Political Suicide (5 page)

“Not bad for an Okie,” Morales said, panting to catch his breath after he landed.

“We’re hot, baby,” Townsend said, exuberant. “Hot as a two-fifty revolver.”

ORGAN GRINDER … TWIST AND SHOUT … ALL IN … GUT BLASTER … TWOFER.
Cheering each other on and, when possible, working as a team, the two marines completed the rest of the obstacles with relative ease.

“End of the Line!” a guide shouted, indicating the sign that announced the final obstacle.

Twenty feet up a thick, braided rope, a hand-over-hand dangling traverse for thirty yards, and a rope slide back to the ground, and it appeared the Big Hurt had been beaten.

Quickly, Townsend’s adrenaline rush dissipated. His arms grew heavy, and he felt a cramp working its way into his right calf.

“Townsend … Morales.” Charles Coon strolled over to them and motioned that standing at attention was unnecessary.

It was then Townsend noticed the portable gun rack standing just beyond the major. It held about twenty-five M4A1 assault rifles. The marine knew the gun well. The selective fire weapon used 5.56 mm rounds, and its four-position telescoping stock, slightly larger than the M4, had a distinctive curvature at the end.

“Gentlemen, this is your final test,” Coon said. “There are twenty-five weapons for you to choose from. The target will be over there.” He motioned through a corridor in the woods to a crudely constructed wooden wall, twenty-five yards away

Townsend had heard that the Rangers conducted a stress shoot as part of their training regimen, engaging targets after a grueling run. Maybe taking on the Big Hurt was designed to exhaust their bodies in a similar way.

“Sir, what will we be firing at, sir?” he asked.

“Did I give permission to address me, solider?” Coon barked.

Townsend felt his heart stop, then slowly resume beating again. “Sir, no, sir!” he managed.

The major smiled thinly, a crescent of white appearing between his lips. “Soldier, you are the target,” he said.

“Sir, yes, sir!” Townsend bit back the urge once again to ask for clarification.

Coon continued. “We have loaded five of the guns in this rack with a live round. You do not know which gun has that live round. I do not know which guns have no cartridge. Do you understand?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Townsend and Morales barked.

“You will each pick a gun, and I will fire that weapon at you. I will aim for the outside edge of your left chest wall. If you pick the gun carrying a live round, you will be shot through that spot. I assure you, I am a hell of a marksman, especially with that weapon and those ACO gun sights. My shot will inflict minimal damage so long as you do not move, but there will be medics here to check you over. Understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“Morales, what is the percent probability that within the next minute, you will be struck by a bullet?”

“Sir, twenty percent probability, sir!”

Coon nodded. “Gentlemen, pick a gun, set it in this holder beside me, and take up your position against the wall. Stand next to each other. I want both of you to be ready.”

The men did as they were ordered. Townsend was bleeding and muddy. His bones ached. His skin was mottled and blue with cold. He fought to keep from shivering. Twenty-five yards away, Coon had gotten into a firing position.

The officer gave no warning, no countdown. Townsend kept his eyes fixed forward. He thought the rifle was the one he had chosen, but he could not be certain. He watched as in what seemed like slow motion, Coon pulled the trigger. The soft click was barely audible. Townsend glanced to his right and saw Morales still standing. Coon peered up from his scope and said, “Sergeant Morales, nicely done. You’re dismissed.”

Morales stepped away from the wall while the major switched guns.

Less than one percent,
Townsend was thinking. That was the increased probability of his getting shot.
Less than one percent.
He kept his eyes fixed on the muzzle of the M4A1. Beyond it, he could see the commander press the gun barrel to his shoulder and peer into the scope. He saw the finger move and the trigger being pulled. Then he saw the flash and at virtually the same instant heard a crack that reverberated off the trees and sent more birds flying. The searing pain in his side dropped him to his knees. Still, he resisted clutching the wound.

Townsend struggled to his feet without assistance as Charles Coon studied the tablet computer held by his chief medical officer.

“How did Morales do?” Coon asked.

“His vitals were normal,” the medical officer said. “No elevation in heart rate, muscle tension within normal range, oxygen levels reflected a non-stress state.”

“And you’re sure these patches are transmitting accurately.”

“Absolutely, sir. Each man’s patch broadcasts a unique radio-frequency identification that allows us to monitor their vitals at all stages of the test.”

“What about Townsend?” Coon asked.

“He was no different from Morales,” the medical officer said. “Cool as a cucumber. Even after he got shot, his tracings look pure Mantis.”

“Colonel Brody will be pleased to have these two,” Coon said. “Pleased as Punch.” He was grinning as the next pair of candidates approached.

CHAPTER 6

Emily Welcome, wearing lime green headgear, bobbed about the ring like a buoy in rough seas. Shuffling and dancing across from her, Lou went through the rudiments of defense and the basic punches. The kid was a natural.

No surprise.

Lou had seen his daughter’s athletic prowess evolve from her earliest days chasing butterflies, into a burgeoning passion for running long distances. But this was her first time in a boxing ring, and despite her natural ability, it shocked him to think how easy she was making it look.

Four days had passed since the arrest of Dr. Gary McHugh for the execution-style murder of Congressman Elias Colston. The murder weapon had not been recovered, but teams of divers continued to search the muddy bottom of the icy Pensatuck River. Still, the authorities sounded quite certain that they had their man. Apparently, the judge in his bail hearing felt the same way. Sarah Cooper’s request for bail was denied.

Colston’s funeral, certain to be a massive, celebrity-studded event, was scheduled for the day after tomorrow.

Without obtaining Sarah’s blessing or, for that matter, Walter Filstrup’s, Lou had decided he would try to arrange a meeting with Colston’s widow, Jeannine, sometime after the burial. He knew four years ago that he might have crossed an ethical boundary or two by taking on a friend as a PWO client. But he was deeply connected to McHugh, and wanted desperately to help him get on top of his alcoholism. Once he agreed to be the associate director in charge of the case, he had set himself up for termination should Filstrup learn of their relationship. But now, there was no backing out.

“Hey, there, Papa, let’s do some punching,” Emily said, angling her mouthguard to make her words intelligible. “I’m liking this. I can’t wait to see Kyle Smith’s expression when I pop him in the nose. He’s always bumping into me on purpose.”

“You’re not going to pop anyone in the nose. That’s just Kyle’s way of saying he likes you.”

“I know. And a pop in the nose will be my way of saying that I like him back.”

Lou stifled most of a grin. Emily had grown several inches in the past few months, and her shape was changing almost as rapidly. Growing up with her was going to be a hell of an adventure. Still hidden in his bureau drawer was the baggy gray T-shirt he had commissioned when he finally gave in to her repeated requests to train in the ring.
HEY, GUYS, BEHAVE. I’M ONLY THIRTEEN
! It read in front. The number
13
filled the back. Lou had resolved to wait until he saw any serious flirting, and then prepare for war and insist she wear it.

With his hands baking like two loaves of bread inside his gloves, Lou fixed his gaze on his daughter. Her eyes were aflame with concentration as she circled him, keeping her hands up, precisely as he had told her. She had her auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail, giving him a clear view of the sweat beading up upon her forehead. Beautiful. Just beautiful.

“Couldn’t somebody call the cops on you for fighting me?” Emily asked.

“We’re not supposed to hit each other,” Lou reminded her. “This is just to practice your footwork.”

“Then why am I wearing headgear and a mouthguard?”

“Because you’re my daughter, my only child, the light of my life, and I’m pathologically overly protective. Plus I’m not exactly a kung fu master when it comes to stopping my punches an inch from your wonderful face.”

“Makes sense,” Emily said after a protracted evaluation. She slid her mouthguard back into place.

“Okay, let’s do it again,” Lou said. “Forward and back, then side to side, then shuffle, and last do the pivot. Ready?”

Emily ignored her father’s instructions and instead lunged forward and, moving as quickly as a firefly, caught Lou off guard with a solid right to his gut. Only countless hours of ab work in the gym and on his living room carpet saved him from something potentially serious.

He stepped back and dropped his mouthpiece into the palm of his glove. “Do you know who Harry Houdini is … I mean
was
?” he asked.

“A famous magician?”

“Sort of. Before we step between these ropes again, I want you to be ready to tell me who he was and how he died.”

Emily’s eyes narrowed in her personalized teen-versus-parent way. As in their titanic
Monopoly
struggles, Lou already knew there was no way he was going to win this encounter.

“I have a feeling he got punched in the stomach,” she said.

“The word is ‘sucker-punched.’”

“That’s two words. Besides, I gave you warning when I dropped my shoulder.” Emily was a tribute to Charles Darwin—a perfect 50 percent genetic cross between Lou’s obstinacy and Renee’s cunning.

“Powerless,” he said, as much to himself as out loud. The word was an AA mainstay.
We are absolutely powerless over people, places, and things.

“It’s your fault,” Emily pressed on. “When you’re in the ring, always be ready to be hit. That’s what Cap told me.”

“But he didn’t tell you to sucker-punch anyone—especially your old man,” Cap’s rich bass echoed from ringside.

Emily turned and broke into a broad smile. “Cap!” she cried, kneeling by the ropes, wrapping her arms around the neck of the tall, muscular Bahamian and kissing him on the top of his shaved pate. Cap Duncan hugged her back and then climbed gracefully into the ring.

“Hey, Doc, your kid has fast hands. Girl, be careful when you hit that guy unless you’re both ready. Around here, sucker-punching anyone anywhere can get you suspended for a week.”

“Sorry.”

The apology, Lou knew, a rarity for his daughter, was a clear mark of the respect she had for the onetime street pug and AAU light-heavyweight champion. Hank Duncan earned the nickname Cap’n Crunch because of the sound noses reputedly made when he hit them. His promising pro career lasted just six fights—until he stood up to the mob and refused to take a dive against a fighter they were backing. A short while later, he flunked a drug test and was suspended, even though he had never used anything.

He ended up working for the very men who had destroyed him, and turned to alcohol and narcotics to ease his humiliation. The path eventually took him to rehab, and then a halfway house. Cap had become a counselor in the house when Lou Welcome checked in, fresh from his own nine-month stint in a treatment center. Two years later, Lou had gotten his medical license restored, and Cap, his AA sponsor, was the owner of the Stick and Move Gym.

“I haven’t trained a girl before,” Cap said, “but from what I just watched, she might have pro stock in her blood.”

Emily’s face lit up. “Pro? Like I could be a professional boxer?”

Lou stepped in. “Pro as in you can be a professional anything so long as someone’s willing to pay you for doing it. For now, I think you should keep your amateur status and keep getting A’s in school. At least until you’re eighteen.”

“Sixteen,” Emily said, dancing and throwing jabs at the air.

Cap’s trademark laugh echoed through the gym. “Doctor, you have your hands full with that one.”

Cap had poured his heart and everything he owned and could borrow into the Stick and Move—a converted warehouse just a short walk from Lou’s apartment. The gym was well equipped with a row of heavy bags, a half dozen speed bags, stationary bikes, three regulation-sized rings, free weights, and plenty of room for jumping rope. Bit by bit, despite the fact that Cap let membership fees slide for anyone he knew couldn’t pay, the place was inching its way into the black.

“Emily,” Lou said, “why don’t you practice your footwork in front of the mirror for a bit? I have to talk to the big guy, here.”

“Sure thing, Pop.”

Cap lifted the ropes and helped her from the ring. Lou waited until the two of them were alone at one corner.

“We gonna go a couple?” Cap asked, throwing a slow-motion left-right combo toward Lou’s head.

At six-two, he was a couple of inches taller than Lou, and at fifty years old, he was still well down into the single digits in body fat percentage.

“Not today,” was the reply. “I hope you remember that Emily’s going to stay here with you. At least for this afternoon, she is. I’m going to that funeral in Bethesda.”

“Ah, yes, the congressman. Well, I have a bunch of chores mapped out for Ms. Emily, and maybe another lesson. You going to be back before dinner?”

“I expect so. The burial’s in Arlington National, but I might not go. I should be back here way before five.”

“In that case, we’ll be here waiting. I promise you one thing, Doc: You’re going to have one tired child on your hands.”

“Ten bucks says she’ll be running circles around you by the time I return.”

“Make it twenty if she’s asleep over there in the corner.”

Lou remembered a story he had once heard about a man interviewing for membership in Mensa, the high-IQ society. He was asked only one question by the panel: What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? The answer that got him immediate admission was “an inconceivable event.” Cap’s energy versus Emily’s exuberance—an inconceivable event.