Ark of Fire

CHAPTER 18

Holding a museum map in front of him, Boyd Braxton rechecked the exits.

He had Sanchez on the Mall exit, Harliss at Constitution, Napier across the street at the East Wing, Agee manning the Fourth Street exit, and Riggins posted at the Seventh Street exit. Experienced war fighters, one and all, each of ’em was equipped with a Ka-Bar knife and two ID photos: one of a dark curly-haired bitch and the other of a tall redheaded bastard. And the best part? To the man, they were decked out in D.C. police uniforms. Given that the National Gallery of Art was swarming with every badge the city could rustle up, no one would give them a second glance.

The op in play, Boyd secured a communications device to his right ear, enabling him to speak to all five of his men. “You’ve got your orders: take out both targets. Edged weapons only. We want this to go down swift, silent, and deadly.”

“Copy that, Boss Man,” Riggins replied, speaking for the group. An expert at close-quarter fighting, Riggins knew how to wield a knife with lethal proficiency. Better yet, he enjoyed wielding a blade. Close-range combat appealed to a particular kind of warrior: the kind who liked to look his victim in the eye when he went in for the kill.

“Okay, boys and girls. Let’s go have some fun,” Boyd said, grinning, confident that this time there would be no more fuck-ups. “And don’t forget . . . we go with God.”

“Amen, brother.” This from Sanchez, a former Army Ranger and Afghanistan vet well experienced in slaying the godless.

As he headed toward the Fourth Street exit, Boyd glanced at the ring he wore on his right hand; the cluster of silver crosses was a constant reminder that he and his men were soldiers in God’s army. Holy warriors not unlike the crusaders of old. The colonel often spoke of the men who, a thousand years ago, went forth to conquer the Holy Land. Hugues of Payens. Godfrey of Bouillon. Yves of Faillon. Boyd felt a kindred link to those knights of old who fought with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other. The sword he had great experience with, having spent fifteen years in the Corps. The Bible was new to him; his old man had not held the Good Book in very high regard. In fact, Joe Don Braxton hadn’t held much of anything except a bottle of Old Crow. And he’d held that damned near every night. Rumor had it there was a half-drunk fifth of bourbon clutched between Joe Don’s thighs the night he drove his Dodge pickup into a stand of poplar trees.

Approaching the museum lobby, Boyd jutted his chin at the Rosemont man standing sentry near the coat room; Agee was a good man to have in a tight fix. The silent greeting was returned with an innocuous nod.

Not about to stand in line, Boyd slid his hand into his coat pocket and removed a leather wallet. Flipping it open, he thrust the D.C. Metropolitan Police badge at the same guard he’d tinned when he first entered the museum.

“Detective Wilson,” the guard said by way of greeting. “Hell of a mess we’ve got on our hands, huh?”

“Just another day in Sin City. Anyone get a look at the bastard who fired the shots?”

“As a matter of fact, one of the museum patrons was able to videotape some of it on his cell phone.”

Hearing that, Boyd froze.

Within hours his face would be plastered on BOLOs, You-Tube, and all of the major news outlets.

“Glad to hear it,” he replied, his facial muscles taut with a fake smile. “Keep up the good work”—he glanced at the man’s name badge—“Officer Milligan.” He had no idea if security guards were addressed as Officer, and at the moment he didn’t much care. The fake grin replaced with a grimace, he headed for the plate glass doors, shoving aside a couple of jabbering tourists.

Once outside, he came to a standstill, his booted feet planted on the cobbled stone driveway that fronted the entrance. Ignoring the two-way traffic jam of human bodies—badges heading into the museum, touristos heading out—he raised his head to the gray sky above. And prayed. Hard.

Dear Lord, help me make this right.

Boyd didn’t want to let down the colonel. He owed everything he had to Colonel Stan MacFarlane. Sometimes, when his mind wandered, he liked to imagine that the colonel was the father he never had but always wanted. Stern, but fair. Righteous. A man who’d never hit you unless he had just cause.

Like a soothing balm, the gently falling snow cooled his brow, its big fluffy flakes sticking to his eyelashes, his lips, the tip of his nose. It put him in mind of the first time he’d ever seen the snow fall from the sky during a tour of duty in Japan. A backwater kid from Pascagoula, Mississippi, he’d only seen winter snow on celluloid. He well remembered standing there, a bad-ass, two-hundred-thirty-pound jarhead, sorely tempted to lie down, flap his arms and legs like an epileptic, and make angels in the snow. Come to think of it, it’d been snowing the day he made his first kill. A Jap with an attitude had accused him of stiffing on the sake bill and had followed him into the alley, attacking him from behind while he took a piss. He killed the slant-eyed shitbird with a backward jab of the elbow, ramming his nose all the way into his skull. A ruby-red bloodstain on virgin white snow. It had been a beautiful sight. Like a silk-clad whore spreading her legs for a li’l game of peekaboo.

Reinvigorated, the blood pumping through his veins fast and furious, Boyd straightened his shoulders as he strode past the black Jeep Wrangler. The colonel said that God was a fine one for testing the faithful. Maybe that’s what all this fiddle fucking was about—he was being tested.

If that was the case, bring it on!

He was up to the challenge.

Sticking the key in the trunk of the Crown Vic, he opened it and removed a drawstring pouch. Inside the ditty bag were two spare cell phones, coiled wire, duct tape, and a small block of C-4. Everything he needed to make things right.