The Labyrinth Campaign (16 page)

As she looked over her shoulder, she shot back a sarcastic, “Good luck.”

Neither of the men was sure whom it was directed toward.

When Kate had disappeared around the corner, Brian Hatcher turned to Jack and issued him the Miranda rights. When he was done, he silently, gently turned Jack around and handcuffed him.

As Hatcher led Jack to the first-floor interrogation room, Jack turned and asked, “What the fuck is going on here? I have no knowledge of any drug smuggling operation, and you know it.”

“I’m just following orders, Mr. McCarthy. I’m sure if you are innocent, the justice system will issue the appropriate verdict. But until then, I suggest you get yourself a good lawyer.” With that, Hatcher shoved Jack into a barren room with two chairs, a table, and a government-issue
two-way mirror. As the door closed behind him, Jack was left with his thoughts of loneliness and helplessness. He thought about Carrie and began to sob.

Brian Hatcher entered his office and closed the door. He dialed the numbers provided to him earlier that morning. When he heard the familiar tone indicating it was time to speak, his message was brief and to the point.

“It’s done. He’s in interrogation room 1B.”

Hatcher smiled to himself. That was the easiest $100,000 he’d ever made.

G
reg Larson and Tom Johnson were scheduled to meet on Saturday afternoon to discuss Larson’s progress on the Will Hawkins series. What they hadn’t expected was the incident earlier that morning that had completely reshaped the approach to the high-profile assignment given to Larson.

“This is absolutely unbelievable!” Larson exclaimed, almost out of breath. “This morning I’m meeting John Sterling for breakfast to discuss his research progress.” Larson paused to gather his thoughts. “Sterling’s awesome, by the way. Anyway, he shares with me the small article in the Metro section of the
Free Press
regarding McCarthy’s alleged drug ties, and by the time we finish breakfast, McCarthy’s car has exploded with his girlfriend in it. Looks like Jack has some really nasty friends.”

Johnson nodded. “Yeah, it looks like he’s in pretty deep. But he sure doesn’t appear to be your typical drug trafficker.”

“I agree, Tom. That’s why I’m adamantly opposed to using my byline to report on this situation.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me! A top aide to the front-running Democratic candidate is involved in drug trafficking, his girlfriend blows up in his car in a trendy Dallas neighborhood, and you’re going to take a pass? I can’t believe what I’m hearing!”

“I know I’m leaving you hanging here, Tom, but if I do this story, I can’t reel in the big one. I want an exclusive with Will Hawkins, and if I have any involvement in negatively impacting the campaign via this McCarthy story, he’ll deny me.”

Johnson contemplated Larson’s reasoning. “He might deny you anyway. Then you have nothing.”

At that moment, Larson considered sharing the Will Hawkins/Carlos Pendrill connection with Johnson but quickly decided against it. “I think I can get him, Tom. In fact, I’m staking my career on it.”

“What do you have that you’re not telling me about?”

Greg smiled. “Nothing yet, Tom. But with the help of Chambers’s buddy Sterling, I’m hoping that’s going to change very quickly.”

The discussion surrounding Jack McCarthy’s involvement in drug trafficking and the death of his girlfriend lasted another ten minutes. Tom Johnson knew that he was not going to persuade Larson to do the story. Finally, he relented and agreed to assign the piece to someone else.

Larson smiled. “Thanks, Tom; you’re not going to regret this. When I finish this one, Chambers will have the Pulitzer Prize he’s been coveting since my last one.”

Both men laughed.

“Well, I hope you’re right, Greg. It’ll be both our asses if this plan backfires. So do me a favor; bring home the big one, and make us both look smart.”

“Deal,” Larson quickly conceded, lost in his own thoughts.

Will Hawkins and Carlos Pendrill, roommates and friends in graduate school. Larson knew that would make some news. And now this McCarthy thing. What a tangled web Hawkins had woven.

Tom Johnson watched Larson as he stared off into space. He couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in the reporter’s odd, brilliant mind.

Jack McCarthy watched his interrogator and couldn’t help but view him as a movie character. The detective was balding and twenty pounds
overweight, with a well-worn dress shirt and his tie loosened to give his thick neck some extra room. The detective was doing his best “good cop” imitation, including taking Jack’s handcuffs off.

The one thing that wasn’t dreamlike during his incessant questioning was the primal fear Jack felt as the detective made statements like, “You mean to tell me you are in no way associated with the Torres drug ring? I read the papers, Jack. I also know that it’s extremely rare for innocent citizens to have their cars rigged with explosives. Give me a break, man. I want to help you find the guys who blew up your car.”

Jack was about to respond by telling the detective to get him a lawyer when the interrogation room door burst open.

Two men in dark suits, white shirts, and black ties entered the room. They were big, impeccably dressed, and very official-looking.

As they closed the door behind them, the Dallas Police Department detective exclaimed, “Who the hell are you?”

“FBI,” answered the first man. “We’ve been ordered to pick up Mr. McCarthy. This is now a federal case.”

“Like hell it is!” answered the detective. “No one told me to release this suspect to anyone.”

“Listen, sir, we’re just following orders.”

The man continued to speak as he approached the detective.

“Now we can do this the easy way, or,” and as smoothly as if he were still carrying on a casual conversation, the man delivered one open-handed blow to the detective’s neck, dropping him like a limp rag doll.

Jack was stunned. But before he could recover, the second man expertly put a small, well-concealed pistol in his back and said, “All right, McCarthy, it’s time for you to come with us.”

Jack felt numb. He had no idea how to react. But as the two men marched him out of the interrogation room toward the front entrance, he began to yell. “Something is wrong here, people! These men are taking me against my will. They are not FBI. They must be working for Will Hawkins.”

Jack was perplexed. No one seemed to pay any attention to his ranting and raving. Then it dawned on him that he had played it exactly the
way they had hoped—just another criminal exclaiming his innocence. No one in the station noticed because it happened every day. In fact, his reaction to the men escorting him out of the building ended up being the perfect cover.

Once outside, the two men grabbed Jack and manhandled him toward a nondescript black sedan. Jack had no idea what to do. However, he was convinced that if they got him in the car, there was a good chance he was done. So, without thinking through it any further, Jack struck like a cornered animal. His first black-belt move was to disarm the man with the gun in his back. Jack quickly stepped to the side, grabbing the gunman by the wrist. Using the man’s own mass against him, he swung him toward the street, dislocating his shoulder as if he were a mannequin. The man dropped the gun into the gutter and fell to the ground in excruciating pain.

This move, however, had given the other aggressor time to react. He lunged at Jack, grabbing his throat with all his strength. The imposter agent was big and extremely strong but only marginally skilled at the martial arts. While in a significant amount of pain, Jack patiently waited for the appropriate moment and again used the man’s own weight against him. Jack dropped to one knee and rolled the man to his right. In one expert move that surprised even Jack, the man was on his back. Jack gave him two short jabs to the jaw, knocking him unconscious.

Jack got to his feet quickly and scanned the area for more trouble. Surprisingly, the street was relatively quiet, and no one seemed to notice the brief scuffle. The gunman with the dislocated shoulder was beginning to regain his composure, so Jack took off in a sprint. Fifteen yards later, as he rounded the corner onto Harwood Street, Jack slowed to a brisk walk to avoid undue attention.

Just when he thought he was in the clear, a female voice from behind said, “Stop right where you are; you’re under arrest.”

Jack was about to explain when a car squealed quickly around the corner, causing Kate Anson to turn, startled by the commotion. At nearly the same moment, Jack acted out of sheer instinct, tackling Kate to the ground just as an automatic weapon opened fire, spraying the building
wall behind them with dozens of bullets. As the car continued to hurtle down the street, Kate jumped to her feet, confused by the activity of the past few seconds. Then she quickly regained her composure and realized that an attempt had just been made on both their lives. Without a spoken word, the two looked into each other’s eyes and dashed for her car at the corner.

W
ill Hawkins and John Rollins were together in Hawkins’s downtown office. Will sat facing the telephone while Rollins paced back and forth. The voice coming through the telephone speaker box was Detective Brian Hatcher. As the conversation progressed, the agitation and intensity in the room grew exponentially. Finally, the information being delivered became too much for Rollins. He sprang toward the phone like a lion pouncing on its prey. His face was no more than twelve inches from the speakerphone.

“Do you mean to tell me that not only are you so incompetent that your two highly trained men let McCarthy escape, but then your solution was to gun him down on the street while he’s in the presence of another police officer? You must be the stupidest fucking detective to ever get a badge. What were you thinking?”

“McCarthy told her everything,” Hatcher responded. “She came to see me right after I made the call. She told me how stupid she felt believing his far-fetched story, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was telling the truth. The plan was to get her later and just have her disappear, but circumstances out of my control put them at the same place at the same time, so we went for it.”

“And missed,” Rollins added sarcastically. “I’ll call you back.”

With that, Rollins punched the button on the speakerphone, ending the call abruptly.

Will Hawkins sat quietly. He had not participated in the conversation because they did not want Hatcher to know he was there. The look on his face told the whole story. He was angry, scared, and frustrated all at the same time.

Rollins looked at Will and said, “I’ll handle this. You get down to Austin and rehearse your speech. Tomorrow’s rally is your most important yet. Don’t let this be a distraction.”

“No, no, John, not at all.” Will spoke with venom in his voice. “Just another campaign detail. Listen, John, you better handle this, or the next big speech I give will be following my sentencing. So please do me a favor; don’t fuck it up. And, oh, by the way, don’t tell my father.”

Kate Anson and Jack McCarthy were driving down Ross Avenue in downtown Dallas, wondering what to do next. Kate was completely unprepared to acknowledge that an attempt had just been made on her life right outside the station. Jack understood her reluctance, but it was imperative that he get through to her and recruit her to his side.

“Kate, I know it’s difficult to comprehend, but I’ve had a little more time to deal with the situation. Will Hawkins is involved with some very bad people who are determined to stop me. Or, I should now say, us.”

“Jack, I’m beginning to understand just how deep we’re in, but I’m at a loss for what to do next.”

The two sat silent for a few moments, lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Kate suggested she contact Frank Lahey, the old friend of her father’s she had mentioned earlier.

“No,” Jack blurted out, stopping her in mid-sentence. “At this point, I don’t trust anyone.” Jack paused, noticing that Kate looked hurt by his last comment. “That is, except for you.”

Kate shrugged, “Got any bright ideas?”