The Program

Chapter twelve

Fully tacked up with vests and ballistic helmets, Denley and Palton fell on Guerrera, the youngest Arrest Response Team member, pounding him with expandable batons. Guerrera, his gestures slowed by the puffy red-foam body suit, skipped back, keeping to his feet, and flipped them off Italian style, one padded hand flicking out from under his chin.

The ethnic gesticulation was no doubt for Tannino's sake. The marshal had pawned off a visiting Justice Rehnquist on his chief deputy so he could sneak some time with his beloved ART squad in the mat room in Roybal's basement. Brian Miller, the supervisory deputy, stood to the side, his drills co-opted by the marshal not for the first time.

"You useless knuckleheads," Tannino said. "Two of you can't put him on his ass?"

Guerrera slapped his chest, looking like an ornery Michelin Man. "You gringos can't step to papi chulo."

"Fuck you and the raft you floated in on," Denley said in his thick Brooklyn accent.

Guerrera busted a few "Vida Loca" dance moves in the red-man suit, eliciting whistles and jeers.

From the door Tim watched the proceedings. In his jeans and collared shirt, he felt like a parent at a high-school dance. He'd been an ART member for three years; his operational skills, honed in the Army Rangers, had won him quick admittance to the squad. His subsequent actions had won him quick ejection.

Shaking his head, Tannino returned to his conversation with Tim. "You sure you need all this shit?"

"It's the best angle so far."

"Well, a vehicle's not too much of a hassle – I'll get you a list from Asset Seizure, and you can go to the warehouse and pick something that suits your needs."

In the far corner, Maybeck – who, like Denley and Palton, was decked out in gear to simulate street conditions – fired a laser gun at a fleeing suspect projected onto a movie screen. The unit made a woeful bleeping noise, and UNJUSTIFIED SHOOTING scrolled across the screen in red letters.

Maybeck lowered the gun. "Whoops."

Aside from Bear and Guerrera, who'd offered Tim a wink from the depths of his suit, Tim's former colleagues continued to show him a studied – however warranted – indifference.

"I'll also need you to build me an ID. The basics – credit card, driver's license, Social Security card. Name of Tom Altman, common spelling."

Tannino grimaced – Tim had used the name previously when eluding the marshals last year. "How about cash?"

"Ten grand."

"Don't push your luck. I can get you five. Does the money have to walk?"

"Probably."

Tannino pressed his lips together, thinking. "Okay. It comes out of Henning, but we still gotta keep the books tidy. We'll hit up the Asset Forfeiture Fund – I'll push it through the undercover-review board at the DOJ."

"I need it by tomorrow."

"They're a panel of attorneys, Rackley. It takes them twenty-four hours just to choose chairs around the conference table." He noted the resolve in Tim's eyes. "I'll get it done. But no more hoops. Just find the girl."

Palton came at Guerrera again, and Tannino shouted, "Goddamnit, Frankie, approach with your weak side so your weapon's not exposed. Look, look. Here." Tannino stepped forward, placing his left hand on Guerrera's shoulder. He hooked his foot behind Guerrera's heel and leaned in, letting his elbow rise to clip Guerrera in the throat. Guerrera flipped off his feet, striking the mat hard with his shoulder blades.

"Get me Johnny Cochran on line two," Guerrera moaned.

Tannino helped him up, slapped him on the back, and returned to Tim. "Good stuff, Rackley. The lead."

"It might not be the right group."

"And we might all die tomorrow if Salami bin Laden's henchmen un-cork smallpox on us. I said good stuff, Rackley. Say thank you and go have a bourbon." Tannino threw up his hands. "Goddamnit, Denley, is it a takedown or a pirouette? Put some fucking balls into it!"

Tim watched them run drills a few moments longer before he retreated, the thuds of bodies pounding on neoprene following him down the corridor.