The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [141]
Lionel Beckerman, the security chief, frowned. “What the—”
“A sniper shot out my bedroom window,” Ritter muttered, wringing his hands to bolster his performance. “I saw ropes, and at least two men, perhaps more.” The security man exchanged a quick glance with his colleagues when Ritter stepped over to him. “You have to do something.”
Something flashed across the dark irises of the security man: contempt or understanding, Ritter couldn’t be sure, but his powerful shoulders relaxed. Then the fire alarm tripped.
Beckerman drew his weapon as the security detail sprang alive. “You two, grab an elevator to the top floor.” He turned to a giant by his side. “We’ll take the stairs.” Then he reached to his belt for a flat pad and tapped in a sequence. Light spilling from the outdoor floodlights dimmed when a series of sharp snaps sounded by the entrance doors and steel shutters dropped, effectively sealing the building. “You still carry your locator?”
Ritter lowered the neck of his pullover and showed Beckerman the capsule.
He nodded. “Stay here.”
Here we go. “Could I go into the security room?” Ritter wrung his hands some more for effect.
Beckerman made a feeble attempt to hide a sneer, but it proved too much for him. He nodded and dashed toward the stairs, speaking into the tiny microphone of his earpiece.
Ritter waited until the emergency doors leading to the fire stairs had closed before marching to a wooden door behind the reception desk and standing before it as the overhead camera moved and panned.
The agent who opened the door was in his early twenties and looked sheepish, but Ritter knew it had nothing to do with respect. Instead, it was embarrassment at seeing the mighty security director of the FBH running scared. As Ritter entered a room crammed with screens and recording equipment, his nose twitched at the biting smell; the men had been smoking a joint. In a secure building, that could mean dismissal or, at least, a stiff disciplinary warning.
“Take a seat, sir. You’ll be safe here.”
Ritter eyed the speaker over the youngster’s shoulder—a saturnine man in shirtsleeves toggling a stick to follow two shapes sprinting up the stairs—and, beyond him on the far wall, a steel emergency door. “Thank you.” Then he turned to the agent who had ushered him in. “What’s your name?”
“Sean, sir. Sean Clancy.”
The other agent’s eyes didn’t shift from the screen. Ritter drew his gun, rammed it in the young agent’s belly, reached over, and yanked the weapon from his shoulder holster. In a swift movement he released the clip, threw the pistol into a corner, and shoved the startled man aside. Then he turned to the seated agent. “Don’t do anything silly. We’re on the same side, remember?”
The security officer’s hand hovered in midair as Ritter’s weapon dug into his beefy neck. “Your name?”
“Bob—Robert Fowler.”
After slapping his hand aside, Ritter removed Bob’s weapon, repeated the clip-releasing routine, and sent the gun clacking over the linoleum floor to join the other. Then he nodded to the door on the far wall. “The card.”
Bob didn’t move.
“You’re doing your duty, and I’m proud. But you’re in a bind. I can make your pension vanish in an instant, just by asking.” He lessened the gun’s pressure and leaned over, his lips almost touching Bob’s ear. “On the other hand, I never forget a favor. Someone is gunning for me and I’m not about to stay here or drive around like a sitting duck. Open the fucking door and forget about Beckerman.” He nodded to the screen. “He’ll be mad, but I’ll look after you.”
Bob took a deep breath. “Florida?”
Ritter nodded.
“The boy too?”
“Deal.”
“In my top pocket.”
Ritter fished the plastic between