Vail 02 - Crush

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For Corey, Matthew, and Danielle:
You are the branches on my tree that keep on giving.
And I’m the old stump.
I love you all, to the moon and back.

—SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, WRITING AS SHERLOCK HOLMES

—SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, WRITING AS SHERLOCK HOLMES

“
In wine there is truth
.”

—ROMAN PROVERB

“
O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.
”

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

“S
o the dick says to the woman, ‘I got nothing.’” Karen Vail burst out laughing. Here she was, out on the town with Detective Mandisa Manette—just about the unlikeliest of acquaintances she’d socialize with—and she was guffawing at another of Manette’s crass jokes. But she noticed Manette was not enjoying her own punch line. In fact, Manette’s face was hard, her gaze fixed. And her hand was slowly reaching inside her jacket. For her weapon.

“Don’t wanna ruin your evening,” Manette said, “but there’s a guy packing, and he looks real nervous. Over your left shoulder.”

Vail turned slowly and casually snatched a glimpse of the man. Six foot, broad, and as Manette noted, under duress. Sweating, eyes darting around the street. In a minute, his gaze would land on Vail and Manette.
The guy looks familiar. Why?
She watched his mannerisms and then, as his head turned three quarters toward them, she got a better look at him and—

Oh, crap. I know who he is.
In a few seconds, he’d probably make them as cops, and then the shit would hit the fan. The image conjured up a mess—and that’s what would no doubt result.

Vail quickly turned away. “Don’t look at him. Definitely bad news, and stressed as hell. With good reason. That’s Danny Michael Yates.”

Manette’s eyes widened. “No way. The goddamn cop killer? You sure?”

Vail slid her hand down to her Velcro pouch. “Damn sure. What do you want to do?”

Manette moved her hand behind her back, no doubt resting it on her pistol. “Make a call, DC Metro, let ’em know what we got here. I’m gonna circle around behind him.”

Vail pulled out her phone and made the call. With her back to Yates, she watched him in the reflection of the Old Ebbitt Grill storefront. Meantime, she assessed the situation. The sidewalk was knotted with people waiting for tables, enjoying a drink with friends, spouses, and business associates. She wished she could yell, “Everyone down!” so they wouldn’t get hurt. Because she had an intense feeling that this was going to get very ugly, very fast.

Vail ended the call and slipped the BlackBerry into her pocket, her right hand firmly on the Glock 23 that was buried in the pouch below her abdomen.

She made eye contact with Manette’s reflection in the window and nodded, then stole a glance at Yates. He looked at Vail at precisely that moment, and
Fuck—he made me—

Yates turned and pushed through the clot of people standing behind him. Vail followed, doing her best to navigate the tumbled bodies with her still-sore postsurgical knee. Manette, she figured, was also in pursuit. Manette was tall and thin, and she looked athletic—whether she was or not, Vail could only guess—but she had to be faster than Vail and her recently repaired leg.

She caught a glimpse of Yates as he turned left on H Street—and, yup, there was Manette, pumping away, in close proximity. Christ, this was not what she had in mind when she suggested they have a girls’ night out.

Vail turned the corner and picked up Manette as she kept up her pursuit of Yates. The shine of Manette’s handgun caught the street-light’s amber glow and suddenly a bad feeling crept down Vail’s spine. They were extremely close to the White House, where Secret Service agents and police outnumbered the citizens in the immediate vicinity. Snipers were permanently stationed on the roof, and—here was a black woman, chasing a white man, a big gleaming pistol in her right hand. No uniform. No visible badge.

This was not going to turn out well, and Vail had a sinking feeling it would have nothing to do with Danny Michael Yates.

Yates veered left, into Lafayette Park, and damn, if the guy wasn’t a stupid one—he was headed straight for the wrought iron of the White House gate. Stupid isn’t quite the word . . . insane might be more like it. Vail heard Manette yell, “Police, freeze!”

It had no effect on Yates except to have him veer left, parallel to the iron fence—which he had to do anyway.

But Vail had her answer: Manette was apparently a superb athlete, because she was now only fifteen yards behind Yates, who was moving pretty well himself.

Lights snapped on. An alarm went off.

Vail fumbled to pull her credentials from her purse, then splayed them open in her left hand, held high above her head, the Glock in her right hand, bouncing along with her strides. Showing the snipers she was a federal agent, not a threat to the president. And hopefully, by association, they’d realize Manette was a cop, too.

But as she processed that thought, a gunshot stung her ears like a stab to her heart. And Manette went down. Only it wasn’t a sniper or diligent Secret Service agent. It was Danny Michael Yates, who had turned and buried a round in Manette’s groin. She went down hard and fast.

And she was writhing on the ground. DC Metro police appeared behind Yates and drew down on him. Half a dozen Secret Service agents traversed the White House lawn with guns drawn and suit coats flapping. Snipers on the roof swung their rifles toward the plaza, their red laser dots dancing on clothing and pavement.

Vail brought up the rear, huffing and puffing, the cold night DC air burning her throat. She was heaving, sucking oxygen, when a weak “FBI!” scraped from her throat. She stopped fifteen feet from Yates, who was inching closer to Manette.

“She’s a cop,” Vail yelled. “She’s a cop!” She wanted all the law enforcement personnel on scene to understand what was going on. Manette was on the ground, her handgun a foot from her hand. But she was in no condition to reach for it. She was curled into a fetal position.

Yates took a step closer to her, and his gun—it looked like a Beretta—was raised slightly, pointing vaguely toward Manette. “Stop right there,” Vail yelled. “Take another step and it’ll be your last!”

“Just kill me now,” Yates said. “Because there ain’t no way you’re taking me in. I killed a cop, you think I’ll make it through the night alive in lockup?”

“I’ll personally guarantee your safety, Danny.” Vail stood there with her Glock now in both hands, her credentials case on the ground at her feet, spread open, her Bureau badge visible for all who cared to look. “I’ll make sure you get your day in court. I understand the way you think, I know you didn’t mean to kill that cop.”

“Bullshit. I did mean to kill him! I fucking hate cops, they raped my mother. You bet I wanted to kill him!”

“There’s only one way this can end good, Danny. You put the gun down and let me help my partner there. You got that?”

Yates took another step forward, his Beretta now aimed point-blank at Manette. Vail brought up her Glock, tritium sights lined up on the perp’s head.

“Now,” Vail yelled. “Drop the fucking gun!”

But Yates’s elbow straightened. His hand muscles stiffened.

Given the angle, no one else could see what she could see. He didn’t ‘drop the fucking gun,’ so Vail shot him. Blasted him right in the head. And then she drilled him in the center mass, to knock him back, make sure he didn’t accidentally unload on Manette as his brain went flat line. Two quick shots. Overkill? Maybe. But at the moment, truth be told, she didn’t really care.

Yates fell to the ground. Vail ran to Manette. Grabbed her, cradled her. “Manny—Manny, you okay?”

Manette’s face was drenched with sweat, pain contorted in the intense creases of her face.

And then Vail lost it. She felt the sudden release, the stress of the past couple of months hitting her with the force of a tornado, knocking her back against the lower stonework of the White House fence.

Commotion around her, frantic footsteps, shouting, jostling. Someone
in a blue shirt and silver badge knelt in front of her and pried the Glock from her hand.