Authors: Don Brown
Code 13 (39 page)
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK'S TOWNHOUSE
NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS
OXFORD HUNT
WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, 6:05 A.M.
Caroline stood in front of the mirror in her bathroom, in her summer white uniform, checking the alignment of her medals and ribbons above the blouse pocket. She took a moment to adjust the alignment
of her Navy Commendation Medal and her Navy Achievement Medal, then stood back.
In her mind, she knew her uniform was shipshape. But she also wondered, would this be the last day of her life? Yes, the NCIS agents were out there . . . somewhere. Yesterday she saw their cars. Today she hadn't stepped out to look. Stepping outside to look could be too dangerous. For in order to set the trap, to bait the rat to get close enough to come for the cheese, they could only be so close, making her decision to play the role of the bait a very dangerous proposition. Hopefully the rat would show and they would kill the killer before he killed her.
But nothing was guaranteed, except the fact that somebody was likely to get killed.
If it were the last day of her life, then maybe, at least, she would see P.J. again today.
Not that she felt fatalistic, but the morning had brought yet another radical and unexpected emotional shift. This morning there was little pain . . . little sorrow . . . mainly a strange sense of surrealism. It was as if she were an actress, suspended somewhere on some inanimate stage, and she had been given a catbird's view in the balcony of a theater, about to watch herself perform onstage, down below, under a bright spotlight.
Why did she feel like her personal balcony seat, to watch her own performance, was in the presidential box at Ford's Theater?
Enough internal philosophizing.
She had to get her head in the game. She had to do it not only for P.J. but also for herself.
He had spoken these words so many times as they kicked into high gear to finish their runs.
“You can do this. Bring it across the finish line, baby.”
And now she could hear his voice again. So clearly. Here and now. If she didn't know better, she would swear he was right here. Right now.
Yes, she would bring this across the finish line, not just for him, but for herself, for the sake of justice, and for the Navy.
She could do this. She
would
do this.
She took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and headed for the door.
OUTSIDE LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK'S TOWNHOUSE
NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS
OXFORD HUNT
WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, 6:10 A.M.
Did the doorknob move?
The assassin held the rifle still, refocused his eye, and took another look through the high-powered scope.
The front door cracked, but just barely. Maybe an inch or two.
His heart pounded with the excitement of a hunter closing in on his prey.
The targetâhe thought of her as a
target
because that made it easier to embrace the idea of shooting a womanâwould be emerging any second, and hopefully he would be able to nail her right there on her front door stoop, dropping her like a stuck pig with a bullet to the head, and then he would be on his way, out of sight before someone noticed her lying there.
He pulled back on the bolt action and then pushed it forward, chambering the single .223 death bullet, and with his right finger he began caressing the trigger, waiting for the target to emerge.
He felt himself enter into a zone. Only a hunter-killer could relate. The seconds before a kill, the body of the killer was filled, from head to toe, with adrenaline-charged electricity that couldn't be replicated by
any other human sensation known to man. Nothing else could satisfy the appetite of the professional killer. Not money. Not sex. Not fame. Not luxuries.
Only the kill could satisfy the greatest of all innate desires.
And when the target's head exploded from the bullet, an ecstatic ecstasy would explode within him like nothing describable, a sensation that most weaklings would never experience or understand.
Now she was so close he could taste her death, and his tongue salivated like a hound dog eyeing a rib eye steak.
“Come on, baby. Come home to Daddy.”
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK'S TOWNHOUSE
NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS
OXFORD HUNT
WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA
6:11 A.M.
“Where is the darn thing?” Caroline mumbled aloud. She had become so enraptured in her thoughts, so distracted by what she was about to do, that she realized she had forgotten her cell phone.
She had started to open the front door and was about to step out when she remembered.
Thank goodness she wasn't halfway to the Pentagon, when it would be too late to turn around and she would be stuck without it all day.
No luck in the bedroom.
She stepped into the bathroom.
“Thank goodness.” She had left it on the counter as she checked her ribbons.
Already she had three missed calls from him.
She hit the speed dial.
Two rings.
Paul answered. “How are you this morning?” A tinge of concern filled the captain's voice.
“Fine. So far, anyway.”
“I was worried about you.”
“Sorry. I forgot to turn the phone off silent and then started out the door and realized I forgot it.”
“Okay. I know you have a lot on your mind. Just call when you get to the Pentagon, will you?”
“Sure. If it will make you feel better. But you know, I'll be fine, and we can't keep this up every day.”
“Just one step at a time. Just for the next few days, anyway,” he said. “That okay?”
“Okay, I'll keep you posted for the next few days.”
“Thanks. Be safe on the way to work.”
“I'll call you in a few.”
She hung up, put the phone in her purse, and headed for the door.
OUTSIDE LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK'S TOWNHOUSE
NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS
OXFORD HUNT
WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA
6:12 A.M.
He held the rifle in firing position, his finger on the trigger, his eye peering through the high-powered scope.
The exterior of the door was painted black, making the small red laser-beam light that shot across the street, straight onto the outside of the door.
Any second now . . .
The door swung open, and there she stood.
She stepped out onto her front porch, looking hot in her white navy uniform, and turned her back to him as she locked the door. He could see her so clearly through his scope. Her legs were so toned and tanned. Her backside so shapely. She had the body of a runner. No doubt she worked out.
He gazed at her for a moment through the scope. What a colossal waste this would be.
He considered shooting her through the back. Then, when she turned, he moved the laser to the center of her heart.
No.
That would mean too much red blood seeping through that white uniform. What a shame.
He moved the laser back up to her head.
“Bye-bye, baby.”
He pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, and instantly a Springfield Mass Transit bus pulled up on the street, blocking his view.
The assassin cursed, unable to see his kill because the blasted bus had rolled in the way. But he couldn't wait around. He tossed the rifle on his backseat and hit the accelerator.
DIRKSEN SENATE OFFICE BUILDING
UNITED STATES CAPITOL
OFFICE OF ROBERT TALMADGE (R-GA)
WASHINGTON, DC
TUESDAY, 6:13 A.M.
U.S. Senator Robert Talmadge walked into the front door of his office and nodded at his secretary.
“Good morning, Maryanne.”
“Good morning, Senator. Your coffee is almost ready.”
Bobby checked his watch.
He started to step into his office, then turned and looked at her. “Is Tommy in yet?”
“No, sir. But Mr. Mandela called a few minutes ago and said he's on his way.”
“Any word from Senator Fowler's office?”
“Not yet. But Mr. Mandela hopes we hear something today.”
“Okay, thanks. Just bring the coffee into my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
He watched as she turned and held his gaze pleasurably for a few moments as she gracefully stepped away from him, then disappeared off to the right, moving into the kitchen area.
Bobby stepped into his office, laid his briefcase on his desk, took off his jacket, and hung it up. He had already developed a well-deserved
reputation for being one of the hardest-working rookie senators in the senate.
Bobby Talmadge, as a young college student, feasted on political bios, which had inspired him to study law and go into politics.
He had once read an article about Bobby Kennedy, who, albeit from a different political party, also had the reputation of a tireless workaholic.
When RFK had been attorney general, he would often work late into the night. When Kennedy left his office, if he drove by J. Edgar Hoover's office and saw the lights on, legend was that he turned around and drove back to his own office to work some more.
Bobby was determined to beat his colleagues to the office and routinely arrived before 6:30 a.m., beating even members of his staff into work, with the exception of his secretary, a forty-year-old single brunette named Maryanne Pendleton, who had been more loyal to him than his own wife.
In fact, once when he and Molly Sue had separated, discreetly, not long after he first was sworn into Congress, Maryanne had been there for himâin every way. Fortunately, despite the rumor mill, the story never hit the press in either Atlanta or Savannah.
In a way, Maryanne knew him better than anyone knew him. She had heard about what had happened at the Christmas party, and while she showed signs of jealousy, she had never judged him. Most important, she had never breathed a word of it to anybody.
