“Our nations are simply partners against terrorism.” His eyes narrowed. “Denny told me you were a terrorist.”
Carmichael said, “Court, I initiated the shoot-on-sight order because you killed your team. Yes, I sent your team to pick you up for what happened in BACK BLAST. But you overreacted, you started shooting, they shot back, and then there were four dead SAD Ground Branch officers lying in the dirt.”
The gunfight had happened in Gentry’s Virginia Beach apartment; there was no dirt; but he did not correct Carmichael on this trifling point.
Court did, however, disagree with the larger premise. “That’s a lie, Denny, and I’ve shot men for lying to me. My team was ordered to term me.”
To Court’s surprise, Denny did not push back on this. He just said, “You know BACK BLAST was your doing. I had every right to term you after what happened in Trieste.”
“I know I shot Hawthorn, I must have screwed up the ID of the target, but that’s not a reason to terminate me.” He looked back and forth between the two men. Suddenly his tough act softened. “Just tell me what I’m missing here.”
Denny said, “Why would I tell you a goddamned thing? You are going to kill us anyway.”
Court shook his head. “Wrong. I promised Hanley I wouldn’t kill you.” Court shrugged. “I’d love to back out on that promise, but I won’t.” He then turned to al-Kazaz. “I might shoot this fuck just because I don’t like him, though.” He leaned closer to the Saudi. “You better impress the hell out of me in the next couple of minutes.”
Carmichael said, “Courtland, you made a very serious mistake that hurt U.S. national interests gravely. You expected to see the assassin targeting Hawthorn. Instead you saw Hawthorn making his own move, against an AQ assassin. You didn’t bother to get proper PID.” Carmichael stared at the gun while he spoke. “You fucked up. You killed the best agent the West had in al Qaeda, crippled us in the War on Terror for years. Hell, a decade, perhaps. And to make matters even worse, you rescued an al Qaeda operator.”
The phone rang again. Court sighed, then he snatched it up. “Allen, I said I’d call you.”
“I want to help you, Jeff. Can I get you something to eat or drink? I just need to—”
Court interrupted. “Listen very carefully. This is bigger than you know. Sometime in the next few minutes a van is going to arrive and a bunch of men are going to pile out of it. Somebody with an ID that will confuse the hell out of you is going to walk up, and then a phone will ring, and someone far above your head will tell you to stand down and leave the premises. FBI and HRT will be sent packing with your tails between your legs.”
Allen Reynolds said, “Jeff, that’s what we did to the Alexandria police. Trust me, son, nobody does that to the FBI. You are stuck with me for the duration, so we should just open up a healthy dialogue here. I need to know what you need.”
“I need for you to wait for the other guys to get here. They’ll take over the scene. They’ll probably be assholes about it, they don’t hire these guys for their manners, but you won’t be able to stop them.”
The FBI man revealed a little swagger in his voice. “Who do you think is going to come for you?”
“The men that come will have orders to kill me, not to arrest me. They can’t let you guys try and hit this room, because you might take me alive.”
There was a pause.
Court said, “Allen? You there?”
“Uh . . . Jeff, I’m going to have to put you on hold for just one—”
Court gave a tired smile to Denny and al-Kazaz. He spoke into the speakerphone. “They’re here, aren’t they?”
“Uh . . . I’ll be right back.”
Court snorted out a chuckle. “No, you won’t. You’re done.” He hung up the phone.
—
On the second-floor landing outside the steel doors, many of the men of the FBI HRT team took their eyes out of their gun sights and looked to the stairs below them. Heading up the staircase was a large group of armed men wearing civilian attire covered in body armor and ammunition. Their rifles were newer than the FBI shooters’ own equipment, and the night vision equipment they wore on their helmets was a generation better, something the HRT boys had only seen in classified briefings about new technology.
One of the HRT snipers muttered, “Who the hell are these guys?”
FBI negotiator Allen Reynolds pocketed his phone and stepped in front of the approaching men. “Excuse me.” They kept walking. “Hey! FBI! What the hell do you think you are doing?”
A man in his early forties stepped up to Reynolds and stopped while his cohorts continued on. He wore a beard and held an assault rifle and a helmet adorned with state-of-the-art communications gear, cameras, and other gadgetry Reynolds could not identify. “Good evening, Special Agent Reynolds. Your phone will ring in five seconds. It will be the deputy director of the FBI. But don’t worry, it’s good news. You get the rest of the night off.”