The taxi driver was looking down and typing on his cellphone.
Jake pulled open the left rear door and slid in. Favreau climbed in from the other side. A clear plastic security shield divided the front and back seats. The driver, who looked southern Asian and had a prominent birthmark covering most of his right cheek, looked into the rearview mirror and his eyes went wide at the sight of Jake's blood-streaked face. He reached for the door handle.
Jake pressed the Beretta against the partition. "How much do you want to bet it's not really bulletproof?"
The driver let go of the door handle and put both hands on top of the steering wheel. "I don't have very much money, but you are welcome to what I have." His accent was Pakistani.
"Turn the car around and drive," Jake said.
***
Gertz sat behind the huge rifle, its stock resting on the sacks of dry beans piled on the breakfast table. Through the open glass door he could hear the police sirens from the presidential motorcade pulling up in Dealey Plaza.
The Steiner binoculars were back on the tripod, their line of sight matched as closely as possible to that of the Leupold scope mounted on the Barrett rifle. Gertz shoved a sixth cartridge of 661-grain, full-metal-jacket .50-caliber ammunition into the box magazine. The magazine could hold ten rounds, but he only planned to fire two shots, so he doubled that, then doubled it again for good measure.
It wasn't superstition. It was science. The science of preparation.
All of his practice sessions had begun with six rounds in the magazine. Adding more rounds now would change the rifle's weight and thus had the potential to affect his shot. He had trained with six rounds; he would shoot with six rounds.
Raising the butt of the rifle, he inserted the magazine into the well, then tapped it with the heel of his palm until he heard the metallic click of the magazine locking into place. He pulled the bolt handle back-it slid easily on lightly oiled grooves-and watched the nose of one of the fat brass cartridges tilt up toward the breech. Then he let go of the handle and saw and heard the bolt carrier slam forward, driven by the heavy recoil spring, and rake the cartridge from the top of the magazine and jam it into the firing chamber. He checked the safety, mounted to the receiver just above and to the rear of the trigger, and ensured that it was in the horizontal position and set on safe.
On the table now, in addition to the walkie-talkie, the stopwatch, and the 9mm pistol, were a pair of shooter's earmuffs, plus an M-15 white phosphorous hand grenade and a homemade beanbag made from a sock half-filled with dry beans and tied in a knot. Gertz leaned forward over the edge of the table and wrapped his right hand around the rifle's pistol grip. Then he picked up the beanbag with his left hand and slid it under the bottom point of the rifle's butt plate. By tightening and relaxing his grip on the bean-filled sock, he could make micro adjustments to the vertical axis of his aim. Squeezing the sock raised the butt, thus lowering the muzzle. Reducing pressure on the sock did the opposite: lowering the butt and raising the muzzle.
Gertz laid his right cheek against the stock and pressed his eye to the scope. The backup presidential limousine was there, just behind the County Administration Building. Two Secret Service agents stood at the front fenders, each with a hand resting on the hood. They were required to do that, Gertz knew, having read somewhere that at least one agent always kept his hand actually on the president's limousine in between the time it was swept for bombs and before the president got in. The purpose was to make sure that an agent was always literally within arm's reach of the president's vehicle and that not even for an instant was it left unsecured. He supposed the same rule applied to the president's backup vehicle as well.
How very efficient, he thought, thus, how very German of them.
Gertz placed the scope's crosshairs center mass on the farthest Secret Service agent. The reticle rose and fell slightly with Gertz's heartbeat. Then he took a deep breath, slowly exhaled half of it, and held the remainder. He willed his body to relax until the slight vibrations of the reticle became unnoticeable.
"Bang," he said. Then he took a deep breath. He checked his watch. "Not long now."
Behind him, Fluker's eyes began to flutter. And his right hand began to twitch.
***
Walsh was still standing on his balcony and looking at Dealey Plaza through his binoculars when the president's limousine turned north off Main Street onto North Houston Street. A block beyond, where exactly fifty years ago President Kennedy's open-top limousine had made that acute left turn onto Elm Street, directly under the looming façade of the School Book Depository, President Noah Omar's limousine drove straight another seventy-five feet, then coasted to a stop at the southeast corner of the same building, adjacent to the presidential podium.
Walsh lowered the binoculars and walked into the apartment.
***
Ten police cruisers surrounded the crash site. Two fire trucks idled nearby. Three ambulances were already on scene, and the blare of approaching sirens signaled more on the way. Crime scene technicians were stringing up bright yellow police tape.
Officially, two cops were dead and three of the four mystery men who weren't cops but who dressed a lot like cops were also dead. One was killed in the crash, and two had been shot in the head. The fourth had a shattered face and was still unconscious. Two prisoners were banged up. Two more prisoners were missing. One of the missing prisoners had claimed to be an FBI agent. It was absolute chaos. Things could not get more clusterfucked than this. It was just the kind of situation in which things slipped through the cracks.
And that was exactly what Bill Blackstone was counting on.
He shoved Stacy Chapman into the back seat of the Tahoe next to Gordon McCay, who was hunched over, holding his cracked ribs with one hand and pressing a gauze bandage to his split forehead with the other hand. Stacy still wore leg irons and her wrists had been re-shackled in front with a standard pair of police handcuffs.
"Where are you taking us?" Stacy shouted. But Blackstone didn't answer. He just slammed the door in her face. Then he looked at Garcia, who was standing in the middle of the crime scene, browbeating a Dallas police lieutenant and waving his phony federal writ in the man's face.
All the real action was over. The gawkers had lost interest and stopped shooting video with their cellphones, and the local TV news crews were all up the street at Dealey Plaza. So Blackstone and Garcia had felt safe enough to crawl out of their vehicle to try to salvage what they could from this total fucking FUBAR.
From fifty feet away, Blackstone could hear Garcia shouting, "...almost got two federal prisoners killed not more than three miles from your own station, so I'm sure as shit not going to let you take them anywhere else, not even to a hospital. If they need medical attention we will provide that. And if you have a problem with that I suggest you drive to Dealey Plaza right now and take it up with the president of the United States because that's who I work for."
Blackstone could see the cop shaking his head but couldn't hear what he was saying. Whatever it was, Garcia didn't wait to hear it all before he spun around and walked away from the lieutenant, who just stood there and watched him go.
"Let's get the fuck out of here," Garcia said when he reached the Tahoe. "Give me the keys. I'm driving."
***
The Pakistani taxi driver was terrified. But he was cooperative and doing just what Jake told him. He had a heavy foot, though, which might attract the attention of a passing police car, although with all that was going on, Jake kind of doubted that. Still, the way his luck was running, he couldn't be too careful. "Slow down," he told the driver.
The driver backed off the accelerator and glanced at Jake in the rearview mirror. "Please don't kill me, sir. I have a family."
"I'm not going to kill you," Jake said.
The driver nodded at Favreau. "But what about him?"
"He's not going to kill you either," Jake said. "Nobody is going to kill you. All we need is a ride."
&
nbsp; Favreau glanced at Jake. "We don't actually have any money. To pay the fare."
And that was true. All their personal property had been taken from them and sealed in plastic bags at the police station.
"That's no problem," the driver said. "No problem at all." He pointed to the meter on the dashboard. "My meter is not even running."
"Just drive," Favreau said. "And I promise you, everything will be all right."
Jake glanced at his watch, then peeked around the driver for a glimpse at the speedometer. "Not too slow. We do have to get there."
"But you haven't told me where we are going," the driver said.
"Straight," Favreau snapped. "Until I tell you to turn."
Jake looked at the Frenchman. "How do you know the man you saw was the shooter?"
"He was on the balcony with a pair of binoculars."
"Maybe he was watching the plaza, hoping to get a look at the president."
"He can't see the plaza from there."
"Is that all?" Jake said, feeling like the weight of everything they had done was about to crush him.
Favreau shook his head. "That's where I would shoot from."
Chapter 57
Max Garcia sliced through the heavy traffic, double-footing the accelerator and brake and blasting the horn.
"Slow down, for Christsakes," Blackstone said. He was kneeling on the front passenger seat, leaning over the backrest into the rear compartment and holding a half-loaded syringe. "You're going to make me stab myself."
Garcia cut between a delivery truck and a Volvo station wagon, maybe an inch to spare at either end, prompting a long blow on the horn from the woman driving the Volvo. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Gordon McCay was unconscious, having already received half of the heavy dose of Xylazine animal tranquilizer in Blackstone's syringe. With his injuries McCay had been an easy target. The FBI intel analyst, however, was proving more difficult. She was kicking and clawing at Blackstone as he tried to jab her with the thick needle.
"Do you need me to stop and do it myself?" Garcia said.
"Fuck you," Blackstone said. "I got it." Then he leaned farther into the back seat and made a stabbing motion with his arm. The girl screamed. Then very quickly her struggles diminished. Blackstone turned around and sat down in the passenger seat. "Out like Sleeping Beauty," he said.
Garcia spotted the back of a taxi ahead of them. He accelerated and cut off an aging minivan to draw abreast of the cab. Then he blew the Tahoe's horn and waved to the taxi driver to pull over. The cab driver ignored him and changed lanes to put some distance between them.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Blackstone shouted. "We got two people knocked out in the back seat. Both of them are about to be dead, and one of them works for the FBI. Are you trying to get us arrested?"
Ignoring him, Garcia shoehorned the Tahoe into the next lane and again pulled up beside the taxi. This time the driver refused to even look at them. Garcia swerved in front of the cab and jammed on the brakes. The Tahoe skidded to a stop with the taxi sliding on locked tires right behind it.
Garcia jumped out of the Chevrolet waving his Marshals Service ID at the cabbie. "US Marshals," he said. Then he slapped his credentials against the window and motioned for the driver to roll it down. The driver looked scared but he complied. When the window as down, Garcia said, "I'm a deputy US marshal and I need your help."
"What kind of help?" the driver stammered. He was an Anglo with a thick west Texas drawl.
"You do know the president is in town, right?"
"Yes, sir," the driver said. "I heard it on the radio, and I been fighting the traffic all dang morning."
"This is a presidential emergency," Garcia said as traffic backed up behind them and angry drivers laid on their horns. "My partner needs a ride. He'll give you the address in a minute. Just wait here." Then Garcia walked back to the Tahoe and looked in at a confused Blackstone, still sitting in the passenger seat. "Get out," Garcia said.
"Please tell me this is part of a plan and not a very badly timed senior moment," Blackstone said, making no move to get out of the SUV.
Garcia glanced at his watch. Then he pulled a scuffed leather-bound notebook and a pen from his pocket and scribbled an address on one of the pages. "This will be over in less than an hour. All you have to do is keep Favreau and Miller out of this building." He tore out the page and handed it to Blackstone. "Take the cab. If they show up...stop them."
Blackstone didn't move other than to look down at the address in his hand. "So this is where..."
"Yes."
Looking up from the torn sheet of notebook paper, Blackstone said, "But how could the Frenchman possibly know where your shooter is?"
"First, he's not my shooter. I thought I made that clear. Second, we, and I do mean we, have been underestimating our opposition all along. Favreau is very resourceful. Apparently, so is Agent Miller. Miss Chapman is an intelligence analyst. As for Gordon McCay...I've read his books. All of them. And he's gotten closer to the truth than anyone else."
"Doesn't matter how smart they are. They couldn't have found the—"
The taxi driver tooted his horn.
Garcia turned and gave him a look that shut off any complaint, even though behind the taxi several drivers were screaming their anger through their own horns.
Garcia turned back to Blackstone. "Go."
Reluctantly, Blackstone climbed out of the car. "Where are you going?"
Garcia nodded at the unconscious bodies slumped in the back seat. "To get rid of them."
***
A Secret Service agent wearing a dark suit, aviator sunglasses, and a discrete earbud pulled open the rear door of the limousine and moved aside to make room for the president to step out. Noah Omar could hear the crowd, a few thousand at least, clapping and cheering, the sound like music to him, making his heart beat faster as he turned to help his wife out of the car.
As Mona took his hand, she looked up at him. "You ready?"
"Of course I am," he said. "I've been preparing for this my whole life."
She climbed out and stood beside him. "Preparing for what?"
"To be Jack Kennedy."
She leaned close and whispered in his ear, "And that makes me who, Jackie...or Marilyn?"
The president was about to give her an answer, but Richard Finch climbed out of the limousine and stood beside them. The president noticed his deputy chief of staff looked pale and sweaty. "You sure it's just the chicken?"
"Might have picked up a bug somewhere," Finch said.
"Maybe you should stay in the car," suggested the first lady.
"I agree," the president said. "If you start feeling better, you can join us on the museum tour or at the reception."
Finch hesitated, then said, "Are you sure, sir? Because if you need me, I—"
The president cut him off. "I can handle the speech on my own, Richard, but I need somebody to beat on the links later."
Nodding, Finch said, "If I am coming down with something, might be best not to shake a bunch of hands."
"You sit tight," the president said. "Nobody wants you puking on the podium. Just don't leave without us."
Then the president of the United States, surrounded by Secret Service agents, stepped away from the limousine and toward the crowd. The noise, which had ebbed since the limousine door had first opened, doubled in an instant. Noah Omar took his wife's hand as he scanned the throng. There were plenty of American flags and only a few protest signs.
He looked up at the presidential podium, erected on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance to the old School Book Depository Building. The temporary podium was draped with red, white, and blue bunting and supported at least forty dignitaries, most of them local and state officials, all crowded into four packed rows of folding chairs, the chairs close enough together so that everyone could be in the photo-op with the president on this historic day of commemoration. A pair of Secret Service agents guarded either end of the podium, and in t
he middle stood a lectern draped in dark blue and bearing the presidential seal.
This is going to be a good day, the president thought. The speech was good. The weather was fine. The crowd was excited. Then, as the 44th president of the United States climbed the short set of steps to the podium, he couldn't help but glance high overhead at the window: sixth floor, southeast corner, the sniper's nest, from where a strange little man named Lee Harvey Oswald had fired the shots that killed the 35th president of the United States.
An unexpected and unpleasant chill ran through Noah Omar.
***
Walsh pressed the power button on the remote control console that operated the glider. The glider was a beautiful piece of machinery, sleek and efficient, full of long lines and graceful curves. Given the right conditions it could ride the air for hours. It's perfectly formed aerodynamic shape was only spoiled by two things: a string of Black Cat firecrackers duct taped to the top surface of the wing, and the nub of a tiny fiber-optic camera protruding from the underside of the fuselage between the nose and the wing.
The weight of the firecrackers and the small camera would certainly affect the flight characteristics of the glider, as would the disturbance they created in the airflow over its otherwise flawlessly smooth surfaces, but after making those modifications Walsh had tested the glider and found only minimal degradation in its handling and range.
After double-checking that the camera was switched on and sending its images via microwave to the antenna set up on the balcony, and then by wire to the laptop, Walsh turned to the flat-screen TV on the wall, which was set to a local station and showing a live feed of the ceremony being held two and a half miles away in Dealey Plaza.
The Second Shooter Page 25