Truth or Die(31)
Without breaking stride, he grabbed a twenty-five-pound barbell off a rack and heaved it dead center into the boom box, a perfect strike that shattered the cheap molded plastic into a hundred pieces. The gym immediately fell silent, save for the lingering echo of Lars Ulrich's drumbeats.
Then, as patiently as possible for a man desperate to save his career, Karcher waited until every set of eyes was looking directly at him. He scratched the chin underneath his oversized head before folding his arms, his deep voice filling the room until there was no escape, not for anyone.
"Okay, he barked. "Who's the toughest motherfucker here?"
CHAPTER 80
THERE WERE no takers, no volunteers.
This, despite the fact that membership in this particular gym was predicated on being a badass, and being proud of it.
A smart badass, though. Someone not prone to unnecessary risk or exposure, or, at the very least, someone who knew a trick question when he heard one.
Karcher glanced around amid the deafening silence, making sure to lock eyes with the dozen or so men in the room. He was giving each and every one of them his live-grenade look, the full-on crazy, the kind of batshit stare that could make Charles Manson himself step back and say, "Hey, man, whoa … chill out."
But Karcher was only getting started.
Slowly now, he made his way over to the largest agent in the room, a brick wall with a buzz cut who was sitting on the bench press between sets. The veins rippling up and down each arm looked like maps of the DC Metrorail.
"Do you know who I am?" Karcher asked, almost politely. The young agent nodded. "Yes."
Karcher's face immediately soured. So much for polite. "Then stand the fuck up when I'm talking to you."
The agent stood. He had four inches on Karcher, easy. But right then, right there, he hardly seemed taller.
"What's your name?" asked Karcher.
"Evans, sir."
"Was I ever here today, Evans?"
"No, sir."
"Were any of us here today?"
"No, sir."
"So none of it ever happened, right?"
The agent, Evans, blinked a few times. Confusion in his eyes. None of what? What's about to happen?</ol>
Regardless, his answer wasn't about to change. "No, sir," he said. "It never happened."
Karcher leaned in, his big head getting right in Evans's grill. "I'll tell you what definitely did happen," he said. "The three-some I had with your mother and another whore last night."
Evans cracked a slight smile. He'd hardly be in the CIA, let alone the Special Activities Division, if he'd taken the bait.
But this heap of chum was pushing things.
"Your mom's quite the moaner," Karcher continued. "You want to hear what she sounds like? Do you? Do you?"
Evans dropped the smile, his jaw tightening, his fists balling. He shifted his feet, if only to give himself something else to do besides decking Karcher, who was far from finished.
"You're just going to stand there and take it, Evans? Huh? Like your mother did on her hands and knees? What kind of a pussy are you, Evans? You don't want to take a swing at me? C'mon, boy, take a swing at me!"
As if that invitation weren't open enough, Karcher stuck out his chin. He waited … waited … waited … before finally shaking his head in disgust.
"Yeah, I didn't think so," he said.
Neither did anyone else in the gym. A couple of the other guys even let out audible sighs of relief as Karcher turned to walk away. Only, he wasn't walking away.
He was winding up.
Karcher spun around and threw his first punch like he was throwing a javelin, thrusting the flat of his knuckles square into Evans's solar plexus. The bigger they are …
The young agent fell to his knees, immediately gasping for air that he no longer had. He was defenseless and teed up like a Titleist as Karcher began swinging, hitting him over and over and over in the face, the blood rupturing from his nose and mouth.
C'mon, you idiots, what are you waiting for? Stop watching me and do something. Get in here!
The group inertia from the initial shock wore off, the other agents collapsing on Karcher to pull him away from Evans. Karcher feigned a struggle, trying to break free from all the sets of hands holding him back.
But he wasn't looking for peacemakers.
"That's right, protect your boy, Evans!" Karcher shouted. "You probably all wipe each other's asses, too. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if-"
Pow!
The punch came out of nowhere, as did the guy who threw it-a Hispanic agent with a shaved head who couldn't have been more than five-eight while standing on his toes.
"Martinez, no!" someone shouted.
A couple of the other agents let go of Karcher so they could hold back Martinez, or try to. Martinez pushed them away, one after the other, and resumed going after Karcher, unleashing a barrage of right jabs until the skull-and-bones tattoo on the inside of his wrist became a blur.
Everyone backed away now. There was no stopping Martinez. Karcher fell to one knee and then both, his head whipping back and forth with each punch until finally he collapsed, his blood-soaked face hitting the ground with a nauseating squish.
Martinez loomed over him, like Ali over Liston, daring him to get up for more. But Karcher had no such plans. He'd gotten what he'd come for.
Martinez had just owned him in a fight. But now he owned Martinez forever.
Winner, winner, chicken dinner …
CHAPTER 81
"MY NAME'S Trevor Mann," I told the guy in the black suit who opened the front door. He looked far more bodyguard than butler. "I believe Mr. Brennan is expecting me."
"He is," I was told with a nod that somehow managed to be both deferential and disinterested at the same time. "He's out back. I'll take you."
Great, you do that. Just so long as you don't frisk me first.
As much as I didn't really think that was a possibility, I wasn't a hundred percent sure of anything. The guy's boss, Josiah Brennan, didn't head up one of the most powerful-and profitable-law firms in DC based on his good looks and Southern charm alone, although those certainly didn't hurt his cause.
To read anything about this self-described "good ol' boy from Tennessee" was to know that when he was done slapping your back, he was just as capable of putting a knife in it. And not just figuratively speaking.
Which pretty much explained the Glock in my shin holster.
Had Brennan already been tipped off? Did he know the truth about me? Or did he buy the lie?
I walked behind his henchman-all six foot six of him, if I had to guess-through the front-to-back foyer the size of a cathedral. Along the way, I did my best to get the lay of the land without being too obvious. A quick peek down a hallway here, a slight crane of the neck there. When the moment was right, I could ill afford to be wasting time in the wrong rooms.</ol>
"Very cozy," I joked, my voice practically echoing.
Mr. Henchman smirked, opening a pair of oversized French doors to the backyard. "This way," he said. "Follow me."
Trust me, Lurch, I was following you before I even knew who you were … .
For the past seventy-two hours, tucked away in the Comforter Motel near Arcola with $9.95-a-day Wi-Fi, Owen and I had done our best Woodward and Bernstein, taking Deep Throat's advice from the moment we'd left the late Dr. Wittmer's house.
Follow the money.
Not that the trail was easy. Tracing the title of the lab where Wittmer picked up the serum required a little more than a field trip to public records at city hall.
Whoever owned it didn't want anyone to know. Check that … they really didn't want anyone to know. The tangled web of trusts and LLCs was chock-full of misdirection and red herrings, not to mention the kind of firewalls designed to keep the most serious hackers on the sidelines.
Of course, there's serious … and then there's Owen. After a while, I simply stopped asking "How did you do that?"
From Georgetown to Delaware to the Channel Islands to a different bank in the Channel Islands and then back to Delaware, the money moved like a carousel, around and around.
But one thing stayed the same. Brennan's law firm.
What was more, Brennan had personally drafted all the LLC agreements, including all filings with the state, the most boilerplate of legal documents. That was like hiring Mario Batali to heat up some Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs for you. In a word, overkill.
Or maybe for a White House chief of staff taking no chances, just the right amount of kill.
Problem was, we were still missing that proverbial smoking gun: something that directly linked Brennan to Clay Dobson or whoever else owned that lab behind M Street.
Owen had hacked Brennan's law firm's network to no avail. Now the question was whether Brennan had a personal computer at home.
Good thing my face had healed, because it was time for my close-up.
I was on.
CHAPTER 82
HEY, ROOKIE, look out for the left hook!
During my first year with the Manhattan DA's office, when I was as green as a plate of peas, the chief assistant district attorney-a former Golden Gloves welterweight champion from Jersey City-used to put up his fists and bark that at me before the start of every trial. In other words … expect the unexpected.
"Watch your step," warned Mr. Henchman.
"I'm sorry, what?"
The guy pointed to the ground as we walked through the French doors. "The drop-off," he explained.