When she heard the distinct whine of an engine revving for speed, Karen glanced back in time to see the dirt bike rocket forward with velocity. At the same instant, she observed the driver reaching behind him, and only then did she realize he had a backpack. The whine of the bike’s engine intensified. The black-clad rider zoomed past the escort vehicle, driving one-handed.
Karen’s world became a single point of focus. All her energy, her every intention, was not on the road, but on the threat behind her.
The rider’s hand slipped inside the pack’s open top. Quickly, his arm came forward. While she could not be sure what it was in his hand exactly, it looked long and made of steel. A thought flashed through Karen’s mind: This is what I trained for, the day I hoped would never come. She had endured a variety of simulated attacks, navigated serpentine courses through tightly spaced objects, and learned evasive driving maneuvers all with one goal in mind: safeguard the lives of those in her protection.
With one hand gripping the wheel Karen reached behind her, stretching as far as her arm would allow. Seizing the lapel of Cam’s school jacket, she gave a hard pull, yanking him forward. He let out a cry of surprise.
“Get down!” she yelled. “Down!”
Cam fell to the floor of the SUV just as the dirt bike pulled alongside. Now she saw it, the long black gun barrel rising up as the rider took aim at Cam’s window. It was a massive weapon. More like a rifle than a handgun.
Instinctively, Karen jerked the wheel left, but she could not execute a 180-degree turn without causing a head-on collision. A sudden stop, slamming on the brakes, would cause a rear-end collision with the SUV traveling behind them.
From outside she heard a quick series of pops. The window held for two shots, but on the third it shattered, spraying shards of thick bullet-resistant glass inward like sea spray from a crashing wave.
Bright flashes ignited in her mirrors. Agents in the rear car were returning gunfire. Beside her, Duffy was reaching for his weapon, but his movements seemed languid. He got his window down as a car traveling in the opposite direction passed Karen’s vehicle on the left. The road ahead was clear.
Now! she thought. Do it now!
Karen pumped the brakes while spinning the wheel hard and counterclockwise. Duffy fired off a shot from his SIG Sauer that sank into the trees because the SUV had slipped into a skid. A loud screech of tires, rubber burning, came before acrid smoke stained the air. The dirt bike quickly abandoned the path, changing course sharply, now headed for the woods lining the parkway, where oversized SUVs could not pursue. Not that they would try, even if they could. The mission of the Secret Service was to protect and evade, not apprehend.
Glancing in the rearview, Karen saw the escort vehicle initiate the same evasive bootleg maneuver, sending a fresh batch of smoke skyward as tires screeched against the road. The escort vehicle sped up, getting right behind Karen’s car, almost kissing the bumper while traveling at a high rate of speed. Cam lay curled in a ball on the floor, his body covered in shards of glass, arms shielding his head.
CHAPTER 39
Karen got on the two-way radio. She had to alert the Secret Service command post (aka “Horsepower”) located in the West Wing directly below the Oval Office.
In addition to the team riding in the escort vehicle, agents from the UD, Uniformed Division, as well as the Secret Service, monitored the frequency Karen was using 24-7.
“Horsepower, Ray.”
Everyone at work knew Karen by her maiden name.
“Horsepower here. Go ahead, K-Ray.”
“Advise, we’ve had shots fired,” Karen said, managing to speak in an even, steady voice despite the rapid canter of her heart. “Shots fired at Blitz. No injuries.”
Blitz, a chess term, was code for Cam’s convoy.
“Bishop is okay,” Karen said with authority. “Follow-up. Bishop is okay.”
Horsepower said, “Confirm, you wanna go to the hospital or back to the White House?”
“We’re all right … back to the White House. Back to the White House. Bishop is okay,” Karen said.
“Okay, okay,” said Horsepower.
“Tell everyone to stay off the air for now. Bishop’s all right. Request MPD escort at intersection Seventeenth and Piney Branch Parkway. ETA three minutes.”
“That’s a roger,” Horsepower said.
Karen took another glance in her rearview and detected no threats behind them, none up ahead either. Speeding down the parkway, strobes flashing, horn honking, Karen forced cars onto the grassy patch lining the side of the road. Moments later, she could hear sirens off in the distance headed their way. MPD must have been close by.
When the intersection with Seventeenth Street came into view, Karen counted four police cars already on the scene, lights flashing and blocking traffic. She brought her vehicle to a hard stop with a slight squeal of tires. The escort vehicle behind her came to a stop as well. Exiting the car, gun drawn, Karen yanked open the passenger door and urged Cam forward with a wave of her hand. He needed to be transported to the White House in a more secure vehicle, one that had all its bullet-resistant windows still intact.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said. “You’re safe. Come on, Cam. Take my hand.”
As Cam lifted his head, shards of glass stuck in his hair cascaded to the floor mat with plinking sounds. He reached for Karen’s outstretched hand, terror burned into his eyes.
Every second it seemed more police were arriving on the scene, sirens blaring, lights flashing. Joining them was an armored SWAT vehicle, several fire engines, and even an ambulance. It was an incredible show of force, and one that had assembled with startling efficiency.
Pulling Cam gently from the car, Karen shielded his body with her own as she scanned the tree line for movement, any signs of a possible sniper.
Sensing the all clear, Karen led Cam to the escort vehicle with her arm draped around him. Police officers rushed toward her. Above, an MPD helicopter hovered. Dirt kicked up from the fierce winds of the whirling blades got behind Karen’s sunglasses to sting her eyes. Cam kept his shoulders hunched forward, shielding his face with his arms to guard against the winds.
“Get him home!” Karen yelled while easing Cam into the backseat of the idling SUV. She positioned him in the middle seat, in between two agents who had their guns drawn. “I want a rolling escort back to the White House,” she instructed an MPD officer standing nearby. “No stops. Block traffic ahead. Go now! Get it organized. Now!”
MPD held joint training exercises with the Secret Service on a regular basis—they knew what to do and how to do it.
On the way back to her SUV, Karen noticed something she had missed. The other car was a Chevy Suburban, which had a bullet-resistant-glass rating of level seven, able to withstand five shots from a 5.56mm rifle. The Ford Explorer she was driving, while armored as well, only had a level-two rating on the glass, which could handle a couple shots from a .357 Magnum with soft-point bullets, considerably less firepower. It was hard for Karen to be certain because of all the commotion, the speed at which everything had unfolded, but she believed the gun the biker had used might have been a SIG MCX Pistol. If memory served correctly, and usually it did, the SIG pistol fired a 5.56mm round, enough to shatter the weaker bullet-resistant glass.
It was a disturbing observation.
Soon they were off. She took lead again, racing through red lights, traveling at a high rate of speed, the road ahead cleared for her passage. Through her peripheral vision, she watched Duffy closely, curious to see if he attempted to use his phone again. He did not. His expression was a blank. It was like he had switched off, gone into shock or something. His sweating had stopped. His fingers had gone still.
By now Horsepower would have altered POTUS and FLOTUS. Teams would be assembling. Gleason would want to examine Cam, while his mother and father would want to console him.
“How are you holding up?” Duffy asked, as Karen sped through yet another red light.
“Fine,” she said in an icy voice. Her tone made it clear there would be no idle chitchat.
Eventually, the convoy arrived back at the White House. Pedestrians on the street and drivers trapped in their vehicles, waiting for the go-ahead from the police, rubbernecked with intense curiosity.
When Cam was out of danger, after the Uniformed Division had escorted the SUVs through the White House gates, Karen did not relax. Because she was the agent in charge of the first family detail, it was Karen’s duty to lead the debriefing in the Situation Room. She would do this, but only after her colleague—her employee, really—answered her questions.
The SUV carrying Bishop headed to the West Wing entrance, where Cam could be brought inside the White House undercover. Karen got on the radio.
“Horsepower, Ray.”
“Ray, go.”
“Bishop is home safe. Parking my car. Will meet in the Situation Room.”
“Roger, out.”
The underground garage was dimly lit and deserted when Karen pulled into an available space. Duffy got out of the car at the same time as Karen. He started for the elevator, but stopped when Karen called his name. He turned to face her.
“Who were you texting?” she asked.
Duffy took a step toward her. Karen tensed.
“I told you, personal business.” His voice was a low rumble.
“Give me your phone,” Karen said.
Duffy’s face registered surprise. “What? No.”
“Hand it over.” Karen took a step toward him, her hand already at her hip.
Duffy tensed and took a step back, fixing her with a scathing stare.
“Why did you bring up the Explorer from the garage?”
Duffy tried to act offended, confused, when in Karen’s eyes he just appeared guilty. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“The bullet-resistant-glass level on the Explorer is a two. I should have noticed, but I didn’t. You didn’t think I was coming on the drive in the first place. I saw you sweating, and don’t try to tell me it was your medical condition.”
“You’re sounding crazy, you know that?”
Maybe, but Duffy’s hand had moved closer toward his hip.
“How did the biker know where we were?” Karen asked. “I took a route we’ve never taken before. How did he know?”
“Maybe he was tailing us?”
“How did he know?” She said it more forcibly this time.
“K-Ray, think about what you’re doing here.” It sounded like a warning. Duffy’s fingers were moving, nervously twitching, as his hand inched closer toward his gun.
“Who paid you?”
“This is wrong, Karen. You’re accusing me of something I didn’t do.”
“Then hand over your phone.”
Duffy got a distant look in his eyes, one Karen found deeply troubling. “You froze. I pulled Cam down to the floor—”
“What? You did—”
That was when Karen realized Duffy was concocting his explanation for what he was planning to do.
“You were petrified, crying even. I had to take over. You’re not fit for duty—and when I told you I was going to have to report you—”
“Duffy, don’t do this.”
Karen pushed back her suit jacket so she could reach her weapon more easily.
“—went crazy—you pulled your gun on me—”
It was a crazy story, one that would never stand up to scrutiny, but Duffy was not thinking clearly. His fingertips brushed against his SIG Sauer, tapping a fast beat against the butt of his weapon.
We’re alone down here, she thought, panicked now. No witnesses.
“There’s another way,” Karen said. “Hand over your phone and your gun. That’s what you have to do. Are you working with Yoshi? Is Gleason involved? Is this about Cam’s sickness? Talk to me, Duffy. Please—talk to me.”
“You just—went—crazy—”
Karen kept a close watch on Duffy’s hand, waiting for the slightest twitch.
When it happened, it was so stunning, so unbelievable, she almost failed to react. His left hand, his weak side, pulled his suit jacket back, clearly exposing his weapon. Karen did the same, only a fraction of a second behind him. But when he went for his gun, his right hand failed to make solid contact with the handle of his SIG. Karen did not have this problem. She cleared the gun from the holster first and slapped her left hand to her right as she took a firing stance. Her finger found the trigger only when she was ready to engage.
Her eyes were dry. Hands steady.
Duffy’s gun was out of the holster, rising up from his waist when she pulled the trigger. The bang echoed off the concrete walls. The flashes were blinding. Her hearing was gone. Three bullets struck Duffy in the chest. He dropped to the ground, grunting, but there was no blood. Karen had fired knowing the body armor agents on protective detail were mandated to wear would keep him alive.
Duffy lay on his back, his breathing labored, chest heaving. Somehow, though, he had managed to keep hold of his gun. He was still a threat, but in too much pain, too immobilized to sit up and fire. He could still move his arm, though, and as he did, brought the gun barrel level with his temple.
Karen’s eyes widened. “No!”
Her scream rang louder than the gunshot when Duffy pulled the trigger.
And then there was blood.
CHAPTER 40
Seven hours after the shooting, Lee found himself seated in the White House Situation Room. It was a state-of-the-art facility with high-tech video conferencing capability and a closed-circuit television system. The monitors mounted to the walls broadcasted breaking news from around the globe. No surprise, the attempted assassination of Cam Hilliard was the only story the media cared to cover.
The president had already given a statement, one that Lee had been watching on TV at home, when Woody Lapham showed up with orders to bring him to the White House. The information given to the American people was brief and, thought Lee, intentionally vague. A Secret Service agent was dead, Hilliard had said. No further details were given. A gunman was still at large. Again, no further details given. Several terrorist organizations took credit for the attack, but those claims had yet to be verified.
Homeland Security and the FBI were leading the investigation task force. In conclusion, the president reiterated the most important fact: Cam was unharmed, thanks largely to the actions of Karen Ray.
Now, he was with her, seated at the same massive conference table. The president sat at the head of the table, looking haggard, emotionally and physically drained.
“Dr. Blackwood, thank you for being here.”
“Of course,” Lee said. “I’m at your service, Mr. President.”
Lee had expected a full room, maybe with decorated generals, the vice president, a bunch of cabinet secretaries. Instead there were lots of empty seats, probably because everyone else was busy tracking down the shooter. Ellen Hilliard was there, seated next to Karen, who sat beside the barrel-chested Director of the United States Secret Service, Russell Ferguson. The director is appointed, serving at the pleasure of the President of the United States, but unlike the Secretary of Homeland Security, to whom the director reports, the position does not require Senate confirmation.
The older gentleman seated across from them was the president’s chief of staff, John O’Donnell. O’Donnell, slimmer, with salt-and-pepper hair, a pronounced Adam’s apple, and a prominent nose, was widely respected for his candor with the media.
“I requested a scaled-down meeting,” the president said, “because I would like to discuss some rather sensitive issues with you personally, Dr. Blackwood.”
Lee strained to get his mind around the enormity of what had transpired and what role in all of this he could possibly play.
“Please, call me Lee, and yes, anything you need. How is Cam?”
“He’s fine. Resting upstairs,” Ellen said with an appreciative glance toward Karen. “Badly scared, of course.”
“We’re looking for a motive here,” the president said. “Naturally, we’re thinking terrorism and we’re actively pursuing intelligence there, but Karen said you have a different theory.”
“The TPI?” Lee was surprised Karen had been so candid.
“She’s spoken with us extensively, and has convinced me that it’s an avenue worth exploring. I have to confess, Lee, what she told me is hard to believe.”
“I’m assuming you’re referring to Yoshi Matsumoto.”
“You really want me to believe that the director of an after-school program is the mastermind behind Cam’s attempted murder?” The president shook his head dismissively. “I’ve known this man for years,” said President Hilliard. “He’s been a mentor to my son.”
“I believe he may have been using Cam and other TPI students as test subjects, guinea pigs if you will, for nootropic drugs that enhance cognition.”
“What makes you think that?” the president asked.
“Mr. President, I have no other explanation,” Lee said. “I strongly believe some illness is affecting your son, as it is Susie Banks, and I believe the Stewart twins before they died. All of them attended the TPI, and from what I gather all were the best of the best. Diseases like they have don’t cluster like this without some sort of an external catalyst—poisoned water, poisoned air, something ingested into the body.”
“Well, what about contaminated groundwater or something like that?” Chief of staff John O’Donnell’s voice was raspy from hours of issuing commands.
“We’re testing for that now,” said Lee. “But I believe those results will be negative. There’d be a lot more sick kids otherwise. I think the affected population is far more limited … and controlled.”
“But Cam didn’t have the red spot in his eyes,” the president said.
“True,” Lee said. “He did not. It could be that the red spot presents only after a certain length of time, or perhaps after a certain degree of exposure to this unknown toxin.”
“I’m still not convinced there’s a connection to Cam. He’s different, that’s what I think, it’s what I believe,” the president said. “But in light of the extraordinary and horrific events of today, I’m willing to keep a door open—explore this further.”
The First Family Page 23