For God and Country: Leona Foxx Suspense Thriller #1

by Ted Peters

Andrew Dodge and Sugar Daley found themselves talking to one another at the picture window of the president’s temporary apartment. Sugar was holding a martini. The president a single malt Scotch. From the 85th floor they admired a staggeringly beautiful vista: Lake Michigan, the Chicago skyline, the orange and pink afterglow of a setting sun on the clouds.

  “I was warned by a friend to stay away from a window,” Andrew told Sugar. “I wonder if this is the window.”

  “But the City of the Big Shoulders is so irresistible! Thank God for such a window,” said the mayor. “Why the concern? Terrorism?”

  “Probably.”

  The two continued their engaging conversation, eye-to-eye with profiles parallel to the window. Mildred and guests clinked and chatted elsewhere in the apartment’s living room.

  “I know you’re always on the alert for terrorism, Andy. Do you think this warning might include an assassination attempt?” asked the mayor.

  “Actually, this matter has been on my mind since I first sat down in the Oval Office desk chair,” said Dodge. “I’ve studied the history of my office and asked: Just what does it mean to attempt to assassinate a president of the United States? Abraham Lincoln was shot to death by John Wilkes Booth, angry at the Union’s victory in the Civil War. President James Garfield was assassinated by a frustrated and delusional political hack. William McKinley was killed by a loner. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, whose paralyzed legs left him unable to run for cover, was shot at five times by an unemployed Italian immigrant, Giuseppe Zangara.”

  “But Roosevelt wasn’t assassinated,” interrupted Sugar.

  “Right. Roosevelt survived the attempt. But John Kennedy, didn’t. He died when snipered by Lee Harvey Oswald. Ronald Reagan successfully ducked the bullets of John Hinckley, who was obsessed by a movie he saw about assassinations. Now, we might ask: what could this pattern mean? Does it indicate that America’s international enemies are constantly threatening the life of our nation’s head of state? Not in the least. It means that Americans kill Americans. I need to fear most the very people I serve.”

  “Now, that’s a downer, Andy.”

  57 Saturday, Chicago, 7:56 pm

  At first, they did not notice it. It began as a small speck on the horizon, approaching from Lake Michigan. It glistened in the sunlight, so it was difficult at first to make out what the object was. Few bothered to study it closely until it passed the beach and was flying over land. It kept a low altitude. Had the mayor and president been looking, they would have seen a white helicopter traveling at eighty miles per hour coming in their direction.

  The Long Ranger IV slowed as it entered the air space above the Water Tower Place apartment and business building. It hovered above Chestnut Street, almost asking for attention. The already positioned television cameras at the Escada Plaza were re-aimed at the aerial visitor. After pausing in an almost stationary position, the helicopter reversed direction. It rose and darted southeast for a half mile. News cameras followed its flight pattern. The chopper reversed its direction again. It picked up speed and altitude, bulleting toward the Water Tower Plaza, but this time higher. The copter’s altitude matched that of the 85th floor of the John Hancock, aimed like a cruise missile right at the president’s window.

  By this time the president realized he was standing in front of the window. Dropping his drink, he turned and hollered, “Everyone! Out! Get to the center hallway!” Andrew stumbled over a coffee table. He was immediately grabbed by a secret service agent and escorted to safety. Mildred screamed. Another agent took her by the arm. Soon she, the president, the mayor, and other guests were sequestered in the building’s center hallway.

  Terror filled the street below. Even though a large space under the Hancock building had been cleared by the police responding to Ragland’s warning, those at the perimeter ran further away out of fear of falling debris. Screams rose up from ground level. A collision seemed imminent.

  Rubberneckers on the ground witnessed a sight as uncanny as it was dramatic. As the guided missile raced towards its target, its speed decreased. It slowed asymptotically, until it came to a mid-air stop only a few feet from the building’s façade. One of the blades scraped the apartment window. Glass shards sprayed like a fountain, raining down on Chestnut street. The pulsating sound of the chopper’s engine doubled its roar as window fragments shot inward, toward the walls barely protecting the huddled presidential party. The insiders flinched to protect themselves from the hurricane of flying glass fragments. One stout and strapping security agent, standing directly between the president and the window, felt one shard rip through his left sleeve. Blood spilled briefly, staining his clothes. After brief flinch, he turned to the president with a smile.

  “Your red badge of courage,” said the president with a grateful glisten in his eyes.

  The helicopter withdrew from the building slightly and stabilized. There it hung. Rotors moving. No change in location. The craft tilted to the left. It tilted to the right. Without warning, it began to fall. Straight down. It plunged past the sixtieth floor. It passed the twentieth floor. The engine roared. By the twelfth floor it leveled off. The rotor pitch rose. So did the helicopter. Up and up until its altitude exceeded that of the John Hancock Building. It slowly reversed direction. Then, it meandered south and east.

  Those on the upper floors watched the once dangerous attack vehicle retreating toward Lake Michigan. No one other than the agent had been hurt. Relatively little damage had been done. No assassination of a president or a mayor had taken place. No act of terrorism had demolished the bronze skyscraper.

  The casualty count? Tom and Ted were dead. So was Rex Allen. Two bodies of CUB commandos lay behind the Escada building. Three CUB attackers were under arrest. Was it over? Would it be over soon? No one knew.

  58 Saturday, Chicago, 8:18 pm

  Shoulder to shoulder with everyone else on the street, Leona had witnessed the acrobatics high above. Like others, she was relieved over what did not happen; but she alone knew the depth of terror that had been avoided.

  Leona was on the phone with Hillar when Graham and Everett found her in the crowd. Hillar recited quickly the events surrounding the van explosion and the arrests. Leona admonished the teenager to sit tight at the Water Tower.

  “My God, I’m glad you’re safe!” exclaimed Graham. All three hugged.

  Leona smiled, but only for a fraction of a second. “We’ve got to find the droners.”

  Graham responded, “Because they threw the body from the roof of the Escada building, I bet no droners are up there now. Anyway, Everett and I wiped out the fleeing killers.”

  “Somewhere south of the Hancock, I bet,” muttered Leona. She dialed Shmoo to explain what happened on her side of the building. She spoke quickly. “Shmoo, we’ve got to find the location where the CUBies have their guidance equipment. I bet they’re close by. They needed a site where they could see both the chopper and their target. This suggests the southeast side of the Hancock. The Seneca Hotel might be a good candidate. Can you find the bastards?”

  “We’re on our way,” said Shmoo. His band of three worked their way south through the blockade and crowd.

  “More than likely they shopped for higher ground,” added Everett. “What about Lake Point Tower?”

  “Is that close enough?” asked Graham.

  “I don’t know. Probably not,” responded Everett.

  Leona paused to think. “Graham, maybe we should get a bird’s eye view from atop the John Hancock. Call Holthusen to get clearance and then take Everett to the roof. Shmoo’s threesome will take the Seneca. Here come Quint and Wade. I’ll ask them to try Water Tower Place.”

  “Okay,” said Graham. He and Everett disappeared, heading for the 175 Delaware door of the Hancock. Leona sent Quint and Wade to scout the roof of Water Tower Place.

  Her phone sounded. It was Shmoo. “I think we may have spotted something on the Seneca roof. We’re going in. And we’re going up. Maybe you should guard the front door
in case some of the rabbits scurry through our fence.”

  “Gotcha,” said Leona.

  Through the hotel’s interior and elevator three of the soldiers in Leona’s army made their way to the Seneca roof. They were quiet and cautious as they entered the roof area.

  By this time Wade and Quint had made it to the Water Tower Place roof. No signs of activity. They surveyed the Seneca roof below them. They spotted signs of movement on the Seneca roof.

  Graham and Everett were still riding a sequence of elevators up a hundred floors to the top of the Hancock.

  On the Seneca roof, there was in fact movement. Shmoo saw it. He whispered to Hammer and Scorp to take cover positions where they could see well. Three suspicious men were folding up electronic equipment and placing it in suitcases.

  “This is where they must’ve guided the chopper,” Shmoo said to his comrades in a soft whisper. “You two get behind that lattice over there, the fence by the air conditioner unit. I’ll get behind this janitor’s utility cart. I’ll step out first. Then, you two peek around with guns aimed.” All three took their positions.

  Shmoo stood up with his gun aimed. “Drop your weapons and put your hands on your heads,” he yelled. The three men at the roof’s edge were caught by surprise. None complied. They defiantly pulled their weapons into shooting position. Shmoo fired. So did Hammer and Scorp. Smoke and noise reigned. In the bullet exchange some shots passed through the openings of the lattice, injuring the legs of both Hammer and Scorp. Both went down. Suddenly, quiet.

  Shmoo was now safely behind the janitors’ utility cart, gun drawn. He scanned the rooftop battlefield. One body lay across a suitcase. The other two were not in sight. Where are they? Might they be crawling invisibly toward him, ready to get a clear shot at the retired cop?

  Time to smoke ‘em out, he thought. Like a street hooker, Shmoo showed a little leg around the utility cart. Three quick shots rang out, pinging the janitors’ utility cart. The smoke revealed that the shooter was secure behind a large heating duct.

  Multiple bullets, but only one shooter. Gotta do something quick. Hammer and Scorp might be bleeding badly. How can I flush out that shooter? And where’s the third guy? Shmoo hit speed dial for Graham. At the click, Shmoo cupped his hand around the mike and whispered, “Where are ya?”

  “I’m just arriving at the Hancock roof. I’ve got Everett.”

  “The roof?! Great! Look down at the Seneca roof. Look carefully. You’ll see a green janitors’ utility cart. I’m behind it. Between you and me you’ll see a horizontal heating duct. Large one. A shooter is behind it. He’s got me cornered. Scorp and Hammer are down. Can you give me backup?”

  “Shmoo, I’m a couple hundred yards away.”

  “Got any sharp shooters up there?”

  “Yeh, lots of ‘em.”

  “Do I need to say any more?”

  “No, of course not. Hold on, buddy!”

  Graham ran to a Secret Service sniper with weapon in hand. “Is that a Remington 24 you’re holding?” Graham asked.

  “Yeah,” said the sniper.

  “I’m with the CIA. I’ve got an enemy shooter on the Seneca roof. Can you sight him?”

  The gunman looked through his scope. “Actually, there’s more than one on that roof,” he said to Graham, with a questioning look on his face.

  “Let me look through your scope,” Graham asked.

  The gunman handed Graham the weapon. Through the scope Graham sized up the situation immediately. He found the shooter in the crosshairs. Slowly and deliberately he squeezed the trigger. Two rapid fire shots. The target had just moved before the trigger pull, and Graham did not pause to watch the target. It was a hit, but not lethal.

  The marksman scowled and screamed, “You’re not allowed to fire my weapon!”

  “Sorry,” said Graham as he grabbed Everett and raced toward the down elevator.

  Back on the Seneca roof, Shmoo realized the situation had changed in his favor. “Thanks, Graham,” he muttered to himself. Now, is it safe to step out into the open? Shmoo could not be sure, as long as the third enemy combatant was not accounted for. But he felt he could wait no longer to clean up. He hesitantly stepped out, first with a little leg and then his entire body. No shots from any direction.

  Shmoo checked his two comrades. Both had taken flesh wounds, but nothing seemed life threatening. Then Shmoo walked cautiously into the open toward the bodies of his foes. Shmoo knelt at the first body lying on the roof. He was dead. Shmoo carefully pulled himself over the heating duct to where the second body should be lying. Shmoo spotted a puddle of blood, but no body. Spots of spilled blood provided the trail of a crawling man. It led behind a bank of air conditioning exhaust fans. Shmoo took cover and then crept slowly, not knowing which end of the air conditioning bank hid the gunman. Should he follow the blood trail or circle around and come in from the other end?

  Shmoo listened for a clue. Silence. It would be a fifty-fifty gamble. Could he split the difference? Could he run toward the bank, leap on top, and surprise the gunman from above? Perhaps 30 years ago. Not today.

  He decided to follow the blood. He sensed that his movement was quiet, too quiet to be heard. Perhaps he could still take the enemy by surprise. Suddenly he was on his feet and running. He turned to the back side of the air conditioning bank and found his target at the other end, with his back to him. “Freeze!” hollered the retired cop.

  The gunman spun around with a raised weapon. Shmoo let go with the full clip. Hit, the gunman bounced up and backward, falling to the roof surface.

  Shmoo walked carefully to the now unmoving body. He could see where Graham’s two shots had pierced the torso, and where Shmoo’s own clip had turned his heart into spaghetti. What a shot that guy Graham must be, marveled the ex-cop, as he felt through the dead man’s clothes. He found a wallet, including a driver’s license with a name. Jarrod Grimes.

  Shmoo hollered over the duct, “Scorp, call Leona. Tell her we’ve got Jarrod Grimes. Dead.” As soon as they connected, Scorp blurted, “Three bad guys on the roof. Two dead. One named Jarrod Grimes. We don’t know where the third one is.”

  Wade and Quint, still atop Water Tower Place, knew. They watched the third rappelling down the Seneca wall from floor to floor. “These terrorists must have prepared in advance with an escape rope,” said Wade. “As Special Forces vets, they’re trained for this.” He wanted to fire his pistol from the Water Tower Place rooftop. But at that range the chance of hitting the flying escapee was virtually nil. The circus act ended when the fleeing CUBie disappeared through a hotel window.

  Wade dialed Leona to announce that the prey would soon appear at the hotel’s entrance.

  59 Saturday, Chicago, 8:49 pm

  With the sun having set and darkness beginning to fall, Leona took up watch directly across Chestnut from the Seneca entrance. Hotel lights provided adequate illumination to study the faces and clothes of those passing through the Seneca’s front doors. With Grimes dead, she was not sure for whom she was looking. If Grimes was the chief, was she looking for a brave? What does an assassin look like? Iranian? American? Man? Woman? Uniformed? Plain clothes?

  After watching a dozen or more people shuffling in and out, Leona grew impatient. Finally, one man caught her eye. A man dressed in a familiar gray and maroon sweatsuit stepped through the front door and paused. He looked around. Could the white guy and this man shop at the same Big 5? She walked warily toward him.

  At twenty feet, their eyes met. She recognized his face: Karl Budenholzer. Leona’s right hand slipped deftly to the rear of her waistband to grip her pistol handle. But she did not draw the gun.

  “So, the mouse catches the cat,” Budenholzer said coolly to Leona.

  “What would you have done if the cat had caught the mouse? Played with me? Tortured me?” said Leona.

  “I would have performed a secretectomy. I would’ve surgically extracted what I want and donated the rest of your body to science. I suspect your hand is
on your gun, Leona,” he said.

  “You’ve got that right,” she said. “Keep yours where I can see them.”

  “I’m finding you to be quite an annoyance, Leona. You won’t tell me the name I want. You won’t let me kidnap you. You won’t let me fly a helicopter into the building over there. Is this the way you treat your former superior?”

  “I can be quite cooperative with the right people, Karl. I hope you’ll cooperate with me now.”

  “I was once your boss.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember. I also remember how you treat those who work for you. They’re like fish food for piranha.”

  Budenholzer laughed.

  “Now, let me read your mind, Boss. Because I wouldn’t share my secret, you thought you’d assassinate our president. Is that right?”

  “Right.”

  “For you somebody’s gotta die: either a nameless man in Tehran or our head of state. If not one, then the other. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “What for? So you and your CUB buddies can keep raking in the money? You’ll shed blood for profit? Anybody’s blood? Is that what you’re up to?”

  “You got it. But that’s not all of it, Miss Goodie Two Shoes. I’m also fighting for a cause.”

  “What cause?”

  “I’m fighting against unemployment. These contractors are my guys, my buddies. They’ve been trained to become professional spies, professional soldiers, professional adventurers. That’s what they know how to do. That’s the only thing they know how to do. I keep ‘m working. That’s how I serve my country.”

  “Well, it’s over, Mister Patriot.”

  “It ain’t over yet, Miss Pollyanna.”

  Budenholzer rubbed his arm on the side of his body. Something dropped on the pavement. Leona reached for her pistol. Before she could aim it with two hands, a magnesium flash blinded her. Her hands covered her eyes, but too late. They smarted and welled up. Seconds passed. She removed her hands and wiped her eyes, then saw that the space where Budenholzer once stood was now filled with smoke. She coughed, as did the confused bystanders. She looked to her right. She looked to her left. Down the block on the left she thought she saw rapid movement. Someone running. Yes. It was Budenholzer. Leona sprinted southward. He may be sixty, she thought to herself; but he runs like he’s twenty. This did not discourage Leona. She was used to running a dozen miles on a morning jog. She was confident she would not lose the CUB leader.