'My turn, isn't it? I have to get some money first.' The big one reached in his pocket for some keys and turned toward Clark. 'Excuse me, sir, can I help you?' His hand came out of his pocket without any keys.
Clark reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. The right hand inside his overcoat started moving up, but Breckenridge's own right grabbed it like a vise.
'I asked if I could help you, sir,' the Sergeant Major said pleasantly. 'What do you have in that hand?' Clark tried to move, but the big man pushed him against the brick wall.
'Careful, Tom,' Breckenridge warned.
Cummings' hand searched downward and found the metallic shape of a pistol. 'Gun,' he said sharply.
'It better not go off,' the Gunny announced, his left arm across Clark's throat. 'Let the man have it, sonny, real careful, like.'
Clark was amazed at his stupidity, letting them get so close to him. His head tried to turn to look up the street, but the man waiting for him in the car was around the corner. Before he could think of anything to do, the black man had disarmed him and was searching his pockets. Cummings removed the knife next.
'Talk to me,' Breckenridge said. Clark didn't say anything, and the forearm slid roughly across his throat. '
'Get your bloody hands off of me! Who do you think you are?'
'Where you from, boy?' Breckenridge didn't need an answer to that one. The Sergeant wrenched Clark's arm out of the pocket and twisted it behind his back. 'Okay, sonny, we're going to walk through that gate over yonder, and you're gonna sit down and be a good boy while we call the police. If you make any trouble, I'm going to tear this arm off and shove it right up your ass. Let's go, boy.'
The driver who'd been waiting for Clark was standing at the far corner. He took one look at what had happened and walked to his car. Two minutes later he was blocks away.
Cummings handcuffed the man to a chair while Breckenridge established that he carried no identification— aside from an automatic pistol, which was ID enough. First he called his captain, then the Annapolis City police. It started there, but, though the Gunny didn't know, it wouldn't stop there.
15 Shock And Trauma
If Jack had ever doubted that Robby Jackson really was a fighter pilot, this would have cured him. Jackson's personal toy was a two-year-old Chevrolet Corvette, painted candy-apple red, and he drove it with a sense of personal invincibility. The flyer raced out the Academy's west gate, turned left, and found his way to Rowe Boulevard. The traffic problems on Route 50 west were immediately apparent, and he changed lanes to head east. In a minute he was streaking across the Severn River bridge. Jack was too engrossed in his thoughts to see much of anything, but Robby saw what looked like the remains of a Porsche on the other side of the roadway. Jackson's blood went cold as he turned away. He cast the thoughts aside and concentrated on his driving, pushing the Corvette past eighty. There were too many cops on the other side of the road for him to worry about a ticket. He took the Ritchie Highway exit a minute later and curved around north toward Baltimore. Rush-hour traffic was heavy, though most of it was heading in the other direction. This gave him gaps to exploit, and the pilot used every one. He worked up and down through the gears, rarely touching the brakes.
To his right, Jack simply stared straight ahead, not seeing much of anything. He managed to wince when Robby paused behind two tractor-trailers running side by side—then shot up right between them with scant inches of clearance on either side. The outraged screams of the two diesel horns faded irrelevantly behind the racing 'Vette, and Jack returned to the emptiness of his thoughts.
Breckenridge allowed his captain, Mike Peters, to handle the situation. He was a pretty good officer, the Sergeant Major thought, who had the common sense to let his NCOs run things. He'd managed to get to the guard shack about two minutes ahead of the Annapolis City police, long enough for Breckenridge and Cummings to fill him in.
'So what gives, gentlemen?' the responding officer asked. Captain Peters nodded for Breckenridge to speak.
'Sir, Sergeant Cummings here observed this individual to be standing over at the corner across the street. He did not look like a local resident, so we kept an eye on him. Finally Cummings and I walked over and asked if we might be of assistance to him. He tried to pull this on us' — the Gunny lifted the pistol carefully, so as not to disturb the fingerprints—'and he had this knife in his pocket. Carrying a concealed weapon is a violation of local law, so Cummings and I made a citizen's arrest and called you. This character does not have any identification on him, and he declined to speak with us.'
'What kind of gun is that?' the cop asked.
'It's an FN nine-millimeter,' Breckenridge answered. 'It's the same as the Browning Hi-Power, but a different trademark, with a thirteen-round magazine. The weapon was loaded, with a live round in the chamber. The hammer was down. The knife is a cheap piece of shit. Punk knife.'
The cop had to smile. He knew Breckenridge from the department firearms training unit.
'Can I have your name, please,' the cop said to Eamon Clark. The «suspect» just stared at him. 'Sir, you have a number of constitutional rights which I am about to read to you, but the law does not allow you to withhold your identity. You have to tell me your name.'
The cop stared at Clark for another minute. At last he shrugged and pulled a card from his clipboard. 'Sir, you have the right to remain silent… ' He read the litany off the card. 'Do you understand these rights?'
Still Clark didn't say anything. The police officer was getting irritated. He looked at the other three men in the room. 'Gentlemen, will you testify that I read this individual his rights?'
'Yes, sir, we certainly will,' Captain Peters said.
'If I may make a suggestion, officer,' Breckenridge said. 'You might want to check this boy out with the FBI.'
'How come?'
'He talks funny,' the Sergeant Major explained. 'He don't come from here.'
'Great—two crazy ones in one day.'
'What do ya mean?' Breckenridge asked.
'Little while ago a car got machine-gunned on 50, sounds like some kind of drug hit. A trooper got killed by the same bunch a few minutes later. The bad guys got away.' The cop leaned down to look Clark in the face. 'You better start talkin', sir. The cops in this town are in a mean mood tonight. What I'm tellin' you, man, is that we don't want to put up with some unnecessary shit. You understand me?'
Clark didn't understand. In Ireland carrying a concealed weapon was a serious crime. In America it was rather less so since so many citizens owned guns. Had he said he was waiting for someone and carried a gun because he was afraid of street criminals, he might have gotten out on the street before identification procedures were complete. Instead, his intransigence was only making the policeman angry and ensuring that the identification procedures would be carried out in full before he was arraigned.
Captain Peters and Sergeant Major Breckenridge exchanged a meaningful look.
'Officer,' the Captain said, 'I would most strongly recommend that you check this character's ID with the FBI. We've, uh, we had a sort of an informal warning about terrorist activity a few weeks back. This is still your jurisdiction since he was arrested in the city, but…'
'I hear you, Cap'n,' the cop said. He thought for a few seconds and concluded that there was something more here than met the eye. 'If you gentlemen will come to the station with me, we'll find out who Mr. Doe here really is.'
Ryan charged through the entrance of the Shock-Trauma Center and identified himself to the reception desk, whose occupant directed him to a waiting room where, she said firmly, he would be notified as soon as there was anything to report. The sudden change from action to inaction disoriented Jack enormously. He stood at the entrance to the waiting room for some minutes, his mind a total blank as it struggled with the situation. By the time Robby arrived from parking his car, he found his friend sitting on the cracked vinyl of an old sofa, mindlessly reading through a brochure whose stiff paper had become as soft as chamois from the numberless hands of parents, wives,
