The Book of Fate

105

You didn’t know she was The Fourth?” Boyle asked.

“I said that’s enough!” the guard shouted, gripping his gun with two hands. He had a build — and a face — like a rhino, but as he stepped closer, Rogo saw the guard’s feet shuffle with hesitation. Eight years ago, Ron Boyle was an accountant. Today, he was clearly something more.

“Who’d you think it was? The President?” Boyle added.

“He really ranked me that low?” Dreidel asked.

“Why’d you think you were fired?” Boyle asked.

“I wasn’t fired. I got promoted.”

“Sure you were.”

“I’m counting to three!” the guard warned Boyle.

“Listen, please,” Rogo begged, turning to the guard. “You need to call the police… my friend’s about to be killed!”

“You hear me, Boyle?” the guard said.

“Didn’t you realize who you were up against?” Boyle shouted at Rogo. “You should’ve called the cops days ago.”

“We did! We thought we did!” Rogo replied. “Micah and O’Shea said they were—”

One…!” the guard shouted.

“Or at least called in some favors,” Boyle added, turning to Dreidel.

Turning away, Dreidel was silent.

Rogo raised an eyebrow.

“Two…!” the guard continued.

Boyle watched them both carefully, then rolled his tongue, more annoyed than ever. He’d worked in the White House for nearly four years. He’d seen that look before.

“You did, didn’t you?” Boyle challenged.

“And you did anything different?” Dreidel shot back. “Spare me the judgment.”

“Wait… what?” Rogo asked. “You went for help without telling us?”

Before Dreidel could answer, the guard pulled back the hammer on his gun.

Still locked on Dreidel, Boyle ignored the threat. “Who’d you run to first? NSA? FBI? Or’d you go to Bendis at—?”

“The Marshals,” Dreidel blurted. “I went to the Marshals Service.”

Hearing the words, the guard turned toward Dreidel. And took his eyes off Boyle.

That was the end.

Leaping forward, Boyle slammed the guard from behind, wrapping his left arm around the guard’s neck and gripping his stringy brown hair with his right.

“Are you—? Get the hell off!” the guard screamed. He reached back to grab Boyle — which was exactly what Boyle was hoping for.

Seizing the momentum, Boyle threw himself backward, taking the guard with him as they plunged toward the floor. It wasn’t until they were in mid-fall that the guard realized what he was in for.

“Boyle, don’t—!”

Pivoting at the last second, Boyle spun to the left, twisting around so that instead of falling backward, the guard was falling forward. Straight toward the salmon-colored marble floor. At the last second, with a sharp tug of brown hair to steer the ship, Boyle turned the guard’s head to the side, so his right ear was facing down.

“Get off me, you lunati—!”

Like a cupped hand slapping water, the guard’s ear smacked the ground with a loud hollow pop, followed half a second later by a louder pop as his gun backfired from the impact. Boyle, Rogo, and Dreidel all jumped back as the bullet zinged from his gun, piercing the base of the welcome desk and lodging in the marble wall. Before they’d even realized what happened, the guard’s head slumped unconscious against the floor, blood trickling out from his burst eardrum.

“What’re you, on drugs!?” Dreidel demanded as Boyle climbed to his feet.

Without answering, Boyle motioned to the door. “We should go. He’s got backup coming.”

Still in shock, Rogo just stood there, his eyes hopping from Boyle and Dreidel to the limp figures of O’Shea and the guard. “I don’t… I’m not—”

“Dreidel, you don’t live down here, do you?” Boyle asked.

“No, but I can—”

“I need you to show me the fastest route to the cemetery,” Boyle said as he turned to Rogo.

Rogo nodded, first slowly, then faster, his eyes eventually settling on Dreidel, who quickly approached to make peace.

“Rogo, before you say anything…”

“You made a deal, didn’t you?” Rogo challenged.

“Just listen—”

“What’d the Marshals offer you?”

“Rogo…”

“What’d they offer you, you cancerous little parasite!?” Rogo shouted.

Dreidel shook his head as his jaw shifted off-center. “Full immunity.”

“I knew it!” Rogo said.

“But it’s not—”

“And what was the trade? That you’d spy on us — help them catch The Three — as a way to prove your own innocence?”

“I am innocent!” Dreidel snapped.

“So is Wes! So am I! But you don’t see us running to the authorities, making private deals, and then tattling on our friends without telling them!”

“Rogo — both of you — we need to go,” Boyle insisted.

Enraged but well aware of Wes’s current situation, Rogo spun back to the main entrance, followed Boyle through the sliding doors, and burst into the parking lot with Dreidel right behind him.

As flicks of rain bombarded from above, Dreidel quickly caught up so they were running side by side, heading for Boyle’s van. “I didn’t tattle on you,” Dreidel said.

“So you never told them what we were up to?” Rogo shot back.

“I didn’t have a choice, Rogo. Once Wes came to my hotel room that first day… I needed the help. They said if I kept my eyes on you and Wes — kept them informed on where you were — they’d do their best to keep us protected as well as keeping our names out of the papers.”

“And that’s not spying on your friends?”

“Listen, don’t be mad at me for being the only one smart enough to realize that in an emergency, you’re supposed to break the glass and call for help. C’mon, Rogo, think for a second. I can’t afford—” As they approached the white van, he explained, “I’m running for State Senate.”

Rushing around to the passenger side of the van, Rogo felt his fingers tighten into a fist. He almost bit through his own lip as he fought to contain his rage. “Let’s go — open the door,” he called out to Boyle.

“I swear, Rogo, I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” Dreidel insisted.

As the locks popped, Rogo ripped open the passenger door, reached inside, and hooked his arm around to pound down the lock on the van’s sliding door.

“What’re you doing?” Dreidel asked. “Unlock it!”

Rogo didn’t say a word as he leaped into the front passenger seat, which was covered with thick piles of cluttered files, photocopies, old newspapers, and a brand-new digital camera. Leaning in Rogo’s door, Dreidel stuck his arm behind the passenger seat and tried to open the lock himself. Without even hesitating, Rogo tugged the door shut. Dreidel tried to pull away. He wasn’t fast enough. The sixty-pound door chomped down, sinking its metal teeth into his manicured fingertips.

“Gahhhhh! Open it! Open it, motherf—!”

“Ooh, sorry,” Rogo offered as he nudged the door open, and Dreidel tucked his hand under his own armpit. “I swear, Dreidel, I wasn’t trying to hurt you either.”

Staring downward from his seat in the van, Rogo shot him the kind of glare that comes with an ice pick. “Don’t pretend you’re Wes’s friend, dickface.”

With a hiccup, the van roared to life, and Rogo slammed the door shut. Dreidel just stood there, pelted by the rain.

“C’mon, we going or not?” Rogo shouted at Boyle.

“Don’t bark orders at me,” Boyle countered. “I didn’t shoot your friend in the face.”

“But if you—”

“I didn’t shoot him, Rogo. They shot me. And if I really wanted to see Wes hurt, I wouldn’t be running to save him right now,” Boyle said as he shifted the car into reverse and jammed his foot on the gas.

Staring dead ahead as they squealed out of the spot and away from Dreidel, Rogo rolled his jaw, forever looking for the fight. For once, he couldn’t find it. “Just tell me one thing,” he finally said as he motioned back toward the modern building with the thermal security cameras. “What the hell is that place, and why’d they have a bed and conference table connected to the bathroom?”

“Didn’t you hear who Dreidel made his deal with?” Tapping the glass of his own window, Boyle motioned to the four-story building that was perfectly located two miles from the airport. “Dr. Eng’s just the name that lets them hide in plain sight. Forget what it says on the front door. That’s a WITSEC safehouse.”

“Wit sack?”

“WITSEC. As in Witness Security.”

“You mean like the Witness Protection Program?”

“Exactly like the Witness Protection Program — which, along with judicial protection, is run solely under the jurisdiction of…”

“… the Marshals Service,” Rogo said, shaking his head and finally realizing why Dreidel hadn’t wanted to come.

“Starting to stink now, isn’t it?” Boyle asked. “But that’s how they work. They’ve got fake offices in every city in America. The only difference here is, it’s Witness Protection 2.0. Instead of just putting you in hiding, they make everyone think you’re dea—”

Overhead, a 747 shredded the night sky, buzzing down toward the airport and drowning out Boyle.

Rogo stared at the frosted-glass building as the adrenaline from fighting with Dreidel drained away and the dread of his new reality seeped into his system. “So when the guard called on his radio, he…”

“… wasn’t just calling his buddies,” Boyle agreed as they tore past the front of the building. “He was calling the United States Marshals Service. And unless we get out of here, we’re gonna get a personal introduction.”