the casing. It wasn’t as clean as he wanted it—he didn’t have time to recover the stray bullet—but under the circumstances, it would have to do.
He then ducked through the open garage door and slipped away briskly, heading toward his car.
As the wail of the house alarm egged me back to consciousness, I felt my head. My beanie was soaked through on one side, courtesy of a fast-spreading patch of fresh blood. As I dragged myself onto my knees, the internal door to the house swung open and Kirby’s wife stepped into the garage, a handgun clutched in her hand. She screamed “Stan!” as she saw her husband lying dead on the floor, then looked at me and swung the gun at me, her hands shaking.
“What have you done? Stan! Oh my God, Stan?”
I was still on my knees, getting up slowly, my vision blurred, my head pounding, but I raised both hands as defensively as I could.
“Please, don’t shoot. It’s not what it looks like. Please, listen to me. I’m with the FBI.”
Sobs were heaving through her body as her face contorted and went from confusion and fear into wild rage—and I could see she was about to pull the trigger.
I was now on my feet and I faltered back a step, then another, hesitantly, my hands still way up and wide apart.
“Listen to me—”
She looked completely terrified, but one thing I knew was that an adrenalized shot with no aim at all was potentially far more lethal than a considered shot with a wayward aim.
She fired.
The bullet whizzed past my cheek, so close I was sure it took a few skin cells with it.
I wasn’t going to risk a second one. I turned and ducked as I bolted through the garage door, willing my legs back to life.
I staggered toward my car, but quickly had to stop—a neighbor had stepped out of his house and had a phone in his hand. Then I heard the first police siren—coming from the direction I’d parked my rental. The neighbor must have called 911.
I lurched right and changed tack.
I veered off the street and ducked up the driveway of a neighboring house, cutting through to its back yard. I crashed through some bushes and over a patch of grass, heading across two back gardens toward another house at the end of the street, all the windows of which were dark. Within minutes, there’d be a police chopper in the air above me with a search beam sweeping the neighborhood.
I had to get far from here, fast.
I remembered the apartment buildings behind the Lee Highway and the parking lot for the residents beside them. No gates or fences. By now, most of the residents would be home and not going anywhere until morning.
Left hand clutched to my head in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding, I swerved around the house, hoping there weren’t any motion sensors on the property.
At the side of the house, I clambered over a fence, crashing to the ground on the other side as my legs gave way. My vision was still blurring from the concussion and there was blood running into my left eye. I rolled down a steep bank, plowing through seemingly endless lines of bushes as I careened downwards over a thick layer of wood chips, finally coming to a stop against a tree.
My recollection had been accurate. I was lying about a hundred yards from the unsecured parking lot beside the low apartment buildings behind the Lee Highway.
More sirens sounded, no more than a quarter mile away. I shook my head, pulled myself upright and staggered like a wounded animal toward the small lot, already scanning the vehicles for one old enough to be hot-wired.
13
Washington, DC
“Sean. Me again. Just a little heads up, baby—the car’s picking us up in ten minutes. Ten. Minutes. You do remember why we’re here, don’t you? That casual pizza evening at your buddy’s pad on Pennsylvania Avenue? At the . . . where was it, exactly? Oh, yes. I remember now. The White House!” The last three words were more yelled than said. Then, mock-cheerfully: “Call me, sweetie. This better be good.
He then ducked through the open garage door and slipped away briskly, heading toward his car.
As the wail of the house alarm egged me back to consciousness, I felt my head. My beanie was soaked through on one side, courtesy of a fast-spreading patch of fresh blood. As I dragged myself onto my knees, the internal door to the house swung open and Kirby’s wife stepped into the garage, a handgun clutched in her hand. She screamed “Stan!” as she saw her husband lying dead on the floor, then looked at me and swung the gun at me, her hands shaking.
“What have you done? Stan! Oh my God, Stan?”
I was still on my knees, getting up slowly, my vision blurred, my head pounding, but I raised both hands as defensively as I could.
“Please, don’t shoot. It’s not what it looks like. Please, listen to me. I’m with the FBI.”
Sobs were heaving through her body as her face contorted and went from confusion and fear into wild rage—and I could see she was about to pull the trigger.
I was now on my feet and I faltered back a step, then another, hesitantly, my hands still way up and wide apart.
“Listen to me—”
She looked completely terrified, but one thing I knew was that an adrenalized shot with no aim at all was potentially far more lethal than a considered shot with a wayward aim.
She fired.
The bullet whizzed past my cheek, so close I was sure it took a few skin cells with it.
I wasn’t going to risk a second one. I turned and ducked as I bolted through the garage door, willing my legs back to life.
I staggered toward my car, but quickly had to stop—a neighbor had stepped out of his house and had a phone in his hand. Then I heard the first police siren—coming from the direction I’d parked my rental. The neighbor must have called 911.
I lurched right and changed tack.
I veered off the street and ducked up the driveway of a neighboring house, cutting through to its back yard. I crashed through some bushes and over a patch of grass, heading across two back gardens toward another house at the end of the street, all the windows of which were dark. Within minutes, there’d be a police chopper in the air above me with a search beam sweeping the neighborhood.
I had to get far from here, fast.
I remembered the apartment buildings behind the Lee Highway and the parking lot for the residents beside them. No gates or fences. By now, most of the residents would be home and not going anywhere until morning.
Left hand clutched to my head in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding, I swerved around the house, hoping there weren’t any motion sensors on the property.
At the side of the house, I clambered over a fence, crashing to the ground on the other side as my legs gave way. My vision was still blurring from the concussion and there was blood running into my left eye. I rolled down a steep bank, plowing through seemingly endless lines of bushes as I careened downwards over a thick layer of wood chips, finally coming to a stop against a tree.
My recollection had been accurate. I was lying about a hundred yards from the unsecured parking lot beside the low apartment buildings behind the Lee Highway.
More sirens sounded, no more than a quarter mile away. I shook my head, pulled myself upright and staggered like a wounded animal toward the small lot, already scanning the vehicles for one old enough to be hot-wired.
13
Washington, DC
“Sean. Me again. Just a little heads up, baby—the car’s picking us up in ten minutes. Ten. Minutes. You do remember why we’re here, don’t you? That casual pizza evening at your buddy’s pad on Pennsylvania Avenue? At the . . . where was it, exactly? Oh, yes. I remember now. The White House!” The last three words were more yelled than said. Then, mock-cheerfully: “Call me, sweetie. This better be good.
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