The Rescue(110)

“Get back on the door. They didn’t carry a hundred claymores in with them.”

Decker’s voice interrupted them. “Three more, to be precise. The rest of them placed in a lethal arrangement near the door. I’ll let you withdraw your men, but if you return to that door, I’ll have no choice but to kill you.”

“Do as he says,” said Harcourt, turning off the radio and setting it on the table next to his drink.

Decker remained seated at his desk, petting the block of C-4 like it was a cat. For the first time tonight, Harcourt seriously doubted he’d get out of this alive. Decker had completely lost it!

“This is insanity,” said Frist. “He can see and hear into the other room.”

“Not now,” said Harcourt, giving Frist a severe look. “Decker? I thought I had made the consequences clear.”

“You did. Crystal clear—for me. I’m not sure about the rest. Special Agent Reeves. Do you need Mr. Harcourt to clarify anything?”

What did he just say? The camera panned left to a razor-bald black man holding up a badge.

“Supervisory Special Agent Reeves,” said the man. “I think I’ve heard and seen more than enough to have a very interesting discussion with the Department of Justice regarding the Steele case.”

“What is going on here?” said Frist. “Where’s Ross?”

The camera panned back to “Ross,” who pulled the balaclava off his head, revealing someone Harcourt had never seen before.

“Who the hell are you?” said Harcourt.

“Just some computer dude you tried to kill today, bro,” he said in a surfer accent.

Applause broke out in the room behind the twenty-something kid. Murphy rose from the dead to take a bow toward the camera.

“Decker. I don’t know what is happening, but I’m done with the games. You just signed a bunch of death warrants. I don’t need Ross. I have other people who can fulfill that contract. I’ll have two different groups working on it by the time you blast through the first door. Irrevocable.”

“Time to go,” said Pierce.

“I’m being told there’s a small army hunting us down,” said Decker. “Sorry to cut your time short, Senator. Do you have any questions for these two?”

Surely he didn’t mean—

“No. Unfortunately, I’ve heard everything I need to hear,” said Margaret Steele. “Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and a horrible tempest: this shall be the portion of their cup.”

“Margaret,” said Frist. “This is some kind of setup. Harcourt brought me here. I don’t know what the hell is going on!”

The line remained quiet.

“Margaret?” pleaded Frist. “Margaret?”

The feed focused on Harlow, who stared at the screen with a neutral expression, slowly shaking her head.

“I predict tough times ahead, Senator Frist,” said Harlow. “You might want to start making a mental list of the dirty deeds you’ve done for Jacob Harcourt over the years. Might come in handy when you’re going head-to-head with Gunther Ross in the US attorney’s office.”

“Head-to-head with Ross? What are you talking about?” said Frist. “Why would I do that?”

“From what I’ve been told,” she said, “there’s only one plea deal on the table.”

“You just killed everyone you ever knew,” said Harcourt. “All of you are dead.”

“Yeah? Good luck with that,” said Harlow, before nodding at the screen. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Decker. We’d like to see you in one piece again.”

The videoconference screen went blank, and Decker got up from the desk, holding one of the C-4 blocks in his hand. Harcourt reactivated the intercom system connecting the safe room to the study, ready to plead with him, but Decker just stood there for a moment before opening one of the desk drawers and dropping the C-4 inside. He slid the second block in the drawer and shut it.

“Looks like I won’t be needing any of that. Not with Senator Steele quoting Scripture,” said Decker before pointing his rifle at the hidden camera. “The only question now is, which one of you is Judas? My money’s on the good senator.”

The video feed cut out after a single gunshot.

“Decker!” said Harcourt. “Decker!”

A second shot killed the audio.

“What the hell just happened here?” said Frist. “None of this was real. Right?”

Harcourt lifted his glass of scotch off the table, ignoring the ridiculous question. Of course it was real. They were finished. Actually, they were destroyed. Destined to spend the rest of their lives in jail, if they lived long enough to see the arraignment.

“What did he mean by, Which one of us is Judas?” said Frist.

He took a generous pull of his drink, marveling at the velvety-smooth honey and vanilla notes. “Did you tell Margaret you’d be here?”

“Of course not!” said Frist, eyeing his drink.

“Who did you tell?” said Harcourt, downing the rest of the scotch.

“I could use one of those, too,” said Frist, staring at him like he was some kind of errand boy.

Harcourt returned the glass to the table and reached down the side of his leg, lifting the cuff of his wool trouser and drawing a compact pistol from a hidden ankle holster. Without pausing, he pointed the pistol at Frist’s forehead and pressed the trigger, finally erasing that stupid look from his face.