Pretenses (11 page)

“I'm sorry about this media fiasco, Phoenix,” Davidson whispered in my ear. I thanked him, and he left me to grieve, taking the members of the media with him.

As he left, I felt for him. He was trying to do a good thing, taking time out to express his condolences. Tomorrow, the media would say his coming here was only a photo opportunity to boost his ratings. The appointment of another conservative black woman to the bench was still haunting him. I admired him for being a strong leader. The last thing the country needed was another president who put his finger in the air to see which way the wind was blowing.

C
OCO
N
IMBURU
walked into the dojo covered from head to toe in her black ninja uniform—prepared for battle. She knew Phoenix was still grieving over the death of her father, but Coco wanted her back in the game. All of the Washington targets were dead, so she had some time on her hands. Normally, she would've gone out to San Francisco and taken care of the Warren family. But that would be too easy. In Phoenix, she had found an adversary worthy of her talent. After reading her dossier and talking to her father, she had come to respect Phoenix in some small way. In Coco Nimburu's mind, she had caused the grief, and it was up to her to get Phoenix up and on her feet again.

The student-teachers were filming their sparring session, which gave Coco an idea. She stood by quietly, watching to see who was the best. Actually, it really didn't matter who was the best. She had been there five minutes, and not one of them was enough in tune with his or her spiritual side to know she lurked in the shadows, watching, waiting.

After a few more minutes, Coco realized that Karen Monroe was the best of the four; therefore, she would be the last to die. Leaning against the opening onto the practicing floor, she clapped her hands to get their attention.

“May I help you,” Karen said, taking the initiative.

“From what I've seen so far, no,” Coco told her. “But I can help you.”

“We already have a teacher. Grandmaster Perry,” Earl Johns said, offended by her arrogance.

“How can you help us?” Karen asked. “There is nothing you can teach us that Grandmaster Perry can't.”

“I mentioned nothing about teaching. I said I could help you.”

“Help us how?” Karen asked, confused as to where this was going.

“I can help you see God today, rather than tomorrow or the next day.” Coco smiled and walked into the midst of them. “Now, who wants to see God first?”

Earl Johns had a club in his hand and drew back to swing. With no wasted movement, Coco hit him in the nose with a straight punch that sent him reeling backward. Blood ran from his nostrils.

“Who's next?” she asked, deadly serious.

They surrounded her, ready to attack. Coco stood there completely relaxed, waiting for any movement. Karen feinted, to see what she would do. Coco angled her body in a defensive posture. Earl Johns, angry because she had embarrassed him, was about to swing the club again. With very little effort, she kicked him in the head, then caught Greg Fisher, who was trying to sneak up behind her with a reverse hook kick to the head. They couldn't even get close to her, and she was just playing with them.

Karen knew they were in trouble. Her instincts told her to run while she could. But her pride would not allow that. She was the best of them, and she would lead them into battle.

Karen kicked at the stranger's head. Coco deflected it with ease, and then she kicked Karen in the head with the same type of kick Karen had just tried—or, as if to show her how it was done. Karen fell to the mat. She had never even seen the kick coming. Then she remembered the words of Grandmaster Perry. “Good Kung Fu isn't seen. It is felt.” She stood up quickly and regained her composure. Karen relaxed and allowed her spiritual side to dominate her being. Phoenix had told her that she wasn't far from freedom.

In the meantime, Earl Johns had lost his composure, the worst thing a martial artist can do. He ran at Coco, grabbing her from behind. She snapped her head back into his nose, dazing him.

When he released her, she grabbed his arm and spun around him, then
locked his arm. She grabbed a hunk of his hair and snapped his neck. Earl slumped to the floor. Valerie Ryan was next. She came at Coco, fighting sticks in hand. Coco let her swing and then stepped in with a palm strike to the nose. The blow was so powerful that it shoved the bone into her brain, killing her instantly. Greg Fisher came at Coco with a combination of blows and kicks that backed her up. Coco knew that he would do it again because he had had some success. She waited until he was about to start again, then hit him with a spinning kick to the head that dazed him. While he was still woozy, she walked up to him and waited for him to swing. When he did, she ducked and took his legs from under him, then hit him in the balls.

She stood over him, placing a foot on each side of his head, and twisted sharply to the right, breaking his neck.

Karen was ready. Her mind was empty. Coco faced Karen, expecting her to attack. She didn't. Coco could sense that Karen was prepared, but inadequately. The two combatants bowed, keeping their eyes on each other while doing so. Without thought, Karen, completely relaxed, kicked at Coco's head. Though Coco was able to get out of the way, her eyes enlarged with surprise at the speed of the kick. Coco knew that Karen was totally free, probably for the first time as a martial artist. Karen stayed aggressive, kicking in combination, but missing nevertheless.

Karen feinted before attacking again. Because of the speed and power she'd displayed, Coco had to respect the feint, allowing Karen to get close. Surprised by the move, Coco went on the offensive, but it was too late. Karen was already inside. And then it came—the opening. POW—a powerful palm strike to the sternum sent Coco sailing across the room, over the bodies of those she had killed. Karen stepped over the bodies of her fallen friends. Completely focused, she waited for Coco to gather herself from the blow.

Then she attacked more aggressively, striking Coco several times in the face. But her aggression put her in harm's way, and she caught several blows, too. Coco knew it was only a matter of time before the right opening would occur, and she would end it. Coco feinted at Karen's head,
waited for her response, and then hit her several times from an angle. Dazed, Karen became sloppy, and Coco hit her with another series of powerful blows. Then she pulled Karen in by her uniform and snapped her neck. After she had killed all of them, Coco went over to the camera and said something into the microphone. Then she took the tape and left the dojo.

D
IRECTOR
S
T
. C
LAIR
, White House Chief of Staff Armando Glover, and President Davidson were discussing the Assassin in the Oval Office. St. Clair had no answers for the president. All he could tell him was that it was a woman who had the nation's capital gripped in fear, wondering who was next.

Hundreds of social events had been canceled, which made the fabled FBI look like a bunch of buffoons. The media played it up big, too. They were doing nightly recaps of the David Koresh fiasco, the Timothy McVeigh mess, the Richard Jewel disaster, and the Oklahoma City and 1993 World Trade Center bombings. They even did a recap on the Hoover years, citing all the excesses of his administration.

Night after night, they meticulously revealed how Hoover shied away from the mob for fear of bureau corruption. They talked about the FBI's failure to protect civil rights activists during the Kennedy administration. The dirt Hoover had on every president from Roosevelt to Nixon was being reviewed and had become fodder for water cooler conversation. And all of this was being laid at the feet of President Davidson because he had nominated another conservative to the Supreme Court. Putting a black woman on the bench meant nothing because of her conservative politics. Even black organizations stood by and watched the carnage.

“What are you doing about the Assassin?” Davidson asked.

“Mr. President, there's only so much we can do,” Director St. Clair said,
pleading his case. “We don't even know what she looks like, sir. Do you think it's easy for foreign powers to catch our assassins? This woman is good. She leaves no trace.”

“How was Special Agent Perry able to find out where she was in one day?”

“She got lucky, sir.”

“Maybe she'll get lucky again, St. Clair. Get her back on the case. NOW!”

“Sir, you were at her father's funeral. Do you really think she's in any condition to hunt this woman down?”

“Get her on her feet! I don't care how you do it! I will not leave office with this hanging over my head! The people remember the last thing you did in office. And my legacy is in jeopardy. You see what they did to Jimmy Carter with the hostage situation. This man was able to get Menachem Begin and Anwar Sadat to talk to each other, but what do they remember? The hostage crisis! George Bush was able to win the Gulf War in less than forty days, kept Israel from retaliating against repeated bombing, and what do they remember? ‘Read my lips!' That's what they remember. You get Perry back on the job, St. Clair.”

“Sir, this is hardly the time to be concerned about your legacy,” St. Clair said. “She's killed a senator, the director of the NSA, and a Supreme Court nominee. Besides, you were the one who wanted Perry off the case in the first place.”

“Director St. Clair, I'm going to pretend that I didn't hear that,” Davidson said, then looked at Chief of Staff Glover. “What's next, Armando?”

St. Clair knew he had been dismissed and walked out in a huff.

P
ACIFIC
H
EIGHTS
was deathly quiet at two in the morning. Flynn and Ford were in a house across the street from the Warren house, where ten FBI agents were protecting Mr. and Mrs. Warren. The agents had no idea why the Warrens were on the Assassin's hit list. All Flynn and Ford knew was their name and address in San Francisco. Several walked the parameter, and two snipers were in the backyard, hiding in trees. Each unit checked in every fifteen minutes. It would have been better if the Warrens had cooperated and moved to a safe house where Flynn and Ford felt more comfortable protecting them.

Fortunately, Victoria Warren, their thirty-year-old daughter, was out of the country with some girlfriends. At least she was safe, Flynn thought. He took a swallow of his coffee, still keeping a vigilant eye on the Warren house.

Coco Nimburu was in a car just down the street, listening to the agents on the FBI scanner Michelson had provided for her. She could see four agents in teams of two outside. Each time the unit stationed in front of the Warren house checked in, they looked directly across the street. That's where the command post is, Coco deduced. She decided to wait until after the 2:15 check-in. That would give her plenty of time to take care of the guys in the command post, cut off communications, and take out the agents one at a time. It was going to be so easy. They weren't ready for a ruthless assassin who killed without hesitation.

“I think Perry is exaggerating about this so-called female ninja,” Flynn told Ford.

“Me, too,” Ford said. “No way she could be that good.”

“We're ready for her, though,” Flynn said. “The Warren house is wired for sound, and we've got four agents inside the house and six outside. She's not foolish enough to try anything with that kind of security.”

Coco could hear everything they were saying through the cracked door. She was right outside the command post with her back against the wall—her sniper rifle at her feet. With an eight-edged throwing knife, called a shuriken, in each hand, she waited for the agents across the street to check in. What she heard was typical of law enforcement agents, she thought.

From the time she had begun her training, she had been taught that being outnumbered was an asset, not a liability. Her Chunin (trainers) had taught her that her enemies would be easier to destroy when they outnumbered her. It gave them a false sense of security and ultimately lulled them to sleep—even when they were wide awake. A gun in the hand of an enemy provided the same sense of security and would give her the priceless seconds she needed to kill or escape.

“Time for the boys to check in,” Ford said.

A few more seconds passed; then all five units checked in. Coco pushed the door open without making a sound. Flynn, reaching for his coffee cup, saw her reflection in the window. “SHIT!” he shouted without thinking, then went for his gun.

“What the fuck,” was all Ford had time to say. Coco threw both her weapons simultaneously. Each shuriken whistled slightly through the air before severing a nerve in the right shoulder of each agent, making it impossible for them to use their trigger fingers. Normally, she would have aimed at their foreheads, but they had disrespected her talent as a skilled assassin. She wanted their heads for that.

In one swift motion, she pulled a scalpel-sharp sword from its sheath and took Flynn's head. Then she spun in a half circle and took Ford's head, too.

In the same motion, the sword was back in its sheath before their heads hit the floor.

L
OOKING AT
the digital timer Flynn and Ford had used to determine when the units were supposed to check in, Coco knew she had thirteen minutes to finish off the six agents outside. Relaxed and focused, she grabbed her silenced rifle and went to the window. The window was old, and it stuck when she tried to raise it. She looked at the timer; she was losing precious seconds wrestling with the window. She was just about to give up when it responded to her pushing.

As it went up, the window made enough noise for the agents across the street to hear. Jokingly, one of the agents said, “What's the matter, Flynn? You spill coffee on the radio or somethin'?”