73
Inside his car, the engine off, the heat dissipated and the bone-chilling Washington winter began to seep inside the frame, even inside the garage. Kurt keyed his radio, thankful that he wasn’t outside.
“Anything?”
Knuckles came back with “Nothing from here. Everyone’s off the street because of the cold. He comes by me, he’ll be easy to spot.”
The transcript had specific instructions, telling Kincaid to park in a numbered spot that had been blocked off with orange cones. Actually, two spots were blocked off—the one he was told to use, and the one adjacent. The cones had been stolen, no doubt, but nobody questioned such things. The spots would remain clear.
Directly to the rear of the parking space was a stairwell leading to the street. The instructions had said that Kincaid was to park and wait. The contact would find his car, on foot.
Kurt had placed Knuckles at the top of the stairwell, on a park bench, ironically just down the street from a historical marker discussing the Watergate/Deep Throat lineage of the place. Kurt had taken a car inside and parked within view of the meeting location, but offset to the left. He’d brought a Taskforce Stiletto, an experimental electromagnetic pulse gun that would destroy electrical components at close range.
They knew the contact was approaching on foot, and, wanting to control all variables, they’d decided to disable Kincaid’s car as soon as it arrived. With all the computers in modern-day vehicles, a brief punch from the Stiletto would render it useless, and they could then assault at their leisure, preventing the target from using Kincaid’s car to escape.
The plan was simple: Knuckles would discreetly follow the target down the stairwell, locking down the back door, and Kurt would observe from the front. When he made contact, entering the vehicle, they would assault, slamming the target with overwhelming force.
The one thing they wanted to avoid was the target killing Kincaid. If the Irishman was who they thought he was, that was the only reason for the meeting. The terrorists were now taking out anyone who was tangentially associated with breaking the story. Locking down the ability for them to negotiate money from the administration.
Neither Knuckles nor Kurt thought it would happen quickly, feeling the man would want to interrogate Kincaid to learn who else should be on the target list, but also knew that the plan the terrorists had envisioned was falling apart.
The Clute twins had been rescued, followed by the recovery of Travis. They had to be getting desperate, and Kurt didn’t put it beyond the target to simply enter the car and start shooting. Something he wanted to prevent. Well, that was a little soft. It was something he absolutely needed to prevent.
A car entered the garage, lights on, and Kurt ducked down, getting below the windshield. Sitting in the backseat, he peeked around the headrest and saw Kincaid exit the driver’s door and begin pulling aside the cones. Kurt waited until he was back behind the wheel, then slid out and threaded his way through the vehicles, getting close enough to work the Stiletto. He waited until Kincaid moved forward, then pulled the trigger, seeing the headlights flicker and fade, the engine coughing and spitting, sounding like a knocking from a ’70s gas guzzler. In the front seat, Kincaid manipulated the controls, then slammed the steering wheel in frustration.
Kurt returned to his vehicle, calling Knuckles. “Car disabled. We’re two minutes out.”
“Nothing on top. I say again, nothing on top.”
Kurt surveyed the garage, running through his head where he could be wrong. Chasing down what could cause failure. Can I close on the vehicle quickly enough if Knuckles is held up? Can I prevent a shot? Can I prevent escape? What if he has help? Can I execute on my own against two men? If that happens, should I just kill?
They needed the target alive. Killing him got them nowhere, other than saving Kincaid’s life. Sitting in the parking garage, Kurt realized how many variables he’d left exposed. Realized he’d put enormous faith in the single phone call and had placed Kincaid’s life in serious jeopardy, all for his quest for Kylie.
Headlights flashed, and he sank down, letting the vehicle travel beyond them, waiting on the glow to leave. It did not. He slid upward enough to get a corner of vision through the windshield and saw a late-model BMW back up rapidly, flattening the cones blocking the adjacent parking spot. And knew the target had lied.
“Knuckles, Knuckles, he’s arrived. He’s in a vehicle. Get down the stairs. It’s going to happen quicker than we can control.”
He rolled out of the vehicle, hearing, “Roger that. On the way.”
He snaked his way forward, staying below the cars, and said, “No killing. No killing. Take him alive.”
“Shit, sir, that’ll depend on him. I’m coming.”
Damn it. This was stupid.
Kurt broke out of the row of vehicles and saw the target jamming a pistol in the face of Kincaid, the reporter screaming, his hands in the air. The pistol came down hard, the barrel hammering Kincaid in the temple, and he sagged.
It’s not a killing. It’s a kidnapping.
Kurt ran in a crouch, trying to get a shot that was debilitating but not lethal. Which was seriously stupid, and he knew it. Any shot would potentially be a killing one, both to the target and to Kincaid. Shooting into a thigh was Hollywood crap.
He saw Kincaid dragged into the other car and abandoned the plan, running back to his vehicle.
He reached it and dove into the backseat. He saw the white lights of the target car flare and rolled out into the access lane, raising the Stiletto. The car screamed forward, sliding parallel to him, and he hit the trigger.
The engine coughed, then bucked in a halting, jerky manner. He squeezed again, and it went dead. The man behind the wheel turned the key, pumping the gas, then saw Kurt. The terrorist exited, pistol held high, and started shooting, using the door for protection. Kurt dove behind his own car, the rounds puncturing the steel. He slid low, calling Knuckles.
“He’s out. I’m compromised. Damn it, where are you?”
Through a wince, he heard, “Hell, sir, I told you I couldn’t run. I’m coming.”
Kurt slid out behind the front tire, almost prone, and fired two rounds into the windshield, over the unconscious reporter and past the shooter’s body, causing him to duck.
The target huddled behind the door, identified where the firing was coming from, and drew a bead, popping rounds Kurt’s way, the noise from his unsuppressed pistol banging harshly between the garage walls.
Kurt rolled backward, one round so close the chipped concrete cut his face. He crawled to the rear of his vehicle and saw a flash of light from the stairwell door opening. Kurt stood, putting himself in the man’s crosshairs to get him to focus, then dove to the ground. He heard two rounds snap past his head, then a rattled scream, like someone was being flayed alive.
He stood, seeing Knuckles standing above the target, juicing a Taser with a grin on his face.
Kurt walked over to him, watching the twitching of the body, knowing his mental faculties were fine. He leaned down.
“Hey, I’ve got a few questions for you. And you’re going to answer them.”