a domestic terrorist like this one.” 

The Mall

            Devlin struts through the mall with his ‘service
dog’ as he looks for new and expensive outfits to quench his desire for extravagant
spending.  He already has changed out of his street clothing into a new Armani
jacket that makes him feel like a Bond villain.  His mind is racked with the
pressure of having taken down several of his fellow agents these past few days,
and the shopping keeps him moving and feeling normal.  Gloria trots along
obediently in front of him, her wagging tail reminding him to be strong no
matter what happens.  As they pass through the various shops, he is able to get
a comfy pair of designer shoes in the black Italian leather that he loves.  These
shoes compliment his casual dinner jacket with its gray microfibers and
distinctive, soft interior fabric.

            As Devlin walks out of the Sunglass Hut with a
new pair of Oakley shades on his head, he notices that Gloria has picked up a
scent, and is pulling at her leash for him to follow.  He becomes immediately
paranoid, remembering that the dog only behaves this way when she is certain to
have smelled some type of explosive material.  Devlin allows Gloria to lead him
through the south corridor of the mall, moving briskly across the glossy, black
and white flooring designed to keep shoppers enchanted and in a buying mood. 
He watches the stores for suspicious movements, careful not to give away his
position by seeming too anxious.

            Devlin is amazed when the dog quickens her pace,
apparently following a young man with long brunette hair and a loose-fitting,
blue fleece jacket.  As they approach the man, Devlin begins to look him over
suspiciously, but the dog moves past him, trotting around to his right.  Gloria
leads Devlin to an opening in the crowd where an older man is talking on a cell
phone.  This man is easily in his late fifties, appearing more interested in
his phone conversation and the leather jackets on display in front of him.  He
has a large, silver shopping bag dangling from his left wrist, which bears the
logo of a popular clothing store.  Gloria walks up behind the older man and
sits down on the shiny black, laminated floor, keeping her nose pointed toward
his back.

            Devlin looks the man over carefully, uncertain
of what to do next.  The older guy expresses himself in a manner that is sweet
and homely; he doesn’t fit the profile of an agency asset, but the dog is
certain that he has some type of explosive material.  Devlin’s body begins to prepare
for an assault, but his mind is exercising restraint, watching the delicate
gestures of the man, and thinking that he could never be a killer.  This man
could be just another father out buying a birthday present, or he could be a
dangerous CIA asset looking to kill him like the woman at the hotel.  Beads of
sweat form on Devlin’s brow as the preemptive guilt sets in.  He pulls Gloria’s
leash back, feeling certain that she has made a mistake and that all the
different scents from the shops in this place have confused her senses. 

            To his astonishment, the dog pulls him back
toward the man and sits down behind him again, indicating that he has
explosives on his person.   

            “God forgive me!” Devlin says aloud as the man
stops talking on his cell phone and turns halfway around to see who is behind
him.

            Devlin pulls the dog aside and, in a
demonstration of ruthless, brute force, uses his left foot to kick the man
square in the back, sending his body face first through the display window of
the leather clothing store.  After the man is down, he lets go of Gloria’s
leash and carefully steps across the shards of broken glass to frisk him for
weapons. 

            “Don’t move!” Devlin commands.  “I have a
pistol!”

            Several shoppers are standing around watching this
violent scene with amazement.  A few of them have pulled out cell phone cameras
to capture this moment for their family and friends.  Devlin doesn’t feel
anything unusual when frisking the man’s torso, and is about to walk away until
he notices the gift bag tipped sideways on the floor.  His instincts tell him
that the solid shape bulging from the inside looks nothing like clothing.  He
uses the top of his expensive leather shoe to turn the bag upright on the
floor, peering inside to see a submachine gun and two flashbangs.

            “South corridor.” The man whispers into a receiver
on his right hand while Devlin is distracted by the gift bag.

            Devlin throws the submachine gun into the
rafters, watching it disappear behind the support beams.  With a fresh taste of
anger for his enemy, he removes a flashbang from the bag, pulls the pin, and
drops it next to the CIA agent in the display case.  The moment this diversion
device leaves his hand he grabs Gloria’s leash and starts to sprint through the
mall.  Within three seconds the device explodes, shattering windows within ten
feet and setting off glass break detectors, which engage the blaring store
alarms. 

            Gloria dips her head at the sound of the blast,
giving off a high pitched whine as Devlin escorts her through the south
corridor towards a large sporting goods store. 

            “Does anyone have eyes on Devlin?” Mason asks
from his position in the food court. 

            “It looks like he may be in…” Maxwell pauses to
look at the GPS data from the dog’s chip.  “He’s either in: the department
store, cell phone store, sporting goods store, or the Victoria’s Secret in the
south corridor.”

            “Master Sergeant Couture, are you all right?  We
heard an explosion.” General Mason inquires, waiting for a response.

            “I can’t hear you very well; my ears are still
ringing from that flashbang.” Sergeant Couture shouts into his headset; his
face now scratched and bleeding from being kicked through the display window. 
“I’m going to pursue him in these shops nearby; will let you know what I find.”

            “Sergeant Couture, please stand down and wait for
backup!” Mason orders, holding for a response.  “Couture, I said stand down and
wait for fucking backup!”

            The mall has become pandemonium.  Most people
were cleared out of the south corridor after the explosion, but there are a few
shoppers running and screaming the names of their loved ones with cell phones
pressed to their ears.  Couture ignores Mason’s order, feeling the fresh sting
of glass cuts all over his face and the front of his body.  He retrieves his
backup pistol from a leg holster, evading the screaming shoppers as they gain
sight of his gun.  Couture pulls off his jacket and uses it to wipe the blood
from his face, then drops it lazily on the floor, allowing his arms to move
freely.  His body glides with powerful, stealthy steps as he enters the
sporting goods store, keeping low to the ground and maneuvering around the
perimeter to the left. 

            Couture slows his pace as he gets near the
various racks of clothing amongst the vast array of sports merchandise.  He
kneels down, pausing to survey the weight and golf equipment at his right,
deciding there are no places to hide in that area.  His gaze moves upward to a
loft where displays of hunting supplies and archery equipment are housed. 

            “We have visual of the security cameras.”
Maxwell announces through his headset.  “I don’t have eyes on Devlin yet.”

            From his position on the west side of the store,
Couture hears the slight grinding sound of something hard rolling back and
forth near the area marked ‘employees only.’  He hunkers down low, his tall
frame close to the carpet, making his way to the display case where the guns
are sold.  As Couture rounds the corner, he notices that the glass has been
smashed in at the center section of the case.  With his pistol gripped tight in
his right hand, he belly crawls near the front of the display case, stopping to
listen for movement as he gets closer.  The sound of a heavy pendulum smashing
something ceramic has abated, but he remains silent, waiting to hear footsteps.

            He raises his muscular frame somewhat to inspect
the broken gun case, noticing that a few boxes of shotgun shells have been
opened.  There is a curious, colorful object in the back that doesn’t appear to
belong.  Sergeant Couture moves in closer to inspect the small, red and green
items at the back of the case, noticing that it is merely a bag of fly fishing
lures.  As he identifies the lures, there is an immediate, suppressed sound of
CO2 discharging in front of his face, and Couture is instantly blinded by a
shot of ceramic powder.