Kill Devil

by Mike Dellosso

  Jed sat at the table and Karen followed, sitting beside him. She put her hand on his shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”

  “The last time I held this piece,” he said, running his hand over the stock of the Win Mag. “I pulled the trigger, but it wasn’t right. Something felt off.”

  “Did it ever feel right?”

  “There was a time, yes. I knew I was killing bad guys, evil men. Men intent on killing my brothers. Men with a sole purpose of killing me. I had no hesitations and no regrets afterward.”

  She rubbed his shoulder. “So what changed?”

  “I had a target, an Afghan warlord. I’d been watching him for days, waiting for the okay to pull the trigger. I knew everything about him. When he woke up, what kind of coffee he drank and how many cups. When he went to the bathroom, when he played with his kids. Who he talked to and how long the conversations lasted. I watched him undress at night and get dressed in the morning. The way I saw him those couple days, it wasn’t as an evil man; he was just a man going about his days, his life. When I finally got the go-ahead, I had him in my sights and his wife was there.” He paused and sighed. “I don’t know. She reminded me of you and he reminded me of myself. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull the trigger. He was a man, you know?”

  “You didn’t think he deserved to die?”

  “I did. He did deserve to die. Just not that way. Not in front of his wife like that.” He picked up the spotting scope again and turned it over in his hands. “Things were never the same after that. Soon after was the ambush and everything fell apart. I don’t remember much after that.”

  Karen leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Do you think you’ll be okay tomorrow?”

  Jed shrugged. “I’m gonna have to be, aren’t I?”

  • • •

  It wasn’t hard to steal a vehicle to replace the truck. Actually, Tiffany didn’t see it as stealing, more like swapping. She’d found a late-model Ford F-150, dented and faded, parked at the end of a long lane that led to a brick farmhouse. The sign in the windshield said the truck was for sale, 185,000 miles, $500 OBO. She had a better offer. She left the five-year-old F-250 with a note in its windshield saying she was sorry she didn’t have time to make the swap in person but she would return later to complete the paperwork. The old farm truck was unlocked and she’d learned years ago how easy it was to hot-wire an older vehicle.

  With the swap complete, she’d gotten back on the road and driven the four hours to Kill Devil Hills, NC. The truck ran as well as could be expected. Its engine hiccuped every now and then, and it pulled to the left at higher speeds, but it got her where she wanted to go.

  In Kill Devil Hills she found a café, bought a large coffee and sandwich with cash, and took a seat in the back of the dining area, away from the other customers. There she opened Jack’s laptop and waited for it to boot. She’d only get one chance to determine where Jedidiah Patrick would take the shot.

  First, she looked up any information she could get on the vice president’s speech. He’d be there to dedicate a new exhibit at the museum. The article said that as a flying enthusiast and combat pilot who had flown several missions during the Iraq War’s initial “shock and awe” campaign, Vice President Michael Connelly was looking forward to visiting Kill Devil Hills and the Wright Brothers National Memorial and Museum for the first time. He’d give his speech at 11 a.m. at the memorial itself, which was situated on the crest of Kill Devil Hill, the once-sand dune where the Wright brothers tested their first flight.

  Next, she pulled up Google maps and studied the area, the terrain, the elevation points, population centers, and street layout. She took into account the area the Secret Service would have cordoned off, the area they would have monitored and patrolled, and the areas that would simply not afford a feasible shot and quick escape route.

  Her analysis narrowed the search to several locations, all difficult shots but possible if every condition was right and whoever was shooting knew what he was doing. Which, apparently Patrick did.

  Finally she turned to the printouts of the Centralia documents she’d stuffed in her duffel bag. Paging through them, she scanned each line for any information on a possible location for the shooter. There wasn’t much in there concerning the assassination attempt. Only that it would take place and that Patrick would be the man.

  Tiffany was about to give up when she noticed a section that was apparently a thread of e-mails between two individuals code-named Blue Parrot and Tommy Jeff. Blue Parrot mentioned acquiring a camper. Tommy Jeff responded, Done.

  That was it. Simple, to the point. No more information than that.

  Tiffany went back to the map and searched the area surrounding the memorial. She ran her finger along the screen in a widening circle, zooming out to get a broader view of the geography around Kill Devil Hills.

  There. It was outside the perimeter she had initially thought would make for the most difficult shot. This would be a nearly impossible shot what with the distance, terrain, and shifting winds of the coastal area. If Jedidiah Patrick was that good of a shot, then there must be something inhuman about him. In fact, the longer she looked at it and studied the trajectory the bullet would have to take to find its mark, the more she thought she had to be mistaken. It couldn’t be the correct location. They’d be crazy to think anyone could make a shot from that distance and hit a target no bigger than a newspaper.

  But it had to be the location. If they were going to use a camper, it was the only possible option.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  • • •

  Jed didn’t sleep much during the night. An hour on, an hour off, and that’s how it went for six hours until he finally decided to get out of bed and study the shot more. Karen was still sleeping. She’d barely moved all night.

  Jed grabbed the spotting scope from the table and held it up to his eye. The sun was just peeking above the horizon, dusting the sky with a dull shade of pink. There were a few high clouds, all of them cirrus. A light wind bent the blades of grass on the other side of the creek and rustled the leaves on the trees to the north of Kill Devil Hill, where the monument sat. Setup crews were already assembling the stage. Secret Service personnel roamed the area, huddled in groups of two and three, pointing here, pointing there.

  The phone on the table rang, a soft chime, like the ringing of tiny bells. Jed picked it up and hit the Talk button.

  “Are you ready for this, Patrick?”

  It was Murphy. He sounded awake, alert, and confident.

  “It’s a tough shot,” Jed said.

  “But one you can make.”

  “One I have to make.”

  “Yes. You do.”

  “Talk to me about how it’s going to happen.”

  “Connelly is slated to take the stage at 1100 hours. They’ve received threats on Connelly’s life, so as a precaution, security is extra tight, the perimeter wider than usual.”

  “But not this wide.”

  “No. We anticipated this. And we anticipated that Connelly would refuse to cancel any of his engagements. He’s military, stubborn, like the rest of us. You’ll only get two opportunities to pull the trigger. They’ll have bulletproof shields in place, but he’ll be exposed as he climbs the stage and exits it, but only briefly.”

  “What’s briefly?”

  “Briefly. A second, maybe two, depending on his pacing.”

  It would take longer than that for the bullet to travel the mile distance. He’d have to time the shot perfectly. It was definitely not ideal conditions. “I don’t like this,” he said. “There’s too many variables. You do realize what this involves, don’t you?”

  “I do. And I realize the pressure you’re under. Everything will be in place. Everything will go as planned. You need only pull the trigger.”

  “And what about windage?” He was concerned about the varying winds over the creek and coming off the ocean.

  “We’ve got you covered for that. Keep this line open. It’
s secure and encrypted. I’ll have men reporting wind speed to you at the creek and at intervals beyond.”

  The wind speed at the creek would be most important as it was closest to his location and would have the most influence on the bullet’s path.

  “You’ll get two opportunities but only one shot,” Murphy continued. “If the first is a no-go, you better make sure the second is a go. And after you take the shot, don’t worry about packing up your gear. Get out of there. The area will be in a state of chaos for a few seconds before law enforcement can get things under control. They’ll set up a wider perimeter, roadblocks, the works. But you’ll be long gone by then.”

  Jed was used to shooting and scooting. That part would be second nature to him.

  “If this is a bust, won’t there be other opportunities to take him out? He surely has other speeches to give in public settings.”

  Murphy sighed on the other end of the phone. “We’ve waited too long already. Didn’t think he was as far along as he is. Our sources say Connelly is planning to make his move soon. A matter of days, not weeks. We need to end this now or it will be too late.”

  Jed didn’t like his odds. It wasn’t that the shot was nearly impossible—he’d taken and made very difficult shots in the past. And it wasn’t that the pressure would be too great—he was used to firing under immense pressure. It was that the life of his daughter was on the line. And because of that he almost told Murphy to forget the whole thing. He’d go rogue, find Lilly, and rescue her himself. He’d done it before.

  “Patrick,” Murphy said. His voice was low and serious. “You can do this. You hear me? You have to. Do what you have to do, talk to Karen, pray, whatever, but you need to do this. You can and you will.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  • • •

  There were so many people. More people in one place than Lilly had ever seen before. She was glad Mr. Abernathy was with her and held his hand as tight as she could. When Mr. Murphy took her into the room where Mr. Abernathy was, Lilly began to cry. She was so happy to see him, so happy to see a familiar face she could trust.

  They walked across the grass, weaving in and out and around people packed so closely their shoulders touched. Mr. Abernathy said, “Excuse me” a lot. Finally they arrived where he said they should be and they stood still. They weren’t even fifty feet from the stage where the vice president would be talking. Lilly didn’t know why they were there, why she was taken to that particular spot, nor why it was so important that Mr. Abernathy be the one to take her. Though she was glad it was him and not Mr. Murphy. The man gave her the creeps. But she did know nothing good was going to happen. She could feel it. This all had something to do with Mr. Murphy saying that her dad was like a superhero. But sometimes superheroes were forced to do things only a villain would do. In the end, though, the hero always triumphed, and she knew her dad would be no different.

  Mr. Abernathy put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her. “It’ll be okay,” he said with a wink.

  “Do you know why we’re here?” Lilly asked.

  Mr. Abernathy didn’t say anything. She knew it was because he did know but didn’t want to lie to her. He smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of happiness; there was sadness in his eyes and in the curve of his mouth. He patted her arm and winked again.

  Lilly studied the faces around her. None looked familiar. Until . . .

  There. She spotted him. The man from Denver, the one who had shown her kindness, the one she trusted. Agent Carson. They locked eyes and he nodded at her. He then made his way through the crowd until he stood right next to her. He glanced at Mr. Abernathy, then knelt on one knee beside Lilly. In his eyes Lilly found concern and sincerity.

  “Little sister, you stay with Mr. Abernathy, okay?”

  Lilly nodded. “Why are you nice to me?”

  He took her hands in one of his, then laid his other hand on top. His hands were calloused but warm. “I had a little sister once,” he said. “We lost her when she was only nine. She had cancer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lilly said.

  He smiled. “Me too. She was my hero, you know? She was stronger than I could ever be, right up to the end.”

  “You must have loved her very much.”

  “I loved her with every fiber of my being.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “It’ll be eleven years this Christmas,” he said and his voice cracked. He patted her hand again. “Stay with Mr. Abernathy, okay?”

  She nodded again. “Yes.”

  “Good girl.” Then he stood and disappeared into the crowd.

  Lilly turned to Mr. Abernathy. “I think that man is going to save my life.”

  • • •

  Tiffany turned onto Marshy Ridge Road. At the entrance to the campground she parked the truck along the side of the road and hiked up a slight incline. A few folks sat outside their RVs, sipping soda or coffee. One elderly couple had a fire going and nodded to Tiffany as she passed.

  The road ended in a cul-de-sac that could accommodate at least fifty campers, each with their own electric and water hookup and paved pad. The tip of the loop jutted out into the Colington Creek on a wide peninsula. Not fifty feet from the most eastward site, the ground sloped downward sharply toward the creek, creating an elevated platform upon which the campground pads sat. Looking east, one could see straight across the creek, over a small wooded area, a residential neighborhood, and all the way to Kill Devil Hill, the location where the vice president would deliver his speech in a matter of minutes.

  Tiffany’s chest tightened. Was she sure this was the location? She kept telling herself it had to be. Though the location was not at all prime for a long-distance shot, it was the only place where one could set up a camper with any kind of view of Kill Devil Hill and still remain inconspicuous. She walked the road, her palms now sweating, her steps short but quick, her back rigid. To the elderly couple who nodded at her, she must have appeared strangely out of place being so uptight in such a relaxing setting.

  At the end of the cul-de-sac there were three RVs along the tip of the peninsula. All were oversize and newer models. One had the awning extended with a couple lawn chairs placed around a portable fire pit. All three sat quiet. Either the occupants were still sleeping or watching television or they’d left the grounds for the day. Or they were inside preparing to pull off the assassination of the century.

  She remembered Jack’s words to her as he lay on that floor, blood spilling from his wound: “You have to. Stop Patrick. That’s it. Stop him.”

  He’d earlier talked about God and whether she ever talked to him. Like God was a real person. Jack obviously believed it. But did she? Would God allow someone to get away with what Patrick was about to do? Would he allow someone like Jack, someone who obviously believed in him, to be shot like he was for no apparent reason? How? How could he just sit up there on his throne and watch all this happen and not intervene? She returned to the conclusion she’d held her whole life: if there was a God, either he was uninterested or he was powerless.

  Tiffany stared at the RVs, knowing her time was running short. God might not be putting his hand in, but she was here to do something about it. She had to make a decision. She had to choose which camper housed Patrick, if any. She walked to the first one, the one with the awning extended, fisted her hand, and held it to the door. But she couldn’t bring herself to knock. What if Patrick was in there? He wouldn’t just answer the door, say, “Hello, what can I do for you?” and maybe invite her in for a chat. And if someone else answered, what would she say? She hadn’t even thought this through.

  She backed up on the road and noted the license plates of each RV. One was from North Carolina, one from Virginia, and the other from Georgia. That information meant nothing to her. She studied the campers more closely as she paced the road, not wanting her inspection to appear too obvious to any of the other residents who might be nosing a peek at her through drawn curtains. Nothing was noticeably different about
the three trailers, except . . .

  The curtains. The one in the middle, a Blackwood, had the curtains drawn on the slideout compartment; the other two didn’t. And that window was the only window facing east toward Kill Devil Hill.

  Tiffany swallowed to moisten her parched mouth and throat. Her pulse had quickened its tempo and now tapped annoyingly in her ears. That was the one. It had to be. That was where Patrick had set up his sniper nest. She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes to showtime.

  Again, Jack’s words were there: “You have to. Stop Patrick.” It was all on her now. But still the questions were there. What if she was wrong? What if this wasn’t the location at all? What if Patrick was elsewhere preparing to pull the trigger and there was no one there to stop him?

  Tiffany tightened her hands into fists. The prayer came surprisingly naturally. She didn’t even think about it but simply spoke the words, aloud but quietly. “God, if you’re real and you care, do something.”

  She approached the RV’s door and reached for the handle.

  THIRTY-SEVEN