Last Man Standing

33

When Web had called the number on the slip of paper Big F had given him, the voice that had answered was a man’s.Web didn’t know if it belonged to Big F, since his initial encounter with the giant had involved concussions rather than words. Web had hoped it was Big F on the line because the voice was high and shrill. What a wonderful joke for God to play on the man by giving him a squeaky set of pipes. Yet a silly voice wasn’t going to lessen the fear of doing the two-step with the walking oak again. Big F didn’t hit with his tonsils.

The man had told Web to be driving north across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge at exactly eleven o’clock that night. Web would receive additional instructions at that time; by cell phone, Web figured. His number was unlisted, but it seemed nothing was sacred these days.

Web, of course, had sensibly questioned why he should even go.

“If you want to know what happened to your buddies, you’ll be there,” the man had said. “And if you want to keep on living,” he added. Appropriately enough, the phone line had gone dead after that.

Web thought about running down to Quantico and snagging a Barrett .50 rifle and a couple thousand rounds of ammo from the equipment cage. One of the great things about HRT was that it purchased for its operators the very latest weapons and then let them do with them what they wanted. It was like a giant candy store for the violence-minded. Yet he finally decided that even at gun-happy HRT, it might raise some eyebrows—his checking out a .50 and enough ammo to shoot up a good-sized city. He did briefly think about calling in Bates as backup but then realized that might hold disastrous consequences. Big F hadn’t survived on the streets this long by being stupid or impossibly lucky. He would smell the Bureau boys for sure, and wouldn’t that just royally piss off the big guy. But if he had information about who had set up his team, Web had to find out what it was.

He had driven past the entrance to the Southern Belle farm. The opening was not as ornate at East Winds. And Web noted that the gates were closed and locked. He thought he could see a man patrolling near the entrance, but he wasn’t certain of that or whether the man was armed. An interesting place. Even as he was thinking this, he heard the chopper coming overhead. He looked up, saw it passing by and then it disappeared from his sight. Maybe it was landing at Southern Belle. Maybe terrorists had landed in America. Web was only half kidding.

He had stopped to fill the car with gas. He thought about calling Claire but then decided against it. What would he say? Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, and maybe I won’t.

The Woodrow Wilson Bridge had long been the single worst traffic bottleneck in the United States interstate highway system. To most local drivers, mentioning the name of the twenty-eighth President of the United States sent them into fits of rage. What a legacy, Web thought, for a life of selfless public service. Better to have your name attached to a rest stop. At least then people would think of you in connection with badly needed bodily relief.

He rolled onto the aging bridge and checked his watch. Thirty seconds to eleven. The Potomac was calm tonight, with no boat traffic apparent. The thick line of trees on the Maryland side contrasted sharply with the bright lights of Old Town Alexandria on the Virginia side and the Capitol dome and national monuments to the north. He passed the halfway point on the bridge. Traffic was relatively light and flowing well. A Virginia state police car passed Web heading in the opposite direction. Web felt like yelling after him, Hey, wanta be my friend tonight? Got an appointment with Doctor Death.

Web left the bridge and kept driving. He looked around. Nothing. So much for exact timing. Then a chilling thought hit him. Was he being set up to take a hit? Was there a sniper out there somewhere drawing a bead on him right now with his scope? Was the guy dialing in the drop compensation right now, seating the shell, settling his finger on the trigger, exhaling one last breath before he fired? Was Web London the world’s biggest idiot?

“Take the next right. NOW! NOW!”

The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere and startled Web so badly he almost pulled the Mercury into a one-eighty.

“Shit!” Web cried out even as he shot the car across three lanes of traffic while horns blared at him and cars dodged around him. He cut it so close the sedan skimmed the guardrail.

Web was now on the entry ramp onto Interstate 295.

“Take it to D.C.,” the voice said in a calmer tone.

“Damn it, give me a little more notice next time,” Web shot back, and then wondered if the guy could even hear him. He also wondered how they had managed to plant a communications device in his car without anyone seeing them. Web pointed the car north to D.C. He took deep breaths to calm himself. Right now he wished to never again hear another voice without a face to go with it.

“Keep going,” the voice said. “I’ll tell you where to turn.”

Well, so much for what one wished for. It wasn’t Squeaky Voice. Maybe this was Big F. It seemed to be a Big F voice, thought Web, for it was deep, blunt, threatening. Figured.

Web was very familiar with the area he was now in. The low-down on this stretch of lonely, woods-bracketed highway was that if one’s car broke down, it would not be there when the owner came back for it. And if the owner stayed with his broken-down car, he wouldn’t be coming back either. The boys that hunted here were the AAA of felony. Also down this way was St. Elizabeth’s, the mental hospital for celebrity maniacs like John Hinckley and for those who kept trying to go over the fence at the White House, among many others.

The voice said, “Take the next exit. Turn left at the light, go one-point-one miles and take a right.”

“Should I be writing this down or can you fax it to me?” asked Web, because he just felt like it.

“Shut the hell up!”

Well, at least they could hear him. And see him. He looked in his rearview mirror, but there were quite a few headlights back there. And yet if there was one thing Web couldn’t stand, it was a criminal who lacked a good sense of humor. He slipped that one away in his payback file. He followed the directions and soon was smack in the middle of the death zones of Northeast and Southeast D.C. that bordered the Anacostia River and where over a thousand people had been murdered in the last seven years. By comparison, across the river and seemingly several universes away the affluent Northwest area had suffered a little over twenty homicides in the same time span. However, there was some sense of perverse balance because the Northwest quadrant had far more larcenies and thefts committed, for a very simple reason: the poor rarely had things criminals wanted to steal while the wealthy, of course, had an abundance of them. The Frederick Douglas National Historical Site was along where Web was traveling, and Web figured that the Martin Luther King, Jr., of his time would not be at all pleased with how things had turned out.

Web was given another set of directions and soon was pulling down a dirt road winding between nothing but trees and dense foliage. Web had been around here before. It was a favorite dumping ground for those in the more violent stretches of the city who didn’t like to mess up their neighborhoods with body parts. HRT had done a couple of ops down here, in fact. One had gone textbook, without one shot fired. The other had left three men dead. All bad guys who just couldn’t accept the fact that they were so outclassed and thus had stupidly pulled guns instead of putting up their hands. Maybe they thought there would be warning shots fired. Well, there was no chapter in the HRT manual on warning shots. Whenever Web had pulled his trigger, somebody ended up dead.

“Stop the car,” said the voice, “and get out. Lay your gun on the front seat.”

“How do you know I have a gun?”

“If you don’t, you got horseshit for brains.”

“And if I give my gun up, what exactly do I have for brains?”

“If you don’t, you ain’t gonna have no brains left.”

Web placed the pistol on the front seat and slowly got out of the car and looked around. He saw nothing except trees and a moonless sky. He could smell the river water, and it was hardly comforting. The few movements he heard were assuredly not Big F–like, most likely squirrels, foxes or minor-grade criminals trolling for their supper. Right now the only thing Web wished he had done was stash Romano in the trunk. Well, now you think of that.

He stiffened slightly when he heard them coming. As they appeared from the cover of trees, Web could make out three large men in a row. They were all taller than Web, and they all had some serious hardware pointed at him. Web wasn’t really focusing on them, though, for the far larger man was right behind them. Web had felt sure he was going to see the giant tonight, and yet the sight of Big F was still a little unnerving. He had on different clothes, but the same Club Med style. The shirt, though, wasn’t open this time. All of Web’s wounds inflicted by the giant criminal seemed to tingle in the man’s presence as though some chemical interaction had just been triggered. Next to Big F was a white guy, which surprised Web until he recognized Clyde Macy in the flesh. He resembled a skeleton more in person than he did in the photo. Web recalled his talk with Bates when they had speculated who Cove’s inside person might be. Macy? Peebles? Macy didn’t look like a snitch, but who really knew? As Web kept his gaze on the man, he noted that the suit Macy wore and the ear radio made him look like Secret Service. Maybe he’d had aspirations to join the Service once, until he realized he liked killing people more. Peebles was nowhere in sight. The new breed of criminal entrepreneurs apparently didn’t like to get their finger-nails dirty.

The three underlings circled Web while Big F stood there and watched. Macy hung off to the side. He looked alert and relaxed at the same time. But it was easy to tell the man took his work very seriously. To Web, the other men looked a little bored, as though they were the varsity called in to scrimmage with the JV. Well, that was a real confidence booster. One man drew a short object from his coat pocket that looked like a microphone. He ran it up and down Web’s body while another man checked Web for additional weapons. He found none but did confiscate Web’s cell phone. Another of the men, with what Web knew now was an electronic wand designed to ferret out nosey surveillance devices, did the once-over on Web’s car. The wand only sounded once, near the rear seat, but the man seemed unconcerned by this. He turned and nodded at Big F. Web understood this silent exchange: The man had detected the electronic device they had planted in Web’s car. The men stepped back and Big F came forward and leaned his bulk on the hood of Web’s car. Web thought he could hear the car groaning, and who could blame it?

“How’s the face?”

The man’s voice was neither squeaky high nor brutally deep. It was middle-of-the-road, calm, nonthreatening. It wasn’t the faceless voice inside Web’s car. Web could be talking to his stockbroker—if he had a stockbroker, that is.

“Only thing hurt was my pride. I take it you’re Big F.”

The man smiled at that and then slapped his thigh. To Web it sounded like the ominous smack of thunder. Everything this guy did was big. The other men laughed too, obviously cueing off their boss.

“Shit. Big F. Damn right I’m Big F. That’s good. Ain’t that good, boys?”

They all nodded and said it was good. Damn good. Macy didn’t even crack a smile. He just stood there and stared at Web like he was trying to will him to die.

“Because if there was somebody bigger than you coming down the pike, then I don’t think I want to make his acquaintance.” Web knew it was always good to get on the bad guy’s good side, show you weren’t afraid. Violent criminals just loved fear. And they just loved to cut the throats of fearful people.

Big F laughed again. Yet when he stopped and looked serious, so did everybody else. Instantly, Web noted.

“I got me a problem.”

“I’m here to help.” Web eased forward just a notch. Now he could take out two of the guys with kicks. Big F was something else altogether, sort of like punching Mount Rushmore, but you went with the point of least resistance first.

“Somebody’s setting me up to take a fall for something I ain’t done.”

“You know what happened to my team?”

“I don’t need that shit, you understand me?” He stood, towering over them all, and the look in his eyes made Web’s heart race. “How old you think I am?”

Web gave him the once-over. “Twenty-two.”

“Thirty-two,” Big F said proudly. “Now, that in black years.” He turned to Macy. “What that be in tidy whitey time?”

“A hundred and twenty,” said Macy in a learned tone, as though he were the Ph.D. of this illustrious group.

Big F looked back at Web. “I’m a hundred and twenty. I’m an old man in a young man’s bizness. I don’t need this shit. You go tell your crew that. Don’t come hunting my ass down, ’cause I ain’t done it.”

Web nodded. “Then I need to know whose business it is. Without that, I can guarantee you squat.”

Big F eased himself back down on the car and slid out a Beretta nine-millimeter, with a muzzle suppressor attached, Web noted. Things were definitely not looking good.

“Messengers a dime a dozen,” said Big F, eyeing Web calmly. “It’ll mean a lot more coming from me. I’ve got a lot invested in this one.” Web took one tiny step forward as he pretended to be merely shifting his weight. Now he could tag Big F with a spin kick right on the cerebellum. If the man could shake that off, then crown him king of the world. “And maybe you figure you owe me one for saving Kevin. Him being your little brother and all.”

“He ain’t my brother.”

Web tried hard not to show his surprise. “Is that right?”

“He my son.” Big F rubbed his nose, coughed and then spit. “Course, we got the same mama.”

Web started for a moment and then looked at the other men. They obviously already knew this and seemed to accept it as mainstream, at least their version of mainstream. Yet why shouldn’t they? Web thought. What was a little incest among family? You couldn’t exactly do it with strangers. Grandma had said Kevin was a little slow. Well, with that twisted family tree, Web could see why.

“Well, I hope Kevin’s okay,” said Web.

“The boy’s got nothing to do with you,” Big F said sharply.

Okay, thought Web, so Kevin did mean something to the man. That was valuable intelligence. “Who took out my team? Tell me, and we go our separate ways. No hard feelings.”

“Ain’t that easy.”

“Sure it is,” Web prompted. “Names. That’s all I want.”

Big F studied his pistol. “You know what my biggest problem is?” Web eyed the Beretta and wondered if he was Big F’s biggest problem. He prepared to launch himself.

“Economy’s too hot. I can’t keep good people.” He looked over at his men. “Toona-man, front and center.”

Web watched as one of the men stepped forward. He was six-foot-four and broad-shouldered and wore what looked to Web to be a very expensive suit and enough gold and silver on his neck, wrists and fingers to start his own precious metals exchange.

“You think you can take this little dude with just your hands, Toona?”

Toona smirked. “Ain’t be needing both hands for that boy.”

“Don’t know ’bout that,” said Big F. “Way this boy kicked me, I felt that shit. Well, if you think you can, lay your gun down and get to it.”

Toona slipped his gun out of his waistband and placed it on the ground. He was at least fifteen years younger than Web and much larger. And yet he moved so gracefully that Web was certain the man was as nimble as he was strong. And when Toona assumed a classic martial arts stance, Web knew he was in for something serious, and he hadn’t even recovered from last night.

Web held up his hand. “Look, we don’t have to do this. You think you can kick my ass, I think I can kick yours. Let’s just call it a draw.”

Big F shook his head. “Uh-uh, little dude. Either fight or take the bullet.”

Web stared at the man and his gun, sighed, then put up his fists.

The two men circled each other for a few moments. Web sized his opponent up and saw few weaknesses, yet he did see something else that might be helpful. He tried a kick and Toona easily caught Web’s leg and held on to it for a moment before twisting the limb and throwing Web down. Web quickly rose and took a side kick on the forearm. It stung like hell, but better his arm than his head. The two feinted and parried a few times more before Toona caught Web with a flying spinner and he went down again, but he bounced right back up.

“Is that all the shit you got, Toona?” taunted Web. “Man, you got me by fifty pounds and fifteen years. If I was you, your ass would be out for the count by now.”

Toona dropped his smirk and hit Web with an old-fashioned right jab but ate a hard left cross to the head in return. Toona didn’t seem to like his face getting marked, something Web was quick to pick up on.

“Hey, Toona, a screwed-up face isn’t the end of the world. With no ladies eating up your paycheck, you can probably really put some bucks away for retirement.”

“You going down, man,” said Toona. “And you staying down.” “Not from some pussy like you, I’m not.”

An enraged Toona lunged at Web and caught him with a sharp punch right to the kidney. Web almost went down from the blow, but he wrapped his arms around Toona’s middle and started to squeeze. Toona hit him with two more shots to the head, but Web held on. Like a constrictor, each time Toona took a breath, Web would squeeze a little bit more, not letting the man’s diaphragm return to its original position.

More head shots and more squeezes and Web could start to feel the bigger man wavering, his gasps of breath so pleasant to hear. And then Web loosened his grip just a little, and it was enough for Toona to get his own clench on Web, which was what Web had intended. The two men swung each other around, panting heavily, their rivulets of sweat meeting each time their bodies did.

Toona tried to throw Web off, but Web held on, because he had other plans. Finally, Toona swung Web around and Web’s grip was broken and he went sprawling. Actually, he did a controlled forward roll, grabbed Toona’s pistol where he had left it on the ground, came upright, lunged forward, put a neck lock on the stunned Toona and placed the gun to his head, all in a blur of motion.

“You have to get yourself some better security,” Web said to Big F. “Ain’t that right, Toona?”

Big F raised his pistol and fired. His shot hit Toona dead center in the forehead. The man dropped and died without making one sound. Most gunshots to the head had that effect, Web knew, the ability of the victim to speak gone before the brain could dial up the scream. Bullets and flesh were like ex-wives. They just never mixed that well.

Web stared as Big F casually slipped the gun back in his waistband as though he had just disposed of an irksome mole in a vegetable garden. Big F’s men looked as stunned as Web. Toona’s demise had obviously been on only Big F’s agenda. Macy, however, just stood there, his gun trained on Web; the sudden violent death of a colleague didn’t seem to interest him at all. He was all cool and professional, standing there in a classic Weaver firing stance, his gaze riveted on the gun in Web’s hand. Web wondered where the guy had received his training. Probably some paramilitary outfit staffed by ex-good-guys who, for some reason or other, had slid to the dark side.

With his hostage gone and multiple guns pointing at him, Web dropped the pistol.

“Good help,” said Big F to Web, “I can’t find it. I give my crew cash, clothes, cars and bitches. Show ’em the ropes, teach ’em the bizness, ’cause I ain’t be doing this shit all my life. Cash in my chips, lose myself till I kick living. And you think that makes ’em loyal? Shit, no. They just keep biting the hand that feeds ’em. Toona making his own action on the side and think I ain’t know it. Skimming dollars and dope off all the time. And he thinking I stupid and don’t check that shit. But that ain’t the dumbest thing he done. Dumbest thing the boy done is he be using the products. You put that shit in you, you talk to anybody ’bout anything. He be high on that shit and he be mouthing off to a whole crew a DEA and his ass not even know it. Sell us all down the river. Well, I ain’t going down no river. I ain’t being no drug kingpin working my bizness from the inside with no chance in hell of ever getting on the outside again. Uh-uh. No way, baby. No way. That ain’t how it ending for me. I eat me some bullets before I go to mighty whitey’s house.”

He glanced sharply at his men. “You just gonna leave Toona there or what? Show some damn respect for the dead.”

“What the hell you want us to do with him?” said one of them, his arms spread wide, his features angry, though Web easily sensed the fear he held for his boss. Web was certain Big F could smell that fear too. He no doubt counted on it in running his “bizness.” If he wanted to teach his people loyalty, they had one very compelling reason lying right there in a growing red pond. And taking out Toona had probably been meant as a warning to Web too. Well, he felt incredibly warned.

Big F shook his head in obvious disgust. “I got to tell you every damn thing to do like you a little baby or something? I smell me water and so can you. Throw his ass in the river. And tie something to it, so it ain’t come up!”

The men gingerly picked up their fallen comrade, bitching the whole time about getting blood and other Toona bits on their fine Versace. Macy stood in exactly the same spot. Apparently, Web thought, he was inner circle and thus was allowed to stay for extra innings.

When the others had disappeared down the trail, Big F eyed Web. “See what I mean ’bout good help? Can’t get none. Everybody wants to get rich overnight. Nobody wants to work for a damn thing no more. Start at the top. They all wanta start at the top. I started at eight years old running dollar bags of white rock. Worked my ass off for over twenty years and these brothers today be thinking they deserve every dime I got ’cause they be doing this shit for a coupla months. New economy, my ass!”

If Big F had been sitting in a maximum-security prison cell wearing Hannibal Lecter ready-to-wear and Web was safely on the other side of the bars, Web might have started laughing his guts out at this capitalistic tirade. Yet right now all he was wondering was when Big F would finally focus on the fact that Web was an eyewitness to murder.

“Now, Toona, he must’ve killed five or six people. So I just saved you the trouble of frying his ass. Ain’t gotta thank me.”

Web didn’t. In fact, he said nothing. He probably could have made some smart remark, but witnessing the cold-blooded murder of another human being, no matter how much he might have deserved it, was not a great lead-in to humor for Web.

“I guess everybody got trouble.” Big F wiped at one of his eyes. “But the Lord done showered me with some extra helpings. I got me family coming out my ass and every one of them looking for cash. Got me a ninety-year-old great-aunt I ain’t even know I had coming round talking like this.” His voice rose higher. “‘Now, Francis, can’t you take care of my eyes? Got me the cataracts, honey, can’t see to play the Bingo no mo’. Do something about it for me, will you, honey? Used to bounce you on my knee. Used to change your shitty diaper.’ And I peel off some cash and there you go. And she back a week later ’bout her damn cat what got female problems.” He looked at Web incredulously. “A fucking cat with female problems. ‘And it only be a thousand dollars, Francis,’ she says, ‘that all it be, honey, and remember I wiped your shitty diaper while your mama was down the river or else shooting herself up with that little needle of hers.’ And you know what I do? I peel off ten hundreds and give it to her and her cat.”

“The F stands for Francis?”

Big F grinned. And it seemed to Web that he saw for the first time signs of little Kevin in this hulking, murderous adult.

“Yeah, what’d you think it stood for?”

Web shook his head. “No clue.”

Big F took out a small box, unwrapped a pill and put it in his mouth. He offered one to Web, who declined.

“Tagamet, Pepcid AC, Zantac,” said Big F. “I eat ’em like peanuts. Had me an upper GI done. Damn belly looks like a mole’s been through it. This shit’s getting to me, ain’t no lie.”

“So why don’t you retire?”

“Easy to say, not so easy to do. Ain’t like they give me a going-away lunch and a gold watch in my line a work.”

“Sorry to tell you, but the cops never stop looking.”

“The cops I can deal with. It’s some folks in the bizness what giving me the pain in the ass. They think if you want to quit working you gonna rat ’em out. They can’t understand why’d you walk away from a life like mine. Money out the ass, ’cept you got to keep hiding it, and you got to keep moving around, and you’re still always wondering when somebody, like maybe your bitch or your brother or your cat-loving great-aunt, is gonna put a hole in your head while you sleeping.” He grinned. “Now, don’t you worry ’bout me. I be fine.” He popped another pill and then closely eyed Web. “You one of them guys from HRT?”

“I am.”

“I hear you dudes are some serious shit. When you hit me the other night, boy, that hurt. That’s rare, little man, let me tell you, that’s rare. You guys must be some bad shit.”

“We’re actually really lovable when you get to know us.”

Big F didn’t crack a smile at Web’s remark. “So how come you ain’t dead?”

“Guardian angel.”

Now Big F smiled broadly. “Right, that’s good shit. Tell me where I can get me one.”

Big F shifted his bulk along with the direction of the conversation. “You want to know how them guns got in that building?”

Web stiffened. “You willing to testify to it?”

“Yeah. I come on down to the courthouse. You go on ahead and wait for me.”

“Okay, how’d they get the guns in there?”

“You know how old them buildings are?”

Web’s eyes narrowed. “Old? No. Why?”

“The 1950s. I ain’t old ’nough to remember, but my mama was. She told me.”

“Was?”

“Too much coke. Not the soda pop. Yeah, 1950s. Think, HRT. Think.”

“I’m not getting it.”

He shook his head and looked over at Macy and then back at Web. “I thought you damn Feds all went to college.”

“Some colleges are better than others.”

“If you can’t fly the shit in through the roof and you can’t take it in the front door, what you got left?”

Web thought for a moment before it hit him. “Under. The 1950s. Cold War. Underground bomb shelters. Tunnels?”

“Damn, you smart after all. There you go.”

“That’s still not much to go on.”

“That’s your problem. I gave you something, now you tell your folks to back off my ass. I ain’t got no reason in the world to waste a buncha Feds. You go back and make sure they understand that.” He paused and rubbed some pine needles with his huge foot, and then he looked directly at Web. “You guys ain’t playing games on me and got Kevin but ain’t saying, are you?”

Web considered how best to answer that. Ironically, given his present company, he decided that the truth was the best approach. “We don’t have Kevin.”

“See, local cops I don’t trust as far as I can throw ’em. Too many brothers end up dead when the local cops get to ’em. Now, Feds ain’t worth too much in my book neither, but you guys ain’t killing people for no reason.”

“Thanks.”

“So other things being equal, see, if you guys got Kevin, then I know he be all right. And maybe you boys just hold on to him for a while till this shit blows over.”

The way the man was half looking at him, Web could tell Big F really wanted Kevin to be in the custody of the FBI, where he would be reasonably safe.

“I wish we did have him, but we don’t. I’m playing it straight with you.” Then he added, “But I think Kevin might have been involved somehow.”

“Bullshit,” roared Big F. “He a kid. He ain’t done nothing. He ain’t going to no jail, no way is he. Not Kevin.”

“I didn’t say he knew what he was doing. You’re right: He’s just a kid, a scared kid. But whoever took him is behind what happened. At least that’s what I think. I don’t know why Kevin was in that alley, but his being there wasn’t a coincidence. I want him just as bad as you do. And I want him safe too. I saved him once in that alley, I don’t want it to be for naught.”

“Right, so he can testify and then spend the rest of his life in witness protection. Some life.”

“At least it’s a life,” Web shot back.

Big F and he had a prolonged stare-down until the big man finally looked away.

“I’m going to do everything I can to get Kevin back safe and sound, Francis. I promise you that. But if he knows something, he’s going to have to tell us. We’ll protect him.”

“Yeah, sure you will. Done a real good job of that so far, ain’t you?”

They heard the other men returning. “A name would be nice to go with the tunnels,” said Web, but Big F was already shaking his head.

“Ain’t got none to give.”

When the two men came into sight, Big F motioned to one of them. “Make sure the two-way in the car ain’t working.”

The man nodded, slid into the front seat of Web’s car and fired two bullets into the government-issued radio and then ripped out the hand-held microphone. He also popped the ammo clip out of Web’s gun, fired the round that was chambered into the dirt and handed it back to him. The other man pulled out Web’s cell phone from his pocket, ceremoniously smashed it against a tree and then handed it back to Web with a broad smile. “Ain’t making ’em like they used to.”

“We got to be going now,” said Big F. “And in case you thinking ’bout coming after my ass for pulling the trigger on Toona, think ’bout this.” He paused and stared grimly at Web. “Anytime I want you dead, you dead. Anytime I want any of your friends dead, they dead. You got a pet and I want it dead, it dead.”

Web eyed the man steadily. “You don’t want to go down that road, Francis. You really don’t.”

“What? You gonna kick my ass? You gonna hurt me bad? You gonna kill me?” He unbuttoned his shirt and stepped closer to Web. Web had seen a lot in his line of work, yet he had never seen anything quite like this.

The man’s chest and belly were covered with knife wounds, bullets holes, thick, angry-looking scars, burn marks and what looked to be tunnels of ripped flesh badly healed. To Web it seemed a painting collectively produced by an insane world.

“One hundred and twenty in nice little tidy-whitey years,” Big F said quietly. He closed the shirt and his face held, to Web’s thinking, a look of obvious pride at surviving all that those scars represented. And right now, Web couldn’t deny the man that.

Big F said, “You come after me, you better bring something to do the job right. And I’ll still cut off your dick and stuff it down your throat.”

Big F turned away and it was all Web could do not to leap on the man’s back. Now was not Web’s time to settle this, yet he couldn’t just leave it like this.

He called after Big F. “So I guess you’re grooming Kevin to inherit your empire. Your brother-son. I’m sure he’s real proud of you.”

Big F turned back. “I said Kevin’s not your bizness.”

“We shared a lot back in that alley. He told me lots of stuff.” It was all a bluff, but a calculated one, if Web was reading the signals right. Whoever had switched Kevin out might be Big F’s enemy. If that was the case, then playing one against the other might not be such a bad idea. Web was thinking that Big F was not above lying about not being involved, but that didn’t mean the street capitalist hadn’t done a joint venture with somebody else to knock off Charlie Team. If so, Web wanted everybody. Everybody.

Big F walked up to Web and looked him over, as though gauging either his guts or his stupidity.

“If you want Kevin back, I expect some cooperation,” said Web. He hadn’t mentioned what Big F had told him. He figured Big F wanted to keep the information about the tunnels under the target building between him and Web, which was why Big F had sent the two men off to give Toona a burial in the river.

“Expect this,” said Big F.

Web managed to partially block the blow with his forearm, but the impact of Big F’s bowling-ball fist and his own arm against his jaw still knocked him on top of the hood of the car, where his head smacked against the windshield, cracking it.

Web woke up a half hour later, slowly slid off the car hood and staggered around holding his arm and rubbing his jaw and head and cursing. Calming down, he discovered that his jaw, arm and head did not appear broken and he wondered how that was possible. He also wondered how many more concussions he could endure before his brain fell out of his head.

And then Web whirled and pointed his gun at the man who had just emerged from behind a stand of trees. The man was pointing his own gun at Web.

“Nice try,” said the man, “but your gun doesn’t have any bullets.” He stepped forward and Web got a better look at him.

“Cove?”

Randall Cove put his gun away and leaned up against the car. He said, “That dude is one seriously dangerous person. Him blowing away his own guy like that, that was a new one even for me.” He looked at Web’s face. “You’re gonna have some good bruises tomorrow, but it’s better than a visit with the coroner.”

Web put his empty gun away and rubbed the back of his head. “I take it you had a ringside seat. Thanks for the assist.”

Cove looked at him grimly. “Look, man, I’m a fellow agent, under-cover or not. Carry the same creds, took the same oath, work through the same bullshit you do at the Bureau. If they’d tried to take you out, you would have known my presence. But they didn’t and so I didn’t. If it makes you feel any better, while you were unconscious, I shooed away some brothers who came sniffing around your carcass.”

“Thanks, because I’m not done with this carcass yet.”

“We need to talk, but not here. Some of Big F’s boys might still be hanging around. And this place ain’t safe, not even for armed lawmen.”

Web looked around. “Where, then? They knocked your old office down.”

Cove smiled. “You been talking to Sonny, I know. I guess if old Sonny Venables thinks you’re all right, you’re all right. Boy’s got a nose for bad meat like the best hound dog I ever had me in Mississippi.”

“There’s a lot of shit going on. You been in touch with Bates lately?”

“We talk, but neither one of us is telling the other everything, and that’s cool. I know where Perce is coming from and he knows where I’m standing.” He handed Web a slip of paper. “Meet me here in thirty minutes.”

Web looked at his watch. “I’m on special assignment. I’ve got to get back.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t take long. Oh, one more thing.” He climbed inside Web’s car and searched for a few moments before coming back out holding something.

“Satellite-based tracking device. Good as the stuff we use,” said Cove.

“They’ve got a satellite,” said Web. “That’s comforting.”

“It’s got a wireless communicator too.”

So Web had been correct in deducing how they had relayed the directions to him after crossing over the Wilson Bridge.

Cove switched the device off and pocketed it. “Evidence is evidence. Surprised they didn’t take it,” he added before disappearing into the woods.

Sufficiently recovered to keep both eyes open at the same time and seeing only double instead of in gauzy triplicate, Web put the car in gear and headed out. He met Cove at the Mall downtown, at a bench near the Smithsonian Castle. When Web sat down there, he heard a voice but didn’t react. All that had been on the paper. Web reasoned that Cove was behind a set of bushes near the bench.

“So Bates said he filled you in on me.”

“He did. I’m sorry what happened to your family.”

“Yeah,” was all Cove said to that.

“I found the news clipping at your house, about you and Bates.”

“You are good. That hiding place has worked for years.”

“Why hide it?”

“Red herring. Somebody searching your house, it gives them something to find that really means nothing. Anything really important I keep in my head.”

“So the clipping was just a dodge? Nothing important?”

Cove didn’t respond, so Web said, “Bates said you were on the butts of some big-time dealers, that they might have set up my team.”

“That’s right. But this story is a long way from over. And I heard Westbrook tell you about the tunnels. I never figured that one. Good way to get the computers out and the guns in.”

“I’m going to fill in Bates on that one ASAP and we’ll go take a look. You want in?”

Cove didn’t answer and it took a second for Web to figure out why. Across the street a man was walking by. He was dressed like a homeless person, was staggering slightly as though he were drunk and he could very well have been both. However, Web couldn’t take any chances and obviously neither could Cove. Web reached for his gun and realized again that it was empty. He had a spare mag in the trunk of the car, but that was parked a good hundred feet away and he had forgotten to get the ammo out, idiot that he was. As though in answer to his thoughts, Web felt something slide next to him through the back support of the bench. He gripped the pistol that Cove had just handed him, whispered a thank-you and sat there, the gun held at his side, its muzzle following each move of the man across the street until he moved off.

“You just never know what riffraff’s going to come on by,” Cove said.

“Bates said that you might have been working through one of Westbrook’s guys, maybe Peebles or Macy, and that they might’ve set you up.”

“Macy and Peebles weren’t my inside connection. I think my guy was dealing straight with me, at least mostly, but I think he was set up.”

“So if the guy was shooting straight with you, any chance we can use him to get to the truth?”

“Not anymore.”

“How come?”

“Because my inside guy was Toona.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Big F’s guys skim all the time. That was just bullshit he was feeding you. He killed Toona for the ultimate sin, working with the cops.”

“Did Toona think there were others involved besides Westbrook?”

“Toona was basically muscle, but he had some brains. I’ve been working with him for about six months. We nailed him on some small stuff, but he’d already done four years in prison early on in his career and didn’t want to do any more. He told me about this new group coming in that was handling some of the local crew’s distribution and even cleaning up their dirty money through some legit operations. The service didn’t come cheap, but most of the crews apparently signed on—except Westbrook. He doesn’t trust anybody that much. But even drug crews get tired of shooting each other up. And consolidation of operations and cost-cutting works just as well in illegal businesses as it does legitimate ones. I’d been digging deep on this group but couldn’t crack it. My undercover identity was as a point man for a drug crew looking to relocate from Arizona to rural Virginia. We’d heard about this group and I got myself invited to look over their operation. At first I thought it was connected to Westbrook’s piece. But when I saw what was there, I knew it was big-time stuff.”

“Bates mentioned the Oxycontin piece.”

“That’s what makes this one special. I think the product this group was principally supplying the locals with were prescription drugs like Oxy, Percocet and the like. Low risk and huge profit margins. Now, Toona wasn’t in the ops side of the business, but he seemed to think that too. It’d be a whole new paradigm in the District’s drug trade. And this new group wasn’t stopping at D.C. I believe they’re moving the stuff up and down the East Coast.”

“Oxy started out rural.”

“Yeah, you heard of Rocky Mountain high? Well this is Appalachian high. But the Appalachian Mountains touch on about twenty states, from Alabama all the way up to the Canadian border. And there’s lots of room there to carve out a new homegrown drug empire on the backs of legitimate drugs. That’s why I called in WFO as soon as I realized the operation in that warehouse was a lot bigger than Westbrook. Now, I could have kept digging and maybe got some more stuff, but I ran the risk of them pulling out. I figured if we could get the bean counters to testify, we could bring this whole Oxy crew down. Man, I look back at it now, and you know what I think?”

“That it was too good to be true?”

“You got it.” Cove stopped talking for a moment. “Look, Web, I’m sorry what happened to your guys. I never in a million years smelled the setup. But I’ll take the responsibility because it was my screwup. And I’ll sacrifice everything I got left, even my life, to make it right.”

“What you do for a living, I never could. I don’t know how you guys do it.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you. Now you go to those tunnels and figure out how they got that stuff in and out. And maybe you’ll see something that’ll tell you who. And I’m not thinking that it’s Westbrook. There’s somebody else out there, having a nice laugh at our expense.”

“You got any firmer thoughts on that?”

“I’m still feeling my way. Whoever it is, they are wired in tight somewhere important, because they seem to be able to keep one step ahead of everybody.”

“Wired tight to who, somebody at the Bureau?”

“You said it, I didn’t.”

“You got proof of that?”

“My gut. You listen to yours?”

“All the time. I take it you feel like the odd man out.”

“What, you mean everybody and their brother thinking I turned traitor and helped burn a bunch of my own? Yeah, it has occupied my thoughts of late.”

“You’re not alone there, Cove.”

“Hey, Web, we’re blood brothers in a way. Branded traitors for something we didn’t do, and some people just don’t want to hear it.”

“Is that why you’re not coming in?”

“See, the bottom line is, I got taken, snookered, suckered, whatever you want to call it. I’m no traitor, but I messed up, that’s almost as bad as jumping sides in my line of work.”

“We are blood brothers, then, because I did the same damn thing.”

“Well, maybe we’ll both be standing at the end of this dance, what do you say?”

“I say I’ll give it my best shot.”

“Keep your head down, London, these mothers shoot low.”

“Hey, Cove?”

“Yeah?”

“Apology accepted.”

Web drove to DuPont Circle. He grabbed a spare mag for his pistol from the trunk and put the gun Cove had given him in the rear of his waistband and then took a cab to the WFO. Bates had long since gone home and Web decided he would wait until morning to contact him. The guy could probably use a good night’s sleep and those tunnels weren’t going anywhere. Instead of checking out another set of Bucar wheels, Web decided to do something really crazy. He was going to go get his very own car.

The press army wasn’t parked outside his house anymore, yet Web still did not take any chances. He entered the house from the rear, slipped inside the Mach, opened the garage doors and eased the car out, its lights off. He waited until he was down the street before he turned on the lights, then he stepped on the gas, all the while looking in his rearview mirror. Nothing. He headed back to East Winds.