Backfire

that judge? Even though her brain visits Disneyland a lot of the time, Charlene realizes Judge Hunt is a no-go for now. She’s willing to let the judge lie in bed, suffer for his sins. She’s going to kill another man she blames for her son’s death, and that’s Agent Savich, your husband. Talk about hate, Charlene lives for it. I don’t think she can live without it. She seriously wants him dead.”

Sherlock’s vision blurred, and her heart stuttered. She felt Xu’s hand touch her hair. “A pity this pretty hair will be covered with your blood and your brains soon. Say good-bye to your hubby, if you want. You think Charlene’s telling him right now to say good-bye to you?”

Savich was leaning against the corridor wall, a couple dozen feet from the guards outside Ramsey’s room, speaking on his cell to Jimmy Maitland at the Hoover Building. Maitland put him on hold to connect him to the director, who wanted a status report directly from Savich. Great, Savich thought, and what am I going to say? All I can tell you, sir, is that everyone you’re worried about is still alive and at large, but there are lots of dead people, too, one of them a doctor who never hurt anyone in his life, and one a young kid who loved video games and worked with his mom in a motel.

As he waited, Savich decided that as soon as he finished his attempt at raising Director Mueller’s spirits he would put an extra guard on Emma. They had kept Sean safe from Charlene, and he would make sure she couldn’t turn her attention to Emma. At least right now, she was safe in her father’s hospital room.

He’d just finished giving Director Mueller a rundown when a skinny tech came slouching toward him in a long white coat and high-top sneakers. He had thick blond hair on the long side, and a stethoscope around his neck. Savich registered in that second that something wasn’t right. Despite all that blond hair, the guy was older than he’d originally thought, lots older. The man looked at his watch, and Savich saw his wrist. It wasn’t a man’s wrist.

He wasn’t fast enough. The man already had his gun jammed into Savich’s side.

He leaned close. “No, Agent Savich, I don’t think you want to do much more than breathe and accept that your trip through life is coming to a dramatic end. Long overdue, I’d say.”

Savich didn’t move. He said, “Hello, Charlene. Pretty good disguise, except that all that hair doesn’t match how old you are. Why didn’t you wear a white wig?”

The gun shoved hard into his side. “Smart mouth on you, but you’re right, I could have done better than this wig, but I didn’t have much time. Turns out it didn’t make a lick of difference, now, did it? I might be older than you, baby boy, but I’ve got lots of experience handling punks like you.”

“No,” Savich said, “I don’t think you do.”

She gave a low laugh as she jerked his SIG out of his belt clip and slipped it into her coat pocket. “Now, don’t you move or you’re dead where you stand.” She leaned closer. “I can tell you want to have a go at me. I read all about your martial arts demos and how everyone oohs and aahs over you, but you move a muscle and I’ll shoot you, and then I’ll kill those guards in front of Judge Hunt’s room, then all the nurses down at the nurses’ station. If one of the guards shoots me, who cares? I don’t.” The gun jammed hard again against his kidney. Savich didn’t make a sound, even though the shot of pain nearly sent him to his knees.

“Now, you and I are going to take a little walk to the stairs at the end of the corridor. We’re going to walk up those stairs to the roof. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I decided I’d like to see you do a lovely swan dive from seven floors up.”

She moved behind him, kept the gun pressed into the small of his back. “Don’t forget, I can pull this trigger faster than you can do any of your fancy kicks. You’re real quiet, aren’t you? You’re thinking about going for it? Be my guest. At the very least you’d be strapped in a wheelchair for the rest of your days. That’d be okay, but I’d rather see you lying splattered on the ground seven floors down. You wanna know something really ironic?”

“Yes.”

“Your little wife is enjoying herself with Joe Keats—you call him Xu, I think. Only he doesn’t look like Xu right now. No, he’s a butt-ugly scrub nurse with lots of black hair and glasses. I even put some lipstick on Joe, stuffed his cheeks to fatten them up, strapped a pillow around his middle, smeared on some eye shadow. Think it’ll fool your little wife?”

Savich lost the spit in his mouth. No, Harry will take care of Sherlock. No one’s going to get past Harry, but Harry isn’t expecting Xu. No, let it go, focus. You’ve got to get out of this alive before you can get to Sherlock. Pay attention.

“Yep, Joe called me a few minutes ago. He should have her away from her guard by now, and in a couple of minutes we’re going to hear a big honker boom—this floor’s going to turn to dust and ashes. That will roust and rumble all your buddies, make them think Judge Hunt’s under attack. Joe’s good with bombs. Then Joe and I are going to walk away.

“Hey, I wonder if she’s bitten the big one yet? He was stone-cold pissed that she brought him down since she’s half his size, not to mention she’s a woman. She humiliated him. Joe told me a professional has to take pride in his work or he isn’t worth spit. She stomped on his pride. A man like Joe shouldn’t have to suffer humiliation like that unless he’s as mean as a snake like that vicious bastard of a husband I had to shoot in the face—” She paused, shook her head. Stop it, shut your mouth. He doesn’t need to know all this, STOP IT.

She snapped back and focused. “For what you did you deserve this. I’d say that sounds real good, don’t you? Has a real ring to it. Killing you is going to beat shooting that judge who murdered my boy, because you’re the one who made it happen. Keep walking. Up the stairs, boy. Move out.”

A nurse called out, “Agent Savich, wait a moment. Judge Hunt asked to speak to you.”

Savich saw the gun jerk in her hand and wondered if he or the nurse would be dead before he could answer her.

A toilet flushed. Both Xu and Sherlock froze. The stall door opened, and a hugely pregnant woman squeezed out the stall door. She was pulling out earbuds blasting the end of Barenaked Ladies. “Twins,” she said. “Isn’t that —”

She saw Sherlock, saw the gun, saw the ugly guy who was dressed like a woman and a nurse, and she opened her mouth and screamed as loud as she could, and didn’t stop. Xu’s gun jerked toward the woman. Sherlock pivoted, brought up her knee hard in his crotch, and slammed her fisted hands down on his wounded arm as the bathroom door burst open and Harry came flying through.

The woman didn’t stop screaming, she kept it up, a lovely ear-splitting blast, but those screams were lovelier than the “Hallelujah Chorus” to Sherlock. Xu was trying to raise his arm from the floor to shoot Sherlock or the pregnant woman or Harry, she didn’t know which. She kicked him in the head and stomped her boot heel down on his hand, heard the bones crack. The Beretta clattered across the linoleum. Xu was cursing her, an odd mixture of Mandarin and English, and she kicked him in the ribs.

Harry fell to his knees beside Xu, turned him on his stomach, and grabbed his hair, only to have it come off in his hand. Xu’s hand came out of his pocket fast, a knife clutched in his fingers. He slashed out at Harry once and again, trying to break free. Harry wanted to kill him, wanted it very much, but instead he jumped back and raised his SIG. “Xu, if you don’t throw that knife away and put your hands on your head I will shoot you in one second.”

Xu froze. He didn’t release the knife.

“You die holding a knife, that’s rich.” Harry brought his SIG down against Xu’s face. “Hey, you got another flash bang with you?” Harry smiled. “Three, two—”

Xu let the knife fall. Harry kicked it against the counter. Harry was cuffing Xu as Sherlock grabbed her cell and