Page 59 of Heston
She’d heard! She’d answered! She knew him!
Alex could’ve roared, he felt that lighthearted. That lucky. Instead, he bowed his head and inhaled the essence that was pure Kelsey. Her unique, sweet scent. Her indomitable spirit. Her faithful soul. If anyone believed in God, she did. Alex’s doubts fled like ice in the morning sun. She’d survived other nightmares. She would survive this one. Shewascoming back to him. Theywouldgo home together. They’d cry and hug their children and—
“So tired,” she whispered.
“Then rest,” he whispered back.
Looking at the ceiling, he silently told The Man Upstairs,‘Thank you for saving my wife, Lord. Thank you so damned much. But there’s still work to be done down here, and You know it. So forgive me, Father, because I’m definitely going to sin.’
And Alex hit the call button.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“I’ve got eyes on container one,” Lee Hart reported from high in a sturdy Douglas Fir between the Jefferson Memorial and Keane’s containers. “Windows cover the entire west wall, Mark. All clear. You’re good to go.”
“Copy that,” Mark replied.
For now, Heston was concealed with Murphy behind a hedge on East Basin Drive Southwest, across from the site of Keane’s containers.
Another all-clear came from Renner Graves, the sniper watching container two from somewhere just as inconspicuous as Lee’s fir tree. “Murphy and Roy, only bogey in sight is Keane. Keep your heads on swivels. He’s armed. Two pistols, both holstered under his sports jacket.”
“Copy that,” Murphy answered.
From Tripp McClane came a raspy, “Stay put, Heston. Eric. The two Chevy Suburbans parked at the rear of container three are moving. Four big guys in one, a skinny guy driving the other. Two men just exited container three. Crap, they’re carrying a body bag. One’s Obermeyer and—sorry, can’t make out the other guy’s face. His ballcap’s pulled down real low and his collar’s turned up. He’s the only one in a suit jacket, dress slacks, and fancy shoes, if that helps.”
“He’s wearing a suit?” Heston hissed.
“Whoever he is, he knows we’re here,” Murphy added.
“Get a picture, Tripp. Shoot it to Mother,” Mark ordered.
“Done,” Tripp answered. “Sorry, Hes, know you don’t want to hear this, but Obermeyer and his buddy tossed the bag into the lone guy’s SUV. They’re getting in with him.”
Within an hour after meeting with Alex, The TEAM had converged on the green space east of the Jefferson Monument, with permission from Tucker Chase and President Adams. Before they’d arrived, the Metro Police Department had swept in and evacuated the farmer’s market, as well as cordoned off all streets nearest Keane’s containers. To avoid panic and the usual gaggle of looky-loos wanting selfies, Metro PD claimed someone had reported a gas leak. That the area wasn’t safe. They’d further substantiated the lie by bringing a dozen or so utility vans with them, vans that concealed SWAT teams. FBI Director Tucker Chase and his team were somewhere in the area as well. Heston hadn’t spotted them yet.
The TEAM had worked closely with MPD for some time. While DC’s officers were known for their professionalism, as well as for tackling impossible missions, it was TEAM agents who voluntarily policed the poorer hangouts of the District, where homeless vets, vagrants, and other down-and-outers congregated. It was Alex’s men and women who sought out the sick and handicapped, stood overwatch throughout the District for people in trouble. They’d infiltrated the rougher neighborhoods of Anacostia, formed friendships that weakened gang influence and affiliations, protected at-risk teens, assisted single-parent families, and passed out food to the homeless on a daily basis. The TEAM had become the arms and legs of the District’s police department and that synergy worked. Alex had put Tripp McClane in charge of the TEAM/MPD effort. Looked like he had some diplomatic talent after all.
“Both SUVs are pulling out, people,” Tripp reported. “Turning left onto East Basin Drive Southwest.”
“Fuck!” Heston bellowed. “I need a gawddamned car!”
As if it’d been waiting for him to lose his cool, a sleek black Porsche rolled alongside. Damned if the passenger windowdidn’t roll down as Zack Lennox yelled, “Get your ass in here, Contreras! Move it!”
Eric slapped his back, “Good luck, Hes.”
Heston didn’t answer, just jogged to the Porsche, threw himself into the passenger seat, and ordered, “Go, go, go!”
The moment Obermeyer’s Suburbans passed the Porsche on East Basin Drive Southwest, Zack shot into the far-left lane and followed, leaving four civilian vehicles between them.
“Shit,” Heston fumed. “We’re too late. We should’ve been here sooner.”
Chatter between the teams breaching containers one and two disintegrated into the unmistakable pops of flashbangs and a hurried, “Go, go, go!” order from Mark to his team.
“No one in container three so far,” Cassidy Dancer reported evenly. “But we’ve only cleared one room and it’s not very big. Eric, you find anything?”
“Not yet. Advancing to rear exit—Gun! Shooter!”
Gunfire erupted over the tiny earpieces. Zack cocked his head, a finger to his ear as he listened.
