Too Secret Service: Part One

by Declan Finn

  Williams sprang over the rail between sections, sprinting between two more cars. He turned left, keeping as close to the cars—away from the lights—as he could. Footsteps echoed down the hall as the FBI agents ran to the next parking level. A van in front of him sparked as lead struck it, missing his vague, poorly lit left side. Wayne jumped forward and twisted, squeezing the trigger for a fraction of a second. Two agents dropped their weapons and fell, clutching at their thighs. Wayne hit the floor, and he rolled off his shoulders, propelling his legs over his head. He landed on his feet, spun away and ran anew.

  My suit’s going to need a dry-cleaning when I’m done.

  Wayne capped off a quick round at the gas tank of a maroon Hyundai. He felt fortunate the gas tank didn’t explode with the impact. Multiple weapons fired at Williams. The impact of the volley went straight through his suit, picking his body off the ground and tossing him through the air.

  When Wayne landed, blood appeared at his lip.

  Chapter 5

  Catherine Miller gave the folder’s contents yet another once over. Grant fully understood her amazement.

  “This is all incredible, sir,” she told him.

  “Wrong, Strongbow, he is incredible.”

  “And we’re on the same mission? This may become difficult, Director, should he misinterpret my showing up. After all, I am on the payroll as a Company assassin.”

  “If you should run into Williams, Strongbow,” David Grant counseled, “you have complete discretionary power. You’ll have to judge whether or not you can afford to let him work with you should you cross paths.”

  Someone knocked.

  “What?” Grant called.

  “Director Grant,” Walker Percy interrupted, his giant frame filling the doorway, “there’s a telephone call for you on line one. It’s from ALGER.” Percy closed the door.

  “Thank you, Percy,” Grant said to his retreating assistant.

  “Should I leave, sir?” Catherine asked.

  “No. It probably has to relate to you anyway.”

  Catherine took in her surroundings as Grant took the call, saying nothing after “Hello.” It was a very antiseptic room, mostly metal and plastic in neutral colors.

  Grant said, “Thank you,” yet didn’t take the phone away from his ear. He said to her, “It seems our entire discussion was moot. There’s no longer any need for you to worry about Mister Williams.”

  She felt a twinge of dismay. She had looked forward to meeting him. “Why not, sir?”

  * * * *

  It was basically inconceivable anyone could have survived a volley of twenty bullets, but the FBI was occasionally known for caution. Blaine approached William’s body, gun forward, and knelt beside him, reaching forward with his left hand to feel for a pulse.

  The agent’s hand was knocked aside by Williams’ Uzi as he rolled and fired at the spreading pool of fuel from the Hyundai—the pool of gas between the following group of FBI and Williams. The sudden flame that leapt 6 feet from the floor made the Feds leap backwards. The car’s explosion sent them flying.

  Wayne pressed the Uzi to Agent Lansing’s chest and smiled. “Aren’t you a little young to be working here?”

  Wayne circled his forearm away from Lansing’s chest and into the side of his head.

  * * * *

  “Apparently, he just shot Secretary Judith Stevens,” Grant said, gently putting the phone down.

  Catherine leaned forward in her seat. “Is she still alive?”

  “I don’t know yet. My informant just found out about it, and details are sketchy. He just told me he saw her in the lobby of the J. Edgar building, and she looked in very bad shape. Unconscious.”

  “The J. Edgar building? He shot her on the FBI’s own property? I can’t believe it, sir. Have they caught him?”

  “No such luck. They shot him, but he sprang back so fast, he might as well be a Phoenix.”

  “No one springs back from a .50-caliber bullet in anything less than an hour. By that time, it’s hardly called ‘springing’. He must have 5thGen Kevlar under his clothes.”

  “You read the file as well as I did, Strongbow. By the time training was over, he didn’t have any measurable pain threshold with adrenaline in his system. He might as well be numb.”

  * * * *

  Wayne jumped the stairs two at a time. He came out on ground level, right next to the parking structure’s opening, where the afternoon sun poured in. He held the Uzi point up as he turned toward the outside—

  —And came face-to-face with five FBI agents, weapons drawn in his direction.

  “Drop it,” he was ordered.

  Wayne shook his head and laughed, his white teeth shining in the sunlight. “Brilliant, you idiots. I’m one of the good guys.”

  “We just got a call saying he was coming our way, and everyone downstairs was cut off,” a stone-faced agent told him, moving his gun level to his heart.

  “And didn’t upstairs tell you I was coming down to intercept him? I’ve seen this guy on the security monitors. I know what he looks like. Do you?”

  The wavering gun told him No.

  Wayne, with two fingers, reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew his ID. Stone Face stepped forward and snatched it from him. The others watched Stone Face with their peripheral vision. He nodded, and they lowered their guns as he handed Wayne’s very fake ID back to him.

  “Sorry, Agent McCracken.”

  “No problem. I’m going to have to talk to the guys upstairs. Their batteries are probably dying in their comms. Listen, the guy you’re looking for is Arab. He’s very big and very mean. Probably can’t miss him.”

  He calmly walked past the agents until he turned the corner out of sight, then he ran toward the gate entrance, hugging the Uzi to his chest. He got out to the street and looked both ways. There was no chance he’d be able to get a District taxi this late in the day. Instead, he saw something better.

  “Who’s this nut?” Metropolitan Police Department Motor Patrolman Dwight Choi asked his tired partner in the passenger seat.

  A frantic yuppie waved his left arm in the air, almost standing in the way of the police cruiser. The yuppie’s right hand was hidden inside his black suit jacket. Choi slowed the car to a stop beside him. The cop calmly rolled down his window and asked, “What’s the problem, sir?”

  “I took something away from my son,” the yuppie shrieked frantically. “What sort of lunacy do you call these public schools around here? I move in a month ago and—”

  “Slow down, sir. Now, what exactly did you take away from your son?”

  The yuppie’s left hand pulled away the jacket, revealing the Uzi. Officer Choi almost hit the gas, but the yuppie immediately yanked his jacket over the weapon, as if afraid of what the neighbors would think if they saw him.

  “Get into the back, sir,” Hopkins ordered him. “Give me the gun first.”

  The yuppie delicately handed him the gun. “Thank you. Thank you,” he answered as he yanked open the back door of the car.

  Choi turned on the lights and sirens as soon as the door slammed shut.

  Chapter 6

  Agent Blaine Lansing rushed out of the gates of the J. Edgar building, holding a handkerchief to the side of his skull where Wayne had knocked him silly. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles were white. The Secret Service agent had disappeared. The only thing left on the street was a patrol car racing away, sirens blazing.

  *

  Wayne sighed as he looked back at the receding image of the Agent he’d cracked. He faced forward and settled back in the patrol car’s seat. He caught Dwight Choi glancing back at him in the rear view mirror. He let his “yuppie father” facade fade away, squaring his shoulders and letting himself grin.

  “I’d like to thank you for your cooperation, Officer Choi,” he said, remembering the nameplate he’d read.

  “Just doing our job, sir,”Dwight said wearily.

  “Not quite. You’re doing your job and th
e FBI’s. You see,” he said, digging into his jacket, “I’m Secret Service, working with the FBI. You’ve just helped prove the installation isn’t secure for a visit by the President of the United States,” Wayne stated as he slipped his real identification between the gate and the seat.

  Choi nudged his partner to full consciousness, then nodded toward the ID. His partner took it and quickly glanced at it. His eyes flew open, followed by his mouth.

  “DW-W-Wight,” the partner stuttered. “This guy is fucking Secret Service.”

  Wayne grinned as he thought: I have yet to fuck the Secret Service, but the FBI is another story. “Surprise.”

  * * * *

  Catherine Miller walked into a ladies room shortly after leaving Grant’s office at 5:45. She quickly checked under the stalls and found she was alone. She stepped into one and locked the door behind her. She had to think, and she thought best during a quick-change.

  Catherine pulled the marine cap off her head and shook it once, firmly. Red hair flowed from the inside. Catherine placed it atop her head. She reached into the pants pocket of her marine uniform and pulled out a compact mirror. She thought while she put it all in place.

  Wayne Williams was a killer, that was certain. But what kind?

  There was the first view: a piece of scum capable of shooting Secretary Stevens in cold blood. If such were the case, STRONGBOW couldn’t be certain if he was part of the nuclear bomb threat or if he shot Stevens because he was insane.

  Although it didn’t really matter what he had done. Did it? As long as he didn’t get in her way, Williams had nothing to do with Catherine. Nothing at all.

  But should they cross paths…

  Satisfied her hair was in place, Catherine stepped out of the stall.

  But would he bother shooting her on the FBI’s turf? she wondered. After all, there were easier places to kill someone. And, just as she could be a perfect counter-assassin expert, a Secret Service agent could know exactly how to assassinate someone. And any efficient assassin wouldn’t have waited for Stevens to leave the J. Edgar building.

  So why bother?

  Something isn’t right here.

  * * * *

  Why did I bother coming back here? Wayne thought as he stepped out of the patrol unit. He guessed it was nostalgia. Perhaps it was pride. Maybe because he knew this place better than the architect of the original blueprints.

  Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue. Home sweet home. Granted, he was on a street running perpendicular to the White House, but that was only because of the concrete barriers blocking off traffic access.

  He thanked the officers and watched them drive away. Taking a quick glance at his watch, Williams figured there was another fifteen minutes before the next bomb sweep of the area, canvassing the trees, the cars standing longer than ten minutes, and the bushes where he had stashed his briefcase.

  He figured there were several kinds of people in the building, assuming they were still employed: those he could trust with his life, those who wanted to end his life, and others who would run at the fact he was still alive. The last thing anyone expected Wayne to do would be to go to the White House. After all, it was crawling with Secret Service—half of which could identify him. And no fugitive alive would go into a hornet’s nest like that, right?

  The hunted Mister Williams strolled over to where he hid his suitcase—directly opposite the West Wing—and bent his knees a little more to scoop it off the ground. The White House’s external security cameras would’ve picked up nothing unusual: if he had been spotted getting out of the car, the cameras wouldn’t have circled back by now; if he was just spotted, anyone would’ve assumed he had had the briefcase before and was just walking by.

  He definitely needed to ditch the jacket—the bullet holes did nothing for his image. Wayne wished he could’ve brought the Uzi with him, but the mere glance of anything that looked like a weapon would’ve been like putting spotlights on his face. He hoped he could keep Agent Lansing’s H&K .50- caliber hidden well enough.

  * * * *

  Catherine Miller walked out of Langley with strong, confident steps, moving like the Marine she wasn’t. It was already getting dark outside. She was deep in the quicksand of thought, pondering her moves should Williams cross her path. She already knew where she would head first in her investigation of the threat. There was, after all, only one place…

  What the hell does that tourist think he’s doing?

  Out of the corner of her right eye, she spotted a black Sedan with its driver’s side window down, a camera pointing out the window. Another tourist trying to take pictures of Langley. She smiled once two marines approached to handle the tourist and any photos he might have taken.

  Before she glanced away, a reflection in the rolled-up back window caught her eye. He wasn’t doing anything suspicious, however, just not doing something; he didn’t even glance toward the marines. In fact, he made a point of not looking at them, staring even deeper into his phone, presumably looking at a map app. The man was otherwise inconspicuous. He had dark blonde curly hair and a blue windbreaker, standing a good distance behind Catherine.

  Hold on. A tourist in November? What’s he doing outside of a restaurant at—she glanced at her watch—6:00 PM?

  Catherine noted his presence and moved on, wondering how many tourists would pass up the opportunity to gawk at marines in action. He must have been a New Yorker; they were weird enough to ignore everything.

  She had parked her car in front of a clothing store three blocks away, more than enough time to spot a tail. After that, she would drop her rental car in Virginia, change, pick up her things, and drive her second car to Dulles airport. In three and a half hours, she’d arrive in…

  What the hell is he doing?

  After only covering one block, she had already spotted a tail. The tourist she had spotted was following her, hanging a mere twenty feet back. His image easily reflected in every side-view mirror STRONGBOW passed. He definitely wasn’t a very good watcher if he was so easy to spot. He was probably some drifting mugger. He’d soon have a profound religious experience.

  She would see to it.

  * * * *

  With his back facing away from the White House, Wayne opened his suitcase and took out a thin, gray trench coat. He put it on over his bullet-worn jacket and snapped the suitcase shut. He felt the inside of his jacket for Agent Blaine Lansing’s money clip.

  He’d make good use of it. All he needed now was to find a taxi. Wayne flailed his arms in the air. A yellow cab pulled over to the curb next to him, and Wayne hoped his Arabic wasn’t as rusty as he believed.

  * * * *

  Catherine turned on her heel, walking toward the tourist. Her pace was so fast they nearly collided. She put her hands on his chest as if to absorb the shock of an imminent impact.

  “’Scuse me,” she said.

  “No problem,” he muttered as he moved on.

  Definitely from New York.

  She had felt the .22-caliber under the left side of his jacket. Under his right arm, there was an empty Poland Spring water bottle.

  Why was he carrying it? There was an orange metal garbage can only five feet away. Unless…He’s a hit man?

  Catherine had, in her early career, to use crude methods such as soda bottles as makeshift silencers; and a .22 to the back of the head was a popular method among Mafia families for completing contracts. It only meant he was willing to use the gun if he had to. After all, no mugger wanted a gunshot saying to the entire world, “Here I am! Robbery in progress! I am a stupid ass!”

  She turned left at the corner, moving around an office building. She proceeded into the shadow of the building, and then flattened herself against the wall.

  The “tourist” came around the bend and walked passed her. After he stopped, realizing his target had vanished, Catherine said, “Now is the time you pull your gun and ask for my money. There aren’t any witnesses I can see.”

  He turned around, pulling out
his weapon. Catherine stood there, arms crossed and smiling sweetly. The tourist grabbed the bottle in his left and jammed it onto the pistol’s end. He raised it level to her head.

  Catherine dropped to a crouch, reached into the deep crease of her marine cap, and grabbed a small blade. With a flick of her wrist it ended up under the would-be killer’s chin.

  The gun fell out of his hand as the “tourist” clutched at his throat, a last spasm before he fell to the ground, quite dead.

  Catherine calmly stood and walked over to the body, pulling a Kleenex out of her back pocket. She crouched beside him and patted his pockets, feeling a wallet in his front right. She grabbed it—covering his wallet with the Kleenex—and pulled it out as she heard footsteps. She dropped the wallet at his side and bent forward on her knees, covering his mouth with hers. She put her right hand over his bloody throat, elevating his neck with the other.

  “Oh my God!” a man shrieked.

  Catherine looked up at him. He was a slightly pudgy middle-aged man in a sweater which read “When It Absolutely HAS To Be Destroyed Overnight: USMC.” If he was a Marine, Catherine was a nursemaid.

  “Get an ambulance!” She ordered him. “I think he’s having a heart attack.” Hard, since his heart had stopped beating, but at least it was plausible. The man scurried away, leaving her in temporary peace.

  She grabbed the wallet again, holding it in the tissue while turning over the plastic folders with her nail. The corpse’s name was Christopher Kimmer, a resident of Richmond, according to the license. In the next plastic sheet, she found a rolled up $1,000 bill.

  On a half-now-half-later pay basis, my life must be very cheap to someone. I think I should be insulted.