Last Man Standing

26

Bates was still in the strategic ops room when the man entered. Bates looked up and did his best to keep the dismay off his face. Buck Winters sat down across from him. The crease on his suit was Bureau letter-perfect, the shine on his wing tips equally regulation. The insertion of his pocket handkerchief looked like it had been done with a ruler. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with confident, intelligent features, a walking poster boy for the FBI. Maybe that’s how he had risen so far.

“I saw London leaving the building earlier.”

“Just checking in per his orders.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is.” Winters laid his palms flat on the table and seemed to study every feature on Bates’s face. “Why the hell do you care so much about that guy?”

“He’s a good agent. And like you said, I was sort of his mentor.”

“That’s not something I’d lay claim to, frankly.”

“He’s almost gotten himself killed for this place a lot more than you or me.”

“He’s a hothead. All those HRT guys are. They’re not part of us. They go their own way and thumb their noses at the rest of us, like they’re somehow better. What they really are is a bunch of alphas with big guns just itching to use them.”

“We’re all on the same team, Buck. They’re a specialized unit that takes care of stuff nobody else can. Yeah, sure, they’re cocky, who wouldn’t be? But we’re all FBI agents; we’re all working toward the same goal.”

Winters shook his head. “You really believe that?”

“Yeah, I really do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

“They’ve also been the cause of some of the Bureau’s worst moments.”

Bates dropped his file. “That’s where you’re dead wrong. The Bureau throws them into the fire on a moment’s notice and when something pops, usually because of knuckleheaded orders from the top that any guy on the front lines expected to execute said orders could tell you in a heartbeat won’t work, they take all the heat. I’m actually surprised they haven’t ask to be split off from us.”

“You’ve never played the games you need to, to move up here, Perce. You’re at the glass ceiling or, in your case, the steel ceiling. There’s no getting through it.”

“Well, I like right where I am.”

“Piece of advice: When you stop rising here, you eventually start falling.”

“Thanks for the career advice,” Bates said curtly.

“I’ve been getting your memos on the investigation. Frankly, they’re pretty sparse.”

“So are the results of the investigation.”

“Cove, what’s the status? You were sort of vague on that.”

“Not much to report.”

“I trust you’re working under the assumption that any Bureau undercover who hasn’t shown after all this time is either dead, or if he isn’t dead, he’s been turned and the way we should be looking for him is through an APB.”

“Cove hasn’t turned.”

“So you’ve talked to him? Funny, I didn’t see that in any of your reports.”

“I’m still feeling my way. But I did receive information from Cove.”

“And what did our illustrious undercover say about this mess?” “That he thinks he was set up.”

“Gee, that’s stunning,” said Winters sarcastically.

“That he doesn’t want to come in because he thinks the rat is somewhere in the Bureau.” Bates stared hard at Winters when he said this, though he wasn’t really sure why. It wasn’t like Winters would be leaking secrets, would he? “He knows all about the leaks happening and the blown missions. He thinks what happened to HRT was another one of those.”

“Interesting theory, but I’m assuming he has no proof of that.”

That question struck Bates as odd. “None that he cared to share with me,” he answered. “I’ve got it under control, Buck. I know how busy you are, and I don’t want to clutter your legendary vision with small details. You have my word that if anything big is going down, you’ll know beforehand. That way you can do the media circus. You’re really good at that.”

Winters could hardly have missed the sarcasm yet apparently chose to ignore it. “If I remember correctly, you and Cove were really tight at one time. California, right?”

“We worked together.”

“About the time his family got hit.”

“That’s right.”

“A disaster for the Bureau.”

“Actually, I always thought it was a disaster for the Cove family.”

“What’s got me puzzled is how all this went down. As I understand it, Cove had discovered a drug crew’s financial operations in that building.”

“And HRT was called up to hit it,” said Bates. “There were potential witnesses in there. HRT specializes in getting those kind of folks out alive.”

“Boy, they really did a bang-up job of that. They couldn’t keep themselves alive.”

“They were set up.”

“Agreed. But how? If not Cove, how?”

Bates thought back to his meeting with Randall Cove at the cemetery. Cove believed there was a leak inside the Bureau that accounted for all the things going wrong. Bates studied Winters for a moment. “Well, in order to accomplish something like that I would suppose that somebody would have to have inside information of the highest order.”

Winters sat back. “Of the highest order. From inside the Bureau, you’re saying?”

“Inside is inside.”

“That’s a very serious allegation, Bates.”

“I’m not alleging anything. I’m just pointing out one possibility.”

“It would be a hell of a lot easier to turn one undercover agent.”

“You don’t know Randall Cove.”

“And maybe you know him too well. So well, you can’t see the forest for the trees.”

Winters rose. “No surprises, Bates. Nothing substantial goes down unless I know about it ahead of time. Clear?”

As Winters left, Bates muttered under his breath, “Waco clear, Buck.”

Web was in his car when Ann Lyle called.

“Sorry it took me so long, but I wanted to get something solid for you.”

“That’s okay. I just got some stuff on Cove from the Bureau; understandably it was like pulling teeth.”

“Well, I got you someone.”

“Who? Cove?”

“I’m good, but I’m not that good, Web. I’ve drummed up a D.C. police sergeant who was a regular contact of Cove’s when he worked the WFO beat years ago.”

“A local cop as a contact for an FBI undercover? How’s that?”

“It’s not unusual for UCs to use a cop they trust to act as a go-between, Web. Cove had one of those during his first stint here, and the guy’s willing to talk to you.”

He pulled the car over, grabbed pen and paper and wrote down the name Sonny Venables, who was still a uniform in D.C.’s First District. Ann also gave him the man’s number.

“Ann, anybody else got hold of the Venables angle?”

“Not that Sonny said, and I think he would’ve mentioned it. He was Cove’s informal contact on his first tour through D.C., and that was a long time ago. Some folks might not make the connection. Though Sonny Venables tends to stand out,” she added.

“You sound like you know him.”

“Web, honey, when you’ve been around as long as I have, you tend to know everybody. I worked a lot with the D.C. cops.”

“And Venable’s willing to talk to me? Why?”

“The only thing he said was he had heard of you. And I threw my two cents in, for what it was worth.”

“But we still don’t know his take on things?”

“I guess that’s up to you to find out.” Ann clicked off.

Web called the number. Venables wasn’t in, and Web left his name and cell number. Venables called him back twenty minutes later and the two arranged to meet later that afternoon. Web also asked him another question and Venables said he would see what he could do. If the guy could give Web a handle on Cove, then Web might be able to follow it up. However, something was bothering Web about Bates, namely that he had never told Web that Cove had worked at WFO before his stint in California. Not that it really mattered. He had given Web a look at the guy’s file, and Web would have picked it up on his own, he supposed. He just hadn’t had enough time to go through the man’s entire history. But why not tell Web?

Venables had asked Web to meet him in the early afternoon at a bar around the area of his beat, nothing unusual about that. Web knew that that way you could quench your thirst and maybe overhear some info that might help you crack a case later. Cops were nothing if not efficient with their time.

Sonny Venables was white, mid-forties and a veteran of almost twenty years on the force, he told Web as they were buying their beers. He was over six feet tall and beefy, the kind of body mass one got from pumping lots of weights; the man looked like he could military-press a semi. He wore a baseball cap that read ALL FISHERMEN GO TO HEAVEN and wore a leather jacket with the NASCAR logo on the back. His neck was almost as thick as his very wide head. His voice had a twangy commonsense southern charm to it, and Web noted the circular outline of a can of tobacco chew in the back pocket of his jeans as they walked to a booth in the bar. They found a quiet corner and settled down with their beers.

Venables worked the night shift, he told Web. He liked it, more excitement. “Be hanging it up soon, though, right at twenty years. Go off and fish, drink beer and watch fast cars go around a little track the rest of my time, like most good cops do.” He smiled at his own words and took a long pull of his Red Dog beer. From the juke-box Eric Clapton was going on and on about Layla. Web looked around. Two guys were playing pool in the back room, a stack of twenty-dollar bills and a couple of Bud Lights siting on the edge of the table. They occasionally glanced over at the booth, but if they recognized either Venables or Web, they made no sign of it.

Venables eyed Web over the rim of his beer mug. The man’s face held enough wrinkles to be considered experienced and craggy. A man who had seen a lot in life, mostly bad, Web judged, just like him.

“Always wondered about you HRT guys.”

“What’s to wonder? We’re just cops with a few more toys at our disposal.”

Venables laughed. “Hey, give yourself some credit. I got a few FBI buddies who tried out for HRT and came back with their tails between their legs. Said they’d rather deliver a damn baby with just a stick between their teeth for the pain than go through that again.”

“From the picture I saw of Randall Cove, he looked like he could’ve cut it at HRT.”

Venables studied the head on his beer for a bit. “You’re probably wondering what Randy Cove had in common with the likes of a redneck-looking gent like myself?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“We grew up together in a backwater of Mississippi so small it never really did have a name. We played sports together all the way through because there wasn’t much else to do around there. And our little backwater was state football champs two years in a row. We also played together at Oklahoma.” Venables shook his head. “Randy was the greatest running back I ever saw, and the Sooners have turned out more than their share of those. I was fullback. First string, three years running, just like him. Blocked for Randy on every play. Threw my body in there like a damn runaway train and loved every minute of it, though I’m really starting to feel the effects of it now. See, you just needed to get Cove a little bit of daylight and that boy was gone. I’d look up from a pile of bodies and he’d already be in the end zone, usually with a couple of guys hanging on him. We were national champs our senior year and he was the reason. Oklahoma didn’t believe in the forward pass back then. We just handed the damn ball off to Randy Cove and let him do his thing.”

“Sounds like a friendship that would endure.”

“It did. I never had the talent to play pro ball, but Randy sure as hell did. Everybody, and I mean everybody, wanted him.” Venables stopped there and ran his fingers along the top of the table. Web decided to just wait the man out.

“I was with him at the combine when he blew out his knees. We both knew it, as soon as it happened. It wasn’t like it is today. Just go in and clean it up and then you’re back on the field the next year pretty much good as new. His career was over. Just like that. And football, man, football was all he had. We sat on that damn field and cried together for nearly an hour. I never even did that at my own mama’s funeral. But I loved Randy. He was a good man.”

“Was?”

Venables played with the pepper shaker and then sat back, tilted his cap farther up on his head and Web saw a lock of curly gray hair spring out.

“I take it you know what happened to his family,” said Venables.

“I heard about some of it. Why don’t you tell me what you know.”

“What’s to tell? Bureau screwed up and it cost Randy his wife and kids.”

“You saw him back then?”

Venables looked like he wanted to throw his beer in Web’s face. “I was a damn pallbearer at the funerals. You ever carry a four-year-old’s casket?” Web shook his head. “Well, let me tell you, that’s something you don’t ever forget.”

“Is that what Cove told you, that it was the Bureau’s fault?”

“Didn’t really have to tell me. I was a cop. I know how those things shake down. Ended up in D.C. because my wife’s from here. Randy started out with the Feds here too. I guess you know that. Used me as a go-between because he knew he could trust me, and that’s a rare thing in his line of work.”

“It seems to be a rare thing in a lot of lines of work.”

The two men shared a knowing look that seemed to come at a good time, perhaps strengthening a fledgling bond.

“Then Randy got transferred out to California and that’s where his family got hit.”

“I understand he took out his revenge.”

Venables laid a cold gaze on Web, a look that clearly said the man had far more secrets than he would ever care to part with. “Wouldn’t you have?”

“I guess maybe I would. Cove must really be something. The Russians are no lightweights.”

“Try growing up the wrong color in shit-poor Mississippi.” Venables leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “I heard about you. From the papers, some from Ann Lyle.” He stopped and seemed to be checking Web out. Then Web realized Venables was staring at the messed-up side of Web’s face.

“In almost twenty years on the force, I’ve pulled my gun maybe a dozen times, and fired it on six occasions. Four times I missed what I was shooting at, and twice I didn’t. I’ve never been hurt on the job, not even a hangnail, and that’s something to brag about in this town, especially these days. Now I’m in the First District, which isn’t lily white and rich Northwest, but it’s not exactly the Sixth and Seventh Districts in Anacostia, where your team got shot up. And I have great respect for guys on the thin blue line who’ve taken it and gotten back up. You seem like a damn walking ad for that.”

“I never asked to be.”

“Point is I respect you or else I wouldn’t be sitting talking to you. But the thing is you’ll never get me to believe that Randy has done anything wrong. I know undercover work screws with your mind and Randy’s got no reason to feel good about the Bureau, but what happened to your team is not something he’d ever be a party to, I want you to understand that.”

“And I want you to understand that while you seem sincere as hell and I wouldn’t mind sharing another beer with you some other time, I can’t accept a statement like that at face value.”

Venables nodded in understanding. “Well, you’d be a real dumb-shit, I guess, if you did.”

“He could’ve walked away. I checked on that. Bureau offered him a new life, full pension. Why do you think he didn’t take it?”

“And, what, spend the next forty years mowing his grass in a cookie-cutter suburb in the Midwest? That’s not Randy. What else was he going to do except keep on plugging? It may sound funny, but he took pride in his work. He thought he was doing good.”

“So do I. That’s why I’m here. I’m going to find out the truth. If Cove was part of it, I may take out my revenge just like he did. I can’t promise you I won’t, friend of his or not. But if he had nothing to do with it, I’ll be his best buddy. And believe me, Sonny, most folks would rather have me as a friend than an enemy.”

Venables sat back and seemed to be considering this. Then he apparently made up his mind and hunched forward, eyed the pool players chalking their cues, smoking their cigs and sipping their beers, and started talking in a very low voice. “I have no idea where Randy is. Haven’t heard from him since before this all went down. Way before, in fact.”

“So he never talked to you about what he was working on?”

“You got to understand, I was his contact on his first gig through D.C. Now, I’ve seen him on his latest tour through here, but not for business, so to speak. I knew he was working on something pretty big, but he never told me what.”

“So you two weren’t that close anymore?”

“As close as you can be to somebody like Randy. After what happened to his family, well, I don’t think he could really be close to anybody again. Not even to old Sonny Venables from Mississippi and all those damn blocks I threw for him.”

“He ever mention another contact he might have been using on the force?”

“No, if he was using anybody, it would’ve been me.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Little over two months ago.”

“How’d he seem?”

“Tight-lipped, mind somewhere else. Not looking too good, actually.”

“He hasn’t been back to his place in a while. The Bureau checked that out.”

“I never knew where that was; we always met on neutral ground because of his work. We’d just talk about old times, really. Just somebody to talk to is what he wanted, I think. If he needed me to pass something on, I did.”

“How’d he get in touch with you when he wanted to meet?”

“He’d never call me at home. Called at the precinct. Used a different name every time. And each time we met he’d tell me the new name he’d be using next when he called, so I’d know it was him.”

“And he hasn’t called?” Web eyed him closely. Venables appeared to be dealing straight with him, but one never really could be sure.

“No. Not one word. I started to worry something happened to him. In his occupation, that’s a legitimate concern.”

Web sat back. “So I guess you can’t really help me track him down.”

Venables finished his beer. “Let’s take a walk.”

They went outside and strolled down a street that was pretty empty. The workday wasn’t over yet and most folks were probably still in their offices, counting the minutes until they could bolt, Web figured.

“On his first tour through WFO there was a place that Randy would use as a drop spot if he wanted to leave me a message. He told me he’d also use it to change clothes, as a safe house of sorts.”

“The Bureau know about it?”

“No. Even back then I don’t think he trusted the higher-ups at the Bureau all that much. That’s why he used me, I guess.”

“Probably a smart move. Have you been there lately?”

Venables shook his head. “Guess I’m a little afraid of what I might find, not really sure why. Don’t even know if Randy uses it anymore. It could have been demolished, for all I know.”

“Care to give me that address?”

“You smoke, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do now.” Venables pulled a pack of Winstons out of his coat pocket and handed it to Web, who took it. “Better light up, in case anybody’s watching.” Venables handed him a book of matches.

Web lit up and tried not to gag and then slipped the pack into his pocket. “I appreciate the help. But if Cove was involved . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“If Randy did something like that, I don’t think he’d want to go on living.”

As Sonny Venables walked off, Web went back to his car, ripped open the Winstons and clutched the rolled-up piece of paper inside. He looked at the address written on it. Also inside the pack of cigarettes were three small photos folded over. Web had asked Venables about any light-skinned black kids about Kevin Westbrook’s age who had been reported missing in the city in the last month, and this obviously was what he had found. Web looked at the three photos; they were all slightly different versions of Kevin, he decided. All hopes of a decent life, their expressions told him, had already been torn from them. He drove off.

Twenty minutes later Web stared out the car window, his spirits hovering near an all-time low. Venable’s offhand remark had proved to be right on target. Where once stood Randall Cove’s old safe house there was an open construction pit; a tall crane rose in the middle of this hole, and a group of construction workers were just now walking off the job after what looked to Web to be a hard day’s work. Judging from the degree of work already performed there, Web had to assume that Cove had not been using his old digs in the recent past. It was a total dead end. Web crumpled up the piece of paper with the address written on it and threw it on the floorboard. But he still had one more angle to take on Randall Cove.

He called Romano from the car. “You up for a little snooping around?”

He picked up Romano and they headed south toward Fredericksburg.

Romano looked around the car’s interior. “What a piece-of-shit car.”

“It’s a Grand Marquis, the director is probably driven around in one of these.”

“Still a piece of shit.”

“I’ll try to do better for you next time.” He glanced at Romano and wondered what Angie told her shrink about him. With Romano as a significant other, she probably had a lot to talk about to a mental health professional.

“How’re things at HRT?”

“Same old, same old. We haven’t been called up for anything. Just training. I’m getting bored with that, man.”

“Hang in there, Paulie, you’ll be getting to fire your guns pretty soon.”

“Maybe I should go join the French Foreign Legion or something like that.”

“You just won’t admit when you have it good.”

“The guys been talking about you some, Web.”

He should have been expecting this change in the conversation, but it still surprised Web. “So, what’s the word?”

“Pretty even split for and against.”

“Gee, I thought I was more popular than that.”

“It’s not that. Nobody thinks you’re a coward, Web. You’ve done too much crazy stuff over the years. Almost as crazy as me.”

“But . . .”

“But some of the guys think if you freeze once, you’ll freeze again. What happened to you wouldn’t have made a difference in what happened to Charlie Team, but next time it might.”

Web stared straight ahead. “I guess I can’t argue with that logic. Maybe I should go join the French. You armed?”

“Do politicians lie?”

Randall Cove lived on the outskirts of Fredericksburg, Virginia, roughly fifty miles south from Washington, D.C., and Cove’s work arena, which roughly doubled Ann Lyle’s twenty-five-mile rule of thumb on the minimum distance undercover agents should keep between their abode and their beat. Cove’s home address was one of the pieces of information Web had surreptitiously read from Bates’s file.

Just missing the brunt of rush-hour traffic, forty minutes later they pulled down the quiet suburban street where Randall Cove lived. It was a line of carbon-copy townhouses, many with rental signs out front. There were no moms or kids outside, though the weather was pleasant, and there were very few cars parked on the street. The community actually looked abandoned, and Web knew it would be until the commuters started arriving from D.C. and northern Virginia. This place had bedroom community written all over it, no doubt with mostly single people or childless couples living here until their salaries or expanded family demands prompted them to move. He could understand why Cove would pick such a place to live. No curious neighbors, people keeping to themselves and no one around during the day when he was probably at home. Most undercover agents in the drug arena did their hunting at night, he knew.

There was a government-plated Bucar parked in front of the house. “Fed babysitter,” commented Romano. Web nodded and pondered how best to handle it. He drove up to the Bucar and he and Romano got out.

The agent rolled down his window, glanced at Web’s and Romano’s FBI identifications and then at Web.

“You’re famous now, don’t even need to show your creds,” said the agent, whom Web didn’t know. He was a young guy, full of vigor and promise, and Web figured he was probably hating life right now, watching a house no one expected Randall Cove to ever come near again. He got out of the car and extended his hand to the pair.

“Chris Miller, out of the Richmond Field Office.” He flashed his own credentials, which he pulled from his right breast pocket so that he could shake with his strong hand, which was how the FBI trained you to do it. If the Bureau did nothing else, it enforced upon its agents a stark commonality of how they performed the smallest details. Without looking, Web knew that Miller had an extra layer of lining in his jacket so the gun he carried there wouldn’t wear a hole in it. He also knew that when he had pulled in behind Miller and approached the car, Miller’s gaze had been on the rearview mirror and then locked on Web’s eyes, for eyes always told a person’s intent.

The men shook hands and Web glanced at the quiet and dark townhouse. “You guys pulling round-the-clocks here?”

“Eight, eight and eight,” said Miller wearily. He checked his watch. “And I’ve got three more hours on my shift.”

Web leaned against the sedan. “So I take it not very exciting.”

“Not unless you count a cat fight I watched about two hours ago.” He paused, eyed Web closely and then blurted out, “You know, I’ve been thinking about trying out for HRT.”

“Well, we can always use a few good men.” Six of them, in fact, Web thought, to rebuild Charlie Team.

“I hear the tryouts are hellacious.”

Romano almost snorted. “Take everything you’ve heard and raise it by a factor of ten, and then you’re getting close to the truth.”

From his skeptical look Miller obviously didn’t buy that, Web could tell. Yet he was young and overconfident in his abilities, as the young always were.

“Were you at Waco?” Miller asked. Web and Romano nodded. “You get any shots off?”

“I’ve actually tried to banish it from my subconscious,” said Web. Wouldn’t Claire Daniels be proud?

“I could see that,” said Miller in a doubtful manner that made Web feel sure the young agent actually did not get the point.

“How long you been with the Bureau?” asked Romano.

“Almost two years.”

“Well, when you get the big three under your belt you can try out for HRT. Give me a buzz sometime. If you’re serious about HRT, I can show you around.” Romano handed him his card.

As Miller tucked the card away in his pocket, Romano and Web exchanged amused glances.

“Man, that would be great,” said Miller. “I hear you guys have some awesome firepower.”

The initial draw for many, Web knew, was the guns. Several men he knew had joined the Bureau solely for the opportunity to carry and fire fancy weapons. “That we do. And we’ll show you exactly why it’s always best if you don’t have to use them.”

“Right.” Miller looked disappointed, but he would get over it, Web knew. There was an awkward silence, and then Miller asked, “Uh, can I help you guys with anything?”

“We just drove out here because I wanted to see the place. You know anything about the guy?”

“Not all that much. I know he’s involved in what happened to you guys. Makes you wonder how somebody can turn like that, on their own kind, I mean.”

“Yeah, it sure does.” Web looked around the row of town-houses. They backed up to woods. “Hope you got somebody covering the rear.”

Miller grinned. “Something, anyway. K-9s in the backyard. It’s fenced in. Somebody tries to go in that way, they got a surprise. Cheaper than posting two agents out here, I guess.”

“I guess.” Web checked his watch. “Getting close to dinnertime. You eaten?”

Miller shook his head. “I brought some crackers and stuff along. And a bottle of water. Went through that. And like I said, I got three more hours before my relief shows up. Worst part is having no place to use the john.”

“Tell me about it. Worked a bunch of surveillance details in the Midwest. Covered thousand-acre farms that were suspected drug distribution facilities and some trailer parks looking for good old boys that thought decent work included robbing banks and shooting people with sawed-off shotguns. Had to either hold it, pee in a bottle or just stand out in the fields and let it go.”

“Yeah,” said Romano. “And when I was a Delta we used to squat together in rows in whatever piece-of-shit place we were in and take our dumps. You get to know guys real well when you’re crapping next to them. I had to shoot a guy once right when I was taking a shit. Man, let me tell you that was awkward.”

Miller didn’t look like any of those avenues of relief held sway with him. He was dressed very sharply, Web noted, and no doubt peeing in a bottle or taking the chance of exposing himself wasn’t part of the young agent’s image.

“There’s a Denny’s up the road. You want to take a dinner, we’ll stay put until you get back.”

Miller looked uncertain about abandoning his post.

“Offers like that don’t come along every day, Chris.” Web partially opened his jacket so Miller could see he was armed. “And yeah, I got some shots off at Waco. Go have yourself a good meal.”

“You sure it’ll be okay?”

Romano answered in his most intimidating voice. “If anybody comes along who shouldn’t, they’ll wish they got the dog over us.”

At that, Agent Miller quickly got in his car and drove off.

Web waited until he was out of sight before he went to his trunk, pulled out a small device along with a flashlight, looked around and then walked with Romano up to the front door of Cove’s house.

“Damn, that dude would last all of two minutes at HRT,” said Romano.

“You never know, Paulie. You made it, didn’t you?”

“You really gonna pop this place?”

“Yeah, I’m really gonna. You have a problem with that, go sit in the car.”

“There’s not much in life I have a problem with.”

The pick gun made fast work of the simple front door lock and Web and Romano were inside in a few seconds. Web closed the door and turned on his flashlight. He saw the alarm panel next to the front door, but it was not armed. Presumably only Cove would have known the pass code. They walked down the short hallway and entered the living room. Web hit all corners with the light. Both men’s hands were on their pistol grips. The place was very sparsely furnished. Cove probably didn’t spend much time in here anyway, Web assumed. They did a quick search of the main floor and found nothing of interest, which didn’t surprise Web. Cove was a veteran, and vets didn’t exactly leave detailed records of what they were doing lying around for folks to find.

The basement was unfinished. There were a few boxes down there. Romano and Web quickly went through them. The only item Web lingered over was a framed photograph of Cove, his wife and their children. Web shone the light at an angle so it wouldn’t reflect off the glass. Cove was in a suit, no dreadlocks in sight, his features handsome and confident. His smile was contagious. From simply looking at the photo, Web felt the corners of his mouth curl. One big arm was around his wife and the other enveloped both his children. His wife was remarkably beautiful, with shoulder-length hair, a big smile of her own and eyes that could have reduced any man to the quivers. The boy and girl favored their mother. They would have grown up into beautiful people, no doubt, at the same time their mother and father grew old together. That was how life was supposed to work out anyway, and rarely did, at least for people who did what Cove and Web did for a living. The photograph captured the other side of Randall Cove, focusing on the man as husband and father. Web envisioned the former All-American tailback tossing a football to his son in the backyard; maybe the boy had inherited his old man’s athletic skills. Perhaps he could’ve had the professional career that had been denied his father. In a Hollywood movie that might happen, but it rarely did in the unfairness of real life.

“Nice family,” commented Romano.

“Not anymore.” Web didn’t bother to explain.

He put the photo back in the box and they headed upstairs. As his light glanced off the rear sliding door, something flung itself against the glass. In unison Web and Romano pulled their guns until they heard the barking and realized it was the K-9 doing its job.

Well, at least a dog would never rat on you; maybe that was the real reason they were man’s best friends, thought Web. They kept your secrets to the grave.

They hustled to the upstairs level, wanting to be done long before Miller got back. Web didn’t like conning a fellow agent, but he definitely didn’t want to be caught conducting an unauthorized search of a major suspect’s home. Bates would throw away the key on that one and Web probably couldn’t blame him. There were two rooms up here connected by a bathroom. The front room that overlooked the street was Cove’s bedroom. The bed was made and the closet held few clothes. Web lifted a shirt out and held it up to himself. Web could have almost fit his leg into one of the arms of the shirt. Web wouldn’t have wanted to play defense against the man; one might as well try and tackle a van.

The room that was on the rear side of the house was empty. It was set up as a bedroom but apparently had never been used as one. The inside of the small closet had no hanger scratches on the walls, and the carpet held no imprints of furniture having been there. Web and Romano were about to leave when Web noticed something. He looked at the windows in this back room and then went through the connecting bath and into the front bedroom and looked at the windows there. They had miniblinds for privacy; logical, since this room overlooked the street. Web went back through the bathroom and into the other room. There were shades on these windows too but not miniblinds, noted Web; these were old-fashioned roll-up shades. The back bedroom overlooked dense woods, so privacy wasn’t really an issue. Web looked out the window and saw where the sun was falling. The back room faced to the north, so it would get no afternoon light that required shades to block. And since the room wasn’t being used, why have shades at all? And if one did elect some sort of window treatment, why not the same throughout the house? At least with miniblinds one could allow some light in and still have a reasonable degree of privacy. With shades it was all or nothing, and with little light back here as it was and no overhead light built in, this room would stay in perpetual darkness. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but perhaps Cove had inherited this arrangement from a previous owner and had no interest in changing it.

“What’s got your antenna up?” asked Romano.

“The man’s choice in shades.”

“You going feminine on me?”

Web ignored Romano and stepped to the window. The shades were fully pulled up. Web took the rope and jerked. The shade did its thing and came down, nothing out of the ordinary there. He stepped to the other window and did the same thing. The rope was stuck, and the shade did not come down. For an instant Web was about to just call it quits and leave. But then he shone his light up at the trip mechanism on the shade and saw that it had been bent such that the rope pull wouldn’t work anymore. He bent the trip back into place and pulled on the rope. Down came the shade, and Romano gaped as the envelope that had been secreted in the rolled-up shade literally dropped into his hands.

Romano stared at him. “Damn, you are good at this.”

“Let’s go, Paulie.” Web pulled the shade back up and they jogged down the stairs. Romano checked to make sure the coast was clear and then they slipped out. Web pulled the front door closed behind him.

Web and Romano got in their car and Web turned on the overhead light and settled down to review what they had found.

He opened the envelope and pulled out the yellowed news clipping. It was from the Los Angeles Times, and it was reporting on the deaths of an undercover agent’s family at the hands of the Russian mafia. The official speaking on behalf of the Bureau gave a stinging attack on the criminals and vowed that they would be brought to justice. The official was identified as someone very close to the investigation. He was actually the case supervisor of the under-cover agent, whom they refused to identify even though the names of the slain family members had been made public. Web could only shake his head at the name of the Bureau official.

Percy Bates.

Miller drove up a few minutes later, got out and walked over to the car. He patted his belly. “Thanks for the assist, guys.”

“No problem,” said Romano. “We been there, done that.”

“Anything come up while I was gone?”

“Nope, all clear.”

“Hey, I’m off duty in about two hours. You guys interested in having a beer?”

“We—” Web glanced past Miller because the failing sunlight had just glanced off some reflective object in the distance.

“Web, look out,” Romano cried out, because he obviously had seen the same thing.

Web reached across to Miller, grabbed his tie and tried to pull him down. The shot hit Miller dead center of the back and came through his chest, zipped right in front of Web and shattered the glass on the passenger side. Romano was already out of the car and behind one of the wheels. He poked the gun over the hood but didn’t fire.

“Web, get the hell out of there.”

For a split second Web held on to Miller’s tie even as the young agent slid down the side of the car. The last thing Web saw was the dead man’s eyes staring at him and then Miller hit the ground.

“Web, get your ass out of that car or I’ll shoot you myself.”

Wed ducked down as another shot shattered the rear side window of the Bucar. Web slid out and took up position behind the rear wheel. At the Academy you were taught that squatting behind car wheels was the place to be because there were few weapons that could penetrate all that metal.

“You see anything?” asked Romano.

“Just that first reflection. Off a scope. A damn good thousand yards away, in the woods, between those two sections of town-houses. Miller’s dead.”

“No shit. I’m figuring something like a .308 chambering steel-jackets with a Litton ten-powerscope.”

“Great, the same stuff we use,” replied Web. “Just keep your damn head down.”

“Oh, thanks for telling me, Web. I was just about to jump up screaming for my mommy.”

“We can’t fire back; our pistols don’t have that range.”

“Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know? You got any goodies in your trunk?”

“I would if it were my car.”

Another shot hit the sedan and both men ducked. Yet another shot came and the left front wheel blew. Another and steam rose from the radiator.

“Don’t you think somebody might try calling the cops?” complained Romano. “What, you got snipers in the suburbs every day?”

“My phone’s in the car.”

“Well, don’t try and get it. Whoever’s out there knows what he’s doing.”

They waited another five minutes and no more shots hit; then they could finally hear sirens in the distance. Web edged his head up over the side and looked through the car’s windows. He didn’t see any more reflections from the woods.

The police finally showed and Web and Romano held up their creds and motioned for the cops to get down. After another few minutes Web crawled over to the squad car and explained the situation. No more shots came and then apparently all the county cops showed up, along with a half dozen state troopers. The woods were combed without finding anyone, although a dirt road leading out to the main one on the other side of the subdivision Cove lived in had fresh tire tracks. And they also found a number of spent rifle shells. Romano had been right: steel-jacketed .308s.

Chris Miller was officially pronounced dead and the ambulance came and took him away. Web noted the wedding band on his finger before they zipped the body bag shut. Well, Mrs. Miller was going to get the dreaded visit from the Bureau tonight. He shook his head and looked over at Romano.

“I’m really getting sick of this life.”