Free Last Man Standing by David Baldacci Page B

cords of muscles in his arms and shoulders tensing and then relaxing.
    When the man finished, Web stepped inside and said, “Hey, Ken, don’t you ever take a day off?”
    Ken McCarthy looked over at Web and his gaze was not exactly what Web would have called friendly. McCarthy was one of the
     snipers who had been overhead along the alley the night Charlie Team had disappeared under the wave of .50s. McCarthy was
     black, thirty-four years of age, a Texan by birth as well as an Army brat who had seen the world on Uncle Sam’s dime. He was
     a former SEAL yet did not exude the flagrant cockiness that most SEALs tended to. Only five-ten, he could bench-press a truck
     and held advanced multidegree black belts in three different martial arts. He was the most skilled water operator HRT had,
     and he could also place a bullet between a person’s eyes at a thousand yards in the dead of night while straddling a tree
     limb. A three-year veteran of HRT, he was quiet, kept mostly to himself and lacked the ghoulish sense of humor that most operators
     had. Web had taught him things McCarthy hadn’t known or was having trouble picking up, and in return McCarthy had shared some
     of his remarkable skills with Web. To Web’s knowledge McCarthy had never had a problem with him, yet the man’s look right
     now possibly heralded an end to that streak. Maybe Romano had turned everyone against him.
    “What’re you doing here, Web? Figured you’d still be in the hospital nursing your injuries.”
    Web took another step toward the man. He didn’t like Mc-Carthy’s tone or words, yet he could understand where they were coming
     from. Web could also understand where Romano was coming from too; it was just that sort of a place. You were expected to do
     your job, perfectly. Perfection was all they asked for here. Web hadn’t come close. Sure he had knocked out the guns, after
     the fact. That counted for zip with these men.
    “I take it you saw it all.”
    McCarthy slipped off a pair of workout gloves and rubbed his thick, heavily callused fingers. “Would’ve fast-roped down to
     the alley, but TOC told us to sit tight.”
    “There was nothing you could do, Ken.”
    McCarthy was still looking at his feet. “Finally got the go-ahead. Took too long. Hooked up with Hotel. Took damn way too
     long,” he said again. “We kept stopping, trying to raise you guys on the mic. TOC didn’t know what the hell was going on.
     Our chain of command sort of broke down. Guess you knew that.”
    “We were prepared for everything except what went down.”
    McCarthy sat on the rubber mat floor and drew his knees up. He glanced up at Web. “Heard you were a little late coming out
     of the alley and that you kind of fell down or something.”
    Or something.
He sat down next to McCarthy. “The guns were triggered by a laser, but the laser was probably activated by a remote so the
     fifties wouldn’t kick on prematurely and hit the wrong target. Somebody had to be around there to do that.” Web let that last
     statement hang as his gaze remained on McCarthy.
    “I’ve already talked to WFO.”
    “I’m sure.”
    “It’s an ongoing AFO, Web,” he said. An AFO was an investigation of an assault on a federal officer, actually lots of them
     in this case.
    “I know all that too, Ken. Look, I’m not sure what happened to me. I didn’t plan it that way. I did all I could.” Web drew
     a long breath. “And if I could take it all back right now, I would. And I’ve got to live with that every day of my life, Ken.
     I hope you can understand that.”
    McCarthy lifted his head and his hostile look faded.
    “There was nothing to shoot, Web. There wasn’t a damn thing for the snipers to blow away; all that training and no party to
     show it off at. We had three guys on the buildings overlooking the courtyard and not one of them could get even a decent bead
     on the mini-guns. Hell, they were afraid to fire because they thought one of their