“No, we need to alert the Service now.”
“You are to remain at your house until I get there to question the Locke woman myself. Is that understood?”
Patton looked at his watch. “I’ll give you until one thirty. After that, I’m going—”
“I am ordering you to stand down and wait for me, Special Agent! Then we’ll settle this matter once and for all!”
CHAPTER 130
A HALF HOUR EARLIER, at 12:30 p.m., Skyler walked out of the Brown Palace Hotel and headed for the Sixteenth Street Mall. She wore a conservative blue concierge uniform with a red tie, the same attire worn by the staff of the Adam’s Mark and a half dozen other hotels downtown. A brunette wig and clear, normal-vision glasses rounded out her blandly official costume. She carried an overnight bag on her shoulder and a purse in her hand. Denver police and federal agents were posted in front of the barricades at every intersection, but they paid her little mind.
She walked inside the public restroom near the corner of Cleveland Place and Sixteenth, a location she had scouted on two prior occasions. She quickly glanced beneath the stall doors; all four were empty. She entered the last stall, closed the door behind her, and changed clothes, exchanging her hotel staff uniform for two other uniforms.
The first was the white uniform of a paramedic for Lifecare Ambulance Service, a national emergency transport company with offices in Denver, Colorado Springs, and Boulder.
The second, which she slipped over the paramedic’s clothing, was an FBI critical incident response group uniform, complete with all the accouterments that went with it.
With the uniforms complete, the only thing left was to apply her actor’s makeup. This took her several minutes. When she was finished, she examined herself in her compact mirror.
The transformation was so effective, she bore only a vague resemblance to the brunette concierge who had entered the restroom a few minutes earlier. With the wig gone, the hair beneath her gold-lettered FBI cap was close-cropped and platinum-blonde. Last night, she had cut and dyed it to give herself a butch law enforcement look. Her skin was now alabaster rather than olive, with the prominent freckles of a fair-skinned woman of British Isles decent on the nose and around the eyes. Her irises were now as blue as the Caribbean, and a thin pink scar had been painted onto her chin, to give her that single imperfection all eyes would be drawn to like a magnet—and people would remember. An identical scar was evident on the ID cards she carried on her person.
She was now Special Agent Carey Firestone from the Miami field office, with FBI creds, a controlled-access CIRG badge, and a Florida driver’s license to prove it.
And when the time came, she would be paramedic Jackie Chorney, a veteran driver with Lifecare Ambulance Service in Denver.
She was ready to move out. After making sure the restroom was still empty, she climbed on top of the toilet, popped one of the ceiling tiles, and stuffed her carrying bag behind a sheet metal vent. Climbing back down, she put on a pair of dark Ray-Ban sunglasses, opened the stall door, and stepped onto the mall with an air of authority befitting an FBI agent. She crossed Broadway and walked into the Denver Tribune Tower. A security check-in desk had been set up in the lobby in front of a bank of elevators. Two neatly dressed U.S. government agents manned the desk.
Skyler held her breath. The moment of truth.
The agent on the left spoke first. “And you would be Agent...”
“Firestone. Miami field office, spotter.”
She flashed her creds. The man gave her a conspiratorial look unseen by the other agent. So here is my first helper. She wondered if the guy was FBI or Secret Service.
He made a big, cumbersome show of cross-checking her identifications. Then he handed them back to her and the other agent checked her name off a list, all part of the plan.
“All right, Agent Firestone, you’re good to go. I’ll radio you’re coming up.”
“Thanks.” She headed for the elevators. When she reached them, she blew out a sigh of relief. At the same time, it occurred to her that she would miss this: the high-wire tension and clever masquerades. The actual shooting wasn’t the big deal; it was the planning, infiltration, and escape that were most exciting.
She took the elevator to the twentieth floor. When the doors opened, a man in a SWAT uniform just like hers was waiting. He introduced himself as Agent Patrick Hughes, checked her IDs, and led her down a hallway, past a half dozen staff writers hammering away at computer keyboards. When they reached the west stairwell, he pushed open the door and they walked up a flight of concrete stairs. He opened another door and they stepped onto the rooftop into the bright sunlight.
Three men stood near the edge, staring down at the Plaza. They turned around as she and Agent Hughes walked up. Right away, she recognized the big, distinguished-looking man in the blue suit.
“Agent Firestone,” the man said, “we’ve been expecting you.” He held out his right hand. “Frederick Taylor, United States Secret Service.”
It was the same voice that had warned her last night to get out of her apartment. She shook his hand, noting his lack of surprise that she was not a man.
So you’ve figured out I’m Gomez. You’re a clever one, Agent Taylor.
“This is Agent Rostello, and this is Agent Lufkin,” Taylor said, introducing the other two men.
Skyler repeated the handshaking ritual with them, unaware that the second hand she shook belonged to...the Apostle.
CHAPTER 131
AT HALF PAST ONE, Locke greeted Senator Dubois and they took their assigned seats next to the speakers’ platform. The crowd—at least thirty thousand strong—spread across the grassy lawn in front of them like a newly sprouted colony. There was a frisson of anticipation in the air: Locke felt as though his whole life led inexorably to what was about to happen.
He gave a sidelong glance at Dubois, sitting directly to his right like Alexander the Great. With his close-cropped white hair, perfectly pressed charcoal-gray suit, and crimson tie, he looked exquisitely presidential, as if he knew this moment belonged to him. Soon, he would come face to face with his destiny—and America would once again rise to the glory she had once known.
Yes, it would be a bold future all right. There would be a new commander in chief in Washington. He would institute his own special brand of political reform in short order, for here was a man who brooked no opposition when it came to protecting and defending the Constitution. It would be a paradigm shift, a change in economic, political, and social policy that would reverberate for decades. By God, there would be law and order in Washington, and there would be honor and integrity. But most importantly, there would be a return to American hegemony and a reawakened respect for the nation’s sacrosanct institutions.
The great ship would be righted and America would be born-again.
Nothing could stop them now.
Feeling a patriotic stirring inside, Locke looked over again at the supreme commander who would lead the charge.
On the soon-to-be-announced vice-president-elect’s craggy face, he saw a little smile of triumph.
It was then Locke knew: God had truly spoken.
CHAPTER 132
“WHERE THE HELL IS HE?” cursed Patton, pacing in front of his bay window overlooking Wash Park. “Sharp should have been here five minutes ago. Something’s wrong. I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either,” echoed Jennifer. “You have the phone number of that Secret Service big shot? What’s his name?”
“Fred Taylor.”
“If it gets down to the wire, you can call him, right?”
He saw the look of worry on her face and knew it was a mirror image of his own. “I’d rather talk to him in person. Either way, we’ve got to stop this.”
“There’s more at stake than just Fowler. We both know who takes the White House if Locke pulls this off.”
“Senator Dubois.”
“The Prince of Darkness himself. It’s looking more and more like he’
s Fowler’s pick for VP. It’s crazy when you think about it—he could very well be part of all this.”
The thought of the Prince of Darkness in charge of the country sent a chill down his spine. Though Patton leaned a little to the right on many issues, and was a self-described “fiscal conservative,” a future with Dubois as president was a future he wanted no part of.
Suddenly, Jennifer’s mouth froze half-open as she stared out the window.
“What is it?”
The agents guarding the house were running for their car.
What the hell? Patton dashed to the front door, swung it open, and leaped down the brick stairs. “Hey, where are you going?” he called out, waving his arms.
The Crown Victoria screeched away from the curb and tore down the street, leaving behind an acrid stench of burnt rubber.
“Why would they just leave like that?” asked Jennifer from the front porch.
“Sharp’s up to something. I should have known.”
They walked back inside just as Mary Locke came out of the kitchen carrying a glass of water. She took one look at them and said, “What’s wrong?”
“Our protection detail just left. I think it was ordered away.”
“By whom?”
“My boss, most likely. Don’t worry, everything’s going to be okay. But you should both collect your things. We need to get out of here.”
He went into the spare bedroom, unlocked a drawer, and grabbed his personal Glock. Walking back into the living room, he chambered the first round and stuffed the pistol in the small of his back.
When he looked up, he saw Jennifer and Mary Locke staring at him.
“It’s okay,” he said to reassure them. “I know what I’m doing.”
In truth, the last time he had fired a gun was his annual re-certification training nine months ago. The vast majority of FBI agents went through their entire careers without ever firing a single shot in the field—and, thus far, Patton was one of them.
Now the faint rumble of car engines was discernible; the sound seemed to be growing louder.
Jennifer looked worried. “That doesn’t sound friendly to me. We’d better go now.”
Patton listened a moment, nodded, and spoke in a voice of calm urgency. “Go to the garage, open the sliding door, and climb in my Explorer. Leave the driver’s seat open and just wait there. I’ll be right there once I see who it is. It’s possible we’re being paranoid over nothing.”
“I don’t think so,” Jennifer cautioned. “You said yourself Sharp could be involved. Suppose he’s sending in a team to arrest you—or all of us.”
“If that’s the case, I still need confirmation. So please get in the car.”
Jennifer nodded grudgingly and led Mary Locke to the back door.
Patton darted to the bay window looking out on the street. Three vans screeched to a halt out front. Doors flung open and a dozen hard-looking agents poured from the vehicles, wearing raid uniforms and brandishing assault rifles.
Assault rifles! Jesus Fucking Christ!
This was no peaceful mission to question Mrs. Locke or a simple arrest—this was a goddamned raid! And there was Sharp, the bastard, barking out orders like his great-grandfather, General Patton. There was no longer any doubt Sharp was deeply involved in this thing and would stop at nothing to keep anyone who might suspect his involvement quiet. The bastard!
But there was no time to dwell on that now.
Patton turned and ran down the hallway, flung open the back door, and cleared the steps in a single bound. He sprinted across the lawn to the garage and jumped into the Explorer, tossing the Glock between the seats. Sticking the key in the ignition and throwing the jeep into drive, he slipped into the alley and floored it, looking in his rear view mirror for signs of pursuit.
There was no one.
Good, he thought. Now all we have to do is get our asses downtown in time to save the day!
CHAPTER 133
PEERING DOWN FROM THE ROOFTOP of the Denver Tribune Tower, Skyler felt a prickle of tension as the procession of Lincolns came into view. For the past hour, she had scanned the upper floors and rooftops in quadrant six, as Taylor had instructed her to do, but now her attention was riveted on the street below. From Colfax, the sleek black Town Cars turned right onto Bannock and began pulling to the curb in front of the City and County Building. Beyond the motorcade, there was scarcely a ruffle in the giant American flag at the steps of the marble-gray government building. A police chopper circled lazily overhead, making its way slowly around the perimeter of the Civic Center Plaza. Somehow, the world seemed deceptively serene to Skyler, like the calm before a storm, which made her even more anxious for what was yet to come.
She pulled down her binoculars and let them hang from her neck. Surreptitiously, she studied the four men on her right as they watched the procession of Lincolns. Two of the men gave her the willies: Secret Service Agent Taylor, the hero who had saved Reagan, the man who was sworn to protect presidents and presidential candidates, but who was, in fact, a traitor; and Agent Lufkin, the spotter with the jackal’s smile. She suspected Lufkin wasn’t Secret Service at all, but a freelance killer, like herself. His being here could serve only one purpose—to eliminate her when the assignment was complete—and she was determined to keep a close eye on him.
The other two uniformed men, Agents Hughes and Rostello, didn’t concern her. Neither would leave the rooftop alive, and one was her ticket out.
Or at least that was the plan.
Down on the ground, Katherine Fowler filed from the car with her handlers. Behind a protective wall of Secret Service agents, the president-elect made her way to the speakers’ platform, where soft orchestrated music drifted from the loudspeakers. The large crowd was, as expected, more subdued than last Sunday. The event was intended as a tribute to Kieger and protest against the assassination, not a political rally, though Fowler’s handlers, no doubt, didn’t see it that way.
Skyler felt a twinge of guilt knowing she was about to drive a stake through the nation’s heart for the second time in a week. But you are a professional, she reminded herself. And a professional has to go about her job with emotional detachment.
Fowler shook hands with Governor Jackson Stoddart and the mayor before taking a seat a few feet back from the podium. The governor stepped forward to make the scheduled opening remarks; he was to be followed first by the mayor and then Fowler. The fatal shot was to be delivered when Fowler stepped to the podium and the police helicopter was farthest away in its elliptical flight path around the plaza. At that moment, Skyler would have a clear line of sight to the president-elect and the helicopter would be effectively neutralized.
As the governor launched into his opening remarks, Taylor issued instructions for the team to resume its survey of quadrant six. Skyler raised her Leica range-finding binoculars again and studied the countersniper positions. Taylor had chosen their current position well. There were teams posted on every building around the plaza, but not one had a clear line of sight to her position. The countersniper squad on the dome of the State Capitol almost had a clear shot, but as long as she kept crouched behind the wall, she’d be out of harm’s way. The Petroleum Building and Union Plaza Building would have provided perfect lines of sight, but the stairwell and two ventilation structures on the rooftop of the Denver Tribune Tower where Skyler stood obscured a direct view.
She would be most vulnerable right after the shot, when she rushed for the door to the stairwell. At that moment, she would be exposed to long-distance fire from at least three stationary positions and, less likely, from sharpshooters in the mobile chopper. But hitting a moving target from across the plaza or from a moving helicopter would be a challenge for even an expert marksman.
After a couple of minutes, Skyler swung the range finder back toward the podium, locking the laser ranging dot on the governor’s head. Though he wasn’t the soft target, he served as an excellent gauge of distance. With the press of a button, she sent
an invisible ray of laser light that struck the test target and bounced back instantaneously. Skyler read the red digital readout superimposed, in standard U.S. units, in the upper right-hand corner of the image.
Five hundred eight yards.
Ordinarily this distance, though substantial, would pose no problem for a shooter of her pedigree. But according to Taylor, Fowler was wearing a Kevlar vest equipped with a ballistic trauma plate, so she had to go for a headshot. This cut her target area by more than half. All the same, Skyler had no doubt she could get the job done. She would just have to be methodical in her calcs and remain true in her hold.
Picking up her Winchester 70T sniper rifle and sighting the target area through the scope, she quickly computed the drift and drop. There was no breeze, so she wouldn’t have to correct laterally for windage. But the drop was substantial, given the distance. Last night she had memorized the specs on the Winchester and the Unertl 8X scope. She would have to hold on the third mil dot below the reticle to account for the bullet’s drop over its lengthy flight path, which meant she had to hold three dots higher than at short range.
As she resumed scanning her quadrant through the scope, her thoughts returned to Anthony. Once the assignment was complete, they would be reunited. She visualized them nestled together in front of a log fire somewhere in the Swiss Alps, lounging on an endless beach of white sand on a reclusive island in the Lesser Antilles, making love in a lavish hotel room in some exotic region of Asia. It was all going to work out for her. She was going to quit the game, have minor plastic surgery performed, obtain three fresh sets of identity papers and credit cards, and go on to live a life of luxury.
Ideally, Anthony would be a part of that life, but if not she would find another man like him. She knew now there were men out there worth loving. Being helplessly in love was the most important thing in the world to her now. She was sick and tired of the conflicting emotions, the surges of guilt and nausea. She hated the ghosts of men she’d killed haunting her subconscious, coming at her in her dreams. Not just Kieger, who had floated through her mind all week, but Don Scarpello and all the others she had murdered. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life living like this—wandering around strange cities, biding her time until the next hit, surrounded by people she did not know or care about.
The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense Page 43