Termination Limits: Tom Kintrell Book 1 (Tom Kintrell Thriller Series)

by R. J. O'Rourke

  Termination Limits

  R.J. O’Rourke

  The currency of sedition is blood.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to the following for their help and suggestions in getting this book off the ground. They are, in no particular order: Tommy Hyland, Brother Bill O’Rourke, Dr. Bill Sangster, Michelle Gilliam, Dolores O’Gara, Al and Paul Banfe, and Scott Chaney.

  Special thanks to the real writer in the family—Brian O’rourke—for his guidance, patience, and professionalism in every stage of this project.

  Chapter 1

  Philadelphia, PA.

  The shooter peered through his scope at the gathering four hundred yards away. He limited the time spent focusing through the scope to just a few seconds, as prolonged viewing could lead to blurring when it came time for the shot. Very little wind with low humidity and clear blue skies made for optimal shooting conditions. The weapon was zeroed for the four-hundred-yard shot but his hide was four stories above ground level, so he would aim a couple inches lower than his intended point of entry. Shoot from high aim for low. He couldn’t articulate the physics involved, just knew from training and experience.

  A podium was set up outside the one-story building that was to become a homeless shelter. Facing the podium were various dignitaries, bureaucrats, and a sprinkling of what appeared to be homeless people. Also on hand were some TV types and their camera crews. Not for the first time, the man pondered the death he was bringing. He remembered his first kill. The elation as the shot found its mark was almost overshadowed by a feeling of shame, of wrongness. The wrongness would diminish over time with each successful kill, but it would never be completely gone. He thought of the old saw about not hearing the shot that kills you. Unless the shot kills you instantly, you would no doubt hear it. You may not correlate the noise to the searing pain and encroaching darkness, but you would definitely hear it. Enough of that, back to business.

  The congressman made his way to the ribbon stretched out in front of the podium.

  The shooter went into his routine. His breathing slowed as he peered through the scope. He centered on his target, placing the crosshairs at the top of the abdominal cavity. He took another breath in, then let most of it out and slowly squeezed the trigger. The weapon bucked and the projectile exited the rifle at just under four thousand feet per second, described its parabolic arc…

  ***

  Emory Storchin held the giant scissors awkwardly as he started to speak, eliciting a few chuckles from the attendees.

  “I now dedicate this shelter …”

  A shot was heard in the distance. The congressman looked down and saw the redness expanding on the front of his white shirt. Not understanding, he crumpled to the ground and died within eight seconds. After a short period of shock, the onlookers scattered, some bumping into each other, others going to ground as the police detail assigned to the congressman shouted, with weapons drawn, to get down.

  The shooter on the roof four hundred yards away watched the chaos through his scope for a few seconds, knowing, as all marksmen know, when the shot was true. He left the gun, strapped the case to his back, then duck-walked to the opposite side of the roof. After dropping the rope that was secured to a pipe at the edge of the roof, he rappelled down to the alley that ran behind the building. He jumped on the motorcycle, a BMW F850GS, drove two blocks down the alleyway and ditched the case in a dumpster. In no particular hurry, he made his way to the Tacony Palmyra Bridge. The span forded the Delaware River, allowing entrance to New Jersey from northeast Philadelphia. He enjoyed the rhythmic thrum and power of the bike as he threaded his way through traffic, using his body weight to effect lane changes. It would be a pity to ditch such a fine machine, but mish dish, mission discipline, demanded it.

  There was no toll heading into New Jersey allowing the shooter to breeze through with the rest of the traffic.

  An order might go out to close off and monitor traffic leaving Philadelphia, but that would take at least twenty to thirty minutes, he suspected, and it had only been eleven minutes since the shooting. If, by some twist of fate, they were able to identify the bike in that short a time period, the darkened visor on his helmet would render facial recognition useless. The bike could possibly be identified by CCTV at the bridge, but by that time the bike would be at the bottom of the lake.

  Forty-five minutes later he pulled into a dirt road in Wharton State Forest. He found the narrow path that would lead to the lake a quarter mile away. He slowly maneuvered the bike down the path till he was within twenty-five yards of the lake. Getting off the bike, he waited three or four minutes, straining to hear any sound that might signify people close by. Hearing nothing, he slowly made his way to the lake. Being careful to stay out of sight, he scanned the area and determined there were no onlookers. He returned to the bike, removed his knapsack, and guided the bike to the natural ramp that allowed him to ease it into nine feet of water. After discarding the bike, he removed his clothes, then stuffed them into a plastic trash bag. He weighted down the trash bag with rocks then heaved it into the lake. After donning the spare clothes stored in the knapsack, he removed the burner phone that was provided, then speed-dialed the pre-programmed number.

  “Hello?” answered the voice.

  “Is Angela there?”

  “You have the wrong number.”

  The line went dead.

  After removing the SIM card, the shooter wiped the phone down then tossed it into the lake. He broke the SIM card in two, discarded the pieces in the foliage, then made his way to the small camp he had set up the day before. Arriving twenty-five minutes later, he was happy to see that the site was undisturbed. The Harley was camouflaged a short distance away. Always one more thing to do. Concentrating, he went over every step of the operation. Finding nothing to be concerned about, he gathered some nearby kindling, surrounded it with stones and had a decent fire going in a few minutes. He then removed the MRE from his knapsack, warmed the macaroni and chili, his personal favorite, then wolfed it down while sipping a bottle of spring water.

  After finishing his meal, he rummaged through the saddle bag of the Harley. He extracted a water-proof plastic container that held a flask full of Glenfiddich single malt and his favorite cigar, a Cohiba Esplendido. He smoked the cigar while sipping on the scotch, thoroughly enjoying both. Afterwards, he tossed the remainder of the cigar into the fire. He removed and unrolled the sleeping bag that was secured to the back of the Harley. After removing his boots and jacket he crawled into the sleeping bag. Committed now. No going back.

  It was a tad chilly, but he was used to surviving in far worse conditions.

  Early the next morning he woke, stretched, did fifty pushups, one hundred crunches, then jumped on the Harley and made his way out of the park, famished and exhilarated. He stopped at a diner on Route 70 in Medford, New Jersey. He chose a booth that allowed a quick exit should the need arise, then breakfasted with eggs, pancakes, bacon and ham, washed down with grapefruit juice, then two cups of steaming black coffee.

  Sated, he exited the booth leaving a five-dollar tip, then paid his check at the counter. He smiled at the young girl as she handed him his change. He left the diner, straddled his bike and headed back to Pennsylvania.

  Chapter 2

  The call came into the Round House, Philadelphia’s police headquarters, at 4:15 PM. George Ferry, the commissioner, was apprised of the situation by one of his aides. The first thing the commissioner thought of was the blowback both he and the department would receive, as it was the department’s responsibility
to protect the congressman that day. Philadelphia, like most large cities in the Northeast, leaned left of center, as did the major media outlets in the city. Relations between the media and the Department could best be described as testy and, more often than not, frosty—monumentally frosty. He instructed his aide to gather the facts on the ground as soon as possible. The FBI would no doubt be taking the lead on this one. They can have it with my blessings, he thought, picturing the media onslaught and the resultant finger pointing.

  ***

  A similar call was placed to FBI headquarters, Philadelphia, to Special Agent in Charge, Diane (Dede) McGriff who then placed a call to Deputy Director Myron Slivak at FBI Headquarters in D.C.

  “I guess you’ve heard, Myron,” said McGriff.

  “Yeah Dede, just what I need, two months from retirement. Who’re you gonna put on it?”

  “Tom Kintrell,” said McGriff.

  “Hmm …”

  “I know Myron, but he’s the best I got. He’ll get results quickly and he won’t let anybody, or anything get in his way.”

  “That’s kinda what I’m afraid of De, after New York…”

  “If he hadn’t done what he did, we would probably have lost one more agent and another hostage.”

  “Yeah, I hear you, but Dixon claims he’s insubordinate and a loose cannon.”

  McGriff knew she had to tread carefully here.

  “Myron, like I said, he’s the best I got and we both know that the press is going to be all over us, so the sooner this is resolved, the better … for all of us.”

  “Okay, your call, but if this blows up it’ll come back on you. Partner him with someone who’s a little more grounded.”

  “Roger that boss, he’s worked with one of our agents a couple times and they get on well. She’ll dovetail nicely as good cop to his bad cop.”

  “Just so long as it’s not bad cop, worse cop,” said Slivak.

  “I’ll keep you informed, Myron.”

  After hanging up with Slivak, Dede called the police commissioner. He was on the line with her in a matter of seconds.

  “What can I do for you, Dede?” asked the commissioner.

  “George, three things. One, do we have a positive identification on the Congressman? Two, has someone in the government had formal notification of the incident? Three, has the family been notified?”

  “He’s been positively identified by a member of his staff, but we haven’t contacted anyone else as we don’t know the protocol for this. We were thinking that it would be in your province to handle this.”

  Thus, avoiding some awkward questions of responsibility, she thought.

  “Okay, George, thanks.”

  “Anything you need, Dede, anything at all,” said the commissioner.

  “I may take you up on that. We’re probably going to need a good deal of leg work on this one.”

  After hanging up, McGriff contacted her information officer and told him to make the necessary calls—the congressman’s wife being the priority.

  “Have someone visit the wife. Don’t use the phone. She probably knows already, as it’s all over the news, but she still should get a personal visit.”

  ***

  McGriff buzzed her assistant.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Inform Agent Kintrell I need to speak with him.”

  “Will do, and Boss, after I contact Agent Kintrell, I’m going to run downstairs and grab a coffee. You want one?”

  “Don’t we have any up here?”

  “I could stucco my house with that sludge we call coffee.”

  “Okay, Ginny, get me a half-caff, thanks.”

  A few minutes later Kintrell entered Dede’s office.

  “Tom, do you know what’s going on?”

  “Yeah, it’s all over the news.”

  “I want you and Alvarez to take the lead on this and don’t take any shit from the locals. They blew it and this is our baby now.”

  “Have they thrown a net around the perimeter?” asked Kintrell.

  “Not sure, why don’t you and Alvarez get over to the scene and check in with me after you have the particulars,” said Dede, thinking a net would most likely be too little too late.

  “Is forensics en route?”

  “Yeah, they’re most likely there already, and Tom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There are some people in the Bureau that would like nothing better than to see you fall flat on your face. Watch your six.”

  “As a friend of mine used to say, they can kill you, but they can’t eat you.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  As Kintrell left the office, Dede’s assistant entered. Kintrell smiled as he held the door for her.

  “Thanks, Agent Kintrell.”

  “Welcome.”

  ***

  Both Ginny and Dede watched as Kintrell retreated down the hallway.

  Ginny handed her boss one of the cups.

  “Yummy piece of strudel there, huh, Boss? What’s he? Six-two, six-three? I hear he’s rich too?”

  “No comment.”

  “That confirms it. Why is it that some men actually get better looking when they start to turn gray … the bastards.”

  “Jeez, Ginny, if anybody heard this conversation, you’d be slated for some sensitivity training.”

  “Does that count against vacation time?”

  “Get outta here, Ginny, we both have work to do.”

  ***

  Kintrell made his way to Alvarez’s office. She was on the phone but waved him in, pointing to a chair. She hung up and looked at Kintrell, expectation registering in her eyes.

  Kintrell studied her: long dark hair, now in a pony-tail, tallish with an athletic build and intense brown eyes that projected optimism as well as a hint of mischief.

  “We’re on it,” Kintrell said.

  “Great! Who’s lead?”

  “Me, of course,” replied Kintrell.

  “Fuck.”

  They both laughed.

  “Let’s get to the site. Forensics is already underway,” said Kintrell, adding, “We’ll try to make nice with the locals, they’re in for a shitnami.”

  They both laughed again.

  It was no secret there was no love lost between the Philadelphia Police Department and the local FBI office.

  Aided by lights and siren they navigated I-95 to the northeast section of the city. They arrived at the site twenty-two minutes later, located the officer-in-charge, and presented their credentials. The policeman looked over the IDs and led them to the body.

  They donned gloves as they approached the body. Carefully lifting the aluminum foil- like sheet that covered the body, Kintrell noted the sightless eyes and the hint of a painful grimace on the congressman’s face.

  Kintrell nodded to the policeman standing on the other side of the body.

  “What’s your take on this, Lieutenant?”

  “Norm Stryker,” said the lieutenant extending his hand.

  Kintrell rose. “Tom Kintrell.”

  Alvarez then introduced herself as she shook Stryker’s hand.

  “The congressman was facing north when he was hit and he fell backwards, so the shooter was probably in or on one of those buildings,” Stryker said, pointing.

  Kintrell scanned the area where Stryker pointed.

  Stryker continued, “I have eight men out canvassing those buildings as we speak. Because of the lay of the land, the shooter would have had to be no more than five hundred yards out, with a vector of no more than thirty degrees because of the placement of buildings, from the way I see it. Most of those buildings are deserted, so they provide excellent hides for a shooter, and getting away would not be difficult.”

  Kintrell, impressed, said, “You’ve done this before?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “What’s your background?” Kintrell asked.

  “Before the Police Department I was in the Marine Corps. Last duty station was Quantico. I ran the scout sniper
school.”

  Kintrell nodded. “Did you kill the congressman, Norm?”

  “No, I generally go for the head shot.”

  “Damn, I thought we could wrap this one up in a hurry,” said Kintrell.

  Looking out at the crowd and the various TV news hounds outside the taped off area, they decided that a show of amusement would not play well on the six o’clock news.

  A call came in over Stryker’s radio.

  “Hey, Lieut, we got a rifle, over.”

  “Where are you, Jimmy?”

  “Deserted warehouse roof, 219 Grove Street.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  “Shouldn’t you tell him to leave everything alone, Norm?” asked Alvarez.

  Stryker smiled. “He knows what to do.”

  They arrived a few minutes later. After entering the building and making their way up the stairs, they then had to ascend a metal ladder to the roof. Two policemen stared at a rifle that lay close to the edge of the roof.

  “Did either of you handle the weapon?” asked Stryker.

  “No, we kept our distance. There is something peculiar about the weapon though,” said one of the patrolmen.

  “What’s that, Jimmy?” Stryker asked.

  “The weapon’s been altered. It’s not normal length.”

  “Huh?” Stryker walked around the weapon, keeping a distance of six feet.

  “You’re right, Jimmy, good get,” said Stryker.

  After the two patrolmen left the roof, Kintrell said, “I’m impressed Norm, a patrolman picking up on that.”

  “Jimmy went through the sniper school in Quantico. It was his first year in the Corps and my last. He knows his way around weaponry.”

  “You recognize the piece, Norm?”

  “Yeah, it’s the Marine Corps’ newest sniper rifle, the MK13 Mod7 with Nightforce scope. These things are pretty scarce. I’d check and see if any are missing from base inventories,” replied Stryker.