“The warehouse?” she asked. “I’ve seen this already.”
“You haven’t seen this part.” On the screen Joe Ledger stepped into shot about twenty yards ahead of the agent whose camera had provided the footage. Ledger spotted two task force officers taking fire from three hostiles who were shooting from a secure position behind a stack of heavy crates. Bullets tore chunks from the paltry cover behind which the agents crouched. Ledger came up on their seven o’clock, well out of their line of sight; he had his pistol in his hand but to open fire from that distance would have been suicide. He might get one or two but the other would turn and chop him up. There was no cover at all between Ledger and the hostiles, but he hugged the wall, running on cat feet, making no noise that could have been heard above the din of the gunfire.
When Ledger was ten feet out he opened fire. His first shot caught one of the hostiles in the back of the neck and the impact slammed him into the crates. As the other two turned Ledger closed to zero distance and fired one more shot and the second hostile staggered back, but then the slide on Ledger’s gun locked open. There was no time to change magazines. The third hostile instantly lunged at him, swinging his rifle barrel to bear. Ledger parried it with his pistol and then everything turned into a blur. All three hostiles were down.
Grace frowned but declined to comment as the file repeated in slow motion, leaning forward at the point where the slide locked back on Ledger’s gun. The slow-mo even caught the elegance of the ejected brass arching through the air. Ledger had the pistol held out in front of him so it was obvious that he recognized the predicament of the empty magazine but he did not visibly react to it. His hands separated and while he was still in full stride he used the empty gun to check the swing of the hostile’s rifle while simultaneously jabbing forward with his left hand, fingers folded in half and stiffened so that the secondary line of knuckles drove into the attacker’s windpipe. As this was happening Joe’s left foot changed from a regular running step into a longer lunge and the tip of his combat boot crunched into the cartilage under the hostile’s kneecap; and a fraction of a second later Ledger’s gun hand came up and jabbed the exposed barrel of the pistol into the hostile’s left eye socket.
The attacker flew backward as if he’d been hit by a shotgun blast. Ledger completed his step and was smoothly reaching to his belt for a fresh magazine when the footage ended.
“Bloody hell!” Grace gasped. It came out before she could stop the words.
“Elapsed time from the slide locking back to completed kill is 0.031 seconds,” said Church. “Tell me why I want him for the DMS.”
She hated when he did this to her. It was like being in school, but she kept her annoyance off her face. “He showed absolutely no hesitation. He didn’t even flinch when his gun locked open, he simply went into a different form of attack. It’s so smooth, like he’d practiced that one set of moves for years.”
“In light of that video and your assessment would you consider him a likely candidate for us?”
“I don’t know. His psych evals read like a horror novel.”
“Past tense. His dissociative behavior was directly related to a specific traumatic event that happened when he was a teenager. His service record since then doesn’t show an unstable personality.”
She shook her head. “That trauma happened during a crucial phase of his life. It informed the rest of his development. It’s why he began studying martial arts. It’s why he joined the army, and it’s why he became a policeman. He keeps looking for ways to channel his rage.”
“It seems to me that he’s found ways to channel it. Very useful ways, Grace. If he was lost in rage then his pathology would be different. A rageaholic would have taken up something confrontational; instead he’s refined his abilities through an art known for its lack of flamboyance.”
“Which could be interpreted as someone desperate to maintain control.”
“That’s one view. Another is that he’s found control, and it’s saved him.”
Grace drummed her fingers on the table. “I still don’t like those old psych evaluations. I think there’s a ticking bomb there.”
“You should read your own, Grace. The recent ones,” Church said mildly, and she shot him a withering look. “Tell me, Grace-if he’d been with Bravo or Charlie teams at St. Michael’s do you think things would have gone differently?”
Grace’s jaw tightened. “That’s impossible to say.”
“No it isn’t. You know why things went south at the hospital, and you saw this tape. My question stands.”
“I don’t know. I think we would need to observe him a lot more.”
“Okay,” he said. “Then go and observe him.”
With that he got up and left the room.
Chapter Twelve
Baltimore, Maryland / Saturday, June 27; 6:54 P.M.
RUDY GOT QUIET as we walked back to my SUV. I undid the locks but he lingered outside, touching the door handle. “This cabron Church what’s your take on him?”
“Car could be bugged, Rude.”
“Fuck it. Answer the question. Do you think Church is a good guy or a bad guy?”
“Hard to say. I certainly don’t think he’s a nice guy.”
“Given what he has to do, how nice should he be?”
“Good point,” I said. I reached in and keyed the ignition, then turned the radio up loud. If the car was bugged that might help, though I suspected it no longer mattered.
“He’s asking you to take a lot on faith. Secret government organizations, zombies do you feel that he was trying to trick you in some way?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t think he was lying about that. Even so I can’t seem to wrap my head around all this. It’s impossible. It doesn’t fit, it’s all too ” I couldn’t put it into words, so I stared at the day around us. Birds sang in the trees, crickets chirped, kids laughed on the swings.
Rudy followed my gaze. “You find it hard to believe in those things when you can stand here and see this?”
I nodded. “I mean I know it was real because I was there, but even so I don’t want it to be real.” He said nothing and after a moment I hit him with another bomb. “Church said he’d read my psych evaluations.”
Rudy looked like I’d slapped him. “He didn’t get them from me.”
“How do you know? If he’s on the same level as Homeland you could be bugged and monitored out the wazoo.”
“If I get so much as a whiff of violation-”
“You’ll what? Raise a stink? File a lawsuit? Most people never do. Not since 9/11. Homeland counts on it.”
“Patriot Act,” he said the way people say “hemorrhoids.”
“Terrorism’s a tough thing to fight without elbow room.”
He gave me an evil glare. “Are you defending an intrusion into civil liberties?”
“Not as such, but look at it from the law enforcement perspective. Terrorists are fully aware of constitutional protections, and they use that to hide. No, don’t give me that look. I’m just saying.”
“Saying what?”
“That everyone thinks this is an either/or situation and it’s more complicated than that.”
“Patient records are sacred, amigo.” He only ever calls me that when he’s pissed.
“Hey, don’t jump on me. I’m on your side. But maybe you should consider the other side’s point of view.”
“The other side can kiss my-”
“Careful, bro, this whole car could be bugged.”
Rudy leaned close to the car and said, loudly and distinctly, “Mr. Church can kiss my ass.” He repeated it slowly in Spanish. “?Besa mi culo!”
“Fine, fine, but if you get disappeared don’t blame me.”
He leaned back and gave me a considering look. “I’m going to do three things today. First, I’m going to go over every square inch of my office and if I find anything out of place, any hint of violation, I’m going to call the police, my lawyer, and my congressmen.”
