Extinction Machine

Chapter Twenty-three

Baltimore, Maryland

Sunday, October 20, 6:33 a.m.

We were starting to draw a crowd. I ignored them.

Beaky Nose kept trying to wriggle away, but I moved into his path of retreat and squatted down. He took one look at me and gave up.

I took his ID case and looked at it. The photo was bland and uninteresting. The name printed on the card was “Stephen Albert.”

“Who sent you?” I asked him.

Instead of answering he leaned over and vomited. His eyes were glazed and his face had turned a bright red. Huge spasms racked him from hair to feet.

“Let’s come back to that,” I suggested, and went over to pick the pockets of the other agents. Baldy was Benjamin Carr, Scarecrow was John Woods Duke, and the Italian-looking guy was Mark Bucci. I didn’t recognize any of the names. MindReader would get me every last detail about them, so I pocketed the IDs. I also took their guns and removed the keys from the ignitions of both cars. While I was at it, I checked the glove compartments and trunks of each vehicle and found nothing. The cars were as clean as if they’d just rolled off a Detroit assembly line. Not even a pack of gum or an owner’s manual.

The only remarkable thing I found was a small rectangular piece of metal Agent Albert had in his pocket. It was about the size of a Zippo lighter, but thinner and with no moving parts that I could see. I would have dismissed it as nothing more than a piece of junk except for the fact that he carried it and had nothing else of a personal nature. So it wasn’t a worry stone or a good-luck piece. It weighed next to nothing and was warm to the touch. I put it in my pocket.

Agent Albert was on his knees with his hands cupped around his balls, but his red face had turned gray-green. I squatted down in front of him.

“Who sent you?” I asked.

He tried to say something, but he couldn’t make coherent sounds. His lips formed the words: F*ck you.

“You’re not making this any easier on yourself, Albert.”

He didn’t respond to my use of his name. Not a twitch. His bug eyes stared at the puddle of vomit in which he knelt. People were coming out of buildings and stepping out of cars. A few began moving closer, but Ghost gave such an eloquent growl that they retreated to a minimum safe distance.

I leaned a little closer to Agent Albert. “Listen to me, a*shole—I don’t know what they told you when they sent you four morons out on this pickup, but they didn’t give you enough information. You just stepped in shit and believe me when I tell you that a kick in the junk isn’t the worst thing that could happen to you today. On the other hand, if you tell me who sent you and why, I can see your luck definitely improving.”

All he did was give me a slow, stubborn shake of his head. I sighed. Twenty minutes ago I was in a warm bed with a beautiful woman. A beautiful naked woman. I’d intended on sleeping until noonish, then wake her up, romp with her some more, and afterward the two of us would go on a prowl for the thickest steaks in Baltimore. Instead, I was here. I felt like crap due to lack of sleep, residual booze in my system, a hangover that made my head feel like it was held together with duct tape and enough postconflict adrenaline to make my eyes twitch and my hands jump.

Plus there was that whole “the president has been kidnapped” thing that was setting fires in my head.

“Last chance,” I said to Albert.

Another slow shake.

I sighed. “Your funeral, pal.”

“Yo!” called someone from the crowd. “What’s going on over there?”

I got to my feet and held up my ID. “Federal agent. This is a crime scene. Clear the street.”

They milled but none of them left. Everyone seemed to be taking photos with their phones. In the distance I heard the banshee cry of sirens.

I made two quick calls. The first was to my brother, Sean, who was a detective here in Baltimore. I told him the details that mattered but nothing of what was really happening. Sean didn’t really know what I did for a living—like most folks from my previous life, he thought I worked for the FBI—but he promised to pass along word that I was to be allowed to leave the scene. He said he’d call our dad, too. Dad’s the mayor of Baltimore. Sometimes nepotism is the best grease for the gears.

Then I called Church and gave him the full story.

The sirens were really close.

“Theories?” asked Church.

“Not a goddamn one.”

“Okay, get out of there as soon as you can. I’ll handle things with Baltimore PD and we’ll see about a transfer to bring those four to a facility where we can interview them. I’ll also get Jerry Spencer out there to take samples and sweep their cars.”

“Cars are clean. Doubt Jerry’s going to get anything besides fingerprints.”

“It’s worth a try.”

Jerry was a former DCPD who now headed up the DMS forensics unit. He was damn good at it, too, though he never seemed to enjoy it. World-class grouch. No visible social skills. One of the DMS guys privately described him as “Sherlock Holmes with hemorrhoids.” Like that.

“Any news?” I asked, and he knew what I meant.

“No,” said Church.

“Call me paranoid, boss, but I find it strange that these jokers took a hard run at me today.”

“Because of this morning?”

“Maybe. Or maybe because the veep is now the commander-in-chief. Last time he was in the Oval Office he sicced the NSA on us. Could be doing the same with the FBI.”

“You think that’s likely?”

“Don’t know. Timing’s weird, though. And … the wattage is dialed up. These guys wanted to hurt me. They were drawing guns when I made my play.”

“I’ll make sure they land in our custody,” said Church in a way that was not intended to suggest that these guys were going to spend the rest of the day getting blow jobs and eating bonbons.

“Cops are here,” I told him as the first units screeched to a stop.

“Ghost—down and quiet,” I said and he obeyed. With that command he’d even let me get cuffed—if it came to that—without doing anything that might get him shot.

I stepped clear of the cars and raised my hands; one was empty and the other held my NSA credentials.

The officers pointed guns at me. They yelled at me. They manhandled me. They took my gun. I had to reinforce my orders to Ghost because he doesn’t like seeing people manhandle his pack leader.

“National Security,” I said over and over again.

Ghost growled.

One of the cops drew his Taser and pointed it at him.

“Listen to me,” I said in my most reasonable tone, “I am a federal officer involved in a matter of urgent national security. You can run my ID and do whatever you have to do, but if you Tase my dog I’m going to shove that gun so far up your ass you’ll be shooting sparks out of your nose.”

Maybe they weren’t impressed by the trash talk, but nobody fired a Taser at Ghost. For his part, my dog held his ground, though he eyed them like they were items on a menu.

The cops tried to cuff me. I’m not stupid enough to try physical resistance, but I kept trying to stall them with credentials and the National Security angle. That worked only long enough for the juice to kick in. A call came down the line that made them suddenly back off and change their attitudes toward me. Maybe it was Sean, or my dad … or, more likely, Mr. Church. They handed me back my gun. The guy with the Taser holstered his piece and didn’t meet my eyes.

The four agents I’d dropped were semiconscious. Officers were trying to question them, asking where they were hurt, who they were. The agents said nothing. Not a word.

A sergeant supervisor arrived on the scene and came hurrying over. When he saw my face he slowed to a stop, a confused half smile beginning to form on his face.

“Joe—?”

I grinned. “Hey, Tommy.”

“The f*ck’s this all about?” he asked, closing in.

Tommy O’Malley was a good cop. We’d worked together at a couple of precincts—White Marsh and Essex. He took my identification wallet from one of the officers, looked at it, frowned, and handed it to me.

“I thought you were with the Feebs.”

“I am, but … it’s complicated.”

He gave me a few seconds of the “cop” look. Frank and suspicious. “Uncomplicate it for me.”

But, I shook my head. “Can’t do it, man. And I hate like hell to do this to a friend, but I have to stonewall you. This really is a national security matter and I can’t tell you anything more than that.”

Tommy was shorter than me, and he had one of those thin, freckly Irish faces that are no good at hiding their emotions. I saw the sudden shift as our relationship changed from Tommy and Joe to street cop and fed. Or, as we used to say when I was on his team, street cop and f*cking fed.

I could feel him take a mental step back from me, and even after we’d hurried through the necessary steps and I was back in my car, the weight of his disapproval was heavy on my shoulders.

It depressed me. I was no longer one of that brotherhood.