LITMIR.BIZ

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telling me some children’s fable about drug lords and stickup men.”

      Luke was so angry he could almost punch Murphy in the mouth. He was tired. He was aggravated. He was heartbroken by Martinez’s death.

      “You knew Martinez wanted to kill himself…” he began.

      Murphy didn’t hesitate. “You killed Martinez,” he said. “You killed the whole squad. You. Luke Stone. Killed everyone. I was there, remember? You took a mission you knew was FUBAR because you didn’t want to countermand an order from a maniac with a death wish. And this was… for what? To further your career?”

      “You gave Martinez the gun,” Luke said.

      Murphy shook his head. “Martinez died that night on the hill. Just like everybody else. But his body was too strong to realize that. So it needed a push.”

      They stared at each other for a long moment. For an instant, in his mind’s eye, Luke was back in Martinez’s hospital room. Martinez’s legs had been shredded, and could not be saved. One was gone at the pelvis, one below the knee. He still had the use of his arms, but he was paralyzed from just below his ribcage down. It was a nightmare.

      Tears began to stream down Martinez’s face. He pounded the bed with his fists.

      “I told you to kill me,” he said through gritted teeth. “I told you… to… kill… me. Now look at this… this mess.”

      Luke stared at him. “I couldn’t kill you. You’re my friend.”

      “Don’t say that!” Martinez said. “I’m not your friend.”

      Luke shook the memory away. He was back on a green hill in Arlington, on a sunny early summer day. He was alive and mostly well. And Murphy was still here, offering his version of a lecture. Not one that Luke wanted to hear.

      There was a crowd of people all around them, looking at Kennedy’s flame and quietly murmuring.

      “True to form,” Murphy said. “Luke Stone has failed upward. Now he finds himself working for his old commanding officer at a super-secret civilian spy agency. They got nice toys there, Stone? Of course they do, if Don Morris is running it. Cute secretaries? Fast cars? Black helicopters? It’s like a TV show, am I right?”

      Luke shook his head. It was time to change the subject.

      “Murphy, since you went AWOL, you’ve committed a string of solo armed robberies in Northeast cities. You’ve been targeting gang members and drug dealers, who you know are carrying large amounts of cash, and who won’t report…”

      Without warning, Murphy’s right fist flew outward. It moved like a piston, connecting with Luke’s face just below his eye. Luke’s head snapped back.

      “Shut up,” Murphy said. “You talk too much.”

      Luke took a stumble step and crashed into the person behind him. Nearby, someone else gasped. The sound was loud, like a hydraulic pump.

      Luke went several steps backward, pushing through bodies. For a split second, he had a familiar floating sensation. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Murphy had tagged him a good one.

      And Murphy wasn’t done. Here he came again.

      People streamed by on both sides, trying to get away from the fight. An overweight woman, well dressed in a beige skirt and jacket ensemble, fell to the flagstones between Luke and Murphy. Two men rushed to help her up. On the other side of this little pile, Murphy shook his head in frustration.

      To Luke’s right was the low chain barrier that separated visitors from the eternal flame. He stepped over it, onto the wide cobblestones and out into the open. Murphy followed. Luke shrugged out of his suit jacket, revealing the shoulder holster and his service gun underneath. Now someone screamed.

      “Gun! He’s got a gun!”

      Murphy gestured at it, a half-smile on his face. “What are you gonna do, Stone? Shoot me?”

      The crowd of people flowed down the hill, a mass exodus of humanity, moving fast.

      Luke unfastened the holster and dropped it to the cobblestones. He circled to his right, the eternal flame of the John F. Kennedy grave just behind him, the flat grave markers of the Kennedy family in front of him. In the far distance, he caught another glimpse of the Washington Monument.

      “You sure you want to do this?” Luke said.

      Murphy stepped across the face of one of the Kennedy gravestones.

      “There’s nothing I would rather do.”

      Luke’s hands were up. His eyes honed in on Murphy. Everything else dropped away. He saw Murphy as though the man were bathed in some strange light, like a spotlight. Murphy had the reach advantage by a mile. But Luke was stronger.

      He gestured with the fingers of his right hand.

      “Then come on.”

      Murphy attacked. He feinted a left jab, but came in hard with the right. Luke slipped it and delivered his own hard right hand. Murphy pushed Luke’s right arm out and away. Now they were close. Right where Luke wanted to be.

      Suddenly they were grappling. Luke kicked Murphy’s leg out, lifted him high, and brought him down to the ground with a thud. Luke could feel the impact of Murphy’s body—the flagstones vibrated with it. Murphy’s head bounced off the rough, round stone platform that housed Kennedy’s flame.

      Most men would be done. But not Murphy. Not a Delta.

      His right hand pistoned out again. The fingers tore at Luke’s face, trying to find his eyes. Luke pulled his head back.

      Now came Murphy’s left, a punch. It hit the side of Luke’s head. His ears rang.

      Here came the right again. Luke blocked it, but Murphy was pushing up off the ground. He launched himself at Luke and they tumbled backward, Murphy on top. The metal canister that held the flame, six inches high, was just to Luke’s right.

      A breeze blew and the fire was on them. Luke could feel the heat of it.

      With all of his strength, he grabbed Murphy and rolled hard to his right. Murphy’s back hit the eternal flame. Fire surged all around them as they rolled up and over the top of it. Luke landed on his left side and used his momentum to keep rolling.

      He climbed on top of Murphy and grabbed his head in both hands.

      Murphy punched him in the face.

      Luke shrugged it off and slammed Murphy’s head against the concrete.

      Murphy’s hands tried to push him away.

      Luke slammed his head again.

      “FREEZE!” a deep-throated voice screamed.

      The muzzle of a gun was pressed to Luke’s temple. It jabbed him there, hard. In the corner of his eye, Luke saw two big black hands holding the gun, and a blue uniform looming behind them.

      Instantly, Luke put his hands in the air.

      “Police,” the voice said, only slightly calmer now.

      “Officer, I’m Agent Luke Stone, with the FBI. My badge is in that jacket over there.”

      Now there were more blue uniforms. They swarmed Luke, pulling him away from Murphy. They pushed him to the ground and held him face down against the stone. He went as limp as possible, offering no resistance. Hands roamed his body, searching him.

      He looked at Murphy. Murphy was getting the same treatment.

      Don’t have a weapon on you, Luke thought.

      In a moment, they pulled Luke to his feet. He looked around. There were ten cops here. At the far edge of the action, a familiar figure loomed. Big Ed Newsam, watching from a modest distance.

      A cop handed Luke his jacket, his holster, and his badge.

      “Okay, Agent Stone, what seems to be the problem here?”

      “No problem.”

      The cop gestured at Murphy. Murphy

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