The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3) by James Best (free ebook reader for ipad .TXT) 📗

Crenshaw quit walking and looked at Evarts. “You mentioned earlier that if those names were no good, you would’ve wasted some of your best interrogation tactics. Are you good?”

“I tricked Kamil. Not sure we have time for that now.” Evarts hesitated, not sure he wanted to disclose more. Finally, he said, “In years past, I’ve used enhanced interrogation techniques.”

“Are you willing to use them again?”

Evarts looked at his watch. “The priority is those men back there. We need to round up the other teams pronto.”

“My thinking as well. I’ll arrange agents to interview the Templars while you go back and get everything you can from those two. I’ll make some calls. Unless you hear from me, it’s sanctioned. After the ambulance paramedics have patched up the wounds, I need you to get everything you can out of them. Can you do this?”

“You want me to do it because I’m a civilian?”

“It’s for your country.”

“Bullshit. If this blows up, you’ll throw me under the bus.”

“Like I said, it’s for your country.”

Evarts laughed thinking he could learn to like Crenshaw. He didn’t try to pull the wool over his eyes. And he had certainly gotten off his high horse.

Evarts said, “I’ll do it, but in exchange, I want them taken to Walter Reed.”

“Oh, wait a darn minute there, you want them under Army control?”

“My price for doing your dirty work.”

With hesitation, Crenshaw agreed and walked back into the conference center. Evarts returned to the two men bleeding on the sidewalk to find that the firemen had them tilted onto their sides so they could examine their fronts.

“Exit wounds?” Evarts asked.

One of the firemen answered with his head near the ground examining the gunshot victim’s pelvic area. “One, yes, the other no. An ambulance will be here soon.”

“They’re going to Walter Reed,” Evarts said.

“We have a good facility on campus,” the fireman said. “There’s a lot of blood, but these two are not seriously injured.”

“I’m sure you do,” Evarts said, “but this is a national security issue. They go to Reed. Has anyone called the coroner for the dead?”

“Check with campus police over there.”

Evarts did and the coroner, D.C. police, and paramedics had all been called. Evarts learned that there were five dead bodies, two wounded outside, one wounded inside, plus several people with injuries sustained in the stampede to get out of harm’s way. Evarts asked about the injured man inside and was told that he hit the stairs face first and broke his nose and possibly his jaw.

What a mess. All caused by Templars. Then Evarts remembered that one of them had called him chief. Shit. If the Templars knew, who else?

Evarts called his wife again as he sauntered out of earshot of the campus police.

When she answered, he asked, “Trish, still okay?”

“Of course. How about you?”

“I have an assignment that may take several hours.” Without a segue, he went to why he called. “We have a problem. That second group were Templars and one of them called me chief. They know who we are and where we are.”

The phone was quiet for a long moment. “Not necessarily,” she said. “They may have seen your picture and recognized you. They may not know our aliases or where we’re staying.”

That made sense. Then Evarts realized it didn’t matter. She might be right, but they couldn’t rely on their secret identities any longer. Prudence dictated that they assume they had been blown. Then he realized something else.

“Trish, can you leave?”

“They better not try to stop me.”

“Come out here on the street in front of the conference center. Find me. To the left as you come out the door.”

“On my way.” The phone went dead.

Evarts walked back over to the two Ikhwan students. The paramedics had arrived, and the two men were now calm as they were prepared to be lifted onto gurneys. Evarts assumed they had been given pain killers. That was his mistake. He should have told the firemen that they were not to be given anything to ease the pain. His job had suddenly become more difficult.

“Are you charged with transporting these two to a medical facility?” Evarts asked.

The paramedic looked at Evarts. He evidently saw something that give him pause. “Yes. We’re attached to MedStar Georgetown University Hospital, but we’ve been told to transport these two to Walter Reed.”

“I’m going with you,” Evarts said.

“Only if your name is David Johansen … and I will see ID.”

Evarts fished out his wallet and handed over a driver’s license.

“That’s it? A driver’s license? I expected FBI credentials.”

“That’s it. Some of us work undercover. My partner will be joining us.”

“No authorization and no room. He stays behind.”

“It’s a she and she comes with. You and your partner crowd up front. I need to start interrogating these men in transit. This is a national security threat and every second counts, so let’s get these guys loaded and on our way.”

The man stood to his full height. He was at least six-four and had fifty fit pounds on Evarts. “Does she have credentials?”

“She’s my partner: meaning we both work undercover. We’re tasked with catching the terrorists who have been bombing members of Congress.” Evarts pointed at the patients. “These men are part of a terrorist cell. We need privacy to find out where the next bomb is set to go off.”

“Not in my ambulance. I won’t be part of torture.” He appeared ready to defend his fiefdom. “Your partner sits in front.”

Evarts sighed in exasperation. “Those men would behead you if they had a chance and then brag by posting the video on social media. The bombings to date have been a prelude to something much bigger. If you prefer your city and government intact, let me interview these men. And yes, I may need to be persuasive.”

“Euphemisms. Why don’t you just say torture?”

“You’re right. I may need to use torture. Inflict enough pain that they’ll tell me where the next bomb will go off. Transitory pain on one or two terrorists will keep an untold