CHAPTER NINE
Four white walls, a gray concrete floor, a stainless steel toilet/sink/drinking fountain combination, a gray metal desk with a built-in oval stool bolted to the wall, and a small metal cot. This had been John Corrigan
’
s entire world since being convicted of murder and sentenced to death by lethal injection. He had resigned himself to an almost monastic existence with only a dozen books and a single picture occupying his cell.
The photo was the last family portrait that he had taken with his loved ones. It matched the one that the investigator from DCIS had showed him. His wife, Debbie, and two kids, Mark and Melissa, wore all pink in the picture. He wore a black button-down shirt and slacks. Debbie had bought him a pink shirt to match the rest of the family, but he refused to wear it. It wasn
’
t some kind of macho, masculine insecurity thing; he just didn
’
t like the color. At least that
’
s what he had told her. As he looked at the photo now, it seemed as if he was a darkness that had invaded the happy brightness of their lives.
Maybe that was accurate.
His hand strayed to their faces, tracing the lines of their smiles and the outlines of their features. Mark had Debbie
’
s hair and eyes and his strong jaw and dimpled chin. Melissa had his blond hair color and eyes, but her chubby cheeks and huge toothy smile didn
’
t resemble either of her parents. Maybe she was just an amalgam of both or her baby fat hadn
’
t melted away enough to let her future looks shine through. He would never know. He often tried to imagine what the kids would have looked like if their lives hadn
’
t been cut short and wished that he possessed some kind of artistic ability that would have allowed him to create aged versions of them. Then he could have stared at those pictures and tried to convince himself that the people from the drawings were alive in the world somewhere and would grow up happy and safe.
He had been a good father, or at least, he had done his best when circumstances allowed him to be there. Unfortunately, he was always off somewhere fighting in places with names that his kids couldn
’
t even pronounce. “When will you be back from Africanastan, Daddy?” his daughter had said in her tiny, high-pitched voice. He had missed most of their childhoods, but before their deaths, a possible opportunity had presented itself for him to become an instructor at MCB Quantico. They could have moved to Virginia, and he would have been home and safe every night. They could have been together and happy.
The tears rained down his cheeks, and he pressed his eyes shut. Random images of his family floated through his mind. His wife on their wedding night. His son at a soccer game. His little girl running down a hill covered with flowers on her grandparents
’
farm. A rainbow-colored ribbon in the girl
’
s hair flapped in the wind and wrapped around her face as she picked one of the flowers and spun in a circle.
He opened his eyes and wiped away the tears. It was his fault that they were dead. He should have done as he was told, and then he should have kept his mouth shut. Now, General Easton and his wife had suffered a similar fate, and he suspected that he might not even live long enough for the executioner to stick a needle in his arm.
No one liked loose ends, and he was a loose end that had begun to fray and unravel. The General learned the truth and died because of it, and now this DCIS investigator might share the same fate just for speaking with him. That was if the man who had visited him was actually who he claimed to be. Corrigan was never sure who he could trust. It wouldn
’
t have been the first time that they had tested him in order to make a point about what would happen if he talked. His wife and kids may have been gone, but he still had his parents and a younger sister. He still had more they could take if he didn
’
t do as he was told.
John Corrigan looked down at his hands. He couldn
’
t see the blood, but he could still feel the stain.
CHAPTER TEN
Deacon Munroe wanted to slam his fist down on the dashboard of the Lincoln Town Car, but he restrained himself. His father, the esteemed Senator Robert Munroe, had drilled into him since he was a small child that brash displays of anger and raised voices were for the uneducated and a sign of poor breeding. Robert Munroe had practiced what he preached. Deacon had seldom heard his father raise his voice, despite Robert being one of the most ruthless and cruel men that Deacon had ever met.
The hum of the roadway told him that they had left the streets surrounding the USDB and were back on the highway, heading to the airport. The entire trip had been a waste. John Corrigan clearly wasn
’
t going to talk. And how could he threaten or convince a man that was days away from being executed?
“We need to find out more about Corrigan,” Munroe said. “I
’
m betting that he has enough knowledge to blow this case wide open, but we have to find a way to get through to him. Talk to his old friends, his family. Maybe he
’
s being threatened in some way. We could also track down the Marines that served on his team. Maybe one of them would be able to convince him to open up.”
“Great. More plane rides,” Gerald said.
“After all these years, I figured that you
’
d eventually get used to flying. Statistically, it is the safest way to travel.”
“For birds maybe,” Gerald said under his breath. “Deac, I wanted to apologize for bringing up Beth yesterday. I know that you don
’
t like to talk about her.”
Munroe hesitated. She
’
d been dead for nearly ten years, but his breath still caught in his throat when he heard her name.
“It
’
s fine. You were right. It has been a long time since she passed. I should be able to talk about her, and she would want me to move on. She was that way, always thinking of others first. But it still doesn
’
t feel right. Besides, next to you, Annabelle is my oldest friend. Even if things were different, I wouldn
’
t want to screw that up. And your sister deserves better than me.”
Gerald was quiet a moment. A Led Zeppelin song came on the radio, barely audible over the rumbling of the engine and the hum of the tires. Robert Plant crooned about going to California. “You remember that time when your daddy caught Annabelle in his bedroom, trying on your mother
’
s jewelry?” Gerald said. “He was fixin
’
to take a willow branch to her, but you stepped in. I thought your daddy was the scariest man alive. Could not believe that you stood up to him. I don
’
t think he could believe it either. Real calm, he said that you would have to take her place. And you did. You show me another guy that would do something like that for my little sister.”
“I
’
m not that kid anymore. Not for a long time. Not even half of what he was.”
“Deac, let me tell you, life is—”
Something struck their car so fast and hard that Munroe felt like he had been smited by the hand of God himself. His mind didn
’
t even register what was happening. A cacophony of sound and sensation overwhelmed him. Metal screeched and buckled. Tires squealed. Gerald screamed. The world spun upside down. Breaking glass. The pain was everywhere, all-encompassing, consuming him. He felt it deep in his bones.
When the car finally came to a stop, he found himself hanging upside down by his seat belt. Only then did he realize that they had just been in a car accident, but his thoughts were still cloudy and incoherent. He fought to get his bearings.
The next sound brought the world into focus, his primal survival instincts kicking in at the loud crack of gunfire. His hands scrambled for the belt release, and finding it, he fell onto the car
’
s roof. Glass and debris cut into his face and palms.
Large hands grabbed him, and he fought against them at first until he recognized Gerald
’
s voice. “Come on! You have to get out of there!”
Another bullet ricocheted of the car
’
s metal undercarriage. Gerald yanked him free from the wreckage like a rag doll and shoved him violently into a sitting position next to the car. He fought to catch his breath and slow his heart. “What…”
The crack of gunshots from just over his shoulder stung his ears. “Stay down!” Gerald yelled. More shots followed the words.
Munroe felt helpless and afraid. Someone was trying to kill them, and he was nothing but dead weight. More of a hindrance than a help.
The opposing shots came from somewhere above them, and so he suspected that they had rolled down a hill of some kind, perhaps into a field or yard. His hand touched the ground, and he felt grass beneath his palms. His ears strained to hear the sound of sirens and help approaching, but he heard nothing beyond the gunfire and a high-pitched ringing. He could feel the concussion of each shot, knew from the distinctive reports that there were two attackers.
More bullets struck the car. But this time the sound had changed. Instead of the individual cracks of a pistol, he heard the rat-tat-tat of a fully automatic submachine gun.
Gerald cried out and dropped to the ground beside him. He could hear the change in Gerald
’
s breathing. Each breath was a harsh, pain-filled gasp. His shaking hands scrambled over his friend
’
s body. He knew that Gerald had been severely wounded even before he felt the ragged, bloody hole in his friend
’
s chest. He applied pressure to the wound to stop the flow of blood. “What can I do?” he said.
Gerald replied with a gurgling choke, and Munroe realized that Gerald
’
s lung had been punctured. His best friend was drowning in his own blood.
Munroe tried harder to cover the wound, but the blood flowed out around his fingers. His mind fought for a solution. How could he treat a gunshot wound that had penetrated a lung? He thought back on his training in basic first aid. It seemed like there was something that could be done with the finger of a rubber glove and a needle, but he had neither of those things.
He felt so helpless. His best friend was dying in his arms, and he could do nothing to save him. Gerald needed a hospital, an ambulance, paramedics. Munroe felt his pockets for his cell phone but quickly realized that it must have fallen out in the crash.
He reached for Gerald
’
s pocket to feel for his phone, but the big man caught his arm and shoved the pistol into Munroe
’
s palm. Gerald wrapped his large fingers around Munroe
’
s hand and squeezed reassuringly, his message clear.
You can do this.
But Munroe wondered what the hell good the gun would do him. He could fire blindly, but he would never be able to hold them off until help arrived. He didn
’
t even know how many rounds were left in the weapon.
Adrenaline pounding in his ears, he placed his back against the car
’
s door and waited. Within a few seconds, he heard the sound of cautious footsteps coming down the hill. He scooted closer to Gerald and butted his hand against his friend
’
s body, trying to conceal the weapon clenched in his right fist. He remained perfectly still and stared straight ahead. The footsteps circled around them from both sides, both of the attackers keeping their distance.
“Is he dead?” the first man said, his voice moving closer. “His eyes look dead, but I think he
’
s still breathing.”
“He
’
s blind. His eyes might look like that all the time,” the second attacker replied from less than ten feet to Munroe
’
s right.
“I
’
ve never killed a handicapped person before.”
Munroe held his breath and then reacted. He needed to take out both of them in one move, or he wouldn
’
t stand a chance. He had hoped that both men would approach and announce their position in some way. It was his only chance. And his wish had come true.
Picturing them in his mind, he raised the gun and squeezed off two rapid-fire shots in each man
’
s direction. Shouts of pain followed each pair of shots, and he heard both men drop.
Jumping to his feet and screaming with rage, Munroe fired again at the sounds of movement in the grass and continued to squeeze the trigger until the slide drew back and the gun clicked empty. He listened and waited for more noises, any indication that they were still alive, but both of the gunmen were silent.
Still shaking and breathless, Munroe collapsed against the car, for once relieved that he could not see what surrounded him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Annabelle finished filing the final report from a case involving DARPA and the embezzlement of funds from a new sonic weapons technology project. She cracked her neck and checked the time. Having worked through lunch, she was overdue for a break. She considered working on a photo book she was creating for Deacon
’
s girls, Chloe and Makayla, but she really wanted to escape the computer screen for a while.
Glancing at the gym bag sitting in the corner of her Pentagon office, she wondered if she would have time to run a few miles on the elevated track encircling the outer perimeter of the Pentagon
’
s private gym. Unfortunately, it would take nearly as long to walk from her office through one of world
’
s largest office buildings and change into her workout clothes as it would to actually complete her run.
Still, running had always been her passion and one that she had neglected as her workload from Deacon had increased over the past several months. Her talent for running had given her confidence and a toned body in high school, but at the time she hadn
’
t dreamed that her running shoes would eventually carry a girl from a poor servant family into the halls of a prestigious university on the back of a track and field scholarship.
She would never forget the moment that running truly entered her life. A few of the girls from affluent families who attended her school had cornered the poor black girl beside the softball diamond and, after knocking her down and rubbing dirt into her hair, had danced around her in a circle chanting, “dirty little monkey.” She hadn
’
t fought back. She just curled into a ball and tried to shut out the rest of the world. Through the tears in her eyes, she had watched Deacon and Gerald come to her rescue, throwing clumps of mud at the other girls and threatening worse.
Afterward, Gerald had said, “Next time, you come get me if they give you any trouble. Your legs are strong. You can surely outrun that group of little princesses. If you run, they
’
ll never catch you.”
She had taken the words to heart, and they had become a sort of mantra for her.
If you run, they
’
ll never catch you.
She had run from her parents and her ancestral home as soon as she could and had barely looked back. When things had gotten difficult in law school, she had run to a lesser-paying job as a law firm
’
s investigator. She still wondered if she had actually run the same way in Baltimore as her marriage crumbled.
The thought forced her to think of her ex-husband, Stuart. It had been nearly a week since he had left a message for her, requesting some time to “talk.” She knew what that meant. He had a tendency to try to win her back after each new girlfriend failed to live up to his standards. She couldn
’
t think of another reason he would want to speak with her. They had no connections left. No kids. No joint property or papers to be signed. Not even a dog or common friends. The only other thing could have been a death in his family. She had always loved Stuart
’
s mother, and she felt a pang of guilt at the possibility of missing her former mother-in-law
’s funeral.
The decision made, she steeled herself and dialed Stuart
’
s office. The secretary patched her through almost immediately. “It took you long enough to return my call,” Stuart said on the other end of the line.
She wanted to return the condescension in his voice but resisted, just in case there was a valid reason for his call. Instead, she said evenly, “I
’
ve been very busy with work.”
“Oh, I
’
m sure. Deacon
’
s probably been keeping you late.”
His voice was thick with sarcasm and implication, but she didn
’
t rise to the bait. They had been down this road several times. She didn
’
t speak a word, just held the phone and used the silence as a weapon against him.
After a few awkward seconds, he said, “Anyway, I was really hoping that I could come down to DC and take you out to dinner. Maybe this weekend.”
She sighed.
“
I don’
t think that would be a good idea.”
“Come on, Bella,” he said. Stuart was the only person who had ever called her by that name. It had sounded sexy and exotic to her ears during the early years of their relationship. Now it sounded like something you would name the family dog.
“
I don’
t know why you keep at this.”
“Maybe I don
’
t like giving up on a good thing.”
“Please...you never felt that way during the marriage or in the months of separation. You seemed to think there were plenty of good things out there.”
“Now I know better.”
“Good for you. I need to go.”
“
Wait, I’
m serious. I know that I
’
ve made a lot of mistakes, and I
’
m truly sorry. I
’
ve been going to counseling, and my therapist thinks that maybe she could help you and me work through the problems in our relationship. Maybe we could put the past behind us and find something new. I wanted to ask you about it over dinner, but…”
She just held the phone. He had tried to talk her into his bed several times since the divorce, but he had never actually apologized and had always refused her attempts at seeking the advice of a marriage counselor.
“Bella? You still there?”
“
I don’
t know what to say.”
“Say, ‘yes.
’
Listen, I
’
ve even been talking to the counselor about kids. She
’
s helped me realize that I never wanted kids because of the issues from my own childhood, but we
’
re working through all that. I
’
m thinking that maybe I could deal with a baby now.”
“I never wanted you to ‘deal with
’
having a kid, Stuart. I didn
’
t want you to ‘
give in.
’
I wanted you to be my partner and be excited about creating a family with me.”
“That
’
s not what I meant. You
’
re twisting my words.”
“You don
’
t even like kids.”
“You
’
re right. But maybe that
’
s because I never had one of my own. Besides, I
’
m not asking you to have a kid right now. I just want you to visit the counselor with me, and we
’
ll see where it takes us. Please.”
Her cell phone vibrated on her desk, showing a number she didn
’
t recognize. She declined the call. “
I don’
t know, Stuart.”
Almost immediately the phone rang again, and she declined. “Come on,” Stuart said. “My doctor even said she could refer us to someone in DC to make it more convenient for you.”
The cell phone rang again. The same number. It had to be something important. “Stuart, I
’
m going to have to call you back. I have another call coming in on my cell. It might be Gerald or Deacon.”
She was about to hang up when Stuart said, “You know he
’
s the real reason our marriage broke up.”
“What?”
“Don
’
t even try to deny it. You
’
ve always had a thing for him. I got so sick of hearing how great a husband and father he was. How the hell was I going to live up to the great Deacon Munroe? For all I know, you
’
ve been screwing him for years.”
“Actually, Stuart, the ‘real
’
reason our marriage broke up is that you
’
re a narcissistic prick. Goodbye.”
She slammed down the receiver to her office phone and snatched up her cell phone. The voice on the other end was calm and comforting, but the words spoken didn
’
t match the tone. The world spun, and it became impossible for her to breathe.
Gerald had been shot and had died on the way to the hospital.
She analyzed the sentence, and a part of her understood the meaning. But another part still couldn
’
t comprehend what was happening.
Dropping the phone, she sank from her chair and pressed her palms against her eyes to hold back the tears.
Before she knew what was happening, she was on her feet and running out of her office. She passed uniformed military officers, civilian staffers, and dark-suited intelligence operatives as she sprinted down the wide, white corridors. She didn
’
t know where she was going or why she was running, but she couldn
’
t make herself stop. She just focused on the sound of each footfall and pressed forward faster and faster.
If you run, they
’
ll never catch you.