by David Perry
“Isn’t there any way for you to get in touch with him?”
“What is this about, sir?”
“I have knowledge that someone is trying to kill the presidents!”
“The presidents? There’s only one president, sir.”
“I need to speak to Detective John Palmer. Now!”
“What is your name, sir?”
Peter gave it.
“Hold on, please,” the dispatcher replied irritably, before the line rolled to the generic muzak.
* * *
Jason tried to shake the warbling from his ears along with the pain in his skull. Whatever had struck him felt like a wrecking ball. He tried to push himself up, but failed. Instead, he sank back to the floor and rolled onto his back.
As the pain and nausea waned, fear welled. He realized he was probably face to face with one of Zanns’s assassins. Then the silhouetted figure spoke. The female voice, though nervous, tried to sound ominous. “Don’t move! Or I’ll hit you again!” The woman loomed over him, holding his DeMarini softball bat.
An intimacy coated the woman’s words. It took a second, but Jason recognized the determined voice. “Chrissie?”
Several seconds passed. Jason sensed she was assessing, trying to assimilate the sound of her name, the voice that had spoken it. Jason saw the bat drop several inches as she said, “Jason?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
The soft whoosh of clothing preceded Christine dropping to her knees. The bat clanked to the floor, and her arms went around his neck, squeezing him in a loving death grip. The warmth of her face against his felt like a blazing fire in a barren snowfield.
Jason returned her embrace with a weak one of his own, comforting her, stroking her matted hair. Finally, Christine pulled back. “I thought you were—”
“I’m fine.” He rubbed the side of his head. “But I’m gonna have one helluva knot.”
“I am so glad you’re all right,” she whispered. She helped him to his feet, pulled him close, and placed her lips on his. Christine cried as they kissed, her tears mixing with the sweat coating Jason’s face. Her lips were soft and warm, inviting him to press against her. Jason complied. They released, and then embraced again. Jason wiped her cheek with a gentle caress of his thumb.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m better now,” she replied in a low, soft whisper. Then she remembered the news report. “You’re hurt!”
“Yeah, a little,” he replied.
“Like hell. You were stabbed. Show me!”
He lifted the T-shirt he’d found in the suitcase of the Taurus. Even in the shadows, the wound looked bad. “Oh my God, Jason! That looks awful. You need a doctor!”
“That won’t be happening anytime soon. I’d be back in custody the second I set foot in an emergency room.”
“That needs to be treated. Where are your bandages?”
“Upstairs. How did you know I was stabbed?”
“It’s all over the news.”
She led him up the steps to the bathroom and was about to flip the light switch. “No lights!” Jason instructed.
He coached her on where to find the supplies. Christine gathered bandages and medicated ointment in the darkness. She helped him to the floor and told him to lie on his side. Setting the supplies on the floor beside him, she lit a small candle and placed it near the wound. Jason told her to smear the antibiotic goo onto a balled bandage. When she had done that, she turned to Jason. “Now what?”
“I want you to stuff the whole thing into the wound.”
“That’s a pretty deep wound. Won’t that hurt?”
“It’s going to hurt like a bitch. Do it on three!” This procedure was akin to repairing a broken levee by sticking your finger in it. But it was all he could do at the moment. The wound was leaking. The edges were already black and caked with dried blood. He was beginning to feel the burn of a fever, which meant it was probably already infected.
On three, Christine rammed the coated gauze into his wound with two fingers. The pressure she applied opened the wound, forcing the coated gauze into the puncture. Jason tensed and winced, fighting the intense pain. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, glistening in the candlelight. Christine held her hands away from him, waiting with rapt concern to see what happened. Jason breathed rapidly for several minutes, trying to blow away the mounting agony. Finally, the pain subsided. Christine covered the gauze-packed wound with another square of gauze, then, with difficulty, wrapped a bandage around Jason’s trunk. When he relaxed, Christine hugged him again, careful to avoid his side.
Jason gently pushed her away and sat up. “I need to check my e-mail,” he said.
Jason retrieved his laptop from the chest-high safe bolted to the floor of his bedroom closet. He rarely used the laptop, having little use for it at work. The desktop computer was gone, probably sitting in a police evidence locker. Christine watched from over his shoulder as he turned it on and logged into his e-mail account.
“There it is,” he said. “Walter sent a copy of the recording to me, the detective in Newport News, and himself. Hopefully, they’ve taken steps.” An exhausting relief washed over him.
“So what now?” Christine asked.
At that moment, the phone rang. Jason hobbled to the phone and checked the caller ID. It was his sister-in-law’s cell number. What the hell was Peter’s wife calling at this hour for? Then the realization struck him again that Peter might be hurt or in danger. “Shit,” he whispered.
He pressed talk. “Lisa?”
“No, it’s me.”
Jason breathed again, hearing his brother’s voice. “Pete, where are you? How did you know to call me here?”
“I called your cell. There was no answer. I was taking a shot in the dark. Hoping maybe you’d check your messages.”
Peter explained about the attacks, his wounded leg, and Waterhouse’s murder. “You have to come and get me out of here. I’m a sitting duck!”
“We’re on our way!” Jason ended the call and turned to Christine.
“Peter’s in the hospital. We’re going to get him. We can’t stay here any longer anyway. The cops are sure to be watching the house. Are you up for this?”
Christine met his gaze and smiled. “As long as I’m with you! Don’t leave me again.”
“Don’t worry. It won’t happen again.”
Five minutes later, Jason had burned a copy of the recording onto a flash drive in his desk drawer. If things didn’t go as planned, the Conversation was his get-out-of-jail-free card.
Jason faced Christine and smiled, caressed her cheek, and said, “Let’s go get the bastards who killed your father before they can assassinate the presidents!”
“The presidents!” Christine looked dumfounded.
“I’ll explain on the way.”
At that moment, the front door burst open with a loud crash. A man silhouetted against the moonlight rushed through the opening, holding a pistol capped with a very long silencer.
CHAPTER 76
His face illuminated by the glow of his computer screen, Steven Cooper smiled as he scrolled down. His dubious role in this sordid affair was almost complete. He was already a delightfully rich man. When it was over, he planned on enjoying every delectable penny.
He had been the mouthpiece for the ultrasecret, nameless group headed by the unseen puppetmaster named Hammon. He’d posed as the businessman funneling funds to Zanns and her Simoon. The additional five million dollar fee he’d squeezed from Zanns was parked neatly in the designated accounts, every dime untraceable. The funds slithered through a maze of dummy ledgers around the world, ending up in the Caymans, Switzerland, and Indonesia.
Five million dollars!
He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head, satisfaction enveloping him. Retirement would be a welcome change, and it loomed right around the corner. He’d received Hammon’s blessing to end his career after this operation was complete, on the condition that he left the coun
try, never to return.
His job was simple. Cooper would operate Cyclops, enabling Sam Fairing and Jasmine Kader to take their shots. He’d slip quietly out of the Windsor Towers and into a life of complete anonymity. He had no beef with either of the doomed politicians. He was not a political man, preferring to avoid the nastiness that accompanied ideology. He was a grunt. He followed orders. And following orders had made him very wealthy.
The risk, however, was enormous. As the appointed hour ticked closer, the danger of the entire scheme was beginning to rear its head in his mind. They would be sitting on the fourth floor of an apartment building whose roof would be patrolled by countersnipers of the United States Secret Service. He’d have no more than fifteen minutes to escape after the shots were fired. The car was parked in the lot near the exit. Take the stairs, run through the lobby and across the parking lot to the car. His best time was eight minutes, his worst ten.
He’d bluffed Zanns, telling her he’d skip out if she didn’t pay. But even if he’d had the balls to leave, he had little choice now. If he failed to complete his part, Hammon’s henchmen—the same men currently hunting the pharmacist and his friends—would be retasked to kill him. Money and distance would not buy him safety. He held no desire to incur their emotionless wrath.
The oversized briefcase sat on the floor beside him. “Cyclops” was the only machine of its kind, and key to the mission’s success. Zanns had paid dearly for it. Cooper was the only person with the know-how—and the pass codes—to operate it. He’d made sure of that. It made him indispensable and, he was quite certain, was keeping him alive. At the moment, he was a very valuable asset. His phone rang. Only one person had this number.
“They have a CD recording of Z and her team.” It was Hammon’s gravelly voice.
“I know,” Cooper replied.
“What’s on it?”
“Talk of the big event.”
“Wonderful,” Hammon replied sarcastically.
“Actually, it’s good news. The pharmacist and his cohorts know of no other conspirators. The recording implicates Z and her people. We should obtain the file and leak it.”
Hammon cleared his throat. Cooper could hear the familiar click of the pipe stem against teeth. “The private investigator is no longer a concern. Eurus and Ford dispatched him. Zephyr and Horn haven’t reported in. We have to assume they’ve been compromised, probably taken out by the marine. Reports say he’s been taken to the hospital. There’s no word from Notus and Miller.” Hammon’s voice was heavy. “We’ll get the pharmacist within minutes. The fool returned to his house and took a call there. Boreas and McCall are moving on him now.”
Cooper swallowed. He spoke tentatively. Hammon was not a man accustomed to being told what to do. “Since Eurus and Ford are free, might I suggest sending them to the private investigator’s home to find the recording or the device itself?”
“That place is crawling with police. I’ll send them after the marine.”
* * *
Christine screamed. Jason shoved her toward the back of the house, cutting her anguished cry short. Two quick shots buried themselves in the far wall. Jason ducked out of view.
Christine stumbled to a knee. Jason grabbed her by the waistband, yanking her to her feet.
“Go! Go! Go!” he shouted, shoving her toward the back door. “Get out!”
Jason squeezed against the wall, staying between the intruder and Christine. The long black cylinder of the silencer appeared around the corner, followed by the pistol.
Jason flung himself at the gun, grabbing the hand holding the weapon. He slammed it against the sharp corner of a counter top. The pistol clattered across the tile floor. Jason aimed an elbow at the man’s nose. The face turned at the last instant, causing the blow to smash the cheek instead. The man staggered and fell, squeezing a handful of shirt, pulling Jason to the floor. “Christine! Get the—” Jason’s voice was cut short by a chop to the throat.
* * *
Christine watched for a heartbeat until Jason’s words broke her panicked trance. She darted to the weapon and picked it up. Shakily, she aimed at the two men rolling about, entangled in a frantic death struggle. Christine trained for a shot on the enemy combatant without hitting Jason.
At that instant, the glass of the back door shattered. A shower of sparkling glass blew inward. Another armed man crashed through. Head down, protecting his face, the gunman recovered and came up firing. As Christine turned, silenced rounds thumped around her.
Reflexively, she fired, ripping off five shots. The third shot struck the collarbone, twisting his body in midair. His weapon flailed, showering bullets in a wide arc as he crumpled to the carpet.
Christine stepped to the wounded man, leveling the weapon. Blood spurted from a large vessel near his clavicle. The pistol lay inches from his twitching fingers. His eyes were wide with the knowledge of his own impending death. Yet an ingrained instinct compelled him to finish his mission.
“Don’t do it!” Christine shouted. In the background, the punches and gasps of Jason’s struggle echoed through the darkened house.
In a final, desperate spasm, he raised the gun…
An eruption of red coincided with the dull report from the weapon in her hands. The man’s neck exploded. In seconds, the amount of blood on the carpet tripled.
The noise of the struggle behind her had ceased, followed by heavy footfalls. Christine turned. Her field of vision went black, then white, as she was tackled and lifted into the air.
* * *
The front-door attacker had broken free after pummeling Jason in the face, stunning him. The man darted around the corner. Jason pursued a step behind and watched helplessly as he rammed into Christine, grabbing at the gun in her hands. They sailed over the back of the sofa. The man landed on top of her, crushing her into the coffee table, which splintered in loud, sickening cracks.
Jason launched himself over the couch, wrapping an arm around the killer’s throat and pulling him off Christine. He squeezed desperately, crushing the windpipe and choking off the killer’s air. He saw the man’s ears grow several shades redder even in the moonlight. Jason could feel his own face burning. He had out-bruted Jason in the foyer, and Jason was making him pay by crushing his neck with every pound of pressure he possessed. A minute passed. The tension in his opponent slackened. Another thirty seconds, and it was gone completely. Jason held his position for fifteen seconds more. Slowly, he relaxed, and the killer flopped face-first onto the carpet.
Among the shattered glass, broken furniture, and human remains, Jason crawled desperately to Christine. She was not moving.
CHAPTER 77
Routine maintenance, my ass! Palmer thought. The server had been down for two hours, a regularly scheduled procedure he’d never needed to know about until now. It was close to four in the morning. The phone call from Peter Rodgers had come in an hour ago. His Blackberry hadn’t been able to access his department e-mail account. The detective raced to the police administration building, hoping his desktop would allow him access. When that failed, he called IS and was given the bad news.
Peter Rodgers had been the fourth man in the room the day Jason Rodgers and Waterhouse had tried in vain to convince him that Thomas Pettigrew had been murdered. He recalled him as very quiet, with a permanent scowl and eyes that held a reckless quality.
The facts of this case were convoluted and bizarre. At this point, Palmer had a hard time knowing what to believe. Jason Rodgers was on the run, an escaped prisoner, accused of murdering his ex-girlfriend. He was the same man who’d claimed Thomas Pettigrew had been murdered by insurance scammers at the Colonial Pharmacy in Newport News. Jason and Walter Waterhouse, an acquaintance of Palmer’s, had also been present when one Douglas Winstead had his head blown off. Christine Pettigrew, Thomas’s daughter, had fired a weapon inside Lily Zanns’s home, trying to kill the woman. Now, only an hour ago, the brother had phoned, saying that Jason Rodgers was being framed and that President Hope and
his father were in danger of assassination on Saturday during the christening.
Palmer recalled a phrase his father often used to describe such fucked-up situations. “Shitfire!” he said out loud.
The brother had said that Waterhouse had sent him an e-mail with a file attachment of the conversation between Zanns and her alleged coconspirators. It proved their intent to kill the presidents. It also contained a statement exonerating Jason Rodgers. What made the situation even more fucked up was a Secret Service bulletin that stated Jason Rodgers was not only wanted for the murder, but implicated in the assassination plot based on evidence found in his home.
Double shitfire!
As a cop, his first course of action should be to immediately call the Secret Service whenever he received a threat to the president, and let them handle it. They had a two-way flow of information with the department in preparation for the christening. The NNPD had assigned a detective to a task force created just for that purpose.
Palmer picked up the phone. He replaced the handset, deciding to wait to hear the recording for himself before making the call. He would confirm its existence and forward it to the task force liaison then. He was determined not to make the same mistake again.
Six years ago, a man had called in a threat to the president. Hope was in town for a commencement address. Without checking it out, Palmer had immediately called the Secret Service. Because the event was scheduled for the next day, agents had been dispatched to the home of an influential business executive in the middle of the night, waking his wife and kids and scaring the living shit out of them. The caller turned out to be a disgruntled employee bent on revenge for being fired.
The former employee had been prosecuted and eventually found guilty. But not before the police chief had had his ass chewed by the mayor. The executive was the largest contributor to the mayor’s re-election campaign and a very good friend. The police chief in turn had lit Palmer up for forty-five, red-faced, spittle-spewing minutes. To this day, Palmer was still reminded of his mistake by some of the older veterans.