The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense

by Samuel Marquis

  The young man was about to pay dearly for his lack of experience. And then the priority would be to kill all the clinic personnel and visitors as quickly as possible, before they had a chance to hide out and achieve full lock down in the engineered safe spaces. But with his police uniform, he already had inside access and would likely gain maximum penetration into the various rooms of the clinic once the opening salvo was fired.

  The Apostle gave his patented I’m-a-cop-so-everything’s-okay smile.

  “Good morning, I’m Sergeant Wilson,” he said politely to both the security guard and receptionist.

  “Are you here about the security cameras?” the guard asked worriedly.

  The Apostle suppressed the urge to gloat. The electrical short he had arranged to strike at precisely quarter to nine, fifteen minutes before the clinic opened for business, had come off perfectly. All of the security cameras were inoperable, which meant there would be no visual record of his presence here. The sabotage would, of course, be identified by the crime scene team, but he could live with that.

  “No, I’m here about an email message intercepted by the FBI regarding this facility. I hate to call it a threat , but that’s the word the FBI used. I’m here to follow up.”

  The guard’s eyes showed genuine animal fear. “Our security cameras are down. Do you think it’s related to the threat?” the kid asked.

  “I doubt it,” the Apostle replied, smiling reassuringly at him and the receptionist. “Usually these emails turn out to be false alarms. And your cameras...it’s probably just an electrical glitch. We have the same problem downtown all the time.”

  That seemed to make the guard and the receptionist both feel better. But the guard still looked tense as he glanced out the front door at the protesters. Did the kid have a sixth sense about what was about to happen, or was he always on edge like this with the protesters outside? Whatever the case, thought the Apostle, I have to take him out first.

  The Apostle smiled at him, like a kindly uncle. “Just to be safe, why don’t I take a look around? But first, can you please show me the control panel for the security cameras. That’s the best place to start.”

  The guard nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

  They turned to walk down the hallway just as a nurse walked up. “Kay,” she announced to the girl in the Colorado College sweatshirt. “Dr. Murray will see you now.”

  At that instant, the receptionist’s telephone rang and two more nurses appeared.

  The Apostle felt a sudden rush of urgency. If he made his move now, he could take out seven of them right here in the lobby and still have surprise on his side for the others down the hallway in the examination rooms.

  Take them , a voice called out inside. Take them now!

  The Apostle’s hand was a blur as he jerked out his noise-suppressed sidearm and shot the young guard two times in the face at point-blank range.

  The kid didn’t even have time to have time to reach for his gun.

  The two young women in the waiting area screamed.

  The three nurses and the receptionist were next. The Apostle delivered an instantly fatal, point-blank head shot to each of them. Then he twirled around to take a bead on the young woman in the Colorado College sweatshirt, who had stood up and taken a few steps toward him prior to the first shot.

  The telephone at the front desk continued to ring.

  “No, please,” whimpered the college girl. “I-I only came here for a diaphragm.”

  “Liar!” He pumped two bullets into her chest. She fell down hard, shuddering convulsively. He’d seen this type of wound many times before during Desert Storm; she would be dead in less than two minutes as her lungs filled with blood.

  The Apostle quickly locked onto the other young woman, a teenager. He saw a look of fear, but there was something else, something that bothered him. There was disgust, loathing. He had the feeling he had seen her somewhere before, but he couldn’t remember where. Something about the way the girl looked at him, her familiarity, made him hesitate.

  The moment of hesitation proved costly.

  With surprising quickness, she bolted from the couch and darted for the front door. He squeezed the trigger, a split second too late, and the shot struck her in the shoulder. She lurched forward from the impact, jerked open the door handle, and collapsed in the open doorway in full view of the protesters and any passersby outside.

  “Help!” Susan Locke called out to the people in the parking lot. “Somebody help me!”

  Several protesters looked over with astonishment. “She’s bleeding!” one cried.

  “My God!” another exclaimed. “Look what those butchers have done to her!”

  The Apostle grabbed the girl by the hair, dragged her back inside, and shot her again.

  Her body went limp.

  But the damage was done. Now the protesters realized what was going on and were sending an alarm through their ranks. Hearing the commotion, the Apostle knew he had to hurry if he was to complete the most important part of his mission: killing the doctors. Unfortunately, he would not have time for his little sexual escapade. That would have to wait for another time and place.

  Leaving the girl prostrate in her own blood, he charged down the hallway, muttering a prayer for all the unborn children whose lives had been taken at the hands of the evil abortionist.

  He opened the first door on his left and found the first doctor, Dr. Murray, bent over a washbasin scrubbing his hands. With the water running, the silenced weapon, and the meticulous soundproofing of the rooms, the doctor apparently hadn’t even heard the gunshots. The Apostle shot him twice in the back of the head at close range, splattering grayish-pink brain matter against the mirror above the basin. As the doctor fell, he smashed against a tray of surgical instruments, sending them clattering to the floor.

  Too damned loud!

  Wasting no time, the Apostle bolted from the room. As he turned the corner, he saw the second doctor emerge from the examination room next door.

  The Apostle gave a mirthless smile as he read the nameplate. “Dr. Sivy, I presume.”

  “What’s going on here, Officer...” The words were left hanging, as the doctor, initially taken in by the uniform, realized the Apostle was no ordinary policeman.

  “I’m just doing a little housecleaning—and you’re next on my list.”

  The Apostle fired twice; a pair of red blots appeared on the doctor’s chest.

  The man staggered back and the Apostle finished him off with a kill shot to the temple. Then he crept into the examination room. A black nurse was struggling frantically to open the window to escape, begging for God’s help.

  His face hardened. You shouldn’t be praying for your own life, but for the hundreds, maybe even thousands, you have helped kill!

  She looked back over her shoulder, her face filled with terror, and for an instant he held her gaze, raping her with his eyes. He fired two rapid bursts at her back and she fell to the floor.

  It was then he heard the sounds.

  A squeaking hinge, followed by a gasp of shock. It had definitely come from somewhere nearby—and it meant only one thing.

  There was someone else in the abortion clinic. Someone he hadn’t accounted for.

  CHAPTER 98

  JENNIFER SLIPPED QUIETLY back into the bathroom, hoping feverishly she hadn’t been discovered. When she had first heard the commotion, she had no idea what it was about; but now, after seeing the bloody bodies splayed on the floor, she realized what was happening. If she could remain hidden, she might live through this murderous rampage.

  She heard footsteps.

  They were coming closer, tapping lightly against the floor like a quietly ticking time bomb. The methodical footfall of a killer—a vicious holy warrior who thought that doctors and nurses who performed legitimate medical services were the enemy. It was so very American, a coward with a gun, going berserk. And he was heading her way.

  Damn, you’re trapped! There’s no way out of here!
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br />   She felt like a cornered animal and wondered what had happened to Susan. Had the killer gone after only the doctors and support staff? Maybe he had told Susan and the other girl to lie down, remain silent, and he would spare their lives. Jennifer could only hope so because there was nothing she could do to help Susan now.

  The footsteps grew louder.

  You have to do something, Jennifer. Don’t be a victim. Think!

  Her best—hell her only —chance was to bash the killer over the head as he came into the bathroom. But she needed something big, something solid, something...she ran into the stall and yanked the lid off the toilet’s water tank. The slab of porcelain was heavy enough to serve as a weapon. Tiptoeing back to the door, she choreographed the next few moments in her mind.

  The footsteps stopped in front of the door.

  She tried not to make a sound as she waited there poised with the slab of porcelain, her heart racing in her chest, the tense seconds ticking off. She had never felt so terrified before in her life.

  The door flew open and Jennifer was smashed against the wall, the air leaving her lungs. Momentarily paralyzed, gasping at an atmosphere suddenly devoid of oxygen, her mind flashed an epitaph of hopelessness.

  Goodbye Ken, goodbye Pulitzer, goodbye Scarlet-Fire, goodbye life.

  Then the anger ignited within her like a flash fire.

  I refuse to die like this! I will not be a helpless victim!

  Willing herself to life, she drove into the door with her shoulder before the killer could enter the bathroom. She heard a heavy grunt and a shot ring out. She lunged forward and drove into the door again, then moved instinctively from behind the door as it swung forward and slammed against the wall. The man rebounded off the door as it struck the wall and turned toward her. But before he could fire his gun, she swung the slab of porcelain at him like a Louisville Slugger.

  The stroke would have made the Great Bambino proud.

  She caught him squarely in the jaw. His head jerked back like a prizefighter struck by a savage roundhouse right.

  Stunned by the blow, he staggered against the door and looked at her dazedly. For the first time, she got a good look at him: a cop, or more likely, a psycho dressed like a cop. Though he was momentarily disabled, she could see the alpha-male-killer lurking beneath the policeman’s cap and dark shades. This was a man who knew only too well how to dispatch people quickly and efficiently, without any sense of guilt or remorse. This was a man who deserved to die.

  She hit him again, this time in the arm, thrusting downward like a guillotine. The blow dislodged the semiautomatic in his right hand and it skidded across the floor of the bathroom. She struck him again in the jaw for good measure, dropped the lid, and scrambled to scoop up the gun.

  She still had not taken a breath.

  When she turned around clutching the gun, the killer was gone. She thought about chasing after him, but there was no air in her lungs. She doubled over struggling to catch her breath. The sound of choppy footsteps receded down the hallway and then faded out altogether.

  She collapsed against the wall, feeling as weak as a baby. Where did all my strength go?

  A moment later, tires squealed behind the clinic. She continued to suck in air, greedily, like a resurfacing pearl diver. Finally, she willed herself to her feet and stepped out into the hallway, gripping the gun.

  The clinic had turned into a combat zone.

  There were bodies strewn about, smears and pools of blood, glossy and deep vermillion against the aseptic white floor. By the time she reached the receptionist’s desk, she felt nauseated. It was unthinkable that such carnage could have taken place in the time it took her to go to the bathroom. She looked around for Susan, but couldn’t see her anywhere.

  Where has she gone? Did she get away?

  She heard a commotion outside now, urgent voices and the distant drone of sirens. Her mind was numb with shock and grief; she was physically drained. Like a sleepwalker, she opened the door and stepped into the brisk morning air, unaware that she still clutched the pistol in her right hand.

  CHAPTER 99

  THE CADILLAC SCREAMED DOWN THE HILL.

  Behind the wheel, Benjamin Bradford Locke slapped his foot down on the accelerator and the luxury car shot forward like a thoroughbred. He was muttering Scripture to himself—something from Amos about women with child being ripped up in Gilead—but the fierce determination on his face revealed every shred of concentration was on reaching his beloved daughter.

  Seconds earlier, from a distance, he had witnessed Susan pushing open the front door and starting to crawl along the walkway leading to the parking lot. She was covered in blood, clawing at the concrete, and all he could think was, How in God’s name could I have allowed this to happen?

  The breath was hot in his throat. He was fueled by unbearable thoughts of a life without his beloved daughter.

  I must save her!

  He took a sharp right into a vacant lot for a more direct route to the clinic. A narrow bike path cut through the field, and as the tires gripped its loamy surface, a long brown cloud of dust rose up behind the racing vehicle like a jet plume. The front tire hit a bump. The Cad bounded in the air, coming down hard and jerking right. Locke struggled to keep the vehicle on the trail and away from the concrete blocks rising like small islands in the deep grass. The tires churned and pebbles ricocheted noisily against the grill of the Cadillac.

  Eventually the trail leveled off, joining with a road that wrapped around the lot and led to the clinic. Locke jerked the wheel left and went flying into the street, sparks flying as the front bumper caught asphalt. He prayed desperately that Susan would live. At least she was moving under her own power. He forced himself to dam back the torrent of guilt flooding through him.

  What have Skull Eyes and the colonel done? What have I done?

  He nearly sideswiped a silver Mercedes as he screamed towards the parking lot entrance. To his surprise, behind the wheel he saw Joseph Truscott. Both of their mouths opened in astonishment, and then Skull Eyes gunned the engine and blasted down the road in the opposite direction.

  Locke gritted his teeth. You bastard, I’m going to draw and quarter you myself once I save my daughter!

  He flew into the parking lot and screeched to a halt. Scrambling from the running Cadillac, he dashed like a guided missile toward Susan. There was pandemonium everywhere, people running, screaming, sirens shrieking nearby. Most of the people were protesters bolting for their vehicles, but others were passersby that had stopped to see what all the commotion was about. He bulled his way through the frenzied crowd to the grassy lawn where his daughter lay. Two women and a man knelt around her prostrate body.

  “Susan, darling, I am here!” he cried, kneeling next to her and taking her hand.

  She looked up at him through foggy, half-lidded eyes. Her breaths came in ragged gasps and her yellow Cardigan sweater was soaked with blood. He gripped her hand harder, hoping to transfer his bodily strength to her. But she was limp, cool to the touch.

  “Jesus is with you now. His strength will carry you through.”

  He placed his suit coat under her head and she looked up at him like she wanted to say something. But no words came out. He gripped her hand tighter. Her skin was clammy, her face anemic from loss of blood. The sirens were loud now, shrieking from the north.

  “Just hang on, Susan—the ambulance is coming.”

  Her eyes rolled in the back of her head and she took on a glazed look.

  And then a strange thing happened.

  Her body shuddered and the glazed look disappeared. There was a look of intense focus, followed by an expression that was accusatory, betrayed.

  “How could you do this, Daddy? How could you?”

  Locke was taken aback. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “How could you do this to me, Daddy?”

  His face flushed with guilt. “My God, no…I had nothing to do with this, I promise!” But you didn’t stop it unti
l it was too late either, his inner voice reminded him.

  He looked at the three faces gathered around him and saw the darkening hue of suspicion. From the doorway of the clinic stepped Jennifer Odden, looking dazed and carrying a gun. At first, he was surprised to see her, but then he understood why she was here: to give moral support to Susan while she committed her murderous act. Somehow Susan must have befriended the woman—Marlene had informed him that the two had spoken at the office two days ago—and they had come here together to snuff out the life that grew inside his daughter. Jennifer must have somehow managed to wrestle the Apostle’s gun away from him and forced him to flee.

  She is one tough woman all right, but she will pay for her treachery! I’ll make certain of that!

  Suddenly, in that tense moment, every shred of anger he felt at the unfairness and tragedy of his daughter’s horrible fate he directed at Jennifer Odden. He rose to his feet and pointed accusingly at her.

  “There she is! There’s the killer!”

  CHAPTER 100

  JENNIFER FROZE.

  In a state of shock, she couldn’t bring herself to put down the gun or utter a single word in her self-defense. She was too shaken—not only by the grisly death scene inside the clinic but by Locke’s accusation—to move or speak.

  She stood there, stunned, like a deer trapped in headlights.

  In the parking lot, engines revved, cars bolted. Nearly all of the protesters were driving away in panic. They wanted nothing to do with what had just happened.