Judas Horse_ An FBI Special Agent Ana Grey Mystery - April Smith [118]
Megan and Sara are down in the basement with the cats, while Stone, McCord, and I sit around a table littered with cereal bowls and used cups as the kitchen warms to medium rare in the midday sun. Already we look like renegades, haggard and rank. Sometime after noon, an armored robotic vehicle crawls across the yard and delivers a throw phone to the front steps.
“All we’re asking is to talk,” says a new voice on the bullhorn. “Please open the door and take the phone. We guarantee your safety.”
Through a swollen lip, I offer to open the door and retrieve the phone.
“You know what this will become,” says Stone. “A slow, protracted crisis-negotiator scenario.”
“What’s the alternative?”
In answer, McCord slaps the battered aluminum suitcase down on the table.
“They send in counterterrorist assault teams trained for close combat,” he says. “They move fast and use extreme violence. They know it’s just you and me. For them, it’s a walk in the park.”
McCord unsnaps the suitcase and opens the lid. Stone and I both gasp. The case is custom-fitted with a collection of handmade weapons I have never seen before except in kung-fu movies: double-bladed knives, with one curved blade and one straight; throwing stars like giant jacks with lethal barbs, meant to blind an enemy in pursuit; miniature razor-sharp scythes.
Stone has his arms crossed and is chuckling again.
“Special Ops?”
“Delta Force. Now I do it for money.”
It is my turn to reel, unable to make sense of it. “You’re a mercenary?”
“We don’t particularly like that word. I am a soldier for hire by a private military company. Outsourcing, ma’am. We run every war that’s taking place in the world right now.”
“Were you in Pakistan? I’ve seen those there,” muses Stone, pointing to a machete with a rawhide-laced grip.
“Peshawar.”
“I was, too. Many years ago.”
“We must have people in common.”
“Are you two going to start exchanging recipes now?” I say sardonically.
“What’s your problem, Ana Grey?” Stone loves to taunt me with the name.
I stare hard at McCord. “I don’t like being lied to is all.”
Stone guffaws and the so-called cowboy hides a smile. I am furious with the pretender, and the attraction that I felt for him, but why should it matter? He is just another player in this depressing endgame.
“You’re a hired killer!”
“First of all, I never fight for Communists,” McCord explains pleasantly. “Second, it’s not like being a hired gun in the Old West. Some guys are trigger-happy, but they don’t last. The long-timers know how to protect the client’s interests without the use of force. There’s always the fine art of negotiation. But I wasn’t lying to you, ma’am.”
“How is that?”
“I believe I did say that I am a professional wrangler. I was raised with cutting horses in Kerrville, Texas. And that’s the truth.”
“Meaning what?”
He shrugs. “Nothing to hide is all.”
“You can hide in plain sight,” I snap.
“This is the FBI. Please take the phone into the house. It is very important that we contact former agent Dick Stone.”
Stone has been sitting calmly, hands on knees.
“I’ve decided to talk to them. I have only one demand. If they give me what I want, this will resolve. If they don’t, this will be the worst day in the history of the FBI.”
That’s what David Koresh said before the siege at Waco. And he was right.
“You,” orders Stone. “Miss Secret Agent. Get on the phone.”
McCord: “What do you want me to do?”
“Hang tight. There will be compensation.”
Without a flicker, McCord says, “Good enough,” and snaps the suitcase shut.
Stone stays close as I call 911 on the house phone and ask to be connected to the sheriff’s department.
“This is Special Agent Ana Grey with the FBI. I’m inside the farmhouse.”
“How many with you? Is anyone hurt?”
“We demand to talk to the lead negotiator.” I hold Stone