Panic lb-1

by Nick Stephenson

  Leopold saw him disappear from view, sucked into the blackness, and heard two loud thunks, as Stark’s body hit the roof and then the ground a few seconds later. Jerome peered out of the window before limping over to where Leopold lay on the floor.

  “Stark’s down,” said the bodyguard, his breath heavy. “Can you walk?”

  Leopold wasn’t sure he could even breathe, let alone walk, as the pain in his shoulder peaked. It felt like his entire body was on fire, but he grunted and nodded anyway. Jerome helped him to his feet and turned to Christina.

  “It’s safe now,” said Jerome. “You can come with us. We need to get you to a hospital.”

  Christina sat in the corner of the room, arms wrapped around her knees. She looked a second away from passing out, but nodded and took the bodyguard’s free arm for support as she stood. As they made their way across the room, Leopold heard Mary groan as she regained consciousness.

  “Where’d that bastard go?” said Mary. “I’m not finished with him yet.”

  Mary stood up shakily, swaying slightly, and noticed the broken window. She walked over and leant over the edge.

  “So, where is he?” she asked.

  Leopold grunted as he let go of Jerome and stumbled over to the window. He looked over the edge onto the garden below. The wind had picked up and was whipping the tree branches in a frenzy, casting contorted shadows over the grass where the streetlights cast their muted hue. The lawn was slick with rainfall, but empty. Stark had vanished.

  “I heard him hit the ground,” said Leopold. “Nobody could get up from that kind of fall.”

  “Stark’s not a normal guy,” said Jerome. “It take more than a short fall to stop someone like him.”

  Leopold saw Jerome register the panic in Christina’s eyes.

  “It’s just a figure of speech,” the bodyguard added, quickly. “He’s not coming back any time soon, don’t worry.”

  “You’re safe now,” said Mary. “The police and ambulance are on their way. We’ll make sure you’re looked after, don’t worry.”

  Christina smiled weakly and held on to Jerome’s arm as they walked. Leopold eventually managed to stumble downstairs with minimal help from Jerome, wincing in pain at each step. As they reached the kitchen, the sound of sirens cut through the howl of the storm outside, and Leopold sat down in the dining room to wait for the medical team to arrive. He felt the last reserves of his energy seep out of his body as he settled into the cushion; and he closed his eyes, letting the darkness and pain wash over him.

  Chapter 42

  Leopold knew he was about to wake up when he dreamed that he was dreaming. He understood that he was lying on a bed, that he was on his back and that he couldn’t move. For what seemed like days he had slept in a state of near-consciousness, dreams flickering in and out in a procession of terrifying scenes and painful memories. He did nothing to disturb them, made no effort to stir until the sound of a familiar voice washed over him.

  “Leopold? It’s time to wake up now.”

  He knew Mary’s voice. It always surprised him how soft she could be at times. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and concentrated instead on pulling himself back to the waking world. He felt his eyes slowly grind open – they felt a little stuck – and then the light hit him.

  He was in the hospital; that much was obvious. He was in a private room, but he wasn’t alone; there were four other people there. Leopold squinted and the room came back into focus. Standing beside his bed were Mary, Jerome, and Christina. At the other end of the room, inspecting the contents of the bookshelves, was Albert. He turned and grinned before bounding over to the bed.

  “Leopold! Thank God you’re okay. You had us worried there for a moment!” said Albert, practically bouncing up and down.

  “Speak for yourself,” said Mary, smiling. “I knew he was tougher than he was making out. All those tears were just for dramatic effect.”

  “Good to have you back,” said Jerome, his face as imperceptible as ever.

  Leopold grunted and sat up in the bed, wincing slightly as he felt his shoulder. The pain was subdued, but most definitely there.

  “The doctors stitched you up,” said Jerome. “The bullet went straight through and didn’t catch the bone, so there shouldn’t be any complications.”

  Leopold nodded and looked over at Christina. She was wearing a hospital nightgown that covered her arms and legs. She smiled back at him, but it was forced.

  “Don’t worry, I’m fine,” said Christina. “At least physically, anyway. Jerome told me about my dad.”

  Judging by the redness of her eyes, she had been crying for a long time.

  “The doctors said my injuries were only superficial,” she continued. “They said the cuts were clean and the stitching was professional, so they decided to leave them alone. Just gave me some painkillers. They said I had traces of morphine in my system, so they couldn’t give me anything stronger. Still itches like hell, though.”

  She rubbed her arm absent-mindedly. “I have to check out today, so I wanted to come by and say thank you. You know, for everything. For getting me out of that… place.”

  “Are you sure you have to leave today?” asked Mary, putting her hand on Christina’s shoulder.

  “Yes, I’m sure. It’s my father’s funeral this afternoon and I have to be there. I’m sure you understand.”

  Mary nodded and smiled sympathetically. Christina thanked her and turned to Jerome.

  “And thank you for everything you’ve done, too. I know I wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for you. For all of you.”

  The bodyguard mumbled something in reply, and Christina left the room, as more tears began to well in her eyes.

  “How long have I been in here?” asked Leopold.

  “Two days,” replied Jerome. “You lost quite a lot of blood.”

  “And Stark?”

  “Nowhere to be found. He got away.”

  Leopold frowned and lay back down in the bed. They had been so close. No matter, they had Christina back, which was all that really counted in the end. He knew she would be okay, eventually. If the details of Senator Logan’s corruption ever went public, they would no doubt be covered up by his estate. It was pretty easy to get a gag order when your family knew all the judges. No point in fighting them. Let the authorities finish the job.

  Leopold relaxed a little at the thought of handing this case back. He had found Christina, which was what he was being paid for. He would give the FBI everything they needed to link Stark to the murders, and give them Logan and the charity scammers on a silver platter. All that was left to do now was rest and recover.

  “Are you well enough to go home?” asked Mary.

  “Yes, I think so. Jerome, can you bring the car? I’ll handle the paperwork.”

  Jerome nodded and left the room.

  “I suppose you’ll be getting back the precinct now?” asked Leopold.

  “Yes. I think my boss is finally going to be off my ass now we’ve managed to give the FBI something. Hopefully this will keep him happy for a while. I don’t think I can manage too many more graveyard shifts.”

  Mary leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek, and then walked out the door, leaving Leopold and Albert alone in the room.

  “Albert, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened. We should never have gotten you involved.”

  “Are you kidding? The last few days have been the most fun I’ve had in of my whole life. I used to spend all my time indoors sitting at a computer, and now I actually have something interesting to tell my kids one day! If I ever have kids. I bet I will, though. The ladies love an action hero.”

  Leopold smiled and held out his hand. Albert shook it vigorously.

  “Thank you. If you ever need anything, anything, just let me know.”

  “How about not shaking me so hard?” replied the consultant, grimacing. “Stitches, remember?”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  He let go and bowed awk
wardly instead, making Leopold laugh out loud. Albert grinned again and left the room, closing the door behind him quietly. The consultant lay in the quiet room alone and exhaled deeply, feeling the pain in his shoulder start to recede once more. He closed his eyes and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 43

  Jerome picked him up from the hospital in the ’66 Shelby Cobra, and Leopold listened to the eager growl of the huge V8 engine as they rode through town. Not as comfortable as the Mulsanne, which was scrap metal by now, but more exciting than the town car gathering dust in the garage. Leopold figured Jerome wanted to blow off steam.

  At the apartment, the consultant went straight into the living room and slumped in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, grabbing the bottle of scotch from the coffee table and pouring himself a healthy slug. The liquor hit the back of his throat and he closed his eyes, feeling the heat of the alcohol swell in his chest. He turned on the television and flicked over to the news channel, hoping to find out whether the last few days had hit the headlines yet. He didn’t have to wait long.

  Jerome brought over coffee and they both sat and watched. The newsreader was touching his ear as the breaking news came in. They cut to a video of Christina, dressed in black, getting out of a polished limousine at one of the city’s many cemeteries, surrounded by journalists and reporters. She looked dazed and exhausted. Several reporters jabbed oversized microphones in her direction, but she kept her head down and pushed through. Leopold hadn’t expected such a large crowd.

  The news anchor was back again and was talking excitedly, reporting that they had just received official confirmation that the President of the United States would attend the funeral. Leopold sat up in his chair.

  The video feed switched to a hastily compiled video montage, displaying photographs of the President and Senator Logan together at various public and private events over the years. The news anchor mentioned that the two men had been good friends and that the President always took the time to honor his friends and loved ones. The news anchor was laying it on a little thick. Election year.

  A black-and-white photograph of the Commander in Chief and Senator Logan shaking hands filled the screen as the anchor spoke. In the picture, the number fifty-three hung in an enormous banner behind the two men, and there was a half-eaten cake with candles on a large table in the foreground. It was the same photograph Leopold had seen nearly three days ago at the senator’s house. The same photograph Stark had apparently been so interested in.

  Realization abruptly shot through Blake’s tired mind. “Jerome, fetch the car,” said Leopold, getting to his feet. “We’ve got about twenty minutes to get to that funeral before we have two more dead bodies on our hands.”

  Chapter 44

  Jack Stark crouched atop the hill, his position covered by the thick foliage that grew around the private mausoleum, and peered through his binoculars. He was dressed in combat fatigues, the camouflage pattern perfectly blended in to his surroundings. The colonel opened the pack he had carried up with him and pulled out his rifle, an M99 Barrett with a custom scope. The rifle was high-caliber and designed for longer range work, but it was still just as effective at shorter ranges.

  The Barrett used solid brass rounds and propelled them at three times the speed of sound, keeping the bullets supersonic for nearly a mile and a half. Stark didn’t need to worry about range or being spotted; at this distance, the round would hit its target a full second before the soundwaves did, so a silencer wouldn’t be necessary. More accurate that way.

  The rifle itself was made from matte black steel and was around fifty inches in length when assembled, most of that length in the barrel. The weapon was single-shot bolt-action, which made for greater accuracy and reliability than a semi-automatic but resulted in a delay while the next round was loaded into the chamber. No matter, there was only one target Stark cared about, and the mechanics of a bolt-action were somehow more satisfying. More brutal. Stark smiled at the thought.

  He pulled out the bipod, barrel, trigger assembly, bolt assembly, and butt plate and carefully assembled the weapon, securing it in place. He lifted the weapon and positioned himself near the edge of the bushes, where he set the rifle down so that the muzzle just protruded from the leaves, still partially obscured from sight. He rested his right elbow on the soil and squeezed the trigger with his index finger. The empty Barrett responded with a satisfying deep metallic thunk resonating from the breech.

  Stark took out a single round and loaded it into the chamber, secured the bolt in place, and placed five more on the ground to his right, tips facing up. He attached the rifle scope, flipped open the lens cap, and looked through the sight. He adjusted the scope to his requirements and replaced the cover. He smiled with satisfaction. The perfect killing tool. And if the plan went as it was supposed to, he wouldn’t even need to fire it.

  Chapter 45

  The Shelby Cobra screamed out of the garage and tore down the street, wheels spinning furiously in an attempt to gain traction and put the engine’s five-hundred horsepower to good use. Jerome sat in the driver’s seat, his right foot planted to the floor.

  “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” said the bodyguard, not taking his eyes off the road as they barreled forward, the tires finding the grip they needed.

  “The President,” said Leopold. “That was Stark’s target all along. Stark knew the senator and he were close, and knew that the President would be at the funeral.”

  “How’s he going to take out the President in a public place? He’ll never get close enough.”

  “Think about Christina’s injuries. Why would someone cut into a person’s flesh, only to stitch it up again? The doctor said that there were traces of morphine in her system, that she wouldn’t have felt a thing the whole time. The cuts weren’t torture.”

  “So what were they?” asked Jerome, shifting gear as they rounded a corner.

  “It first caught my attention when she said the cuts were irritating her,” said Leopold. “I could see the swelling when we first found her, but assumed it was an infection. The only other thing that would cause a reaction like that would be a foreign body, placed underneath the skin.”

  “Let me guess – like micro-explosives?”

  “Exactly. Judging by the number of deeper cuts, Christina could have as many as six explosives implanted underneath her skin. All Stark has to do is wait for her to get within a few feet of the President, and then trigger the detonator. The blast would be strong enough to vaporize both of them,” said Leopold.

  “Stark could pull that off from a distance with a cell phone. All he’d need would be a clear line of sight to keep an eye on his target.”

  “Yes. Which means he has to be at the cemetery. We need to get there before the President arrives and gets too close to Christina.”

  “Can’t you call this in?” asked Jerome, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  “And who’s going to believe me? By the time I get through to the right people and convince them I’m not some wacko, it’ll be too late.”

  “Fair point”, replied Jerome. “Looks like we’re on our own. I’ll need directions.”

  “The funeral is at Green-Wood Cemetery,” said Leopold, his voice raised over the noise of the engine. “That’s in Brooklyn. Must be a family plot or something, seeing as they stopped taking bodies years ago. Nothing the right connections can’t fix.

  “It’s at least thirty minutes in this traffic.”

  “We don’t have much of a choice. Just floor it.”

  The bodyguard smiled and revved the engine to five-thousand rpm. He shifted down from fifth gear to third and the Cobra surged forward, reaching seventy miles per hour within two seconds. Leopold felt the force of the acceleration slam him into the back of his seat as Jerome crossed over into the bus lane and the slow NYC traffic fell behind.

  Ahead, a public bus pulled out onto the road, coming up quick. The bodyguard swore and wrenched the wheel to the le
ft, merging with the rest of the traffic and narrowly avoiding a blue pickup that was a few feet behind them. The driver of the pickup sounded the horn angrily and Jerome swerved back into the empty lane with a screech of rubber as they flew past the bus, escaping a rear collision with a white SUV ahead. As they cruised ahead, Leopold turned and saw the driver of the SUV stare at them, slack-jawed. He waved back, cheerily.

  He flicked on the radio and eventually found a station reporting on the funeral details. The reception was fuzzy, but he could just about make out the news reporter over the static. The President was on his way and due to show up in less then ten minutes. Jerome gripped the wheel tighter and kept his right foot down.

  After a couple of minutes they reached Manhattan Bridge, a two-lane highway that spanned the Hudson river and connected Manhattan Island with Brooklyn. The traffic ground to a halt at the intersection, forcing Jerome to slam the brakes. From where they sat, Leopold could make out a line of cars spanning the entire bridge, none of which was moving.

  The bodyguard swore again and pulled out onto a pedestrian crossing, forcing several bystanders to jump out of the way. From here, Leopold could see that one of the bridge’s lanes was closed due to maintenance, marked by a line of orange traffic cones.

  “Hold on,” said Jerome.

  Jerome revved the engine again and released the clutch, sending the car hurtling forward in a cloud of burnt rubber. The traffic cones were scattered to the side as they surged forward, bouncing off the bodywork of the vehicles lined up in the other lane.

  “I don’t see any holes in the road,” said Jerome.

  “They usually close off one of the lanes to keep the maintenance guys safe while they work on the support systems.”

  “Good. I wasn’t looking forward to what might happen if there were any chunks missing out of the bridge.”