The Identity Mine (Warner & Lopez Book 3)

by Dean Crawford

  ‘We’re out of time,’ he said.

  *

  ‘We’re too late,’ Agent Hopkins insisted.

  Lopez stared at the blank screen and felt the burden of failure begin to weigh down heavily on her shoulders as the Secret Service agents began to prepare to move out of the Horsepower bunker and up to the White House lawns.

  ‘Just give them a couple more minutes,’ she pleaded.

  ‘We don’t have a couple of minutes,’ Hopkins snapped. ‘We’re of no use to the President down here, and your friends at the DIA have failed to give us a head–start on who the assassin really is. Once the President starts mingling any advantage we might have had will be gone anyway – we need to be right by his side, right now.’

  Lopez cursed as the Secret Service agents hustled out of the bunker and began rushing away to ascend into the White House and disperse onto the lawns in a flanking maneuver that would surround the President with a second layer of armed protection.

  ‘Come on, Hellerman,’ Lopez urged the blank screen, ‘don’t let me down.’

  The monitor remained stubbornly blank as Lopez sat in frustrated silence, fighting the same urge that had taken the Secret Service; to do something tangible to defend the President instead of sitting in the bunker staring uselessly at a monitor. She was about to leap to her feet and sprint in pursuit of Hopkins and his team when the monitor flickered.

  Lopez leaned forward, a pulse of excitement fluttering through her heart.

  ‘Come on,’ she urged the signal.

  The image on the monitor brightened, and then suddenly it sharpened into focus and Lopez saw both of the Presidents and their wives standing just beyond the edge of dense ranks of dignitaries all waiting to shake the hands of two of the most powerful men on Earth.

  The viewpoint of the implanted assassin was lower than the people around them, sufficiently so that Lopez was able make one positive statement.

  ‘You’re either a woman,’ she whispered, ‘or a real short guy.’

  Lopez tried to figure out who the person was, but with the crowd around them and no sound it was impossible to figure out who they might be with enough accuracy to warn the Secret Service team. Lopez was about to make a sprint for the lawns when she saw the figure look down at her side and saw a white handbag. Slim hands reached in and produced a small vanity mirror.

  ‘Oh God, please yes,’ Lopez whispered.

  The woman lifted the mirror to her face, eager to appear perfect for her meeting with the President, and Lopez got a shadowy glimpse of her.

  Lopez’s direct line in the bunker rang, the sound startling her as she reached out and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Give me some good news!’

  Hellerman’s voice reached down the line to her from Maryland.

  ‘The signal’s being piggy backed from the corner of 17th Street, less than two hundred fifty yards to the west of the White House!’

  Lopez was on her feet and running without even replying as she keyed her microphone and yelled at the Secret Service agents arrayed around the south lawn.

  ‘The target is in the crowd, Kiera Lomas, female! Use the signal blockers on her cell, cut her off! I’ll head for the signal’s source!’

  Then she had an idea. Cell phones were weak when calling but SMS messages, being smaller packets of data, often got through when calls could not.

  Lopez began typing furiously as she ran.

  ***

  XLIII

  Kiera Lomas stood among the crowds of politicians and dignitaries from both America and China as she prepared to shake the hand of the man who had ordered the raid that had saved her life in Basra, Iraq.

  She knew that the small number of journalists and television crews that had been admitted to the South Lawn would be watching her, that she had become the poster child for her country’s withdrawal from Iraq, the last–ditch effort to save her life giving the President a huge boost in popularity as he neared the end of his second term.

  Despite her gratitude, however, she intended to continue on her crusade with every fibre of her being. The President’s failure to crack down effectively on gun control in the United States and his apparent inability to quash the well funded lobbying of the National Rifle Association, marked for her a tragic and regrettable collapse of common sense political activism, a golden opportunity missed by an administration that could have changed the face of American history by reducing the enormous number of deaths suffered by its citizens, both innocent and guilty, every year. That and the shocking aftermath of the previous administration’s ventures in Iraq and Afghanistan had convinced Kiera like nothing else that her crusade was just, the influence of big business in Washington its target.

  The President and his entourage mounted the dais erected before the watching crowds, and after more rapturous applause had died down the President’s voice carried clearly over the crowds as Kiera watched, one hand on her bag beside her as she prepared to take the stand.

  ‘We’re here to celebrate a trade agreement that spans the largest ocean on Earth and one that I believe, personally, to be long overdue. The Trans Pacific Trade agreement now welcomes China aboard as a partner, in a deal that could finally overcome the historic rivalry between our nation and the rising tiger of the East. We all know how China has grown as a nation both economically and technologically over the past two decades, and only a fool would believe that such growth will come to an end soon. To join our friends across the Pacific in a trade deal that will secure and enhance both of our nation’s futures for many decades to come, to embrace prosperity over enmity, is an achievement that we should all be proud of, and I personally applaud every single person involved in the deal for securing a partnership that I hope will last long into our futures.’

  A ripple of applause fluttered through the crowd.

  ‘Closer to home, it’s been a hard road to freedom for our country and for that of the people of Iraq, for the end to a conflict which we did not start but which was left to us to complete, but today we can confidently say that our time in Iraq has come to an end and it came to that end in spectacular style. Members of our military were able to liberate a voice with whom so many of us have become so familiar over the years, a voice that was silenced by Islamic State jihadists intent on stifling the truth. They attempted to cast a veil over the opinions and broadcasts of one woman, and as any of us men know that’s a task that’s not easy to achieve under any circumstances.’

  A ripple of chuckles fluttered across the audience as the President gestured to Kiera.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to welcome among us journalist Kiera Lomas.’

  A rapturous applause filled the lawns as Kiera stood, smiling broadly for the cameras and for the President as he stood back from the dais and applauded along with the guests as two Secret Service agents moved either side of her and escorted her to the dais. Kiera climbed the steps, the agents remaining nearby, as she approached the President and took his proffered hand.

  ‘Welcome home,’ the President said with a warmth that Kiera realized was entirely genuine.

  The President embraced her briefly and then stood back to give her the dais and the attention of the crowds gathered before them.

  Kiera moved to the microphones and saw the immense crowds gathered outside the White House grounds, flocked in their thousands and able to listen intently as the sound of the applause died down and there was suddenly a deep silence all around her. To Kiera’s amazement, in the center of Washington DC she could have heard a pin drop as all activity ceased and it seemed the entire capital city of the United States of America hung on her next word. Former presidents watched from their homes across the country via satellite link, senators and other powerful figures all waiting to hear what she would say.

  Kiera’s mind fell silent as she stared across the hundreds of faces watching her expectantly, and she thought she heard a voice whisper in her head.

  Kill him.

  Kiera frowned, blink
ed, and began to speak.

  ‘It’s hard to put into words how much my life has changed since I was liberated from captivity in Iraq by the brave men and women of our armed services…’

  Kill him!

  ‘… who risked their lives in order to save mine, so that I might return here and continue my work in pushing for greater transparency of government, reduced corporate interference in politics and exposing corruption and injustice in our legal system. I guess you could say that when the President gave the order for me to be rescued, he kind of shot himself and most of Washington DC in the foot.’

  Laughter rippled across the crowd as Kiera felt her arm twitch slightly of its own accord, as though urging her to move.

  ‘And that,’ Kiera went on, ‘is perhaps the greatest tragedy of all and an ironic statement on my part. I have seen at first–hand what happens to a country when its law enforcement, judiciary and military collapse and its citizens are left at the hands of marauding bandits hell bent on destruction and mayhem. It doesn’t matter what religion they follow, all that matters is that they can bear arms against others without fear of retribution, safe in the knowledge that there is no law preventing them from carrying the weapons of war as easily as the rest of us carry a cell phone.’

  Kill him, now!

  ‘Our country’s constitution enshrines our right to bear arms, but that constitution was written in a time when law enforcement wasn’t a phone call away, when marauding bandits plagued our lands just as they do Iraq’s now. But our country has changed immensely since those days and now the United States is officially recognized as the world’s number one gun crime murder capital. We have as many firearms in this country as we do people. It’s hardly surprising that our children are shot in their schools by people of unsound mind who are still presented with no barriers to purchasing high powered assault rifles, pistols, shotguns and other weapons that have no place on today’s streets.’

  Kill him, right now!

  *

  The traffic became even more dense as Ethan carved a path toward the White House, the roads solidly blocked, and Ethan cursed as he pulled off the road and up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians cried out in alarm as Ethan thundered down the sidewalk between trees and parked bicycles and scooters, sunlight and shadows racing past him in rapid succession, then slammed back down onto the intersection and began weaving through the vehicles again, the sun hot on his bare arms and clouds of heat from the engine billowing around his legs.

  His cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and Ethan fumbled for it as he rode and read the message on the screen from Lopez.

  Blue van, corner of G & 17!

  Ethan yanked the Harley hard left onto K Street and wound the throttle open as he accelerated toward the target.

  ***

  XLIV

  ‘Blue van, corner of seventeenth and G!’

  Lopez shouted the command in her microphone as she burst out of the White House security exit and onto the north lawn, her own cell phone screen holding an image sent to her by Hellerman of traffic camera footage of the vehicle parked there.

  She heard a Secret Service Agent’s reply come back to her moments later.

  ‘The traffic’s too dense for pursuit vehicles, officers are joining you on foot!’

  Lopez sprinted down the White House drive around the North Lawn, the security post ahead of her already unlocking the gates that opened out onto Pennsylvania Avenue NW. She sprinted through the gates and turned hard left, tourists with cameras staring wide eyed as she ran by.

  ‘Get out of the way!’

  Lopez shouted at the densely packed citizens all watching screens erected on the north lawn showing the ongoing ceremony on the south lawn, the crowds parting for her as they saw the shield clipped to her belt and the gun in its holster beneath her shoulder.

  The corner of 17th and G was only two hundred yards from the north lawn, Lopez sprinting alongside the Eisenhower Executive Office building and then out across the street.

  Lopez could hear the sound of Kiera Lomas’s voice as it was broadcast on radio and on television screens erected around the perimeter of the White House.

  “… our government has ceased to be a voice of the will of the people, has ceased to become a democratically elected union of servants of this great country. It is possible, as we have seen in the past, for an administration to come to power despite losing the popular vote. It is possible, as we have seen in the past, for them to come to power and then act with complete disregard for the will of the people they purport to serve. It is possible for our country to be governed by those who have not been democratically elected and who do not act upon the will of the people. How can that be? It is possible because our country is not run by its government, but instead is bought out by the deep pockets of global mega–corporations who pay for our presidents to come to power on agendas favorable to corporations over people?”

  Lopez saw the van almost immediately and then saw two police officers sprinting up from the south, their weapons drawn and their shouts echoing above the noise of the traffic.

  ‘Stand down!’

  Lopez’s scream was drowned out by the sound of gunfire and the squeal of tires as the blue van suddenly lurched into motion. The gunfire cracked the air and Lopez saw one of the police officers tumble to the ground amid the ranks of cars as the van made to get away.

  ‘This is what happened in Iraq, a country destroyed by our government in a war that was both illegal and not wanted by us, the people. That country was raped of its wealth by powerful arms and industrial corporations, and the remains left for the people who live there. Our country has become the vassal through which global corporations become more wealthy, where trade trumps human rights, where profit conquers altruism, where war vanquishes peace in the name of our right to oil or the right to bear arms!’

  The blue van mounted the sidewalk alongside the rows of traffic and accelerated to the sound of screams from pedestrians. Lopez dashed onto the sidewalk in front of the vehicle, her weapon drawn as she took aim at the windshield.

  The vehicle’s engine screamed higher as it accelerated toward her and Lopez held her breath for an instant before she fired.

  Three shots burst from her pistol and shattered the blue van’s windscreen into a spider’s web of fractured glass that sent the vehicle swerving from side to side as it crashed past a fire hydrant and sent a tower of glistening water high into the air.

  Lopez hurled herself sideways as the van careered past her and thumped back onto the road, its fender smashing off the side of a truck’s chassis and then rolling to a halt in the center of the lane. Lopez sprinted to the driver’s side of the van and aimed into the cab to see a Middle–Eastern man slumped against the wheel, his skull shattered into a bloody mess by one of Lopez’s rounds.

  She turned and hurried to the rear of the vehicle and grabbed hold of the rear door.

  To her shock the door flew open and she was thrown backwards as two men burst from the interior. As Lopez staggered she swung her pistol to bear upon a burly, bearded man who leaped out of the van with a rifle in his hands, and an older man with gray hair and a wispy beard, the cold eyes of a killer glaring at her.

  Lopez hit the asphalt hard on her back as she fired, her shot hitting the upper lip of the rear of the van and ricocheting to one side as she heard two more shots fired.

  Lopez felt her body shudder as though the ground had shifted beneath her, a double thud that blurred her vision as she felt her arms go strangely numb. Her lungs constricted inside her chest and for a moment she wondered who had fired the shots and why the two men in the van had not fallen, and then she realized that Tariq Adel was aiming his pistol at her, a cruel smile on his face.

  Lopez stared at the scene before her, and then she realized that her legs were tingling and her shoulders sinking and the world spun around in a blur of color. The horizon tilted over and she plummeted onto her back on the lawns but strangely felt nothing as she landed, the bright blue sky
filling her vision as clouds drifted quietly through the heavens.

  ‘This very city in which we stand has the highest homicide rate of any in the developed world. Nine thousand Americans died last year as a result of gun crime, more than died in automobile accidents. The National Rifle Association will tell you that it is our right as Americans to bear arms. They won’t tell you that saying so keeps the revenue rolling in for them, even though in this day and age we have armed law enforcement to protect us from those who would harm us in every city. This is not Iraq, but some days Washington DC is starting to feel worse than Basra!’

  Tariq and the bearded man dashed toward the front of the vehicle. Lopez tried to get up, but her body would not respond and a savage pain ripped across her chest. She slumped onto her back as the engine to the vehicle started, the dead driver’s body thumping down onto the road as the battered van pulled away in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

  Lopez stared up at the blue sky and realized that she was struggling to breathe as citizens broke from cover and ran to surround her, their eyes wide with horror and concern as the sound of a large, thumping engine thundered between the buildings and vehicles.

  Hannah Ford’s face appeared as if from nowhere before Lopez, the agent crouching down alongside her and pressing against Lopez’s chest as Agent Vaughn, his face bruised and battered, covered them both with his pistol and shouted at the surrounding civilians to get back.

  ‘Stay with me, Nicola!’ Hannah urged.

  Lopez blinked, still unsure of what had happened until she felt the growing numbness in her chest, saw the blood oozing from between Hannah Ford’s fingers, and she realized that she had been hit and that she could taste blood in her mouth. Suddenly she could not breathe, despite gasping and trying to inflate her chest for all she was worth, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that at least one of her lungs had been punctured.