Last Man Standing

“So his story is he got set up to feed us bad intel. Out went the files and in came the guns?” said Web.

“Something like that. It was a short time fuse. Cove said he was in the building shortly before you guys hit it. He thought he’d infiltrated a big-time drug op.”

“Perce, I’m not looking to tell you how to do your job, but the smart thing may be to bring him in. With his cover blown, he sounds like he needs protection.”

“Cove can take care of himself. And he can do more on the outside. In fact, he might be getting close to a big-time drug supplier.”

“That I don’t care about. All I want are the guys who set us up.”

“That’s just it, Web, they might be one and the same.”

“Well, that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Why would a drug supplier want to have the Bureau coming after them loaded for bear?”

“There could be any number of reasons. Paybacks, to keep distributors in line. Even to set up a rival to take the heat and reduce the competition.”

“You let me have a crack at those guys,” said Romano, “and I’ll reduce something, like their life span.”

“So I take it he’s not reporting in regularly,” said Web.

“How’d you know that?” said Bates.

“If he’s really that good, he’ll know that everybody thinks he’s in on it. So he lies low, doesn’t trust anybody and goes about his own investigation, trying to get to the truth before somebody gets him.”

“That’s a pretty good deduction.”

Web said, “Actually, I’m just speaking from experience.”

“Speaking of experience, I finally got a call back from Bill Canfield. I’ve got an appointment to meet him tomorrow at his farm. Care to join me?”

“I said I would. You want to come too, Paulie?”

Bates stared at him. “Are you the same Paul Romano that was with Delta Force and then New York SWAT?”

“There’s only one Paul Romano,” said Romano without a trace of conceit.

“Arafat, huh?”

“Hey, when you want to send the very best . . .”

“Good, consider yourself temporarily reassigned. I’ll talk to your commander.”

Romano looked stunned. “Reassigned doing what?”

“Doing what I tell you to do. See you two tomorrow.”



Web dropped off Romano at home.

Before he got out, Romano said, “Hey, Web, you think this new gig pays more? Angie’s been talking about getting a new washer-dryer and maybe finishing the basement.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t mention anything like that to Angie. You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t pay less.”

Romano shook his head as he got out. “Story of my life.”

Web pulled away and drove aimlessly. He felt miserable about Chris Miller and didn’t envy the people who would have to tell his wife. He hoped Miller didn’t have any kids, but he looked like the kind who would. Damn, there was just too much misery in the world. Finally he decided he needed another dose of old-fashioned police work.

Web took the outer loop of the Capital Beltway around to Interstate 395, headed north and steered the Mercury Bates had gotten for him across the dilapidated Fourteenth Street Bridge that an airplane taking off from National Airport in a snowstorm had actually fallen on years ago. He pointed the car toward an area of town where few law-abiding citizens, other than those who were lost or those who carried a gun and a badge, ever dared venture, especially at this hour.

The scene was a familiar one to Web. It was the same route his squad had followed their last night on earth. Web knew the car and its government plates just screamed “Fed Man,” but he really didn’t care. For an hour he cruised up and down every dead-end street, every alley, every hole in the wall that looked promising. Several times he passed patrol cars that were nosing around looking for trouble, which here was akin to being a cat in an aviary: What you wanted was damn near everywhere.

He was just about to give it up when his gaze caught on the flash of red under a streetlight. He slowed the car, grabbed his trusty binoculars from the bag and got a better look. It was probably nothing, for many wore the do-rag here and many of them were red. Red for blood; even people down here had a sense of purpose and also humor about their work. A few seconds later Web’s pulse kicked to a higher gear. The gent was even wearing the same clothes. A tank shirt over barbell shoulders and shorts below the butt crack. It was his good old neighborhood purveyor of fine crack cocaine and other illegal drugs from the alley where Charlie Team had run its last lap.

Web cut the car’s engine, let the car drift to a stop and quietly got out. He thought about taking his shotgun but then decided his pistol would be enough. It was hard to pounce holding a shotgun. He gripped his pistol and slowly made his way down the street, keeping to the shadows. There was a streetlight under which he had to pass on his way to the kid. Just when he stepped into its pool of light, there came a scream from somewhere. The kid looked up, saw him. Web swore under his breath and took off running.

“Still want to deal on my rifle?” Web called out to him as he hustled forward.

The kid bolted down the alley. Web knew he shouldn’t do it, not even armed, and he stopped. Going down that alley without any backup, he might as well phone in his casket order. It was still a tough decision because Web wanted Bandanna Boy in the worst sort of way. In Web’s connect-the-dots manner of thinking, maybe Bandanna was the one who hit the remote that had activated the laser that had tripped the machine guns that had sent Web’s dearest friends into oblivion. He finally made up his mind. Another night, my friend. And next time I won’t stop until my hands are around your damn neck.

Web turned to go back to his car. That’s when he saw them coming. They seemed in no hurry. There were maybe a dozen of them. Along with their elongated shadows against the brick he saw the array of weapons they were carrying. Cut off from his car, Web ducked down the alley and started running hard. He heard the group behind him do the same.

“Shit,” he said to himself. Could anybody say setup?

The light from the street lamp was quickly left behind and Web could only rely on the presence of some dregs of ambient light from the sky and the sounds of running feet ahead and behind him. Unfortunately, in this high-walled labyrinth the echoes were not reliable guides. Web made lefts and rights until he was hopelessly lost. He turned one last corner and stopped. He imagined half the group had probably headed around to block his escape, though for all he knew he was running in circles. He thought he could still hear them coming, but he couldn’t tell from where. He ducked down another alley and stopped. Listened. Quiet. Quiet he didn’t like. Quiet meant stealth. He looked left, right and then up. Up. Up sounded good. He climbed a nearby fire escape and then froze. The footsteps were close. He soon saw why. Two of them came around the corner. They were tall, lean, with shaved heads and dressed in leather and baggy low-riding prison shuffle jeans and big jailhouse shoes with thick heels they were no doubt just itching to grind into Web’s face.

They halted and looked around. They were directly underneath him. Just like Web had done, they looked left and then right. He figured it would only be a matter of seconds before—as he had done—they looked up. So he swung down and each foot collided with one head and both men slammed into the brick wall. Web landed a little awkwardly, his ankle twisting under him. Since each husky fellow was groaning and attempting to get up, he landed the butt of his pistol against the backs of their necks, and they went down for a long winter’s nap. He grabbed their guns, threw them all into a Dumpster standing nearby and then sprinted off.

He could still hear running feet and also an occasional gunshot. Web didn’t know if it was his pursuers or simply your run-of-the-mill gangbanger dispute that happened around here every night. He rounded another corner and was hit low and hard. The impact knocked him off his feet, and he lost his weapon as he sprawled on the asphalt. He rolled and came up, fists cocked.

Bandanna Boy was standing there, a knife almost as big as he was in hand. He was grinning the same shit-eating grin that he’d had in the alley on the night that Charlie Team had disappeared.

Web noted he held the weapon with some skill. The kid probably had fought a hundred knife fights. He was shorter than Web, yet more muscular, probably quicker. This was to be a classic test of youth against experience. “Well, come on and eat some experience, young man,” muttered Web as he prepared to defend himself.

The kid lunged at Web, whipping the knife blade around so fast Web could hardly follow. Yet he didn’t really have to, because Web executed a loop kick that clipped Bandanna’s legs out from under him and he went down hard. The kid was up quickly, but only in time to take one of Web’s size twelves to the head. With the kid stunned, Web was all over him. He locked down the arm holding the knife and proceeded to break Bandanna’s grip on both the knife and his forearm. With his security of the blade gone and a jagged shaft of his forearm staring him in the face, the kid fled, his cries of pain sweeping the alley with him, and his shit-eating attitude lying next to the knife on the bloody ground. Web shook his own fuzzy head clear and started to stumble over to retrieve his gun. He never made it.

Web could only watch silently as the group of men appeared from all corners, blocking the path to his weapon. They carried sawed-off shotguns and pistols. Web could sense they were all so very happy to see him here, outnumbered as he was ten to one. Web figured he had nothing to lose by taking an aggressive posture. He held out his FBI shield. “I could bust every one of you on weapons charges. But I tell you what, I’m feeling generous and not up to all the paperwork, so you just pack up and go about your business, and we’ll forget about it. For now. But don’t be pulling this shit again.”

Their response was to move forward. Web’s response to that was to move back until he felt the wall behind him, and further retreat and ultimate escape would have to be confined to his imagination. Then two of the crew directly in front of him were tossed to the side so violently it was like gravity had been suspended from underneath them. In this gap Web found himself staring up at the largest man he had ever seen outside a professional football game. The giant was six-foot-six or -seven and if he carried less than four hundred pounds on his frame, Web didn’t know how. He realized that this new antagonist must be the legendary Big F.

The man was dressed in a short-sleeved burgundy-colored silk shirt that was so large Web could have used it for a blanket. Beige linen pants covered long legs that actually looked short, so thick and massive were they. He had on no socks, his bare feet were in suede loafers and his shirt was open to the navel, even though it was only about fifty degrees with a sneaky little breeze that quickly got under one’s skin. His skull had a shadow of fuzz covering it. His facial features matched his great size, with a heavy blob of nose and conical ears, each pierced with about a dozen diamond studs that gleamed impressively even in the poor light.

He wasted no time and strode right up to Web. When Big F reached out to grab a fistful of him, Web delivered a vicious blow to the man’s gut that would have dropped a heavyweight boxer. All he got from Big F was a grunt. Then he lifted Web off the ground, reared back like he was preparing to hurl a shotput and threw the two-hundred-pound Web a good ten feet down the alley. The rest of the gang hooted, cursed and otherwise had themselves a little federal agent ass-kicking party, high-fiving, exchanging growls and knuckle-banging each other with animalistic glee.

Web had not even gotten to his feet before the man was on him again. This time he hooked Web by his belt, lifted him up and sent him sailing into a line of garbage cans. Web came up fast, gagging for air and nauseous with the pounding he was taking. Before Big F could get to him, Web shot forward, lowered his shoulder and laid his very solid frame directly into the man’s gut. Web might as well have slammed himself into a pickup truck, for all the good it did. He dropped to the asphalt without having budged Big F one damned inch. His shoulder felt dislocated. Web got to his feet, feigned being seriously hurt and then exploded with a leaping kick that caught Big F flush on the side of the head. Splotches of blood appeared at the corner of Big F’s ear, and Web noted with satisfaction that he had relieved the man of some of his diamond studs, leaving jagged bits of earlobe in their bloody wake.

Yet Big F was still standing, like one of the brick buildings surrounding them. Web had knocked hundred-pound body bags right off their supports with that kick. How could this be? Well, he had no time really to think about how it could be because Big F, moving faster than a man his size should ever have been able to, delivered a forearm the size of a six-by-six to the side of Web’s head that came one dizzying star from knocking him out. A few seconds later, Big F was half carrying and half dragging Web down the alley, his shoes and jacket lost somewhere along the way. His pants were ripped and his legs and arms were bleeding from being dragged over the pavement.

Apparently just for fun, since Web was putting up no further resistance, Big F tossed him headfirst against a Dumpster. This did knock out Web, and he stayed that way until he felt himself being thrown onto something soft. He opened his eyes; it was the interior of the Mercury. He flinched when he saw Big F slam the door and walk away. The guy hadn’t said one word, and Web had never been more humbled in his life. No wonder Granny and Jerome had acted the way they had. Hell, Jerome was probably still running.

Web sat up slowly and felt around for broken bones. When he opened his right hand a paper fluttered out of it. Web saw the numbers and words scribbled on it, looked over in amazement at where Big F had been but was no longer. He put the slip of paper in his pocket, pulled out his keys, revved up the Mercury and burned rubber off the rear wheels getting the hell out of there, leaving behind his jacket, his shoes, his pistol and a big chunk of his confidence.





28




It was early in the morning and Web was soaking in the tub in another crummy motel. Every part of him ached. The long scrapes on his arms and legs burned like there was a branding iron pressed to them. He had a knot on his forehead from where his noggin had met Dumpster and a gash along the good side of his face that probably still had some grains of asphalt inside. Boy, he was aging really well. He should try out for male modeling when he left the Bureau.

The phone rang and Web swung his hand out and snagged it. It was Bates.

“I’ll pick you and your buddy up in an hour at Romano’s house.” Web groaned.

“What’s wrong?” asked Bates.

“Late night. Got a bitch of a hangover.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Web. One hour. Be there or find another planet to live on.” Bates hung up.

Exactly one hour later Bates picked up Web and Romano and they headed to Virginia horse country.

Bates looked at Web’s fresh injuries. “What the hell happened to you?” asked Bates. “You better not have trashed another car, because after the Mercury you’re riding a bicycle.” Bates glanced over at Web’s car parked at the curb.

“I slipped getting out of the bathtub.”

“You did all that getting out of the tub?” Bates clearly did not believe this.

“You know what they say, Perce, most accidents happen at home.”

Bates stared at him for a long moment before deciding not to pursue it. He had a lot of other items on his to-do list.

After an hour’s drive they got off the highway and drove for miles along twisting roads and hairpin curves bracketed by thick woods. They missed a turn somewhere because they ended up on a dirt road barely wide enough for their car. Web looked over at a sagging metal gate and the sign next to it that read, EAST WINDS FARM NO HUNTING, FISHING OR TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW.

East Winds, they knew, was the name of the Canfield farm. They must have come in on the rear side, Web concluded. He smiled as he read the sign. Well, damn, these people meant business; he was shaking with fear. He glanced at Romano, who was looking at the sign and smiling too because he was probably thinking the same thing. The fencing here was low, rail board on post. The place was in the middle of nowhere. “Somebody who knew what they were doing could hop that fence in a second, go to the main house, kill the Canfields and everyone else there, have a drink, watch some TV and no one would probably know until the spring thaw,” opined Romano knowledgeably.

“Yeah, and since murder isn’t one of the offenses listed on the sign,” added Web, “I guess he’d be free from prosecution.”

“Keep that crap to yourself,” growled Bates. However, Web could tell the guy was worried. This place was vulnerable.

They finally found the correct turn and reached the front entrance to East Winds. The gates reminded Web of the ones in front of the White House. And yet with all the exposed property, the big gates were a joke from a security perspective. Above the entrance was an arch of metal scrollwork with the name of the farm written large. And to top it all off, the gates were open! There was a call box, however, and Bates hit the button. They waited and someone finally came on.

“Special Agent Bates with the FBI.”

“Come on up,” said the voice. “Follow the main road and take the first right up to the main house.”

As Bates pulled forward, Web pointed out, “No closed-circuit TV. We could be Charlie Manson and company, for all they know.”

They headed straight. The rolling green land stretched as far as they could see, much of it enclosed by horizontal rail fencing. Large rolls of hay lay in the fields. Off to one side was a small pond. The main road was asphalt and ran straight for a while and then curved right around a swath of towering oak and hickory, with scrub pines wedged between. Through the trees to the right they caught glimpses of an enormous structure.

They finally came to a large two-story stone house with high Palladian windows and broad sliding doors below and topped with a large tin-sheathed cupola patinaed by the elements, with a weather vane of a horse and rider mounted on top. To Web it looked like a color Martha Stewart might try to copyright and then sell to the masses as something far more chic than simple weather rot.

They turned right, away from the carriage house, and passed down a long paved drive. Some of the largest maple trees Web had ever seen were situated in rows on each side of the drive, forming a natural roof of limbs and leaves.

Web looked up ahead and his eyes widened. It was the largest