The next half hour ticked by slowly. Jack closed his eyes, steeled his muscles against the strain of remaining perfectly still and tried to remember the girl's name. The name etched on the bottom right hand of the photo in flowing script was a stage name. She'd gone by Wilhelmina. She'd had a reason for it too. She'd said it anytime anyone asked. "I'd hate to have a name that nobody can shorten. Think of the options! Willy, Mena, Lena, Helen...anything really."
The more he thought the more his mind whispered that her real name couldn't be shortened. It was awkward, like triangular wheels. It had no cute, readily available nickname. Jack was working his way through the alphabet, exercising his mind so that he could ignore the throb of straining muscles, when a faint voice said, "Her name was Daphne Kennedy Wells."
Suddenly the black and white photo was bursting to life again. In his mind the photo was joined by a second, this one in living color. Daphne, the last time anyone had snapped a photo of her. A beach party. Sitting in the sand with her long, thin arms wrapped around her drawn up legs, chin on her knees, eyes closed in luxurious revery as the wind blew in off the Atlantic.
The person who had taken the picture was her boyfriend. So was the person talking to him with a tinny voice through the mouth piece of Sam's phone. Name...what was his name, Jack!? Always names, and never there when he needed them.
"You're Jack, right? I remember you."
Malone's eyes shot up to the window, looking beyond it into a sea of dark buildings and faintly glowing lights. His mind was quickly putting pieces together. He was being watched, by Daphne's ex-boyfriend or someone that sounded like him. This same boyfriend was probably the person that had messed with Sam's desk. Possible the bomber about to blow him up. Suddenly Jack's tongue was dry and expanding in his mouth. Another drop of sweat raced down his forehead.
"You can sit back." The voice said. "Nothing will happen I promise."
Jack chuckled wryly. "No offense, buddy, but we haven't known each other long enough for that kind of trust in our relationship."
There was a pause, then, "Nah, Jack, you know me. Not as well as Agent Spade, but you know me. Beach bum kid...well, I used to be. Blonde hair, brown eyes, just a little...what did you say in your official report..? Squirrely?"
How the hell did this guy-?
"You really need to talk to your head of maintenance, Agent Malone. Incredibly lax in his old age. Really letting himself go...I could tell you stories, but...I'm not here to get the cleaning staff in trouble."
Jack waited, refusing to ask the baited question. There was a soft, tinny chuckle after a brief silence before Andy...yes, Andy! That was the kid's name. Before Andy took in a long breath. "You really screwed the pooch for me Jack." He said in a dramatic, sing-song.
"Yeah?" Jack asked, breathless, wondering now if the kid was in the building. He'd have to be to have hijacked an active line. He'd managed to call into a busy phone line. A new picture of Andy was forming. If he knew enough about electronics to manipulate the building's phones, he probably knew enough about electronics to rig one hell of a bomb.
"You work too hard, Jack. It's gonna kill ya someday, trust me."
"You've been working hard for the past...ten years? Learned some new tricks." Jack ventured, letting his head drop to the desk briefly to relieve the cramp that encompassed his entire lower back.
"Not tricks, Jack. Talents."
There was a click and the sweep of a semi-pneumatically sealed door opening, then the bustle of clothing and the presence of another human being in the bull pen. Jack glanced at the mirroring window again and recognized the face that loomed distantly behind him. Older, showing the added weight and length of time, undoubtedly stronger...time in prison can put a lot of useful bulk on a man if he does it right. He had on overalls and a black headset. Jack stared at the reflection like he was watching a ghost.
Had to be a ghost. Andy Gerbasi, no middle name, had died in prison two years ago. Or so they had been told. So Sam had told him, off-hand in the middle of a quiet dinner together. "Guess you're not dead after all." Jack said, his voice thinner than he would have liked. Was he that out of shape?
"Really...you can lean back, Agent Malone. I don't intend to kill you...in fact. You can help me."
"Help you do what?" Jack demanded, a little more willing to believe that the chair wasn't going to blow if he moved. Andy's goal, apparently, was to hurt Sam. He wasn't likely to blow himself up and Jack in lieu of option A.
"Well you've ruined my best plan. Now I need a new one." Andy approached the desk with a wide berth and the caution born of time in the pen. Never turn your back, never get in hand's reach if you can possibly avoid it. He was also armed. A tiny nine millimeter, small enough to fit inside one beefy palm and not be visible.
By the time Andy was within ten feet Jack had settled back and was getting to his feet. "No, Jack, just sit." Andy's voice was calm with a twist of madness underneath.
"I don't think so, Andy." Jack said, rising up and doing his best not to flinch when the gun jerked and rose with him. "You want to talk turkey, let's do it outside."
Andy's eyes, palest brown and glassy, twitched a few times. He'd once been a beach bum, now he looked like a T-rex. Lots of muscle and height, not a lot of brain. He was on something too, Jack thought, trying to catalog the symptoms. What was most disturbing was that the kid...man...wasn't angry. Insane, high and hell bent on revenge yes, but he was calm. Far too calm for the situation. He should have been ranting and raving, but he was quietly calculating and considering the situation.
It threw Jack off just enough that he couldn't see the bullet coming.
He was looking for a detonator, trying to see into the bulging pockets of the maintenance coveralls, trying to decide just how well armed this guy was. How much bulk was muscle and how much might be a secondary bomb strapped to the kid's chest.
He wanted desperately to look under the chair, get a good look at whatever he'd been sitting on for the longest half hour of his life. He also knew that Sam kept a spare gun in the bottom most drawer of her desk, and that he had a key in his pocket that would give him access to that gun.
But Andy made his decision before Jack could resolve any of that and the gun barked. The bullet settled into the meat beside his left shin feeling at first like a bee sting, then burning hot. Jack didn't fall. He stood, stunned, for about two seconds then lunged forward.
The gun came up and stared him in the eye faster than he expected. Jack ground to a halt and caught the edge of Sam's desk with one hand before his leg could give out and dump him on the floor. It would take a few more minutes for the real pain to settle in, but Jack could feel the sweat starting to pour.
Andy observed the feral look he was being given with a detached wariness. "Please sit down, Jack." He said, but this time there was a quaver, a minute vibration at the end of the sentence that alerted the negotiator in the back of Jack's mind to a possible in-road.
Jack sucked in some air and glanced to Vivian's desk. He limped, a step at a time, to her chair, tipped it up on the front wheels long enough to be sure the chair looked like a chair and not like a rocket ship, then eased down into the seat.
"You gonna sit too?" Jack asked, schooling his face as the throbbing started. Like he'd been punched by a 9-millimeter fist with the power of ten men.
Andy waited, lifting his chin so that he could see Jack through his bottom lashes, the way a senior citizen studies a line of text through tri-focals. When he did speak again he nodded rapidly and pulled out a chair from the conference table. "I'll sit. And we'll talk. Peaceful like."
Jack didn't respond. He let the anger show and kept the pain hidden. The profiler in him was gearing up in the background. He allowed himself one glance at the back of Sam's chair.
A cake of C4, covered in black plastic, attached to the base of the seat. A radio receiver, with a red blinking light, that he had activated by leaning forward. Andy probably had the detonator.
That was all he had time for before he refocused on the big man with the gun.
"What is it you want, Andy?" Jack asked, before he finally looked down at the bleeding hole in his leg.