I hold up my hand to interrupt him. “Quiet. The reason I’m here is that I found Aiden Phillips. Actually, he found me.”
Perkins blinks and shifts on the sofa. “Then I’m surprised you’re still alive. What happened?”
“He got away. He’s wounded.”
“You shot him?”
“No. Somebody else did.”
“Did you interrogate him?”
“Not really. I mostly listened. And from what he told me, I believe he’s innocent. Look, I know what he did in the past. He’s got a lot of darkness in him, for sure. But I don’t think he’s our bomber.”
Perkins is silent. Only his eyes shift. Not the reaction I expected. I hear a rustle behind me, then a voice.
“Finally. I just wanted to hear somebody say it out loud.”
No need to turn around. I already know who it is.
Aiden Phillips.
I look at Perkins. “How long has he been here?”
“Since before you arrived. Nothing I could do. He’s had a gun on us the whole time.”
Phillips moves around to the center of the room, pointing his pistol back and forth between us. He’s limping, favoring his wounded leg. He’s wearing the same jeans he was shot in. The blood has crusted and dried around the tear. I can see Gina’s dressing through the hole. Phillips is pale and sweaty, but he seems sharp and in command.
He grabs the landline off the desk and plops it in Perkins’s lap. “Call Walsh,” he orders. “Put it on speaker. And no codedshit. All you say is ‘I need you here now. It’s important.’ Then hang up.”
Perkins picks up the handset and I hear a sequence of beeping tones as he enters the number.
Two rings. Then a pickup.
“Perkins! What’s up?”
“I need you here now,” says Perkins. “It’s important.” He hangs up.
I look over at Phillips. “Have you thought this through? What if Walsh brings an army with him?”
“He won’t,” says Phillips. “He and Perkins go way back. There’s stuff they don’t want anybody else to be in on. He’ll come by himself.” Phillips checks his watch. “He won’t be long. Only lives five blocks away. Same kind of cozy little cocoon.”
Perkins turns to me. “Why the hell do you believe this guy? You know he’s a rogue operator. You heard what he did in Afghanistan. He’s a stone-cold killer.”
“I was a soldier,” says Phillips. “Well trained. By the United States government.”
“You did those missions over the border on your own!” says Perkins. “Those were your own personal black ops!”
“That’s right. I did it to save some of the people this country left behind. The Afghans who risked everything for us. The people who guys like you ignored.”
Perkins shakes his head. “You knew we couldn’t get everybody out. That was never a possibility.”
“What about Polermo?” I ask. “Was he one of yours? Were you running him too?”
Perkins looks blank. “Who the hell is Polermo?”
“First Lieutenant J. T. Polermo,” says Phillips. “We deployed together.”
“I don’t know any Polermo,” says Perkins.
