through it, her hand bumping against the now soft-sided box of melted spinach.
“What are you doing?”
Edie spared Caedmon a quick, upward glance. “I’m searching for the car keys.”
“Driving your vehicle would be ill-advised.”
Placing her arm over the back of the chair, she twisted her upper body so she could look him in the eye. “You’re kidding, right? The Jeep is our only means of escape.”
“How do you think the gunman found you? I’ll warrant it was no mean guess.”
“Maybe it was an educated guess. And let us not forget about the old lucky guess,” she retorted. Then, realizing how childish she sounded, “Okay, he followed me here. But I can promise you that he won’t be following us when we leave. I know this town like the back of my hand. Trust me, Caedmon. I can get us out of here.”
She watched as he mulled over her proposal. He was tempted; she could see it in his eyes.
“There’s a back service alley one block away at Federal Triangle. If we’re being followed, it’s the perfect place to lose a tail.”
The elevator door opened with a melodic ping . Caedmon backed the wheelchair out of the elevator and turned it toward the Seventh Street lobby, where the scene was almost identical to what they’d witnessed in the rotunda.
Seeing all the hustle and bustle, the mass confusion, the absolute chaos that reigned within the marble-walled space, Edie breathed a sigh of relief.
The end was in sight.
CHAPTER 18
Holding a museum map in front of him, Boyd Braxton rechecked the exits.
He had Sanchez on the Mall exit, Harliss at Constitution, Napier across the street at the East Wing, Agee manning the Fourth Street exit, and Riggins posted at the Seventh Street exit. Experienced war fighters, one and all, each of ’em was equipped with a Ka-Bar knife and two ID photos: one of a dark curly-haired bitch and the other of a tall redheaded bastard. And the best part? To the man, they were decked out in D.C. police uniforms. Given that the National Gallery of Art was swarming with every badge the city could rustle up, no one would give them a second glance.
The op in play, Boyd secured a communications device to his right ear, enabling him to speak to all five of his men. “You’ve got your orders: take out both targets. Edged weapons only. We want this to go down swift, silent, and deadly.”
“Copy that, Boss Man,” Riggins replied, speaking for the group. An expert at close-quarter fighting, Riggins knew how to wield a knife with lethal proficiency. Better yet, he enjoyed wielding a blade. Close-range combat appealed to a particular kind of warrior: the kind who liked to look his victim in the eye when he went in for the kill.
“Okay, boys and girls. Let’s go have some fun,” Boyd said, grinning, confident that this time there would be no more fuck-ups. “And don’t forget . . . we go with God.”
“Amen, brother.” This from Sanchez, a former Army Ranger and Afghanistan vet well experienced in slaying the godless.
As he headed toward the Fourth Street exit, Boyd glanced at the ring he wore on his right hand; the cluster of silver crosses was a constant reminder that he and his men were soldiers in God’s army. Holy warriors not unlike the crusaders of old. The colonel often spoke of the men who, a thousand years ago, went forth to conquer the Holy Land. Hugues of Payens. Godfrey of Bouillon. Yves of Faillon. Boyd felt a kindred link to those knights of old who fought with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other. The sword he had great experience with, having spent fifteen years in the Corps. The Bible was new to him; his old man had not held the Good Book in very high regard. In fact, Joe Don Braxton hadn’t held much of anything except a bottle of Old Crow. And he’d held that damned near every night. Rumor had it there was a half-drunk fifth of bourbon clutched between Joe Don’s thighs the night he drove his Dodge pickup into a stand of poplar
“What are you doing?”
Edie spared Caedmon a quick, upward glance. “I’m searching for the car keys.”
“Driving your vehicle would be ill-advised.”
Placing her arm over the back of the chair, she twisted her upper body so she could look him in the eye. “You’re kidding, right? The Jeep is our only means of escape.”
“How do you think the gunman found you? I’ll warrant it was no mean guess.”
“Maybe it was an educated guess. And let us not forget about the old lucky guess,” she retorted. Then, realizing how childish she sounded, “Okay, he followed me here. But I can promise you that he won’t be following us when we leave. I know this town like the back of my hand. Trust me, Caedmon. I can get us out of here.”
She watched as he mulled over her proposal. He was tempted; she could see it in his eyes.
“There’s a back service alley one block away at Federal Triangle. If we’re being followed, it’s the perfect place to lose a tail.”
The elevator door opened with a melodic ping . Caedmon backed the wheelchair out of the elevator and turned it toward the Seventh Street lobby, where the scene was almost identical to what they’d witnessed in the rotunda.
Seeing all the hustle and bustle, the mass confusion, the absolute chaos that reigned within the marble-walled space, Edie breathed a sigh of relief.
The end was in sight.
CHAPTER 18
Holding a museum map in front of him, Boyd Braxton rechecked the exits.
He had Sanchez on the Mall exit, Harliss at Constitution, Napier across the street at the East Wing, Agee manning the Fourth Street exit, and Riggins posted at the Seventh Street exit. Experienced war fighters, one and all, each of ’em was equipped with a Ka-Bar knife and two ID photos: one of a dark curly-haired bitch and the other of a tall redheaded bastard. And the best part? To the man, they were decked out in D.C. police uniforms. Given that the National Gallery of Art was swarming with every badge the city could rustle up, no one would give them a second glance.
The op in play, Boyd secured a communications device to his right ear, enabling him to speak to all five of his men. “You’ve got your orders: take out both targets. Edged weapons only. We want this to go down swift, silent, and deadly.”
“Copy that, Boss Man,” Riggins replied, speaking for the group. An expert at close-quarter fighting, Riggins knew how to wield a knife with lethal proficiency. Better yet, he enjoyed wielding a blade. Close-range combat appealed to a particular kind of warrior: the kind who liked to look his victim in the eye when he went in for the kill.
“Okay, boys and girls. Let’s go have some fun,” Boyd said, grinning, confident that this time there would be no more fuck-ups. “And don’t forget . . . we go with God.”
“Amen, brother.” This from Sanchez, a former Army Ranger and Afghanistan vet well experienced in slaying the godless.
As he headed toward the Fourth Street exit, Boyd glanced at the ring he wore on his right hand; the cluster of silver crosses was a constant reminder that he and his men were soldiers in God’s army. Holy warriors not unlike the crusaders of old. The colonel often spoke of the men who, a thousand years ago, went forth to conquer the Holy Land. Hugues of Payens. Godfrey of Bouillon. Yves of Faillon. Boyd felt a kindred link to those knights of old who fought with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other. The sword he had great experience with, having spent fifteen years in the Corps. The Bible was new to him; his old man had not held the Good Book in very high regard. In fact, Joe Don Braxton hadn’t held much of anything except a bottle of Old Crow. And he’d held that damned near every night. Rumor had it there was a half-drunk fifth of bourbon clutched between Joe Don’s thighs the night he drove his Dodge pickup into a stand of poplar
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