The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense

by Samuel Marquis

  Another difficult question was whether Jane Doe had received inside help. Did she infiltrate the Union Plaza Building and decommission the elevator and two security cameras on her own, or did she have inside support? Perhaps someone in intelligence or law enforcement? Could this be where Sharp fit in? It would explain his erratic behavior. What about Will Nicholson? Why had he been so eager to take Patton off the case so soon after returning from Nepal? Had he even been in Nepal? And what about that viper Governor Stoddart?

  But in Patton’s mind, the most intriguing question was the true identity of Jane Doe? How accurate was the profile Dr. Hamilton was developing? Did she suffer from real personality disorders, or was the good doctor working in the realm of conjecture? Why did she take unnecessary risks, like stealing Schmidt’s hair? Why was she so methodical and professional yet so impulsive? Most importantly, how was he going to catch her now that Sharp and Nicholson had taken him off the case?

  The thought of Sharp left a nasty residue in his mind and he decided to call John Sawyer. He had left the office in such a huff he had forgotten to brief his replacement. He called him at the office, but he wasn’t in, so he dialed his home number and reached him there. He offered to come in tomorrow to go over the case in detail. Sawyer accepted and said he was already lobbying hard to get Patton back on the job in at least a supporting role. Patton believed him. John Sawyer wasn’t a bad guy; he was just in an impossible situation.

  When Patton hung up, he sat back down at the table and started jotting down notes again. Jennifer leaned across the table and took the pen from him. “I think we’ve done enough for one night,” she said, resting her hand on his suggestively.

  Patton saw a familiar look in her eyes that made his blood turn warm. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know,” she said coyly. “I was wondering whether you’d learned anything these past twelve years. You know like tricks?”

  He felt himself blushing. “Are we talking dirty here?”

  “Does it make you feel uncomfortable?” Her foot gently rubbed his below the table.

  “No, but I do feel like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate .”

  “Uh-huh,” she said devilishly, still stroking his foot. “And is that good or bad?”

  He leaned across the table and kissed her. Her lips tasted like wild mountain honey. “I’d have to say, it’s pretty damned good.”

  “Shall we then?”

  He was hard as a hammer, but pretended to be the chaste one. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “I believe it’s been twelve years, Ken.”

  “Too damned long,” he said, and he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

  CHAPTER 121

  THE APOSTLE quietly exulted as he saw the bedroom lights go out. If you hurry, you can catch them in the act! He had been spying on them for over an hour now and had seen them kissing through the half-drawn curtain of the kitchen window. From his dossier, he knew they had been lovers once; obviously, they were rekindling the old flame. It would be absolutely titillating catching them just before they climaxed, when they were completely vulnerable. His intrusion would be so unexpected, he would get the best possible reactions from them both.

  He pictured them in the heat of passion as his shadow loomed above. The FBI agent Patton would be on top and Jennifer would spot the shadow first, peering over her lover’s shoulder. Her nubile, sweaty body would tense, her red lips would part in horror, and she would scream, but it would take a second or two for Patton to stop thrusting inside her. Adrenaline would seize hold of their naked bodies and they would become prey animals. They would try desperately to disengage, to flee, but by then it would be too late. Instead of swimming in the ecstasy of an orgasm, they would be gunned down at point-blank range.

  What a sudden twist of fate. One moment rapture—the next Nightmare on Franklin Street!

  The moon radiated a restrained, eerie brilliance—like a freshly burnished silver candlestick in a dark, ghostly mansion. The Apostle had already worked out his approach so he made it to the backyard quickly, keeping to the shadows of the towering blue spruce. He slipped quietly over the white picket fence and headed for the back porch, his booted feet swishing softly through the grass. A dog howled, but he could tell it was far down the street.

  He carried his black Beretta 92F cocked and locked. One round in the chamber, the hammer cocked, and the safety set so he wouldn’t blow off his foot. The leather sheath about his ankle bore a six-inch, serrated, double-edged knife that would have made Jack the Ripper proud. He also wore a Kevlar bulletproof vest, knowing tonight he would be dealing with an armed, and therefore dangerous, adversary.

  In the Apostle’s line of work, one could never be too careful.

  When he emerged from the shadows of the trees, the moon caught him momentarily. One-half of his face basked in the glow of the fluted light, while the other remained masked in darkness.

  One-half good, the other evil, he mused. No, no, no, you’re all evil—pure unadulterated evil!

  A cloud passed in front of the moon, throwing his face into complete blackness. He gave a crooked smile: it was like a sign from above.

  He continued to the back porch. A dim outdoor light illuminated the steps and a third of the small yard beyond. When he reached the door, he withdrew his Beretta. Boasting a 15-round magazine and with a muzzle velocity of 1,280 feet per second, it was a truly lethal piece of ordnance. He plucked a custom-designed suppressor from his pocket and threaded it into the nose of the gun. Stuffing the gun in his fatigues, he checked the door to see if it was locked, and, finding it was, he proceeded to pick the lock. It took him less than thirty seconds.

  His body twitched with excitement as he pushed open the door and slipped inside.

  He moved swiftly but noiselessly down the hallway, keeping the gun pointed straight ahead. His excitement grew when he heard the squeaking bed and moaning voices, one gentle and female, the other husky and masculine. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness faster than he had expected. When he passed a kind of study, he undid the safety on the Beretta.

  Inside his pants, he began to throb. This was going to be very special indeed.

  His breathing turned heavy. The pistol in his pants grew harder still.

  This wasn’t his first time in this situation. He had caught lovers in the act on two prior occasions, and both dalliances had been intensely gratifying. He felt like an unseen killer in a slasher movie, about to catch the unsuspecting teenagers in the heat of passion.

  He came to a halt outside the door. The voices inside the room were practically screaming, the bed banging at a fever pitch.

  This was it—time to kill.

  Knock, knock, the Apostle’s here. It’s time for you to meet your Maker.

  CHAPTER 122

  PATTON WAS IN THE THROES OF RAPTURE.

  He had waited twelve years for this and the world spun in a pleasant way, as if he were on a merry-go-round. He arched his back and kissed Jennifer’s lips as she slid back and forth on top of him. A churning euphoric sensation took hold of his lower stomach. He kissed her on her hard, slippery nipple as they continued to thrust in unison. Her womanly scent was sweet and thick, like tropical air. His arms reached out like tentacles, clasping her smooth bottom, and he pulled her to him, plunging upward, deeper. She let out a moan and he could feel himself about to let go.

  I want to come with you; it’s always best that way.

  He had waited twelve years for this. Twelve long years.

  And then he heard the sound.

  It wasn’t much, a scarcely audible squeak, but something about it didn’t sound right. He glanced over Jennifer’s shoulder toward the door. It opened slowly and he saw a partial shadow creeping along the wall, growing in size.

  He stopped moving beneath Jennifer and searched frantically for his Glock. Then he remembered that Nicholson and Sharp had confiscated it. Damn! What about his backup piece? No, it was locked up in the spare bedroo
m. Shit! What else is there? His eyes darted to the side table next to the bed. There were three lead miniatures and the alarm clock. Is that it?

  He looked back at the door. Now the outline of a large figure was visible in the doorway.

  “Is something wrong?” Jennifer asked, wondering why he’d stopped making love.

  “Shh,” he whispered, keeping his gaze fixed on the door.

  The figure slinked back deeper into the shadows.

  Patton knew he had to act now. There was no time for anything but a desperate move.

  In a fluid motion, he pushed Jennifer off him, eliciting a shriek of surprise, and reached for the closest lead soldier on the side table. Then the former Wolverine quarterback leapt to his knees and hurled the figure with all his might.

  It was one in a million, but Elway himself couldn’t have heaved one better.

  There was a grunt of pain, a manly sound, as the impromptu ballistic missile crashed into the intruder’s face, disorienting him. A shot rang out, but the bullet drove harmlessly into the headboard.

  Patton seized his opportunity and charged the intruder. He knocked him into the wall, driving hard with a solid shoulder. The man grunted again and crumpled to the floor, his heavy boot jerking forward and crunching the toy soldier.

  Patton reached out to grab the intruder and felt something solid and bulky in his mid-section. Jesus, he’s wearing a fucking bulletproof vest! He knocked him again and the gun dropped to the floor. He kicked it to the side, toward Jennifer.

  “Pick it up!”

  He took a vicious kick to the ribs. He staggered and felt another punch hammer the side of his face. The intruder pulled away and leapt for the gun. Luckily, Jennifer reached it first, but the intruder jumped on top of her and tried to wrestle it away.

  Patton grabbed him in a headlock and pulled him off, dragging him to the other side of the room.

  “Shoot him!” Patton screamed. “Shoot the motherfucker!”

  The intruder twisted his body in what seemed like a predetermined military maneuver, and suddenly Patton found himself thrown to the floor, judo-style. He let out a heavy grunt as he hit and felt a sharp pain shoot through his back.

  Jennifer fired, the bullet tearing a hole in the carpet at Patton’s feet. “Not at me! At him!”

  “I’m trying to!”

  The man’s hands reached out and clasped Patton’s throat in a vice-like grip. Patton’s windpipe was completely closed off and he felt the life being choked out of him. For the first time, he got a good look at his adversary. The guy was scary as hell: he was built like a Special Forces commando, his eyes were as cold as agate, and his teeth were clamped over his lower lip like a werewolf.

  How in the hell am I going to stop this monster!

  He felt one hand pull away from his throat. The hand reached back, and he heard the crisp sound of a knife being removed from a sheath. He threw his arm out to block the man’s hand as it swung around with a horrifying double-edged dagger. He gripped the man’s wrist, preventing a stabbing impact, and watched helplessly as the blade inched slowly toward his face. The jagged edge glimmered hideously in the moonlight. It would be only a matter of seconds before the cold steel pierced him; the man was so strong he could see no way to overpower him.

  He realized, in that strangely kinetic instant, that the man was a professional killer, well practiced in the art of extreme violence. Mano a mano against this guy, Patton knew he was badly overmatched.

  Shit, he thought. I’m going to fucking die.

  CHAPTER 123

  JENNIFER TOOK CAREFUL AIM and squeezed the trigger. This time she was rewarded for her composure as the assailant emitted a heavy grunt and released his grip from Patton’s throat.

  A direct hit to the chest! But why isn’t he going down?

  She fired again.

  This time the man howled and dropped the knife. When it fell to the carpet, Patton reached for it, but his hand was knocked aside and the knife flew under the bed. The two men tangled, twisting and fighting on the floor. In the weak illumination of the bedroom, Jennifer couldn’t make out the intruder’s face very well, but she could see enough to know it was the same psycho who had tried to murder her this morning at the clinic.

  Jennifer moved closer, following their back-and-forth movements with the gun like a spectator during a tennis match. She tried to draw a bead on the intruder, but he and Ken were interlocked and she wasn’t about to risk killing Ken. She would have to wait until they pulled apart again and she could get off another clean shot.

  She wished she was confident enough in her aim to take the shot and put an end to it now. But she had never fired a gun before and the kick was surprisingly strong. She had always loathed women in the movies who stood there paralyzed with fear or screaming in panic when they should just pick up the damned gun and shoot the bad guy. But it wasn’t easy to keep one’s head straight in a desperate situation like this.

  The intruder broke free for an instant and knocked Patton to the floor with a heavy thud. He then swiped an elbow across Patton’s face, drawing blood from his left nostril. Patton kneed him in the balls and they wrestled for a moment before breaking free.

  As they staggered to their feet, Jennifer thought she had a clean shot. But at the last second Patton crossed into her line of sight, and she held back.

  Patton head-butted the man in the face, receiving three stunningly quick jabs in return. Jennifer tried to draw a bead on the intruder, but still didn’t have a clear shot.

  Patton dodged the fourth punch and clutched the man by his uniform. He drove upwards with a right, catching the intruder in the chin. The man responded with a hard fist to Patton’s gut, doubling him over.

  Jennifer could stand it no longer. I have to take a shot!

  She aimed at the intruder and squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession.

  The man jerked back with a loud grunt.

  She fired again and he staggered from the room. She heard running footsteps receding down the hallway, the back door jerk open, and the sound of feet thumping on a hard surface. Then the sound disappeared and there was nothing.

  She felt along the wall for the light switch and flipped it on. Blinking into the bright light, she looked at Ken. He was slowly climbing to his feet, his heaving chest covered with sweat, his face red, tender, bleeding.

  “Jesus, you’re a mess. Here let me help you.”

  She went to him. He took the gun from her as she wiped blood away from his eye. Behind the house, an engine roared to life and tires squealed. They both looked anxiously in the direction of the sound. Slowly, their expressions relaxed as the sound of the getaway vehicle faded away.

  He turned to her. “I feel like I just went through a meat-grinder. Are you okay?”

  “Scared shitless, but still in one piece.”

  “That was nice shooting by the way.”

  “I just reacted. I didn’t even have time to think.”

  “Well, you got him.” He stepped towards the door and pointed at the droplets of blood on the tan carpet leading out of the room like a trail of breadcrumbs.

  Jennifer was puzzled. “Why is there so little blood? I must have hit him three or four times.”

  “Bulletproof vest.”

  So that’s what it was. Looking down at herself, she suddenly felt self-conscious being naked and pulled the edge of the quilt over herself.

  “That was the same maniac who attacked the clinic this morning,” she said. “We were lucky.”

  “Not lucky enough, I’m afraid.” He bent down to pick up something next to the wall.

  “What do you mean?”

  He held up a one-armed lead soldier. “That son of a bitch just made a cripple out of my great-grandfather, General George S. Patton.”

  CHAPTER 124

  SENATOR JACKSON BEAUREGARD DUBOIS tilted his head, tossed back three ounces of the finest Tennessee sour mash whiskey known to man, and set the glass down on the desk. His face shone harshly, like a cr
uel desert sun.

  “I don’t give two damns and a jar of cold piss about my personal safety. When I hear that first shot, I’m going hell bent for leather to Fowler’s aid. That, Mr. Chairman, is what will make the American people revere me like old George Washington.”

  Leaning back in his chair, taking the pulse of the man before him, Locke knew that, despite the obvious risks, the senator was onto something. There was a very good reason to handle the matter this way. Performing a feat of remarkable bravery in front of millions of TV-viewing Americans would forever enshrine Dubois as a national hero.

  “All right, Mr. Vice-President-elect,” Locke allowed, “but if we go through with this, the plan has to be foolproof.”

  The Prince of Darkness’s lips parted into something so crooked, so splendidly diabolical, it only vaguely resembled a smile. “Why Mr. Chairman, consider me your obedient servant in this matter.”

  SATURDAY

  CHAPTER 125

  ON THE MORNING OF THE ASSASSINATION, a warm wind rose up and chased the cool air from the Great Plains. The indigo sky and puffy clouds of yesterday afternoon had, like Dorothy, drifted back to Kansas, leaving behind a canopy soft, cloudless, and periwinkle blue. The sun was strong for mid-November, which would be something the citizenry of the Mile High City would long remember when they recounted the tumultuous events of this day. By mid-morning, the mercury was already in the sixties and the day promised to be a gorgeous one.

  Peering out at the city from the eighth floor of the historic Brown Palace Hotel, Skyler went over the plan once more in her mind. On paper it was simple, but, in her experience, seldom did a plan, even a perfectly concocted and methodically executed one, go off without a hitch.

  Today, she would face a combined Secret Service and outside law enforcement detail in excess of one thousand individuals. They had already secured the Capitol Hill and Civic Center Plaza areas. With meticulous care, they had swept every nearby building and set up perimeter checkpoints in a twenty-block radius. They had identified every conceivable line of sight, studying and restudying trajectories, angles, windage, and the like. They had fastened every window overlooking the speakers’ platform. They had set up magnetometer checkpoints and x-ray machines all around the plaza. They had set up triple the usual number of countersnipers and spotters on the rooftops. Finally, they had sent an army of bomb-sniffing German shepherds to do what humans could not.