Last Man Standing (19 page)

“Maybe!” Web shot back. “I want to know who leaked information to Julie Patterson. I thought the Charlie Team inquiry was
supposed to be confidential. How the hell did she know what I said to the investigators?”

Winters looked at Bates in disgust. “Bates, you were this guy’s mentor. How the hell did you foul it up so bad?” He looked
back at Web. “There are a bunch of different guys looking into this thing. Don’t act like a virgin and be surprised when something
slips, particularly to a wife who wants to know what the hell happened to her husband. You lost your head, Web, and you screwed
up, and it’s not like it’s the first time.”

“Look, I walk out my door and get mobbed, and my own guys not lifting a hand to help me. People were punching me, screaming
accusations in my face. I did what anybody would’ve done.”

“Show him what he’s done, Bates.” Bates quietly went over to a TV sitting in the corner. He picked up the remote and punched
some buttons. “Compliments of the media department,” Winters added. The tape started to run and Web was looking at the inside
of the church during the memorial service. Specifically, he was watching Julie Patterson rubbing her childless belly, screaming
at him, spitting in his face, slapping him with all her strength. And him just standing there silently taking it. His statement
about having done all he could was mysteriously absent, or at least couldn’t be heard. On the tape all he said to Julie was,
“I’m sorry.” It made Web look like he had pulled the trigger on Lou Patterson himself.

“And that’s not the best part,” said Winters, who rose and snatched the remote from Bates. He hit the device and Web watched
as the scene outside his house ran across the TV. It had been craftily edited such that the atmosphere of the mob scene was
gone, the edges of the camera shots crisp and narrow. The individual reporters were depicted as being tough—pushy, even—but
polite, professional in every way. The one fellow Web had slugged looked particularly heroic, not even bothering to hide his
bloodied nose but going on about his business of introducing the madness the viewer was about to see. And then there was Web
looking like a rabid animal. He was screaming, cursing and then he raised his gun. The film speed made him almost appear to
pull the gun in slow motion so that it seemed deliberate, controlled and not a man fighting for his life. There were some
chilling cinematographic moments too of neighbors running with their children, escaping from this mad fiend. And then there
was Web standing alone. Cold, hard, as he put the gun away and walked calmly from the chaos
he
had caused.

Web had never seen anything so slick outside a Hollywood movie. He looked sadistic, evil, the man with the Frankenstein face.
The camera had gotten several close-ups of the damaged skin, yet with no mention of how he had come by such injuries.

Web shook his head and looked at Winters and said, “Damn it, that’s not how it happened. I’m not Charlie Manson.”

Winters bristled. “Who cares if it’s the truth or not! Perception is everything. Now that’s running on every TV station in
town. And it’s hit the national pipe too. Congratulations, you’re a breaking news story. The director flew back from a high-level
meeting in Denver when he was briefed on this. Your ass is in the fire, London, in the fire.”

Web slumped in a chair and said nothing. Bates sat across from him and tapped a pen against the table.

Winters stood in front of him, his hands clasped behind his back. To Web, it seemed the guy was really enjoying this.

“Now, you know that the Bureau’s SOP in responding to something like this is to do nothing. We’ve followed the ostrich-head-in-the-sand
before. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t, but the higher-ups like the passive tactic. The less said, the better.”

“Bully for them. I’m not asking the Bureau to do jack-shit on my behalf, Buck.”

Bates picked up the conversation. “No, Web, we’re not taking this lying down. Not this time.” Bates ticked the points off
on his fingers. “First, the media relations guys are putting together a highlight film of our own. The world right now thinks
you’re some sort of psycho. They’re going to find out you’re one of the most decorated agents we have. We’re issuing press
releases detailing all of that. Second, although he wants to strangle you right now, Buck here is holding a televised press
conference at noon tomorrow to clearly state what an outstanding agent you are, and we’re going to run our highlight film
in all its glory. And we’re going to release some details of what happened in that alley that will damn sure demonstrate that
you didn’t turn and run but managed single-handedly to take out enough fire-power to wipe out an Army battalion.”

Web said, “You can’t do that while the investigation is still going on. You could blow some leads.”

“We’re willing to take the risk.”

Web looked over at Winters. “I don’t give a damn what these people say about me! I know what I did. And what I don’t want
is to do anything to jeopardize finding who wiped out my team!”

Winters placed his face a couple of inches from Web’s. “If I had my way, your ass would already be gone. But to some in the
Bureau you’re kind of a hero, and the decision has been made that we’re going to bat for you. Believe me, I argued against
it, because from a PR point of view it doesn’t really help the Bureau, it’s just to make you look good.” He glanced at Bates.
“But your friend here won that battle.”

Web looked in surprise at Bates.

Winters continued, “But not the war. And I’m not looking to make you some damn martyr.” Winters glanced at Web’s damaged face.
“A disfigured martyr. Now Perce is going to take you through the Bureau’s little dog-and-pony show that we’re doing to clean
up your mess. I’m not going to stay for that, because it would make me nauseous. But listen up, London, and you listen really
good. You’re hanging by a thread right now, and I’d love nothing better than to cut that string. I’ll be watching you so close
I’ll be able to count every one of your breaths. And when you screw up, and you will, then the hammer comes down and you are
gone for good, and I’ll smoke me the biggest damn cigar I can find. Is that clear?”

“Yeah, a lot clearer than your orders at Waco were.”

Winters straightened up and the two men stared intently at each other.

Web said, “I always wondered, Buck, how come you were the only one in the chain of command—excuse me, the chain of
chaos
—that didn’t get his career path cut off for that mess. You know, while I was sitting out there on sniper duty a couple of
times I actually thought you were working for the Branch Davidians because of all the dumb-shit decisions you made.”

Bates said sharply, “Web, shut your damn mouth.” He looked anxiously at Winters. “I’ve got it from here, Buck.”

Winters stared at Web for several more seconds and then headed to the door, but he looked back. “If I had my way, there wouldn’t
be an HRT, and I’m going to have my way yet. And guess who’ll be the first son of a bitch to go? How’s that for chain of command!”

Winters shut the door and Web let out a big breath he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding. And then Bates got right in his
face. “I put my neck out for you, called in every chit I’ve ever earned at the Bureau and you almost screwed it up, taking
on Winters like that. Are you really that big a damn idiot?”

“I guess I must be,” Web answered defiantly. “But I didn’t ask for any of this. The press can strip me clean, but nothing,
nothing is going to mess up the investigation.”

“You’re going to give me a coronary, you really are.” Bates finally calmed down. “Okay, here are your marching orders. You’re
going to lay low for a while. Don’t go home. We’ll get you a car from the motor pool. Head out somewhere and stay there awhile.
The Bureau will foot the bills. We’ll communicate via your secure cell phone. Check in regularly. As bad as you looked on
the tube right now, you’ll look just as good when we tell our side. And if I find you anywhere near Buck Winters during the
next thirty years, I will personally shoot you myself. Now get out of here!” Bates went to the door, but Web remained sitting.

“Perce, why are you doing all this? You’re taking a big risk standing up for me.”

Bates studied the floor for a few moments. “This is gonna sound sappy, and maybe it should, but anyway it’s the truth. I’m
doing this because the Web London I know has risked his life for this agency more times than I can remember. Because I’ve
watched you lying in a hospital room for three months not sure if you were going to make it. You could’ve retired then with
full pay, gone out on top. Gone fishing or whatever the hell it is retired FBI do. But you came back and got in the line of
fire again. I don’t know many guys that have ever done that.” He drew a long breath. “And because I know what you did in that
alley even if the rest of the world doesn’t. But they’re going to damn sure know it, Web. There aren’t many heroes left anymore.
But you’re one of them. That’s all I’m going to say about it. And don’t you ever, ever ask me again.”

The man walked out and left Web to contemplate another side of Percy Bates.

I
t was almost midnight and Web was on the move. He was climbing over fences and sneaking through neighbors’ yards. The goal
tonight was a simple if absurd one. He had to break into his
own
home through a rear window because the media were still moored out front waiting to board him. And then sink him. Two uniformed
Bureau security officers were there too, backed up by a Virginia state police cruiser, its blue waggle lights slicing through
the darkness. Web hoped there would be no more mobs, no more riots. So long as no one spotted him climbing in his own bathroom
window, that is. Then all bets were off.

Web quietly packed a duffel in the dark, threw in some extra rounds of ammo, some other pieces of equipment that he thought
might come in handy, then crawled back out. He cleared the fence and slipped back into his neighbor’s yard and then stopped.
He opened the duffel, pulled out a battery-operated ambient light monocular that made the dark look as clear as day, albeit
with a greenish tint, and looked through it. He surveyed the army camped outside his house and focused the magnifier for a
better look. All those people whose sole purpose in life right now was to get any possible dirt and damn the truth made Web
decide that paybacks, however small, should be taken when the opportunity arose. And right now he could use a generous fix.
Web pulled out a flare gun, loaded in a cartridge, aimed the weapon to the sky at a spot right over the top of this fine group
of people and fired. The flare sailed upward, exploded and lit the heavens a brilliant yellow. Web watched through his monocular
as the pack of fine, exemplary people looked up with fearful eyes and then ran screaming for their lives. It truly was the
little things that made life so sweet: long walks, rain showers, puppies, scaring the crap out of a bunch of sanctimonious
reporters.

He jogged back to the Crown Vic that Bates had arranged for him and drove off. Web stayed that night at a dump motel off Route
One in south Alexandria where he could pay in cash, no one bothered him and the only room service was the McDonald’s bag you
brought with you or the soda and snack machine chained to a graffiti-stained support column outside his room. He watched TV
and ate his cheeseburger and fries. The he pulled out from his duffel his bottle of pills and swallowed two of them. He fell
into a deep sleep and for once nightmares didn’t rouse him from it.

E
arly on a Saturday morning, Scott Wingo navigated his wheelchair up the ramp and unlocked the door to a four-story nineteenth-century
brick building that housed his law office. Divorced, with grown children, Wingo had a thriving criminal defense practice in
Richmond, the city of his birth, where he had remained his whole life. Saturdays were a time for him to go into the office
and not be bothered by pealing phones, clacking keyboards, harassed associates and demanding clients. Those pleasantries were
left for during the week. He went inside, made a pot of coffee, spiked it with his favorite Gentleman Jim bourbon and rolled
his way to his office. Scott Wingo and Associates, Counselors at Law, had been a Richmond institution for almost thirty years.
During that time Wingo had gone from being a sole practitioner working out of an office the size of a closet, basically defending
anyone with enough cash to pay him, to head of a firm with six associates, a full-time PI and a support staff of eight. As
the sole shareholder of the firm Wingo pulled down seven figures in a good year, and even mid-six money in bad times. His
clients had also grown more substantial. For years he had resisted taking on the drug people, but the cash flow was undeniable
and Wingo had wearied of seeing far inferior attorneys drawing down those dollars. He comforted himself with the knowledge
that anyone, regardless of what heinous thing he had done, deserved a competent—even inspired—defense.