The Sixth Man (53 page)

T
HE
D
REAMLINER 787 LANDED
at Dulles Airport right on time, and the jumbo jet slowly came to a halt. The pilot taxied the plane to an open space on the outskirts of the airport property. There were two SUVs waiting at this spot. The jet door opened, a set of portable steps was wheeled into place, and Mason Quantrell walked down them. He was dressed in pressed jeans and a white shirt with a North Face parka over that. He had a briefcase in hand. He looked casual and happy.

He smiled and waved when the window of one of the SUVs rolled down and he saw Harkes sitting inside. He climbed in next to him.

“Good flight?” asked Harkes.

“Fine, fine. Got your message. We were just descending into Dulles. Sounds like it could not have gone better.”

“No, it really couldn’t have,” replied Harkes.

“I can’t wait to hear all about it. Why don’t we drive to my home in Great Falls? My chef studied in Paris and my wine cellar is open for your inspection. We can have something to eat and you can debrief me.” He paused and added, “Does Foster know yet?”

Harkes smiled. “I was saving the best for last.”

Quantrell laughed. “You’ve set it up beautifully. She will be beholden to me forever since we saved her tight little ass. I can get any budget increase I want through now.”

“We need to make one little detour,” said Harkes.

Quantrell looked at him. “What? Where.” Quantrell also noticed that the SUV had not started up. They weren’t moving.

Harkes rolled his window down again and motioned with his hand.

“What are you doing, Harkes?”

Quantrell flinched when the truck door was ripped open and four men appeared there.

“FBI,” said the lead agent. “Mason Quantrell, you’re under arrest.”

As the agent read Quantrell his rights, Harkes opened his car door, climbed out, closed the door behind him, and walked off.

He never looked back.

One down, one to go.

Ellen Foster had bathed, taken time over her hair, and dressed meticulously. She now sat in a chair in the front room of her beautiful home, in her fashionable neighborhood filled with highly accomplished people. This was where she belonged, she was sure of that. She had overcome much to get to this point in her life. And now?

When the message had come it was an unexpected one. She had thought it would be Harkes informing her that everything was fine. That would have been the fair and just thing, Foster firmly believed. Only life was often neither fair nor just. This was one of those times, unfortunately.

Sitting in her bathroom in front of her mirror applying her makeup, she had thought a lot about the last few years of her life. They had been filled with many triumphs and a few unavoidable failures—like her marriage. Her husband was rich but not nearly as famous as his wife, and that had grated on him. A supremely insecure man despite his fortune, he had finally driven away all the feelings she once had for him.

The divorce had made some headlines and then died away. And her life had gone on. As it should have.

She sat with her hands neatly folded in her lap as she gazed around the perfectly appointed room. It really was a beautiful space; she’d been so content here. So happy. It was a perfect blend of seemingly blissful domestic life and professional superstardom. She touched her earrings. Extravagant gifts from her ex. The necklace she wore was worth fifty thousand dollars. The diamond and sapphire ring nearly twice that. She wanted to look perfect for this, her final act.

It was an act necessitated because Harkes had betrayed her.

Harkes had been working for others. He had not been loyal. Instead of helping her, he had succeeded in destroying her. The underling had turned on its mistress. She should have seen it coming. But it was too late for that now.

Life really was unfair. All she had done was try to keep the country safe. That was her job. And for that, this was her reward?

She heard the trucks screech to a halt in front of her home. She rose, went over to the secretary, and removed the gun from its hiding place. She wondered briefly how the papers would initially report it. Not that it mattered, really. Her ex-husband would be mildly surprised, she assumed, though he’d remarried a far younger woman and was starting on the family she had never wanted to have with him.

Foster did regret that she would have no one to mourn her. That was sad, she concluded.

The footsteps raced up the front porch.

Her security detail would be powerless to stop them.

That was all right. She didn’t need them to be stopped.

They had a warrant, she was sure of that.

She shook her head, took a breath.

They were right at the door. They pounded on it.

“FBI,” one deep voice said. “Secretary Foster, please open the door.”

She lifted the Glock to her right temple, positioning herself such that she would fall onto the couch. She smiled. A soft landing. She deserved that. It was fortunate that she had taken two Valium. That made things far less stressful. Anyone contemplating killing herself, she thought, should take advantage of the product.

The FBI gave one last warning. She could envision the hydraulic ram being placed against her front door. It was hundred-year-old reclaimed wood. It would not yield easily. She had a few more seconds.

She wondered if Harkes would be with them. She wanted to look into his eyes one more time. She would beat him still. She wanted to see the triumphant look ripped right off his face as the bullet slammed into her head. But he probably wouldn’t be.

The coward.

The powered ram head hit the door once. It splintered, nearly gave way. With the second pop it did.

The door burst open.

The men rushed in.

Ellen Foster smiled at them and pulled the trigger.

Only nothing happened. She pulled the trigger once more. Then again. And a fourth time.

James Harkes strolled in, walked past the FBI agents arrayed around the woman, and stopped in front of her. He took the gun from her.

“You don’t get the easy way out,” he said.

She tottered in her heels. “You son of a bitch!”

She slapped him.

He didn’t flinch. He just stood there, staring at her with contempt. She finally looked away.

“These men have something they need to tell you.”

He stepped aside as they came forward, read off her rights, and cuffed her.

As they led her away, Harkes called out, “One more thing.”

She turned to look at him.

He held up the gun. “You should’ve checked to make sure someone hadn’t taken out the firing pin,
Madame Secretary
.”

S
EAN LOOKED DOWN
at the number on his phone. “It’s Colonel Mayhew, from the Maine State Police. I phoned him earlier but he didn’t pick up. I left a message for him to call me back.”

Sean answered and explained things to the colonel.

Mayhew was understandably happy with the results. “You tell those people down in D.C. to make sure those bastards never see the light of day.”

“I will, sir,” said Sean with a grin.

“Damndest thing,” said Mayhew. “Can’t figure it.”

“What’s that?”

“Finished the autopsy on poor Eric.”

Sean’s stomach slightly tensed. “Gunshot wound, right?”

“Absolutely. No doubt of it. Right to the chest.”

Sean relaxed. “So what’s the problem?”

“Well, it was a .32 slug. Same type that killed Dukes and your friend Ted Bergin. But the really strange thing is it was a contact wound. I just can’t figure how Eric could have let them get so close to him without getting off one shot. I mean—”

But Sean was no longer listening. He was running.

He was running not for his life. But for the life of the person he cared for above all others.

“Feel better?” asked Michelle, as Megan came into the room dressed in fresh clothes.

“The shower felt great. I think I’m halfway human again. And thanks for having my clothes sent here.”

“No problem. After we failed you up in Maine it was the least we could do.”

Michelle glanced out the window. In an SUV parked out front sat three FBI agents. There were two more in the rear yard of the safe house. For the first time in a long time she felt reasonably safe.

“Where’s Edgar?” asked Megan.

“In the kitchen cooking.”

“
Can
he cook?” asked Megan.

“That would be a definite yes. I’m sure you’re hungry. I guess they didn’t feed you much.”

“Proverbial bread and water. I still can’t believe I got out of there alive.”

“It was complicated.”

“I’ll go see if I can help him. My mother always told me if I really wanted to get married I needed to know my way around a kitchen.”

“Don’t believe that for a minute.”

Megan walked into the kitchen while Michelle, always restless when no action was called for, simply paced.

On her second sweep around the room, her phone rang. It was Sean.

She started to answer, but never got there.

Blood spurted from the slash in her arm. It would have been her neck, but she had seen the knife an instant before it struck and flung out her arm. The blade cut skin, muscle, and tendon.

She dropped the phone, fell back, looked up and saw Edgar Roy coming at her again.

But then she realized he wasn’t coming at
her
. He was throwing himself in front of her. No, at something else. At
someone
else.

He crashed into Megan Riley as she attempted to strike at Michelle again with the large kitchen knife. They fell together on the floor, large man on top of petite woman. It should have been over at that point.

But Megan Riley was obviously no ordinary woman.

She was, in fact, the fail-safe.

Roy groaned and rolled off her when her knee slammed into his privates. She was up in an instant and caught him with two crushing kicks to the head that flopped him over flat on his back. He
lay there semiconscious, with blood pouring down his face from a deep gash in his skin.

She raised her knife for the killing blow but never got a chance to land it.

Michelle hit her with a kick to the knee. Only it wasn’t a clean shot because as she was about to land it, she slipped in her blood, which was pooling on the hardwood floor.

Megan grimaced, glanced down at her injured limb, and then exploded forward on her good leg and smashed an elbow to Michelle’s head, whipsawed around her opponent, and kicked her legs out from under her. Michelle fell hard, her head banging off the floor. She moved an instant before Megan slashed again with the knife. The blade punched into her thigh instead of her gut. Megan twisted the hilt sideways, and Michelle screamed as the blade ripped her flesh. She kicked away at the other woman and scrambled to her feet. The two women squared off, each favoring their injured wheel.

“I’m going to kill you,” said Megan.

“No, you’re going to try,” Michelle shot back.

“You should have seen Bergin’s eyes right before I shot him in the head. He looked as surprised as Carla Dukes did when I killed her.”

“I’m not an old man. Or a big, slow woman.”

Megan smiled wickedly. “Yeah, but you’re also bleeding to death.”

Megan made a couple of slashing motions with the knife but could not get through Michelle’s defenses. Michelle grabbed up a floor lamp and twirled it in front of her like a nunchaku. She advanced as Megan fell back, outmaneuvered for the moment. But when Megan leaped toward Roy with her knife held high, Michelle had to throw the lamp at her to defend him.

The brass neck of the lamp struck Megan across the face, cutting a deep gash in her cheek. Blood poured down her face. She fell sideways over Roy, but was on her feet a moment later, the knife held in front of her.

It was an instant too late.

Michelle’s shoulder hit Megan in the gut, and both women
torpedoed over a table and into the wall, popping holes in the drywall with the force of the impact.

Michelle, unfortunately, hit a stud in the wall, cracking her collarbone.

Sensing this injury, Megan landed a blow right on the damaged bone and Michelle slid backward, holding her shoulder and breathing heavily.

Both women slowly stood, each with a damaged leg, but Michelle had blood pouring out of two large wounds. She could feel her heart pumping harder and harder with each clench of the muscle, throwing more and more of her blood onto the floor with nothing to replace the loss.

She drew a quick breath. She didn’t have much time left. She feinted a charge, and Megan stepped back. Michelle launched, aiming at Megan’s knife-wielding arm.

But in her weakened state she arrived a second too late.

Megan flipped the knife to her left hand a moment before impact. As the women fell backward Megan slammed the knife deeply into the other woman’s back.

They hit the floor and Megan kicked Michelle off, rolled, and stood on a single wobbly leg.

Michelle tried to rise but then fell back to her knees. The knife was still in her. The blood now poured from three wounds, the last one in her back being the most damaging. She was seeing fuzzy images in front of her, and her breaths were becoming increasingly labored.