The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense

by Samuel Marquis

  It was time for a change. It was time to live.

  All you need is one last hit . Then you shall be free.

  CHAPTER 134

  “CAN’T THIS THING GO ANY FASTER?” Jennifer cried from her shotgun seat as they blazed down Speer Boulevard toward downtown. “We’re going to be too late!”

  “Mario Andretti at your service!” Patton slapped his foot down on the accelerator of the Ford Explorer.

  “That’s more like it,” Jennifer said. Behind her, Mary Locke held on for dear life to a handgrip.

  Steering with his left hand, Patton yanked out his cell phone from his pocket and tossed it to Jennifer. “Get Taylor on the line!” he cried as they shot through the yellow light at Logan.

  Jennifer punched it in. “It’s ringing,” she said, and she handed the phone back to him.

  He took it in his left hand and held it to his ear as they came upon Lincoln Street. He jerked the wheel to the right, screeching onto the one-way street. The engine roared like thunder.

  “Agent Taylor here.”

  “Fred, its Ken Patton.” He quickly explained the situation over the roaring engine.

  “Where are you now?” Taylor asked.

  “I’m heading north on Lincoln. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Is Mrs. Locke with you?”

  “Yeah, and Jennifer Odden too. Look, Fred, you’ve got to shut this thing down. Call your people and get Fowler out of there now. Her life’s in danger.”

  The phone was silent a moment. “I want you to listen to me very carefully, Special Agent. I’m going to do what you ask, but I have to follow the proper protocols. I want you to go to the parking structure beneath the loading dock at the Denver Tribune Tower. The address is 1560 Broadway. The parking structure is on the north side, on Sixteenth. I’m here with my team now. From there, I’ll take you to Bob Riley, the SAC in charge of the personal protection detail. In the meantime, I’ll call him and ask him to delay Fowler’s appearance, but he’s going to need to talk to you and Mrs. Locke in person before he can order a full-scale shut-down. This event’s just too damned big. Fowler and her people will go ballistic if we cancel without justification.”

  “You’ll get a temporary postponement until we can speak to Riley?”

  “Just as soon as you let me off the line.”

  “All right, we’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Lincoln’s closed off at Fourteenth. You’ll have to swing east of the Capitol and come in on Sixteenth. That will take you a little longer.” In fact, Taylor was banking on it.

  “Roger that.”

  “And Ken.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You did the right thing to call me.”

  “I know I did, Fred. See you in a few.”

  CHAPTER 135

  THE TRAITOR PUNCHED OFF his secure mobile, quietly seething under his breath. Every plan had its exigencies, its unavoidable breakdowns, but this one was monumental. He had badly underestimated Patton. IQ-wise, the Bureau brat wasn’t Harvard Law or Wharton Business School material, but that meant little in the realm of crime solving. This kid was something far more dangerous: he was as doggedly persistent as a bloodhound. He had been yanked off the case, but he just wouldn’t let go.

  Damn him!

  Now he had to be dealt with—once and for all. So did his two compatriots.

  But there was the rub. Taylor couldn’t very well take out Mary Locke, the wife of his employer, without his employer’s consent. But if he was going to prevent Patton and that damned journalist from warning the Service or DPD, there was no way around it. He would just have to hope Locke would never know who was behind it.

  His mind working in overdrive, Taylor scanned the speakers’ platform in the far distance through his binoculars. The mayor was on the stage now, speaking to the large crowd. Behind him and to the left, Taylor could make out Locke and Senator Dubois, who looked as hard and tough as a steel drill bit. Yes, the senator was the perfect choice to pick up the conservative torch; he would get the beleaguered country headed in the right direction in no time at all.

  Taylor turned his binoculars to the glimmering dome of the Capitol and other buildings across the plaza. The countersnipers and spotters were in position, but all he could see was their upper chests and the tops of their heads, like little Roman busts along the balustrades. The police chopper hovered above the Art Museum, across the plaza.

  Time for the opening act.

  Taylor walked over to his companions crouched along the edge of the rooftop. The stairwell structure, a few feet from the wall, covered them in shadow. He choreographed the next few seconds in his head; everything had to be handled with swift, violent efficiency.

  He made eye contact with the fictitious Agent Lufkin and touched his nose in a prearranged signal.

  The Apostle didn’t waste a millisecond. He withdrew a small plastic pistol from his coat pocket and locked onto Agent Hughes. There was a subtle pop, like a valve releasing compressed air, and the victim collapsed on the rooftop, rifle still in hand, a hypodermic dart sticking from his neck.

  Agent Rostello’s mouth opened and he raised his rifle to shield himself, but he was too late as a second dart spit from the gun. He toppled over like a stringless puppet, the Apostle snatching the rifle from him as he fell.

  Skyler backed away a step. She had known what was coming, but was still taken by surprise.

  Taylor thought how much he would like to have one of those guns. So compact and efficient.

  In fact, the Crossman repeating .22-caliber air pistol was still in the experimental stage. It was favored by international intelligence and terrorist organizations because it was as small as an old-time Derringer and both the gun and ammo were constructed solely from plastic, which facilitated easy smuggling through airport metal detectors.

  The Apostle pulled out the toxin-coated air darts and propped the bodies against the wall, giving the appearance of spotters crouching down to peer over the edge. Because of the heavy shadow from the stairwell structure, this would be enough to fool the spotters on the rooftops and the police observers in the helicopter.

  Taylor looked at his watch. “Everything’s set. Fowler will take the podium any minute now. I have to take care of something, so the success of the mission now depends on you two.” He looked at Skyler. “You are to take the shot once the target is standing at the podium and the helicopter is at apogee. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal,” Skyler said dryly.

  “Good—happy hunting then.” He disappeared into the stairwell.

  CHAPTER 136

  LOCKE’S left leg twitched with anticipation. Almost time. From his first row seat on the speakers’ platform, he studied the Secret Service agents posted at the stage. They stood still as statues behind their dark sunglasses, each and every face stolid as granite. They were honorable men, consummate professionals, who took pride in their jobs and their country; and yet, even the most stalwart among them could not prevent what was about to happen.

  Locke wished the mayor would hurry and finish his speech so Fowler could take center stage for her last—and most memorable—performance. But the man was a typical politician, unable to give his jaw muscles a rest once a huge crowd had assembled before him.

  Locke’s steel-gray eyes swept the audience, taking in the solemn yet hopeful countenances in the first few rows. These people were gravely mistaken if they believed reformers like Kieger or Fowler would make their country a better place to live. No, what they needed was the regal Southern gentleman sitting next to him. With a conservative majority in the House, Senate, and Supreme Court, Dubois would put an end to this rancid era of American weakness in the form of regulatory suffocation, moral relativism, and tax and spend liberalism. Of course, to appease the moderates, he would promise to govern from the middle, but it would be nothing more than window dressing. When he took office, he would rule proudly from the far right, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it.


  True, this was only the first step, but one day goodness really would overtake evil and America would truly be born-again.

  Locke could almost taste the rebirth, sweet as apple butter.

  He was pulled from his reverie as the mayor introduced the president-elect. The crowd responded with polite applause befitting the sober occasion as Fowler rose to her feet. Time seemed to stand still as the young, charismatic woman shook the mayor’s hand and took the podium.

  When Fowler cleared her throat, Locke felt his body tense with anticipation. He imagined the bullet ripping through the traitor’s head, the crowd’s terrified shriek and ensuing pandemonium. He looked over at Dubois and saw his jaw tighten. When they made eye contact, Dubois gave a little nod.

  The new Chosen One knew what to do.

  CHAPTER 137

  AS THE CHOPPER passed over the Adam’s Mark Hotel, Skyler brought the stock of the Winchester 70T slowly to her shoulder, placing the third mil-dot beneath the crosshairs on her soft target. She wore ultrathin leather gloves to ensure her fingerprints would never be found on the weapon. Through the Unertyl 8X scope, Katherine Fowler looked remarkably similar to how Governor Kieger had looked during the final moments of his life. Her fists hammered at the air, her face sparkled with passion, and her commanding voice rose stridently over the loudspeakers.

  Skyler forced herself to think of her not as a woman, not as a terrestrial being with blood coursing through her veins, but as a means to an end.

  One more soft target and you are free. Just one more hit—the very last hit.

  She pulled the stock tightly against her shoulder and held the mil-dot there on her target with the cool, collected discipline of an expert professional assassin. Her right index finger slid forward and curled around the trigger. Her hands were steady, her muscles tense but precisely controlled. She was as ready as she would ever be.

  And then she lost it.

  A wave of nausea seized her, followed by a sudden throbbing in her head like a migraine. The rifle started to slip from her hands.

  My God, not again?

  “What the fuck’s the matter with you?” the Apostle snarled, pointing his SIG-Sauer at her temple.

  Skyler slumped against the wall, the rifle sliding carelessly to the gravel rooftop. She tried to draw a breath, but the air refused to enter her lungs. She grasped her head in her hands, rocking with pain.

  “Shoot goddamnit or I’ll blow your fucking head off!” He shoved the pistol against her temple.

  “My head...it...it feels like it’s trapped in a vise.”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck! Take the fucking shot!”

  Skyler willed the rifle back in her hands. “Okay,” she gasped, still short of breath. “I’ll do…I’ll do it. Just give me a second.”

  The Apostle grudgingly backed up, giving her some room but still keeping his pistol trained on her.

  Skyler took a few controlled breaths and thought of Anthony. Slowly, her head began to clear and she felt a renewed strength. It would be a precious waste not to suck it up and carry out the assignment. Then she would go on to share a real life with Anthony.

  You can love, she exhorted herself. You can really love!

  And that’s why you have to go through with this.

  CHAPTER 138

  AS SENIOR SECRET SERVICE AGENT TAYLOR stepped from the parking garage elevator, his coded mobile rang. He debated whether to answer it, but it could be Patton, so he took the call.

  “Taylor here.”

  “Special Agent, we know what’s going on,” Joseph Truscott declared. “And we’re here to tell you there’s been a change of plans.”

  “Change of plans, sir?”

  “Yes, Agent Taylor, we have a new target.”

  CHAPTER 139

  SKYLER LIFTED THE RIFLE until the crosshairs were centered on the new soft target’s face. The professional shooter’s discipline had returned. All reservations were pushed aside, leaving her with perfect concentration.

  There was not the slightest tremor in her grip, only supreme confidence.

  She took a moment to study the target’s face. The image through the scope was clear, unwavering.

  Her nerves hardened. Her breaths came in a steady rhythm.

  She felt in complete control of her destiny.

  You can do this. Just finish the job and get out of here.

  She raised the rifle a hair and the third-mil dot locked onto the new soft target’s face.

  The perfect hold: no anger, no guilt, no doubt, no fear.

  The perfect way to end a remarkable, if unorthodox and sanguine, career.

  The mil-dot became one with the target as she entered her own private world, the sniper’s cocoon, for the last time.

  The field of fire turned noiseless. No one and nothing moved.

  Her mind was as clear as a mountain lake as her gloved right index finger curled softly around the trigger. All her resolve, all her professionalism, all her energy, would go into this final shot.

  “Bless me Father, for my last sin,” she murmured in her native tongue.

  And then, she sighted and squeezed the trigger—three times in rapid succession.

  CHAPTER 140

  “SO WHAT ARE YOU SAYING, JENN?” Patton asked as Fred Taylor approached the car on the driver’s side, from fifty feet away.

  “I’m saying can you really trust this guy?”

  “Of course I trust him. He’s been working the case with me all week. He’s the one who got hold of the security disks and tracked down Jane Doe. Him and Charlie Fial.”

  “Yeah, a Secret Service agent and a spook. They don’t work for the Bureau, Ken. You don’t really know them. And look how much trouble your own people have caused you. Look at Sharp.”

  Taylor continued walking forward.

  Patton studied him closely. He’s wondering why I’m not driving up to him. But he doesn’t seem anxious or hostile and his gun isn’t drawn. Then again, he’s Secret Service. That’s how he’s trained to be: cool, calm, and collected. And the parking garage is empty, the perfect place for an ambush.

  “I don’t like it,” Jennifer said. “I’ve got a bad feeling again.”

  “I’m learning to trust your feelings.” Patton smiled and waved to Taylor as if everything was okay. “Let’s see what he does.”

  He jammed the Explorer in reverse and made for the exit ramp, keeping his eyes on Taylor. As if on cue, the Secret Service man’s look narrowed and he jerked out a black pistol equipped with a noise suppressor and opened fire.

  Patton slammed his foot down on the accelerator and turned his head around so he could see behind him. “Get down!” he yelled as perfect circles suddenly blossomed on the front windshield, radiating outward into branching spider webs of fissured glass.

  With bullets peppering his windshield, Patton lost his bearings.

  He collided with a parked minivan. Then the engine stalled.

  “Damn!” he cursed.

  Taylor came on, firing rapidly, his piece spitting out piping hot brass casings.

  “Oh my God!” Mary Locke cried, and she began to pray.

  Patton turned the key. The engine wouldn’t turn over.

  “C’mon! C’mon!” exhorted Jennifer.

  He tried again; this time the engine caught.

  Taylor charged, teeth clenched, shooting. Patton reached for his gun between the seats, but in the confusion, it had slid to the floor of the passenger seat, out of reach.

  Shit!

  He decided their best chance was to go forward into the maw.

  “Hold on tight and stay down!”

  He slapped his foot down onto the accelerator and, keeping his head down as low as possible, he charged the traitor.

  Taylor stopped in his tracks, calmly popped in a new magazine, and raised his arm to fire.

  Patton brought the jeep up to thirty miles per hour, tires screeching across the concrete.

  Taylor just stood there, firing his semiauto like an M-16.<
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  Patton guessed which way the senior agent would dive. He chose left.

  Taylor ripped off three more rapid bursts then dove left.

  The Explorer drove into him and pitched him violently against a Toyota hybrid, his head smashing like a cantaloupe on the rear fender.

  Patton slammed his foot on the brake and jumped up in his seat to get his bearings.

  He was almost too late.

  A concrete support closed in on them without warning. But at the last possible second, he was able to swerve to the right and screech to a halt before hitting the wall.

  There was a moment of stunned silence.

  “Whew, that was close. Everyone okay?”

  “I’m all right,” Jennifer said.

  “Me too,” echoed Mary Locke. “Is he...?”

  Patton looked at the lifeless form of Agent Frederick Taylor. “Yes, he’s dead.” He unbuckled his seat belt.

  Suddenly, he heard gunfire and a mechanical whirring sound. He was hammered with a realization. He reached down, grabbed his cell phone and Glock from the floor of the passenger seat, and thrust the phone at Jennifer.

  “Call in the cavalry!” he barked, chambering the first round.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the roof!” and he jumped out of the Explorer.

  CHAPTER 141

  WHEN THE LAST OF THE THREE BULLETS STRUCK, Skyler saw only the tiniest puff of smoke, followed by a wet pink cloud of spurting blood, brain-matter, and bone as the head was literally pulped. The body was driven back, the arms flung out helplessly, like someone being thrown off a cliff, and the victim collapsed to the wooden platform. It was a gruesome sight, a cinematographic-like experience that would be indelibly etched into Skyler’s mind for as long as she lived. But there was no time now for guilt.