known intellectually he might be forced to kill again, but he was supposed to be in protection now, damn it all. Saving lives, not taking them.
For a life he’d just taken, no question about it. He rolled over onto his stomach again, looked over the edge to the target. The man he’d shot was slumped over the parapet, arms dangling. A rusty smear was giving in to gravity, spreading slowly down the concrete.
He came back to himself, realized Chalk was going mad in his ear.
“Mutant, talk to me. What’s wrong? I can’t hear you, repeat, I can’t hear you!”
“Chalk,” he said quietly, and his friend calmed immediately.
“You okay, buddy? That was one hell of a shot. You want to come on down?”
Come down, face the world, the scrutiny. He didn’t know what upset him more, that he’d so calmly negated the threat, or that he’d never questioned the only course of action was to take the threat down. Could he have done something different? He’d reacted, unthinking, and the fallout was going to be insane.
Face it, Whitfield. You’re a stone-cold killer. Always have been, always will.
Killing is my business, and business has been good.
“Coming.”
He shoved down the dark thoughts, forced himself to his feet. Climbed down the ladder to the scene below.
* * *
Their principal was out of sight, but the Teterboro Airport security was not. Chalk had clearly been trying to explain what was happening, but the Teterboro cops were more inclined to arrest the two men with concealed weapons, especially the one who’d done the shooting, and ask questions later.
Xander handed over his SIG, suffered being slammed against a yellow cinder-block wall, legs and arms spread-eagled and roughly frisked. He let them put cuffs on him without a fight.
Chalk wasn’t being nearly as calm. He’d managed to get James Denon isolated before they started the Gestapo act with Xander, and was dancing around the cops trying to explain their role in the situation. Denon was finally tapped to confirm who they were, and with his testimony, the cops relaxed a bit. They took off Chalk’s cuffs, but kept Xander chained, seated at a chipped table that looked like it had been recycled from a prison.
Xander heard sirens coming closer. They’d called the New Jersey state police, probably the FBI, too. An ambulance, though it wouldn’t be necessary. A meat wagon was more appropriate. News trucks would follow. Xander knew they needed to get Denon out of there immediately.
After a few more minutes of chaos, their bona fides were established, and Xander was uncuffed for the time being. He stood, rubbing his chafed wrists. The last time he’d been in cuffs was during counterinsurgency training. They made him feel caged, something he fought against. Once, the comforts of the military, its regimented days, worked for him. Now, he simply wanted to be free.
Threats were still lingering in the air, the Teterboro cops glaring and bristling. When the state police arrived, they would make the call. Xander had a feeling he knew how this was going to go down—the cuffs would go back on, he’d be transported, arraigned, bail set. He would have to call Sam to come get him; Chalk didn’t have the means to spring him, not yet.
Not how he wanted things to go today.
Finally, Xander and Chalk were escorted to Denon’s isolated room; the door closed quickly behind them. Denon shot a hard glance at the handle as the lock thunked home, but shrugged and took a deep breath. He was a handsome man, foppish blond hair, fit and trim, very British schoolboy grows up and does well for himself. He was charming and smart and, despite the attempt on his life, was pale but composed. Xander thought he was handling the attempted assassination with a great deal of calm.
Denon pointed to the ceiling, then deliberately turned his back to the camera. They joined him in the middle of the room, a scrum against the digital intrusion. “Who was the shooter?” he asked quietly.
Xander shook his head. “We don’t know yet. There will be an investigation, obviously, which is out of our hands now. We’ll try to keep it quiet, but there’s no telling how the airport police will work with the New Jersey cops. This could be all over the news in twenty minutes.”
“It’s already leaking out.” Denon showed them a tweet from a local account, someone who’d been at Teterboro and took pictures of the dead man dangling off the roof. “It’s only a matter of time before they connect this with me.”
Xander straightened, put his arms behind his back, parade rest. “I apologize, sir. I know you wanted to keep your visit and our involvement quiet. This isn’t what we had in mind. I am fully prepared to take responsibility for the situation and keep your name out of it, if at all possible.”
Denon gave him an incredulous look. “You just saved my life, and you’re apologizing and offering to take the fall? Bloody hell, man, you’re my hero. If you hadn’t acted so quickly, I’d be on that tarmac with a bullet in me.” He clapped Xander on the shoulder. “Thank you. Both of you. You acted in my best interest, and I refuse to let them prosecute you, in my name, or in yours. We’ll get this situation straightened, you have my word.”
Xander nodded. “Thank you, sir. Mr. Worthington will get you back on track here shortly. I’m sure the police will need a statement from you, so I’m assuming it will be at least an hour before you’ll be able to leave.”
Denon’s schoolboy face split into a winning grin, and Xander felt a measure of relief when he said, “To be honest, Mr. Whitfield, I think I’d rather stick by your side for the time being. I don’t want to see you get railroaded for doing your job. And I want to know who the hell just tried to kill me.”
Georgetown O Street Thomas Cattafi’s apartment
IT DIDN’T TAKE long for the big guns to arrive, wearing their space-age polymer suits, hooked into oxygen. Sam and Fletcher were taken through a portable decontamination unit, had blood samples drawn and were told to stay put. Phones, her purse, shoes, everything, was taken away.
Sam had an awful sense of déjà vu; she’d been through something similar a few months back, when a crazed man had used a homegrown biological weapon to gas the Foggy Bottom Metro station and she’d been sitting at ground zero at the George Washington University Hospital waiting to be cleared to go home.
She pushed the thought away. No sense revisiting the past until she knew what she was dealing with. Or whom.
Thomas Cattafi. She didn’t know the name—no reason she should, really, if he was a fourth-year M.D./Ph.D. student. Two years of med school, four years of specialized research, then back to the med school side to finish the clinical rotations. A hellish tract, one few students wanted, and fewer survived. Sam was only working with the first-year forensic pathology students, the dewy-eyed youngsters who thought everything about med school was cool. Soon enough, they’d become hardened and cynical, like everyone else.
What in the hell was a student doing with a refrigerator full of pathogens? Even if he was an M.D./Ph.D. candidate, there was no reason to have the items at his home. They belonged in a lab. Cattafi was involved in something bad, that was for sure. Something this woman,
