The Vigilantes (Badge of Honor) - By W.E.B. Griffin Page 0,127

almost perfectly flat property, then sent it to Janelle Harper with explicit instructions for her to e-mail it immediately to the Russian.

I don’t know for sure if what he said about those holdouts being killed with a muscle relaxer is true or not.

But I do know that it’s smart to proceed with caution.

I don’t want to get on his bad side, and there’s no question that that was a threat last night.

Which is why I had Janelle send those photos to him. And why he’ll get more photos the minute the damn construction crews arrive.

There was a huge gasp from the crowd as the televisions showed the gray police sedan racing up behind the minivan—then ramming it.

The minivan slid sideways, then spun twice before smacking the divider wall.

Jesus! It hit so hard it moved the wall!

He’d already heard from Roger Wynne that the last of the recovered absentee ballots had been shredded into a fine confetti, so that was not going to come back to haunt him.

Unless Wynne gets wise and thinks he can use that against me.

I’m going to have to keep an eye on him.

As he picked up his new pint of lager and downed a third of it in one swallow, his Go To Hell cell phone rang. He put down the glass and looked at the caller ID.

What? It’s gobbledlygook. Nothing but “010101010.”

“Yes?” he said, answering it.

“I got your photograph. The site is looking better.”

The Russian? How the hell did he get this number?

“Yuri?” Badde said.

“I think we now better understand each other.”

Badde began, “I’m glad . . .” But then he realized that the line was dead.

He anxiously sipped at his beer as he tried to figure out just what the hell had happened.

There was another gasp from the crowd, and he looked again to the televisions.

The camera showed a remarkably clear shot of a man running from the minivan, being chased by a man in a coat and tie from the gray sedan.

That first one looks like it could be Kenny!

Being chased by a plainclothes cop?

And then the camera caught a clear shot of the man in the coat and tie.

Someone said, “Look! It’s the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line!”

Then Badde saw the man who was being chased trip, get up, and go over the concrete divider. What happened next was obstructed by the big box of a delivery truck. But the crowd’s gasp made it obvious what had happened.

Damn! Talk about being thrown under a bus.

He took another sip of beer and thought a long moment.

Bottom line: I’m going to have to watch my back a helluva lot more closely.

“Waitress!” he called out to the barmaid, and when she stepped over, he said, “I’ll take a double Jameson’s rocks. No, make it a triple.”

[SEVEN]

Ben Franklin Bridge, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 1:05 P.M.

Matt stood next to the zipper wall, watching the Tow Squad wrecker—its flatbed tilted down and touching the deck of the bridge—winch up the demolished gray Crown Victoria Police Interceptor.

Every lane of traffic was backed up in both directions on the bridge, and there was a cacophony of horns honking.

As Matt scanned the maddening scene, he thought about all the craziness that had led up to this very moment—all the crimes that had been committed against the innocent, which had led to all the shootings and brutal beatings of the career criminals.

And there are all the others still out there.

More crimes, more killings—it’s not going to stop.

I just slowed it. But I’m never going to be able to stop it.

He suddenly felt very small and alone.

Is there any sanity left in this world?

As he ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head, his cell phone began ringing in his pocket.

He pulled it out and glanced at the caller ID—then smiled as he closed his eyes and visualized the last time he’d seen Amanda Law.

The angel goddess peacefully asleep—there is sanity.

“Hey, baby,” he said, answering it. “Feeling any better?”

“Yeah, thanks. I am. Are you too busy to talk?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Say, I’m on the balcony looking at the Ben Franklin Bridge. It’s shut down in both directions. Any idea what that’s about?”

“A little. I’ll tell you in a bit. What’s on your mind?”

“I really don’t want to tell you this on the phone. How long do you think—?”

Oh, shit! What the hell else can go wrong today?

“What? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it is.”

Now he could hear the excitement in her voice.

“What is it, Amanda?”

There was a long pause, then she said: “Okay, okay. Matt, I’m . . . I’m pregnant! We’re pregnant!”

What? A baby?

Then he realized: No wonder the goddess was glowing.

She was saying: “I knew I was a little late with my cycle, Matt, but when I went and got out the calendar, I saw that I was very late. And then I thought the nausea might be, well, from being late, so in the drugstore I got one of those self-tests. It came up positive, and I thought, ‘How could that be?’ We’re always careful, you know? But then I remembered that first night we were just so . . . well, you remember, in a hurry and not careful. And then I counted the days and went back and got another brand to test with. And then it showed positive. Soooo . . .”

Matt was quiet a long time as he absorbed the news.

He looked past the cables of the suspension bridge in the direction of the Hops Haus Tower, then up to where Amanda would be standing on the balcony and looking toward him.

“Matt . . . ?” she said very softly. “What are you thinking?”

Matt Payne then smiled broadly and said, “I’m thinking that’s wonderful, Amanda. Absolutely wonderful, my angel goddess.”