uncomfortable.
“Web, what really happened?”
“Say what you really mean. How come it wasn’t a perfect seven-for-seven?”
“I
am
saying it.”
Web gazed across the courtyard at the exact spot where he had hit the asphalt. “I came out of the alley late. It was like
I couldn’t move. I thought I’d had a stroke. Then I went down right before the shooting started. I don’t know why.” Web’s
mind suddenly went blank and then came back, like he was a television and there had been a lightning strike nearby. “It was
over in a second, Perce. A second was all it took. The worst timing in the history of the world.” He looked at Bates to gauge
his reaction to this. The narrowed eyes of the man told Web all he needed to know.
“Hell, don’t feel bad. I don’t believe it either,” said Web. Bates remained silent, and Web decided to get to the other reason
he had come here. “Where’s the flag?” he asked. Bates looked surprised. “The HRT flag. I have to bring it back to Quantico.”
On every mission HRT undertook, the senior member was given the HRT flag to carry with him in his gear. When the mission was
completed, the flag was to be returned to the HRT commander by the senior member of the team. Well, now that happened to be
Web.
“Follow me,” said Bates.
An FBI van was parked at the curb. Bates popped open one of the back doors, reached in and pulled out a flag folded military
style. He handed it to Web.
Web held the flag in both hands, staring down at the colors for a moment, every detail of the slaughter once more working
through his head.
“It’s got a few holes in it,” Bates observed.
“Don’t we all,” said Web.
5
T he following day Web headed down to Quantico to the HRT facility. He drove along Marine Corps Route 4 past the campus-style
FBI Academy that was home to both FBI and DEA grunts. Web had spent thirteen very intense and stressful weeks of his life
at the Academy learning how to be an FBI agent. In return Web was paid peanuts and lived in a dorm room with a shared bath
and he even had to bring his own towels! And Web had loved it and had devoted every waking moment to becoming the best FBI
agent he could because he felt he had been born for the job.
Web had walked out of the Academy as a newly minted and sworn agent of the FBI with his Smith & Wesson .357 wheel gun, which
required a staggering nine pounds of pull to fire. Rarely did one shoot oneself in the foot with the weapon. Recruits now
carried .40 Glock semiautomatics with fourteen-round magazines with a much easier trigger pull, but Web still had fond memories
of his Smith & Wesson with the three-inch bull barrel. Fancier didn’t necessarily mean better. He had spent the next six years
learning how to be an FBI agent in the field. He had sweated through the infamous FBI paperwork mountain, ferreted out leads,
drummed up informants, answered criminal complaints, kept his butt on wiretaps, undertaken all-night surveillances, built
up cases and arrested people who badly needed to be. Web had gotten to the point where he could concoct a battle plan in five
minutes while he was driving a Bureau car—or Bucar, as it was always called—a hundred and ten miles an hour down the highway
steering with his knees and shoving shells into his shotgun. He had learned how to interrogate suspects, establishing baselines
and then asking them tough questions designed to knock them for a loop, to later gauge when they were lying. He had also learned
how to testify without being cracked by slick defense lawyers whose only goal was to not discover the truth and instead to
bury it.
His superiors, including Percy Bates (when Web had been transferred to the Washington Field Office after several years in
the Midwest), had filled his personnel file with commendation after commendation, impressed with his dedication, his physical
and mental skills and his ability to think on his feet. He
“Web, what really happened?”
“Say what you really mean. How come it wasn’t a perfect seven-for-seven?”
“I
am
saying it.”
Web gazed across the courtyard at the exact spot where he had hit the asphalt. “I came out of the alley late. It was like
I couldn’t move. I thought I’d had a stroke. Then I went down right before the shooting started. I don’t know why.” Web’s
mind suddenly went blank and then came back, like he was a television and there had been a lightning strike nearby. “It was
over in a second, Perce. A second was all it took. The worst timing in the history of the world.” He looked at Bates to gauge
his reaction to this. The narrowed eyes of the man told Web all he needed to know.
“Hell, don’t feel bad. I don’t believe it either,” said Web. Bates remained silent, and Web decided to get to the other reason
he had come here. “Where’s the flag?” he asked. Bates looked surprised. “The HRT flag. I have to bring it back to Quantico.”
On every mission HRT undertook, the senior member was given the HRT flag to carry with him in his gear. When the mission was
completed, the flag was to be returned to the HRT commander by the senior member of the team. Well, now that happened to be
Web.
“Follow me,” said Bates.
An FBI van was parked at the curb. Bates popped open one of the back doors, reached in and pulled out a flag folded military
style. He handed it to Web.
Web held the flag in both hands, staring down at the colors for a moment, every detail of the slaughter once more working
through his head.
“It’s got a few holes in it,” Bates observed.
“Don’t we all,” said Web.
5
T he following day Web headed down to Quantico to the HRT facility. He drove along Marine Corps Route 4 past the campus-style
FBI Academy that was home to both FBI and DEA grunts. Web had spent thirteen very intense and stressful weeks of his life
at the Academy learning how to be an FBI agent. In return Web was paid peanuts and lived in a dorm room with a shared bath
and he even had to bring his own towels! And Web had loved it and had devoted every waking moment to becoming the best FBI
agent he could because he felt he had been born for the job.
Web had walked out of the Academy as a newly minted and sworn agent of the FBI with his Smith & Wesson .357 wheel gun, which
required a staggering nine pounds of pull to fire. Rarely did one shoot oneself in the foot with the weapon. Recruits now
carried .40 Glock semiautomatics with fourteen-round magazines with a much easier trigger pull, but Web still had fond memories
of his Smith & Wesson with the three-inch bull barrel. Fancier didn’t necessarily mean better. He had spent the next six years
learning how to be an FBI agent in the field. He had sweated through the infamous FBI paperwork mountain, ferreted out leads,
drummed up informants, answered criminal complaints, kept his butt on wiretaps, undertaken all-night surveillances, built
up cases and arrested people who badly needed to be. Web had gotten to the point where he could concoct a battle plan in five
minutes while he was driving a Bureau car—or Bucar, as it was always called—a hundred and ten miles an hour down the highway
steering with his knees and shoving shells into his shotgun. He had learned how to interrogate suspects, establishing baselines
and then asking them tough questions designed to knock them for a loop, to later gauge when they were lying. He had also learned
how to testify without being cracked by slick defense lawyers whose only goal was to not discover the truth and instead to
bury it.
His superiors, including Percy Bates (when Web had been transferred to the Washington Field Office after several years in
the Midwest), had filled his personnel file with commendation after commendation, impressed with his dedication, his physical
and mental skills and his ability to think on his feet. He
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