The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense

by Samuel Marquis

  Despite her grave wounds, she had managed to transform herself from FBI spotter Carey Firestone into veteran paramedic Jackie Chorney of Lifecare Ambulance Service. Strapped to a gurney in the rear of the ambulance was the unlucky, but extremely useful, Agent Hughes she had lugged down to the loading dock.

  The light at Sherman turned green. To her surprise, it looked as though she might actually get away after all. But how far could she possibly get? She was leaking blood like a sieve and already woozy. She doubted if she would be able to make it out of the city before she passed out. And even if she did make it, she would probably die before she could get proper medical attention.

  Then she thought of Anthony.

  Goddamnit, Angela, you must live! You must live so that you can go on to live your life as a real person!

  Fighting against the excruciating pain and blood loss, she blazed down the street and took a screeching left onto Sherman, the lights of the ambulance striping their way across the jungle of glass and steel, the siren shrieking.

  Like a wounded lioness, she had a desperate will to live.

  The devout Catholic then prayed to the Heavenly Father and drove on.

  CHAPTER 146

  IT WAS LIKE A STRANGE DREAM. The lips of the agents around him moved, but no sound came out. Arms reached down to him, but they were not like human appendages, more like tree branches viewed from the slipstream of a fast-moving train.

  What had just happened was not at all clear.

  He tried to get to his knees, but was held down. With blood soaking through his shirt, he felt as weak as a baby. He touched his fingers to his stomach and felt the warm blood. The pain he felt was dull instead of throbbing, which he knew was bad because that meant the wound was serious. Someone pressed something against his stomach to clamp shut the flow of blood.

  Moments later, he was lifted onto a stretcher and carried away by paramedics.

  “Hold on, Ken—hold on,” he heard a familiar voice say.

  “Jenn, is that you?” he asked, squinting up at the fuzzy face.

  “I’m here, Ken. You’re going to make it—just hold on.”

  “Where’s Little Ken? Is he...is he all right?”

  “He’s okay. Little Ken is okay.”

  “They didn’t come and take him, did they? They didn’t take our son away from us.”

  “No, Ken, they didn’t take him. He’s fine—we’re going to see him now.”

  “Good, I want to see him. I want to see our boy.”

  “You will see him, Ken. Just hold on!”

  He felt a sensation of being hoisted up. Then he was moving and there were other blurry faces peering down at him.

  He felt lightheaded, ethereal, and the sensation reminded him of a football game twelve years ago against Michigan State. Dropping back to pass, with his primary receiver open on a crossing pattern, he was driven hard to the turf by a blitzing 250-pound linebacker named Lamont Hendricks. He lay there on the frozen ground, muddled and dazed, and the world all around him seemed curiously surreal. He felt that same sense of semi-consciousness now. He could hear someone—Jennifer?—crying softly beside him, and there were other voices, deeper and slower, like a tape playing at reduced speed. His sensory intake was coming in fuzzy, like a weak radio signal.

  He thought of something from Psalms, a lingering vestige of his Methodist upbringing. It came to him in the voice of a country preacher, and his mind reached back to the old Westerns he used to watch with his dad, the John Ford, Howard Hawks, and Sam Peckinpah classics.

  He imagined a gathering of settlers standing over the grave of some luckless cowboy, their faces hardened from sun and wind and hardship. They were listening to a black-hatted preacher, Good Book in hand, as he recited the Psalm in a sad voice that mingled with the whipping wind. It was a stark scene, but somehow comforting, with rolling tumbleweeds and a curtain of dust in the background and the stoic faces of the hardy but weary pioneers in the foreground. It all came to Patton clearly, like a dream just before one awakes, as he listened to the preacher’s solemn words.

  The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want

  He makes me lie down in green pastures

  He leads me beside still waters, he restores my soul

  He leads me in paths of righteousness, for his name’s sake

  Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil

  For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me

  Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies

  Thou annointest my head with oil, my cup overflows

  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life

  And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever

  That was his last thought as he slipped into unconsciousness.

  EPILOGUE

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  WITH WARM SUNLIGHT slanting through the windows and Flatt & Scruggs whirling in their ears, they drove up the craggy mountain, past the quaking Aspen and Rocky Mountain juniper into lush forests of Douglas fir and ponderosa pine, from the montane into the alpine, toward the jagged crest where the bighorns bounded and golden eagles nested. Soon they were above timberline, zig-zagging up the road cut through the imposing granite batholith named for Zebulon Montgomery Pike.

  Patton smiled over at Jennifer. They were having fun, frivolously toying with Lady Death, churning up the steep grades and skittering around the hairpin turns where a mistake could mean tumbling down thousands of feet of sheer cliff and talus. Nearing the crest, they gasped in awe at the big black mountain crows and even larger ravens gliding past the window, dodging and darting, flapping their wings occasionally as sudden gusts of wind jarred them from their flight paths.

  Reaching the summit, they stepped out of the car into the cold mountain air, walked to the large viewing platform, and gazed down onto the Great Plains to the east. It was a spectacular panorama, as it should have been, considering they were atop one of the tallest mountains in North America—14,110 feet above the world’s oceans and 9,000 feet above the seemingly boundless plains below.

  “God, it’s beautiful up here,” Jennifer exclaimed.

  “It certainly is.” He smiled as he stared down at the rusty-gray steel tracks of the old cog rail line. Slowly, his face took on a more serious expression. “The Kieger Report’s finished, Jenn. It’s not what I expected at all. After six months of rigorous investigation, the Justice Department’s concluded that Benjamin Locke, Frederick Taylor, and Kenneth Cutler, a.k.a. the Apostle, acted alone. I don’t know about you, but it strikes me as a little too convenient when the three lead actors of the country’s biggest melodrama since 9/11 are all dead.”

  “I thought you got a positive ID on Jane Doe. Not only at Union Plaza, but at the Trib Tower.”

  “The powers that be claim it’s not necessarily the same person. They concede she may have been an accessory to the murders, but there’s no mention of her possibly being the assassin. And there’s no mention of my Diego Gomez theory either.”

  “But that isn’t what was in your report. What happened? Why did they make up their own story?”

  “It’s simple. The Justice Department—and every other government agency with any connection whatsoever—wants closure. Especially the Treasury Department. Apparently the big shots in Washington lobbied hard to make sure Taylor was the only one named in the report. They’re conducting their own internal investigation into other agents, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  “I can’t believe this. There’s been no sign of Jane Doe?”

  “It’s like she’s disappeared from the face of the earth. She’s still on the Ten Most Wanted List and the Interpol alert is still in effect, but inquiries into her whereabouts have taken a back seat to more pressing cases. We’re also in somewhat of a turf war with the CIA over jurisdiction. We’re supposed to be sharing information, but it seems to be moving only in one direction.”

  “So everyone just want
s it all to go away.”

  “Everyone but congressional Democrats. Three rogues end up on a cold slab and the case is wrapped up all neat and tidy like a birthday gift.”

  Her brow wrinkled disapprovingly. “So that’s it?”

  “Not for you it isn’t. I made copies of Justice’s report for you. And mine too. They’re in my car. Just remember, you didn’t get them from me.”

  “My lips are sealed.” She blew on her cold hands. “You know what. I think your macho fed cohorts just can’t admit they’ve been duped by a woman. That’s why they refuse to acknowledge your theory.”

  “Might be some truth to that. The bottom line is Jane Doe fooled everyone.”

  They fell into silence, staring out at the peaceful world around them: the Continental Divide to the west, the towering Sangre de Cristos to the south, and the Great Plains to the east, the direction from which explorer Zeb Pike had come in the early 1800s. After a few minutes, they walked into the Summit House to get a cup of coffee. When they came back outside, they walked north and climbed around on the rocks.

  She blew on her coffee. “What about Governor Stoddart?”

  “We don’t think he had anything to do with the conspiracy. All that time I thought he was trying to derail me, he was simply trying to protect AMP, his biggest Stealth PAC contributor. Still, his career is effectively over. You killed any chance he had for reelection with your series. The Locke campaign finance connection did him in. The whole State of Colorado owes you a debt of gratitude.”

  “I’ll make sure not to let it go to my head. What about Sharp?”

  “He wasn’t involved either, but like the governor, he was brought down a few notches. OPR conducted an investigation and found that they didn’t particularly like the way he handled the case. He was forced to take early retirement and they cut him some kind of deal so he’ll retain his pension. Where I work we have two basic rules: overwhelming force trumps all, and never tarnish the Bureau’s reputation. Apparently Sharp’s early retirement falls into the latter.”

  “Jesus, Ken, how can you work for these people?”

  He stared down at the endless plains below, taking a moment to marshal his thoughts. “The Bureau may be a dysfunctional family, but it’s my dysfunctional family. You don’t just give up on your family, Jenn. You try and change it.”

  “You’re only saying that because of your promotion,” she ribbed him playfully. “Domestic Terrorism desk supervisor. You’re a big shot now, part of upper management. Pretty soon, you’ll be just like J. Edgar himself, putting together secret blackmail files to keep public figures in line and subverting civil liberties at the drop of a hat.”

  Patton laughed and sipped his coffee.

  “That wasn’t meant to be funny, Ken. You know I just don’t want you to become a crusty government agent with an eye patch, protecting your beloved Bureau at all costs. I care too much about you to let that happen.”

  “So you have decided to move in.”

  “Why is it always the woman who has to move? Why can’t you come to San Francisco with me?”

  “You know the answer to that question.”

  Jennifer mimicked a previous conversation they’d had about this. “I know. I’m the freelance journalist, so I can go anywhere. Whereas you’re the DT triggerman with the Federal Bureau of Intimidation in Denver, so I have to come to you. I think it sucks.”

  God, you are beautiful, and the best thing about it is it hasn’t gone to your head. “We could live in the Republic of Boulder. It’s pretty much the same as San Francisco, except that I’ve heard they’re experiencing painful tofu and alfalfa sprout rationing.”

  “Oh, so now you’re trying to appeal to my leftist sensibilities.”

  “An obvious sign of desperation,” he said, and they shared a good laugh.

  Finishing their coffee, they walked back to the viewing platform and stared at the columns of granite sprawling to the south. The ancient weathered Precambrian rock was riddled with joints and flanked by vast slopes of gray scree. He came up from behind and took her in a gentle hold. They stood there, swaying for a minute, staring out at the ruggedly spectacular landscape.

  “Do you really think it can work out between us after everything that’s happened?” she asked.

  “I can’t see myself with anyone else. Whether you and I will end up happily ever after is another question. But I’d like to give it a try.”

  “What about Little Ken?”

  “He belongs to others now. All we can do is move forward and make our own little critters.”

  “Is that a marriage proposal, Agent Patton?”

  “I believe the choice is yours, not mine, in these progressive times. All I know is I’ve waited twelve years for you to come back into my life and I can’t picture myself with anyone else. Ever.”

  Jennifer turned around. “Oh, Ken,” she said, and they kissed tenderly.

  “If you’ll have me, I’m yours. I’ve never loved anybody like I love you.”

  “Oh, Ken,” she murmured again, and this time there were tears in her eyes. “How can a girl turn down a proposal like that, freezing her butt off atop a fourteen-thousand-foot mountain?”

  “We’re a match made in heaven: the macho FBI agent who routinely subverts civil liberties—and the left-wing journalist who exposes all his dirty little secrets.”

  “Oh keep quiet, you handsome rogue, and give me another kiss.”

  He swiftly delivered. Then they walked to the edge of the platform, collars turned up against the wind. Gazing out at the jagged-edged landscape, she said, “Now that it’s all over and done, are you sure Jane Doe is the assassin?”

  His eyes were drawn to the sky, where a pair of dark ravens glided gracefully along the edge of the big mountain. “She’s the killer all right,” he said, picturing how the great bird dispatched its prey. “And she’s out there right now, probably laughing at us.”

  “But are you certain?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” he said, his expression hardening with resolve. “She’s out there somewhere. And one of these days, I’m going to find her.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Coalition was conceived and written by the author as a work of fiction. The novel is ultimately a work of the imagination and entertainment and should be read as nothing more. Names, characters, places, government entities, religious and political groups, corporations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, companies, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  There is indeed an FBI Field Office, a Civic Center Plaza, and a State Capitol Building in the Mile High City; a Broadmoor Hotel, Colorado Springs Police Department, U.S. Air Force Academy, and Old North End residential neighborhood in Colorado Springs; a Castle Café in Castle Rock, Colorado; and a nifty beach town overlooking the Pacific Ocean called Venice Beach, California. However, to the best of the author’s knowledge, no one bearing any resemblance to the fictional characters portrayed in The Coalition has ever engaged in close-quarters gunfights, long-distance sniping, desperate foot chases, workplace harassment, abusive interrogations, illegal raids, or sadomasochistic sexual activities similar to the events dramatized in the novel at these inspiring locations. Furthermore, the author holds the utmost respect for the FBI, U.S. Secret Service, and the Denver and Colorado Springs Police Departments portrayed in the novel and has not made any attempt to present any government law enforcement agency in a bad light. In fact, both the FBI and U.S. Secret Service were instrumental and generous in answering questions and providing assistance to the author. Thanks are given to the FBI and Secret Service personnel in the Acknowledgements in the subsequent pages.

  There are no religious and/or political organizations known as American Patriots or The Coalition in Colorado Springs, Colorado, or anywhere else, at least that the author is aware of. Therefore, the illicit, shadowy, an
d ultimately murderous activities carried out in the novel by the representatives of both American Patriots and its hyperviolent, far-right counterpart, the Coalition, have been entirely fictionalized and, in reality, would likely not occur in the real world of even a militant U.S. religious-political organization. There is, of course, no prominent Christian political leader known as Benjamin Bradford Locke and no Dr. Sivy or Family Planning Group clinic in Widefield, Colorado. All employees of American Patriots and the Family Planning Group portrayed in the book have no real-life counterpart and are wholly the creation of the author’s imagination.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To develop the story line, characters, and scenes for The Coalition , I consulted hundreds of non-fiction books, magazine and newspaper articles, blogs, Web sites, and numerous individuals as well as visited each and every real-world location in person. These locations included numerous physical settings in Denver, Colorado Springs, and Castle Rock in Colorado, and San Francisco, Oakland, Los Angeles, and Venice Beach in California. All in all, there are too many resources and locations to name here. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t give credit to the critical individuals who dramatically improved the quality of the manuscript from its initial to its final stage. Any technical mistakes, typographical errors, or examples of overreach due to artistic license, however, are the fault of me and me alone.

  I would personally like to thank the following for their support and assistance. First and foremost, I would like to thank the many professionals from the FBI Denver Field Office and U.S. Secret Service in Washington, D.C., for patiently answering my questions on agency protocols, firearms, DNA testing, ballistics, fingerprinting, and interagency task force procedures as well as for describing what every work day life is like for both senior-level staff and field agents. The Coalition greatly benefitted from the expert advice given by the numerous professionals at these agencies. Any technical mistakes or inaccuracies due to artistic liberties, of course, belong to me and not the helpful professionals from the aforementioned governmental agencies that assisted me.