. . . and yanked off Hunter’s cap and wig.
It startled the guy for an instant—long enough for Hunter to shoot a hard left uppercut into his chin. The guy’s head snapped back, and he sagged, limp.
Hunter pushed the unconscious man off his body and freed his gun from beneath the guy—just as he saw another sentry, just a kid, peek around the Dumpster, gun in hand.
Before the kid could figure out what was going on, Hunter fired a warning shot into the side of the Dumpster. The kid flinched and ducked back. Hunter sent two more rounds into it, to encourage his retreat.
He sat up, looking to reacquire the Target. He spotted him staggering slowly, as if drunk, trying to get behind the mound of dirt between the two houses. Hunter drew up a knee, braced his forearms on it, took careful aim, and fired twice in rapid succession.
The Target’s body twitched twice, then collapsed like an empty sack onto the dirt pile.
Hunter rose to his feet. The Target was not moving. He became vaguely aware again of the howling young woman on the ground a few yards away. She was staring at him, cringing in terror, a hand to her mouth as she wailed.
It was only then that he realized she was seeing him without his disguise.
He turned away quickly, and just as he bent to retrieve the wig, a shot buzzed right over his head.
At first Oz had stood paralyzed by the horrific sight of the indestructible Jammie dead at his feet. He ducked beneath the front windows of the gas station. Then he heard an explosion from inside—and seconds later, a muffled gunshot. Then more, sounding like they were outside, around the back.
He suddenly felt ashamed to be hiding while his bros were in a gunfight. Crouching below the windows, Oz scrambled past the doorway and Jammie’s body, heading toward the rear of the building. Rounding the corner, he found Little Marvel cringing behind the Dumpster, eyes big and white, breathing hard.
Oz ducked in beside him. “The hell goin’ down?” he whispered.
“White mother back here fightin’ Deuce,” the little guy gasped. “He just shot at me. I think he shot Reggie!” Marvel pointed across the street.
Oz caught sight of Reggie over there, staggering, just as two more loud shots rang out from the other side of the Dumpster. Stunned, he watched his boss buckle at the knees and pitch face-first on a pile of dirt.
Then Sharleen’s voice, screaming Reggie’s name, over and over.
First Jammies . . . now Reggie.
Suddenly, a murderous rage wiped out his fear.
He left the scared Little Marvel hiding behind the Dumpster and stepped out into the open, like a man.
Deuce on the ground, motionless. Sharleen sitting there, shrieking like some bird.
Gray dude, gun in hand, looking toward Reggie. The cracka!
Oz raised his .38, aimed down the sights right at the man’head, and fired.
5
Long-ingrained training and habits saved his life.
Already bending as the shot sounded, Hunter instinctively dropped to one knee and raised his gun.
A guy out in the open beside the Dumpster, aiming at him.
Hunter had spent countless hours on firing ranges—civilian, CIA, then military while attached to special ops units. His training at The Farm and Harvey Point had put him through realistic firefight scenarios. He’d had his share of the real thing on missions. And in the past year, he had resumed regular range sessions, practicing quick drawing-and-firing simulations until his responses were automatic and accuracy high.
He knew he had only two rounds left in the Glock, so he fired just once.
Oz was shocked he had missed. He was about to squeeze a second time when Cracka dropped to a knee and spun, blinding fast.
Something punched him in the gut, hard, and there was a loud bang.
Suddenly he had no wind and no strength in his legs and his .38 was a giant weight in his hands dragging him forward to land on his face. For a few seconds he felt nothing. Then a great, terrible, paralyzing ache started from the center of his abdomen and began to spread. He wanted to scream, but couldn’t.
His head lolled to the side. Through half-closed eyes he saw a figure approach, silhouetted against the sun. Dully, some part of his brain told him it was the cracka, and he had a gun pointing at him, and he wondered what it was going to feel like to die.
Hunter stood over the guy, gun aimed and ready. He kicked the .38 out of his reach.
Then realized he was just a kid, not even out of his teens—the same one who had been standing sentry when he first approached the building.
Then he heard a scuffling noise . . . and saw another one, huddled behind the Dumpster.
This kid was even younger and smaller. He had a shaking gun in his hand and tears in his eyes.
“Don’t shoot me, man!” the boy pleaded.
Hunter pointed the Glock at the kid.
“I won’t, if you drop your weapon.”
The kid obeyed.
“Now kick it away from you.”
He did.
Hunter stared at him, hard. He had to get out of here and knew he didn’t have a minute to spare. But he saw something in the kid’s eyes . . . something still human.
Something he felt he had to reach.
“You see what happened to your pals here?”
The kid was crying hard now. He could only nod.
“Your gang is finished. Leave the gun right there. Go home, kid. Go back to your family. Go to school, grow up—and try to make something out of your life.”
The boy continued to stare, bewildered.
“Go! Now.”
The kid rose unsteadily to his feet and ran.
Hunter holstered his weapon and trotted back to scoop up his sunglasses, wig, and cap. The girl was silent now, curled into a ball on the ground, shaking uncontrollably.
Maybe she would learn something from this.
But probably not.
He jammed the disguise back in place as he ran along the rear length of the strip plaza. Reaching its opposite end, he turned the corner and slowed to a walk, heading into the parking lot. He strolled casually over to the Ford as the wail of a police siren rose in the distance.
He slid in, swept the map off the dashboard and onto the passenger seat.
The clock read three forty-six.
The op had taken six-and-a-half minutes. Too long.
He pulled out of the lot and headed west, away from the intersection. As soon as he was clear of surrounding traffic, he removed the disguise and shoved it all into a waiting plastic bag. The map followed.
He knew his junker would show up on CCTV cameras at the strip plaza and elsewhere. He’d used it on other ops. Now he had to ditch it for good.
He drove back to an isolated commuter parking lot two miles away. He’d left his switch-out car, an old Honda Civic, parked there early that morning, after making sure there were no nearby cameras. Then he’d taken public transportation back to D.C., to fetch the Ford and his kit for the op.
Minutes later he entered the lot and pulled the Ford right next to the Civic, which he’d left a considerable distance from the street and other vehicles. He quickly wiped down the Ford’s interior, then got out, taking the bag bearing his disguise and the plastic sheet he’d spread over the seat and floor, to catch errant threads or strands of hair.
Then started up the Civic, leaving it idling with the driver’s door open. From its trunk he took a gasoline can and emptied it around the interior and trunk of the Ford.
His final act was to remove from the Ford’s glove compartment the small explosive device from the weapons cache at his Maryland house. He looked around again, waiting for traffic to clear. Then set the timer for thirty seconds, placed it on the floor, and slammed the door.
He jumped into the Civic and drove quickly out of the lot.
Fifteen seconds later he saw the flash in his rearview mirror.
That was when he also noticed the red scratches on his forehead and cheek.
Lucas Carver was standing outside his Capitol Hill brownstone apartment as the Cadillac VIP stretch limo pulled to the curb to pick him up. Carver slid inside, into the beige leather captain’s-style chair that faced to the rear, toward the luxury vehicle’s sole passenger.
Avery Trammel tapped an icon on the control touchscreen near his armrest. The TV screen behind Carver’s head—which had been showing a CNN International report about Russia’s energy sector—went dark. The screen covered the soundproof partition between the passenger compartment and his driver, Jeffrey. Trammel tapped another icon; the opening chords of Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto rose quietly over the sound system.
“Thanks for the lift, Avery,” Carver began, reaching out to shake hands. His smile was perfunctory, and, as usual, didn’t reach his pale blue eyes.
Trammel made a brush-off gesture. “It is no trouble at all. I welcome this opportunity to chat again. It has been a while, Maestro.” The nickname elicited another empty smile. “The last time we saw each other was at the CarboNot meeting.”
“That was early February—not even two months ago.” Carver ran his fingers through his gray hair. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? With everything that’s happened, it seems like years.”
“Indeed.” Images of that day floated into Trammel’s consciousness. The towering figure of the energy company’s CEO, Damon Sloan, leading the meeting . . . the faces of anti-fracking activists, businessmen, and bureaucrats seated around the CarboNot conference table . . . Trammel’s private conversation afterward with Ashton Conn, during which he pledged his support of the senator’s presidential run . . .
Now, both men dead—victims of a fanatical bomber.
Trammel eased back into the heated leather and studied his long-time ally. Carver had cut his teeth in radical politics at Columbia while majoring in journalism. After graduation, he founded Vox Populi Communications, a political and media consulting corporation. Vox Populi specialized in “image management and narrative control” for progressive politicians, nonprofits, activist causes, even Marxist foreign governments. Carver met Trammel while raising money for his campaigns. Finding themselves to be ideological soul mates, they had worked closely in the twenty-five years since, with Trammel even taking a seat on the Vox Populi board.
“It is still morning, but you appear to need a drink, Lucas.”
“I do. Thanks.” Carver opened the lacquered rosewood door of the liquor cabinet, scanned the contents, and retrieved Trammel’s favorite—the Ardbeg Uiegedail single malt. He reached for a glass from the rack, then glanced up. “How about you?”
“Please. A single ice cube, if you will.”
“Sure . . . Here you go, Geppetto. ‘To better days.’”
They clinked glasses and sipped as the limo accelerated through the Saturday morning traffic.
Carver swiveled his seat to look outside, brooding silently as they reached Massachusetts Avenue and headed northwest.
“Why so glum, Lucas?”
“Are you kidding? We had everything riding on Ash Conn’s candidacy. Now we’re stuck with Spencer again. Just what we need: an unprincipled candidate with poll numbers in the toilet.”
“So it would appear.”
“Even with Ash, it would have been an uphill battle. He jumped into the race so late. We had to talk him into it, only after we convinced him Spencer was bound to lose, but he had a real chance. And the thing is, he did. The media loved him. His numbers and support were growing every day. Avery, just think of what we could have accomplished with Ash in the Oval Office. Our whole progressive wish list.” He snorted. “Everything we thought we’d get when we elected Glover eight years ago.”
Trammel nodded. “True, Gabe Glover has been a great disappointment.” He stared out the window. “However, I suspect that, in the end, Ash would have disappointed us, too.”
“What do you mean? Ash was a true idealist. I knew and worked with him for years . . . Hey, you don’t believe the outrageous smears that ecoterrorist, Boggs, tried to stick on him?”
“It does not matter what you or I believe. It is all speculative—and irrelevant, now that Ash is dead. What is relevant to our present concerns is: Where do we go from here?”
They were moving past the massive white classical facade of Union Station. Three American flags fluttered in the bright sun above Columbus Fountain and the statue honoring the discoverer of the New World. Trammel felt a tinge of irritation.
“Lucas, I am sixty-four years old. This election may be my last opportunity to achieve objectives I have been working toward for a very long time.”
“Mutual objectives, my friend. We have the same goals, you know.”
Trammel did not reply. He raised his glass to his lips.
“But I don’t see how we salvage anything from this mess now,” Carver continued. “Spencer has no convictions at all. Which is why he hasn’t been able to rally our base against Helm—or even Waller. Just think of how pathetic it is to be trailing in the polls to an Independent, let alone the worst Republican candidate in decades.”
“True. However, perhaps in his vacuous pragmatism lies a potential opportunity. Carl Spencer is an empty vessel. That means he is waiting to be filled.”
Carver swirled his glass. “You mean, by us?”
“If we play carefully the cards we have been dealt.”
“I don’t see how. Besides, his personal life will catch up with him pretty soon. Spencer portrays himself as the devoted family man, but word is, he’s a dog. Can’t keep it in his pants.”
“Ash had the same problem, Lucas.”
“But it never got out, because everyone knew he had an ‘open-marriage’ arrangement with his wife. So they weren’t hypocrites, like Spencer. They both screwed around a lot—hell, I hear Emmalee Conn is more promiscuous than Ash is.” He caught himself. “Was.”
“That is what I hear, as well.”
“So. We’re stuck with a candidate over whom we have no influence, who lacks convictions, a narrative, or a following. And he’s up against two candidates who do have those things.” He peered over his glass at Trammel, looking puzzled. “But you don’t seem worried, Avery.”
“Worry is pointless and self-defeating. I prefer to occupy my mind more productively—in this case, by devising a plan to overcome the liabilities you mentioned.”
“You actually think we can transform Spencer into someone he’s not?”
“Of course not. But perhaps we can transform him into someone whom we can direct.”
Carver chuckled. “Well, if you can pull those strings, you truly are Geppetto. So . . . where do we begin?”
Trammel drummed his fingers on his armrest.
“Let us ignore Tom Waller for the time being. Should that ignoramus win the Republican nomination, as now seems inevitable, you have plenty of dirt on him to drop at the right time. Let us focus instead on Roger Helm. As I read the national mood, his Independent candidacy poses the greater threat.”
“All right. Helm, not Waller, then. But meanwhile, what are we going to do about Spencer, now that we’re stuck with him? How the hell do we turn around his poll numbers?”
“Let that be my concern. Do your job, and leave Carl Spencer to me.”
2
The limo continued on Massachusetts, cutting through the heart of the city, then up Embassy Row. They turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, then South Road. The neo-Gothic towers of the Washington National Cathedral arose before them, piercing the pale blue veil of the sky.
By prior arrangement, his limo was allowed to pull up to the main west entrance. Jeffrey hurried around to open their door, and the two of them stepped out under dazzling mid-day sunshine, into the mingling mass arriving for Senator Ashton Conn’s memorial service.
Carver stopped to shake hands with a congressman while Trammel weaved through the crowd and mounted the steps.
Avery Trammel was an atheist. But he acknowledged the seminal, inspirational role that the g
reat religions had played in the arts, of which he was a connoisseur and patron. As he stepped through the entrance, he had to pause.
Supported by massive columns on either side, the enormous vaulted ceiling peaked a hundred feet overhead, painted in pastels cast by stained-glass clerestory windows. Before him—warmed by the soft golden glow of suspended Gothic pendant lights—the nave extended the length of a football field, to the Great Choir area and beyond, to the High Altar. Above the murmuring voices of the congregation, Bach’s haunting “Air on the G String” reverberated throughout the cavernous space from the pipes of the cathedral’s magnificent organ.
He paced briskly down the broad central aisle, sensing heads turning his way from the thousands of seats around him. Avery Trammel never tired of the impact his studied, carefully cultivated aristocratic presence made on people. He strode on, heading toward a distant figure standing near the front of the congregation, waiting for him.
3
It took Trammel a full minute to reach the front of the congregation. There, before the altar area, two towering wings, or transepts, extended from the central aisle to his left and right, forming the traditional cross shape of medieval church architecture.
And at that intersection, indifferent to the solemnity of the occasion, Carl Spencer stood facing him, grinning broadly, then stepping out into the aisle to greet him.
Trammel had met the man a few times in the past. Seeing him again underscored why he was so popular with the ladies. He cut a tall, athletic figure in his tailored charcoal suit. Sandy, gray-tinged hair and boyish, bland-handsome features made the 54-year-old Connecticut senator look warm and approachable. His infectious, hundred-watt grin displayed perfect teeth; his blue-gray eyes twinkled in the lights.
“Avery! So glad you accepted my invitation to join us,” the senator said, a trifle too loudly, too cheerfully, and too ostentatiously.
The perfect politician, Trammel thought with contempt. Yet opinion surveys revealed most Americans saw him as “too slick” and “untrustworthy.” The party’s progressive base certainly held that view. Despite the hypocrisy of his own personal life, Ash at least could be relied upon in office to advance progressive ideals. By contrast, for Spencer, ideological pronouncements were merely manipulative tools for self-aggrandizement. The spoiled son of a wealthy Hartford insurance CEO, he loved attention from adoring crowds and ego strokes from compliant women. When not pursuing these directly, he was in the gym, working hard to maintain his chiseled physique, or attending parties where he could show off by performing classic rock riffs on his Fender Stratocaster.
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