by Gary Parker
Without hanging up, Rick sprinted toward the casket. A group of security guards spotted him and rushed his way. Pops turned his head at the commotion and Rick saw pure panic slide across his face. Pops rose and pushed past the people sitting by him and hurried toward Rick.
“No!” Pops shouted, his arms outstretched.
“Bomb!” Rick screamed the word at the top of his lungs and the graveyard broke into bedlam.
Shannon’s pace picked up as she rushed toward the man in the Nike hat. But then he looked up, opened the door, and climbed out of his truck, his face a scowl. He held a device with a blinking red light in his hand, and even from twenty yards away, she recognized it as a detonator.
He smiled at Shannon, held up the detonator so she could see it, then pressed it with his thumb before she could pull her weapon to stop him.
The justices dropped to the ground as Rick yelled, their bodies flattening, their hands grasping the grass as if to hold on for dear life. Rick knocked one guard aside, then dodged another and reached his grandfather. Pops pulled Rick into a giant hug as the casket erupted behind him and the steel vault became a thousand pieces of fiery shrapnel spraying flaming metal into the crowd. Security guards threw themselves at the justices, draping their bodies over them almost simultaneously with the explosion. The eruption knocked the phone from Rick’s hand and spilled him to the ground, Pops’ long frame on top of him, a shield against the explosion. Smoke billowed from the grave and fire singed the trees overhead. Sirens suddenly wailed and people screamed and cried as they lay on the ground, their bodies charred and bleeding. A shrill ringing sounded in Rick’s ears and his forehead felt hot, like somebody had set an iron on it and pressed. A mob of people ran from the scene, a melee of fear sprinting in all directions. Rick tried to move, but Pops still lay on him, his eyes closed, his arms curled under his back.
“Pops?” Rick shook his grandfather but got no response.
Shannon yanked off her high heels and sprinted away from the man in the Nike cap, her bare feet slapping on the sidewalk. A second man appeared beside him and Shannon moved faster, her fingers finding Rick’s number on her speed dial and hitting the button. She looked back and saw her pursuers loping like wild dogs, surprisingly fast for men of their size. Each held a pistol and she started zigzagging out and back with uneven strides to keep them from getting a clean shot.
She spotted a gate about fifty feet away, a cut into the cemetery, and she sprinted toward it, hoping to duck inside and disappear into the tree line that lay past it. She heard helicopters overhead and waved at them even as she ran, but they zipped by her, their blades blowing the grass on the edges of the sidewalk over which she ran. A shot fired behind her but missed and she willed her feet to move faster. The gate into the back side of the cemetery beckoned her and she saw a security checkpoint but no one manned it. Must have rushed toward the blast, she guessed. No help for her there.
Disappointed, she bowed her neck and rushed toward the gate, one hand working her phone while the other reached for her pistol.
Rick rolled to the side, eased Pops to the ground, then stood, grabbed Pops under the shoulders, and slid him away from the fire and smoke still boiling out of the gravesite. The air felt a little cooler and Rick stopped and knelt by Pops, wiped blood from his hair and eyes.
“Can you hear me Pops?”
No response.
Rick looked up and saw several EMTs, but they were headed to the justices. He glanced toward the justices, but the billowing smoke and a ring of Secret Service agents around them made it impossible to gauge the damage anywhere except right in front of him. He faced his grandfather again.
“Pops?”
His grandfather opened his eyes and reached up, grabbed Rick by the lapel and pulled him close.
“You . . . hurt?” Pops whispered.
Rick felt his forehead, the burned skin there, but nothing seemed broken. “I’m okay, Pops.”
Pops let go of his lapel and relaxed into the grass, his eyes closed again. Blood seeped from a wound on his head and Rick eased his head to the side to see the cut. A shard of copper-colored metal lodged behind his left ear and a knot the size of a baseball welled up on the temple beside it. More blood oozed out of a slash on his neck.
Rick shouted at an EMT sprinting past, but the man kept going. A pair of helicopters landed nearby and the wind from the blades blew Rick’s hair. He leaned close and shouted at Pops to make his voice heard.
“I’m getting you out of here!” he yelled.
Pops roused again, raised his head, and shook it side to side. “No, it’s over! Go, hurry, not safe here!”
“You need a doctor!”
“No! I’m . . . done!”
Rick grabbed Pops under the shoulders again and hauled him to an ambulance, but blood seeped from Pops’ mouth. He knew Pops was right, so he laid him back down and bent low as tears filled his eyes. The chopper blades whirred quicker and Rick glanced up and saw several gurneys lifted onto them, then the choppers lifted off, and for a moment, things turned quieter.
“You saved my life, Pops,” Rick said, wiping the blood off his grandfather’s forehead.
Pops licked his lips. “Never meant to . . . harm . . . you.”
“I know, Pops.”
Pops reached for his hand with trembling fingers and Rick grasped him and held him tight.
“I’m . . . not a good man,” Pops murmured. “Killed . . .” Rick felt anger flood through him—Pops had murdered his father. But then he knew to hold the anger inside. Let his grandfather deal with his own guilt, not make it any worse than it already was. “But you saved my life.”
“Glad of that. . . Margaret . . . would be . . . proud.”
“Yes, Pops, Nana would be proud. You’re going to be with her now, Pops. Forever.”
“You . . . believe that, Rick? Really?”
Tears streaked Rick’s face. He didn’t know what he believed. “Yes, Pops,” he lied. “I believe that.”
Pops closed his eyes; a flit of a smile crossed his lips, then he took his last breath.
Shannon crouched behind a hickory tree, her Sig Sauer in hand. Her toes dug into the grass as she peered out, wondering if she’d lost Charbeau and his friend. She hit Rick’s phone number again and willed him to answer but received no response. She leaned into the tree and whispered as quietly as she could into his answering service.
“Back gate of cemetery. Pursuers. Armed, dangerous.” Then she punched off the call and tried to calm her breathing. She heard sirens from the area where the explosion had erupted and saw a succession of helicopters thumping overhead as they darted toward the chaos. If she could make her way to the crowd, she’d be safe. The bomber wouldn’t follow her there, no matter how bold. A crowd meant police, FBI.
Shannon eased to her feet, hit Rick’s number once more, and stepped from behind the tree. She heard a click behind her and pivoted in time to see a man about thirty feet away as he squeezed off a shot at her. She ducked and the bullet hit the tree about six inches over her head. She rolled to her left and came up firing. Her aim proved true and her assailant dropped to his knees, clutched a spot just below his throat, and fell face forward into the grass.
Shannon dropped into a crouch, sprinted toward the fallen man, then bent to him and checked his pulse. Nothing.
She rose to leave, then heard another click and twisted toward it. The man in the Nike cap had the jump on her, and she sensed instantly that he’d shoot straighter than his dead accomplice. She lowered her weapon to the ground and stood dead still except for the thumb on her left hand which punched in Rick’s number one final time.
Realizing he’d done all he could for his grandfather, Rick wiped his tears and looked up. Numbers of people waited on medical attention, smoke continued to rise from Justice Toliver’s grave, and ambulances, helicopters, police cars, and fire trucks still rushed the area. Media vans had showed up too, but the police had quickly cordoned off the area and the cameras remained
a few feet behind the crime scene tape, the reporters frantic with the action. His phone buzzed and he grabbed it and hit “answer.” Nobody responded when he spoke so he shut it off, checked his voice mail, and heard Shannon’s whispered message. He moved before the message ended, his tasseled wing tips scooting across the grass like a sprinter running from a starving lion.
“You’re a foolish woman, Miss Bridge,” said the man in the Nike cap.
“And you’re an evil man, Mr. . . .”
“Nolan Charbeau is the name.”
“You killed Rick’s dad, Gerald Grimes, now this,” she waved toward the smoke over the trees.
“I’m a hired hand, do the bidding of others.”
“You’re as blood-soaked as they are. But how’d you make it happen in such a short time? I’m curious.”
“Justice Toliver was one of us. When she got cancer, she helped us set things up, do some advance drilling. That, with tons of money, made it easy.”
“Your reach goes deep, doesn’t it?”
“Whatever. So tell me what I should do with you. Do I kill you, take you with me, or leave you here to tell the tale?”
“I need to ask you one more thing,” Shannon dared.
“You’re stalling, but I’ll give you one question.”
“Did you kill my parents?”
“Not my work,” he said. “Although I agreed it had to be done, your father at least.”
“How do you sleep at night?”
“Mostly I don’t.”
“Who killed them?”
“The same man who tried to kill you at the hospital.”
“Rick killed him.”
“Rick’s quite the hero, yes?”
“In some ways.”
Silence fell for a moment and Shannon sensed her fate being decided.
“You’ll come with me,” Charbeau said. “Rick will follow.”
“He doesn’t care about the Succession so leave him alone.”
“Maybe he’s not interested today, but we can’t see the future. I prefer to eliminate the competition once for all.”
Shannon glanced at the pistol at her feet, but Charbeau stepped to it and picked it up.
“Move it,” he said, indicating the direction of the back gate. “Time to make ourselves scarce.”
Shannon hesitated and Charbeau grabbed her right arm and jerked her toward him.
“Charbeau!” Rick stepped from behind a tree, his body in full view. “Let her go, it’s me you want!”
Charbeau faced Rick and smiled but kept Shannon in his grip. “The hero arrives!” he called. “Happy endings all around!”
“Time for you to pay, Charbeau.” Rick stepped closer.
“Perhaps I’m the one who will collect.”
“Let her go.”
“You’re not giving the orders here.”
“If I accept the Succession, I will.”
“Do you want it?”
“No and that’s my bargain. Walk away from here right now and it’s yours. I’ll even show up with you, tell the Council that my grandfather bequeathed the sword to you with his dying words.”
“Augustine is dead?”
“The explosion got him.”
“His time, old as he was.”
“Your time to claim the sword—if you play your cards right.”
Charbeau bit his lip and Rick sensed him calculating the odds. His eyes darkened and Rick saw he’d reached his decision. “I killed your father,” Charbeau said. “You won’t walk away from that—you’ll haunt me to my dying day if I let you go.”
Rick glanced at Shannon and took another step closer. A helicopter whomped toward them, then hovered not far away. Charbeau took a quick glance at the chopper, and Shannon kicked out her right foot and cracked him behind the knee. He staggered and Rick rushed him as Shannon broke away.
Charbeau fired at Rick but missed as Rick dove to the ground. Shannon grabbed the ruby-jeweled knife from her jacket with her left hand and faced Charbeau.
He grabbed her broken wrist, bending it backward until the knife pointed at her stomach.
Rick rose and took a swing at Charbeau, but Charbeau dodged and raised his Glock. Rick grabbed his elbow and pointed the gun at the sky.
Another shot fired and the bullet struck the tree overhead as Rick and Shannon wrestled Charbeau to the ground.
Charbeau pushed at the knife and the blade slashed through Shannon’s jacket and into her flesh.
As Shannon fell, Rick yanked the knife away and raised it overhead.
Charbeau pushed him off and Shannon rolled away. Rick pounced to his feet as Charbeau leveled his pistol one last time at Rick and squeezed the trigger.
Rick dodged left and the bullet missed him. He thrust the knife at Charbeau’s stomach, and he slumped to the ground, the knife buried in his flesh.
The helicopter landed about a hundred feet away and two men rushed at them, their guns drawn and sunglasses covering their eyes.
Rick bent to Charbeau; blood poured from his midsection and his eyes were closed.
Rick yanked out the knife, wiped it in the grass, and slipped it into his waistband.
The men from the helicopter arrived and Rick pointed them to Charbeau while he hurried to Shannon who lay in the grass, her palms pressed into the wound in her side.
“Let me see!” Rick ordered as he gently slid her hands aside.
“It’s okay,” she panted.
Rick pushed back her jacket and saw a hole in her blouse, then a slash in her ribs. “You need a doctor.”
“It’s just a gash, not bad,” she said.
“How would you know that?”
“I’m a trained pro, remember?”
“I’m getting you out of here.”
He slipped his hands under her, lifted her off the ground, and stood.
She threw her hands around his neck, the right one firm, the left one weaker, as he pivoted toward the helicopter in time to see the two men lift Charbeau and lay him inside. Rick got his balance, yelled at the chopper to wait, and hurried toward it. When they were about halfway there, the chopper blades revved up and the wind whipped the grass low, bending it to the ground. Rick ran to the copter as Shannon held on, but the chopper shook, then lifted and whisked away before he reached it.
Confused, Rick watched it go, his arms around Shannon as she clutched his shoulders. Within seconds the helicopter disappeared over the treetops and everything quieted. Although smoke still curled skyward at the front of the cemetery, the worst seemed to have ended. Rick looked at Shannon who stared up at him.
“You all right for another few minutes?” he asked.
“I’m okay.”
“Then I’m taking you to my house.”
“You kidnapping me again?”
“It seems to be the only way to keep you out of trouble.” “Look who’s talking.”
“One little thing before we go,” he said.
“What?”
“I need to try something.”
“I’m bleeding here!”
“You said you were fine so shut up for a second.”
She started to argue but he shushed her. “Quiet, please.”
“Okay, what is it?”
He bent to her, hesitated for a moment, then kissed her—a soft, gentle touch of the lips that lasted for several seconds. When he broke away, he smiled broadly.
“So what do you think?” she asked softly.
“Best kiss I’ve ever had from a woman who’s just been stabbed.”
“With compliments like that, you’re lucky I don’t stab you.”
Rick grinned, shifted her weight, and started to stride toward the back of the graveyard, away from the chaos, the cops, and anything else that might prevent him from taking her to safety.
45
New York
Sunday evening
Charbeau sat in a high-backed leather chair at the head of an oblong mahogany table and stared at the eleven men and one woman who stood rigid
ly around him. Each of them wore a black robe with hoods over their heads. The Sword of Constantine, its point wedged in a block of wood, rested in the center of the table, towering above them. Electric candles, the light turned low, flickered on the walls. The conclave kept their eyes on Charbeau as if watching an illusionist, but nothing in their stares indicated any interest in being entertained.
Although he’d hoped for this day for many years, Charbeau felt uncomfortable for many reasons. A tight bandage wrapped his thick chest and the thirty-eight stitches beneath it, the remnants of the surgery he’d survived just over two days ago after a couple of the Conspiracy’s lieutenants had spirited him away by helicopter from the carnage of the graveyard in Missouri. Although he’d slept most of the time since then, Charbeau knew the statistics from Operation Domino— seventeen people wounded and four dead, but only one of them a Supreme Court Justice—and him a liberal to boot, thus giving the president no chance to shift the politics of the Court.
Several of the twelve in the Council had already expressed their disappointment in what they saw as Charbeau’s failure. The critics had pointed out where he had gone wrong, how he had misgauged certain probabilities and underestimated certain people. The only success, said the naysayers, was that the authorities had captured the hapless Arab whom they had set up to take the fall. The planted clues had led the police to him, and given the country’s desire for a quick capture of the perpetrator and a few well-placed stories by media personnel funded by the Conspiracy, the suspect held little chance of anything but a conviction.
Up to this point in the two-hour meeting, Charbeau had stayed quiet. He knew the numbers, five definitely for him no matter his mistakes, another five definitely opposed, each of those lined up behind Mohammed Al Baroque, the Oxford-educated oil tycoon from Saudi Arabia with a secret bent toward Islamic fundamentalism. But now the time had come for him to speak. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest, he stood, propped his body with one hand on the table and stared down the group.
“No reason to go back through what I did and didn’t do,” he said without introduction. “And I don’t see much use in defending myself. You all know my loyalty, how hard I work.”