Last Man Standing (59 page)

T
wo cars behind Web’s Mach, Francis Westbrook drove the Lincoln Navigator himself. Without product to sell, a large part of
his crew had already jumped ship. Folks didn’t let the grass grow under their feet in the drug trade, and the grass always
seemed to be greener someplace else. Of course, when you got to the new place, it was just the same old crap. You lived and
died by your wits and the stupid did not survive for very long, yet for every dealer that was killed, a dozen were ready to
take his place; the lure of the drug business was strong despite its high mortality rate, because people in Francis Westbrook’s
world weren’t exactly loaded down with options. Forget the social scientists with their little charts and graphs, Westbrook
could vividly teach the mother of all courses on that subject.

He shook his head as his thoughts returned to his dilemma. Peebles was nowhere to be found, and even the once-loyal Macy had
disappeared. The men he had left were not ones Westbrook really trusted, thus he had gone it alone on this mission. He had
been watching Jerome’s place in the hopes that Kevin might come wandering up. Instead he had gotten a nice prize in the interim.
HRT London and the woman. She was the shrink, he at least had learned that before his men deserted him. He steered with his
fingertip, his right hand on the grip of the pistol lying on the front seat. He had watched London and the woman go in and
then come out with Jerome. The lady had been carrying Kevin’s sketchbooks, and Francis wondered why. Did the books have a
clue to the boy’s whereabouts? He had personally searched this city high and low looking for his son, threatened people, broken
bones and overinflated egos in the process, shelled out thousands in cash for snitch work, and with all that, nothing. The
Feds sure as hell didn’t have him; they weren’t playing games with him, perhaps trying to get Kevin to testify against the
father, of that he was sure. Francis had been real careful on that; Kevin knew nothing about what his old man did, at least
not the sort of details that were required on the witness stand. But if he did, Francis would just bite the bullet and take
the fall. Above all, he had to do what was best for Kevin. In many ways he had already led a full, rich life, about as much
as someone like him could reasonably expect. But Kevin had a lot more living to do. London was a smart guy. Francis’s plan
was to follow him and see where that took him. Where he hoped it took him, of course, was to Kevin.

W
eb drove Claire home, where she packed some clothes and other things, and then he took her to her car and followed her to
a hotel, where she checked in. After they’d promised each other to keep in touch with fresh developments, Web rushed back
to East Winds.

Romano was at the carriage house. “The Canfields are in the house. I don’t know what happened, but something’s shook them
up. White as sheets, both of them.”

“I know what did it, Paulie,” and Web explained about the videotape.

“You know there was nothing you could do, Web. I’m just pissed I was overseas at the time, I would’ve loved to hit those guys.”
He snapped his fingers. “Oh, before I forget, Ann Lyle called and said she really needed to talk to you.”

“How come she didn’t call me directly?”

“I talked to her a couple of days ago. Just checking in. I gave her the phone number here, just in case we needed a hard-line
contact.”

Web pulled out his phone, and while he was dialing Ann he asked Romano, “So, how’d Billy like your ’Vette?”

“Sweet, man, sweet. Said he had an opportunity to buy one a couple of years ago for—are you ready for this?—for fifty thousand
dollars. Fifty big ones.”

“Better not let Angie find out about that. I see four wheels and a ragtop becoming new furniture and college accounts.”

Romano paled. “Shit, I never thought of that. You gotta swear you won’t tell her, Web. You gotta swear.”

“Hold on, Paulie.” Web spoke into the phone. “Ann, it’s Web, what’s up?”

Ann’s voice was very low. “There’s something going down here. That’s why I’m here so late.”

Web tensed. He knew what that meant. “An op?”

“The guys built a new target in the practice area two days ago and have been going over it like crazy. The assaulters have
been going through their equipment today seven ways from Sunday and the commander’s doors been closed all morning, and some
of the snipers have already been deployed. You know how it is, Web.”

“Yeah, I know. You have any idea what the target might be?”

Ann’s voice dropped even lower. “A tape from a surveillance camera came in a few days ago. It shows that a truck was parked
at the loading dock of an abandoned building near where the shooting occurred. The tape wasn’t at the best angle, I understand,
but I believe it shows the guns being unloaded from the truck.”

Web nearly tore the phone in half. Bates had kept this from him.

“Who was the truck registered to, Ann?”

“Silas Free. He’s one of the founders of the Free Society, Web. Pretty stupid of him to use his real name.”

Son of a bitch. They were hitting the Frees.
“How are they getting there?”

“Military aircraft from Andrews to an old Marine Corps airfield near Danville. They’re heading out at O-twelve-hundred. The
trucks have already been sent down via semi.”

“What’s the assault force?”

“Hotel, Gulf, X-Ray and Whiskey.”

“That’s it? That’s not full strength.”

“Echo, Yankee and Zulu are out of the country on VIP protection detail. There’s no Charlie Team. And on top of that, one of
the Hotel assaulters broke his leg during a training exercise and Romano’s with you on special assignment. We’re a little
thin right now.”

“I’m on my way. Don’t let the train leave without me.”

He looked at Romano. “Get the guys at the gates to collapse around the house and take over protection detail.”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s time to bang ’em and hang ’em, Paulie.”

While Romano called the perimeter guards, Web ran outside, popped the trunk of his Mach and checked what he had. The answer
was he had plenty. The life of an HRT operator required that he keep several days’ worth of clothes in his trunk along with
a variety of other items essential for when you were called out of the country for a week or a month with virtually no notice.
Web had supplemented this “normal” allotment with lots of goodies he had taken from the HRT equipment cage and the stash he
kept at home, which included a formidable arsenal. Even with his FBI creds, he’d have a tough time explaining this cache to
a state trooper on a routine traffic stop.

When Romano came back, Web said, “Bates kept it from me, the little shit. They found direct evidence tying the Frees to the
hit on Charlie, using the damn tip
I
gave him. And he wasn’t even going to invite us to the party. Probably thinks we’ll freak and pop people unnecessarily.”

“You know,” said Romano, “that really offends my sense of professionalism.”

“Well, tell your sense of professionalism to shake a leg, we don’t have much time.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” He grabbed Web’s arm. “If speed is what we need, we ain’t taking that hunk of junk.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Five minutes later the big-block ’Vette loaded down with weaponry blew through the open gates at East Winds and hit the main
strip.

It was mostly back roads down to Quantico, but Romano kept the ’Vette on seventy pretty much the whole way, going around curves
so fast Web felt himself grabbing the edge of his seat and hoping Romano didn’t notice. When they got to Interstate 95, Romano
smoothly shifted gears and popped the clutch. Web watched the speedometer swiftly move to triple digits. Romano slid in an
eight-track tape, of all things, and revved up the music. The best of Bachman-Turner Overdrive was soon shattering the night
air, because they were driving with the top down. While Romano drove, Web checked their guns. Even with the highway lights,
it was very dark, but his fingers knew every inch of the things.

He looked over at Romano, who was smiling and singing along with BTO as they were “taking care of business.” The guy was bobbing
his head like he was back in high school and banging at a Springsteen concert.

“You gotta strange way of preparing yourself for combat, Paulie.”

“What, like you and the rubbing you give your pistols for luck?” Web looked at him in surprise. “Riner told me. He thought
it was a hoot.”

“I guess nothing’s sacred,” muttered Web.

They cruised into Quantico in record time. They both knew the sentry posted at the east entrance off the Bureau Parkway, and
Romano didn’t bother to slow down.

“Triple eight, Jimbo,” he yelled out as he roared by, referring to the crisis page of three eights that told HRT members to
get the hell to Quantico.

“Go get ’em, guys!” yelled back Jimbo.

Romano parked the car; they pulled their gear and hauled it to the admin building. Romano used his security card to open the
gate, and they headed to the front door, where a video surveillance camera was watching them. In front of the entrance, six
trees had been planted in memory of the fallen members of Charlie Team. Inside, they passed Ann Lyle’s office. She came to
the door, and she and Web exchanged a glance but not more than that. Strictly from the rule book, Ann shouldn’t have called
and told Web about the assault. And he would never do anything to get her in trouble. But they both knew that what she had
done was the right thing to do, rule book be damned.

Web met his commander, Jack Pritchard, in the hallway. The man looked in astonishment at Web and Romano with all their gear.

“Reporting for duty, sir,” said Web.

“How the hell did you even know about it?” demanded Pritchard. “I’m still a member of HRT. I can smell these things a mile
away.” Pritchard didn’t push it, though he did glance in the direction of Ann Lyle’s office.

“I want in,” said Web.

“That’s impossible,” said Pritchard. “You’re still on SRB leave, and he”—he pointed at Romano—“got his ass taken off on special
assignment that I wasn’t even made privy to. Now shove off.”

The commander turned on his heel and headed back to the equipment room. Web and Romano shoved off, right after the man. The
assaulters and snipers who hadn’t already been deployed on the mission were gathered here, going over last-minute details.
The snipers were checking to make sure they each had restocked a numbered lot of match-grade ammo. They were updating logbooks,
tightening trigger assemblies and cleaning scopes and barrels. The assaulters were inspecting their own weapons and breaking
out their breaching gear, tactical bags and body armor. The personnel in the logistics cell of HRT were running around loading
gear into the trucks and trying to remember everything the mini-invasion would need to succeed. They all stopped doing what
they were doing when Pritchard and then Web and Romano barged into their space.

“Come on, Jack,” said Web, “you got teams all over the damned place, and not even counting Paulie, you’re short a guy on Hotel,
you can use the extra hands.”

Pritchard whirled around. “How the hell did you know we were short a guy?” The HRT chief obviously had had enough of leaks.

Web looked around the room. “I can count. And I count five assaulters on Hotel. Add me and Paulie and you’re at full strength.”

“You haven’t been briefed, you haven’t worked the mock target and you haven’t even been training for a while. You’re
not
going.”

Web moved in front of the man and blocked his way. Jack Pritchard was about five-ten and Web had him by at least thirty pounds
and about five years, but Web knew if it came to a fight that he would be in for one. But he didn’t want to fight, not his
own man anyway.

“Brief us on the way over. Show us the attack points. We’ve got our own equipment and all we need are Kevlar, a flight suit
and a helmet. How many of these have Paulie and me done, Jack? Don’t treat us like some clueless bastard right out of NOTS.
We don’t deserve that.”

Pritchard stepped back and stared at Web for a very long minute. The longer it went on the more Web thought Pritchard might
actually throw him out of the place. HRT, like other quasi-military units, frowned on such insubordination.

“I tell you what, Web, I’ll leave it up to them.” He pointed at the assaulters.

Web hadn’t been expecting that sort of decision. But he stepped forward and looked at each of the Hotel and Gulf guys one
by one. He had fought side-by-side with most of them, first as a sniper and then as one of their own, an assaulter. His gaze
finally settled on

Romano. The men would accept Paulie back without question. But Web was damaged goods, the guy who had frozen at the worst
possible moment, and every man in this room was wondering if he would do it again and cost them their lives.

Web had saved Romano’s life during a raid on a Montana militiamen site. Romano had returned the favor a year later during
a VIP protection detail in the Middle East when a foot soldier from a fringe rebel group had tried to run their party down
with an empty bus he had stolen. The rebel would have succeeded in getting at least Web, but Romano had pushed Web out of
the way and popped the driver between the eyes with a round from his .45. Yet despite all that, and their recent time together,
Web had never really been able to read the man. As he looked around the room, it seemed that the men were looking to Romano
to settle the issue, and despite the guy having driven Web here to take part in the assault, Web had no clue what he would
say now.

He watched as Romano put a hand on Web’s shoulder. Looking at his teammates, Romano said, “Web London can cover my back anytime,
anyplace.”

And in the alpha male society of HRT, a man like Paul Romano— who was feared even by some of his teammates—saying that was
all it took. After they finished suiting up, Pritchard called all the men into the small meeting room. He stood at the front
staring at them, and they stared back. It seemed to Web that the commander spent more time gazing at him than at any of the
others.