Threat Warning (35 page)
He stood. “She’s gone,” he said.
“Who
are
you people?” Sam yelled.
are
you people?” Sam yelled.
“We’re friends,” Jonathan said. “Although I understand that you probably don’t think so.”
“And what am I supposed to do with
them
?” She spread her arms at the carnage.
them
?” She spread her arms at the carnage.
“We’ll take care of the bodies,” Jonathan said.
“Oh, no, you won’t,” Sam said.
“What, you want to keep them?” Boxers said.
“No, I don’t want to keep them. But when the police come—”
“The police are a bad idea,” Jonathan said.
“Says the home invader.”
“Says the home invader,” Jilly repeated.
Something about the absurdity of it all made Jonathan laugh.
“This is
funny
to you?” Sam accused.
funny
to you?” Sam accused.
“ No.”
“You’re still laughing.”
Gail said, “Not at you, Mrs. Shockley, and certainly not at these poor people. It’s just been a long night.”
Jonathan showed his palms as a gesture of peace. “Mrs. Shockley, I apologize for all of this. My big friend is right that you’re much better off for us being here when Sheriff Neen came around. He’d have killed you and your daughter because he’d have had to kill Colleen on the assumption that she’d shared secrets. But I don’t expect you to understand or believe any of that.”
“What the
hell
is going on?” Sam insisted.
hell
is going on?” Sam insisted.
“I’m afraid I can’t make you understand that, either,” Jonathan said. “I don’t know that I understand it all that well myself.”
“Who are you people?”
“Even more complicated, I’m afraid.” To Boxers, he said, “Let’s put the bodies into the trunk of the sheriff’s car.”
Clearly relieved to have something to do other than talking, Boxers went right to work. He effortlessly manhandled Neen’s corpse into a textbook fireman’s carry and headed out the door.
Jonathan reached out to touch Sam’s shoulder, but withdrew his hand when she flinched. “Would you like to sit down?”
“No. I want you out of my house.” As the shock drained from her features, fear invaded them.
“I understand,” Jonathan said. “In five minutes, we will be. But there are a couple of logistical issues I need to discuss with you.”
“I don’t want—”
“Hush, Mrs. Shockley.” Jonathan shot the command sharply, and it worked. “You need to listen to this. First of all, the quicker you wipe up the blood from the floor, the easier it will come up. In this case, it’s good you don’t have carpets.”
Sam’s jaw dropped. “Oh, my God. You’re so cold.”
“Whatever. It’s your call, one way or the other. And bleach will not only get out whatever stain is left, it will also kill any blood-borne pathogens.”
“Not to mention wipe away any DNA evidence,” she said. It was a gotcha.
Jonathan shrugged it away. “Actually, that’s not always true, but think what you want. Here’s the rest: As soon as we’re gone, you’re going to want to call the police. I understand that. Remember, though, that Kendig Neen
was
the police. Something to think about. That, and the fact that he and another person were killed here. You’re not going to like to hear this, but we’re not traceable, so any efforts to catch us or punish us will be futile. Plus, we’re the good guys.”
was
the police. Something to think about. That, and the fact that he and another person were killed here. You’re not going to like to hear this, but we’re not traceable, so any efforts to catch us or punish us will be futile. Plus, we’re the good guys.”
Sam hugged Jilly more tightly and took a step backward. Apparently, the “good guys” comment frightened her.
“If you do want to roll the dice that way do yourself a favor and call the FBI, not the local police. When they tell you that murders are a local matter, you tell them that the local policeman was one of the killers.”
“Except you’re taking his body away.”
Jonathan gave a commiserating wince. “Yes.” He stepped aside as Boxers reentered the front door to head to the kitchen for Colleen’s body. “Again, I’m sorry about all of this.”
Sam looked to Gail for something, and got more or less the same look of apology.
As Boxers passed behind again, this time with Colleen’s remains over his shoulder, Jonathan and Gail followed him out to the car. Both bodies fit easily into the trunk of the unmarked Ford.
The last they saw of Sam Shockley, she was standing in the doorway, with Jilly in her arms. The little girl waved good-bye.
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FIVE
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FIVE
Jonathan had never given a lot of thought to the convenience of abandoned drift mines, but as they tied up loose ends in West Virginia, it became apparent. They left the bodies in the trunk of the Ford, dismantled the anti-trespasser mechanisms at the mouth of the mine shaft, and then Boxers drove the vehicle itself into the narrow passage as far as he could go and still be able to get out of the vehicle. When that was done, they replaced the wooden block and barricades and erased their tire tracks. By 8:45, they were back in the Agusta chopper and airborne again, on their way back to civilization.
Jonathan didn’t like what he saw in Gail’s expression. Not that long ago, she had sworn an oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegiance to the same. She had built a life around the rule of law, and now she was a player in an operation that broke every rule to achieve the intended goal. She sat quietly in her seat in the opulent executive helicopter, speaking to no one, visibly aging with every passing minute.
He left her with her thoughts, convinced that he could say nothing that would make anything any better.
When they were on the ground, a little before noon, and before climbing into the custom-designed Hummer that would take them back to Fisherman’s Cove, Jonathan pulled her aside. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked.
She wouldn’t make eye contact. “What choice do I have?”
Interesting point. “When we get back to the Cove, you should sit down with Father Dom,” he said.
“I’m not Catholic.”
“When he’s got his psychologist hat on, he can be anything you need him to be. Mostly, he’s a good listener.” Jonathan knew whereof he spoke, having spent more hours than he could count in his counsel.
“I don’t need a shrink to tell me right from wrong,” she said. With that, she headed to the truck.
After a scalding shower and a shave, Jonathan felt mostly human again. He missed the long-gone days when occasional ten-minute naps could keep him functioning for days on end. Today he’d been up for a mere thirty-six hours and he felt like milled concrete.
One floor below, Boxers had chosen to crash in the guest room rather than drive back to the District, something he rarely did. He was always welcome, of course, but Jonathan did begrudge the loss in water pressure caused by competing showers.
Jonathan padded naked from his bathroom to his bed, where JoeDog had already staked her claim by lying crosswise on her back, as if to extort a tummy rub in exchange for surrendering her territory. On a different day, it would have worked. Today, though, he wolf-whistled and she scrambled to her feet, tail swinging, waiting to play. Or not.
Jonathan stripped the covers from one side of the king bed and climbed under. JoeDog read the signs and curled up on the spread at the foot of the bed on the opposite side. Jonathan stacked his pillows just so against the leather headboard, lay back, and closed his eyes.
Three minutes later, Jonathan realized that while exhausted, he was too spun up to sleep, so he lifted the television remote from the nightstand and thumbed the ON button. The thirty-inch TV mounted on the opposite wall jumped to life immediately, set, as always on his favorite cable news station.
He wasn’t so much interested in the content of what was on as he was in the white noise of droning voices that rarely failed to lull him into unconsciousness. The current top story dealt with another machine-gun attack in middle America, this one killing over a dozen people at holiday street festival in Davenport, Iowa. The squeaky tenor newsreader reported that experts were considering the possibility that this incident might be linked to recent similar incidents in Washington and Kansas City, and the school bombing in Detroit.
“Gee, ya think?” Jonathan asked aloud.
“On a related story,” the anchor continued, “administration officials are questioning the legitimacy of a sensational Web video that purported to show the execution of a young man by Islamic terrorists last night.”
Jonathan shot upright, causing JoeDog to leap for cover on the floor. The television showed grainy images of Ryan Nasbe being prepared for execution. The images were blurry enough that faces were hard to discern.
“We warn you that this next part is rather graphic.”
This by way of introducing Jonathan’s nick-of-time marksmanship. Actually, there wasn’t much graphic about it at all, just the sound of gunshots and the images of people falling down. An instant later, the webcam went black.
“That’s all there was of the video,” the anchor continued, “leading experts to suspect that the transmission was a prank intended to raise concerns among independent voters that the current administration is not up to the task of protecting the American people.”
From there, they cut away to an interview with some K Street pundit who said exactly the words that were necessary to get him on television to prove the network’s thesis.
Jonathan took that as his cue to lay back against his pillows again. “Okay, Joe,” he said with his eyes closed. “It’s safe now. You can come to bed.”
Seconds later, the whole mattress shook as she resumed her spot.
The anchor closed his story with, “Despite increased violence across the country, Secret Service and administration spokesmen say that no extraordinary security measures are necessary to protect the president and other elected officials.”
The screen switched to Presidential Press Secretary Rachel Pollack, who was speaking from the White House Press Room. “Come on, people,” she said. “The president is the most carefully guarded human being on the planet. The Secret Service takes every precaution every day. If we start altering the president’s schedule in response to random acts of violence, then the violent offenders win. The Marine Corps Anniversary celebration will go on as planned at the Iwo Jima Memorial. Be sure to dress warmly, because tomorrow’s supposed to be even colder than today.”
And so the newscast went, deeper and deeper into the possible ramifications of the ongoing terror killings across the country. Muslim clerics expressed outrage that Americans were so willing and ready to assign any acts of terrorism to them. Then there were the ongoing—
Jonathan’s eyes snapped open. “Shit,” he said aloud. The head of the snake was scheduled to speak at Iwo Jima Memorial tomorrow.
Venice already had the information he’d requested up on the big War Room screen when he arrived.
“This is everything I could find on the president’s schedule,” she said as he crossed the threshold. “At least what they make public. I could try to dig into the White House system, but that’s a terminal course.”
“The public schedule will be fine,” Jonathan said. He took his usual seat at the head of the teak conference table. “Michael Copley won’t know what’s not on the public schedule.”
Venice froze. “What’s going on, Digger?”
“I think that asshole is planning to assassinate the president.”
“You say that as if it’s easy to do.”
“It is, if you plan well enough and you have the right weapon.” He read through the list of scheduled appearances. The president would be attending a number of events over the next few days, including a lunch at the Capitol, a show at the Kennedy Center, and various bits of ceremonial bullshit at different federal building auditoriums.
“I was right,” he said triumphantly, pointing with his finger to the second listing on the page. “The Marine Corps anniversary celebration is the only outdoor ceremony.”
“Why is that important?” Venice asked. She was getting progressively more agitated with every moment.
Jonathan wasn’t in the mood to explain just yet. “I need you to pull up everything you can find on Appalachian Acoustics again and tell me if the Secret Service is one of their customers.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” she said. “For something like acoustic reflectors or whatever they call those things they make, the General Services Administration would make the purchase.”
Jonathan shot her an impatient look. “Fine. Then go to the GSA site and see if the Secret Service is one of
their
customers.”
their
customers.”
“But I already know—” She saw the look. “Fine.”
In his heart, Jonathan knew he was right—he felt it—but a little confirmation wouldn’t hurt. It was just too on-the-nose not to be true.
Cut off the head of the snake.
That deathbed phrase, combined with Appalachian Acoustics’ celebration of its government contracts, was just too convenient not to be connected. Something about those panels.
Jonathan pulled on a drawer just under his spot at the table and slid out a keyboard for the computer that controlled the War Room’s main screen. He Googled Appalachian Acoustics and navigated to their website. The breadth and variety of their products was truly impressive. It took him a minute to find exactly the line of products he thought was applicable—“Major Outdoor Venues”—but once there, he took his time studying the photographs.
The common arrangement of the acoustic shells formed a semicircle around the speaker or performer. According to the specifications list, they could be designed as tall as twenty-five feet, or they could be as short as a standard office cubicle wall. Jonathan wondered what they’d use for a presidential speech. He imagined that taller was better.
In fact, he was certain that taller was better. He remembered from his early days in the Unit, back when their mission and capabilities hadn’t quite settled out and they did a lot of executive protection for dignitaries in war zones overseas, that anything you could use to block vision from potential bad guys was a good thing. Protectees are routinely transferred from one place to another—say, from the front door of a building to a waiting limousine—under cover of tarpaulins of some sort.
He clicked deeper into the information on the taller models of acoustic shells. The Model 9000 Symphonic Reflector seemed to show the most versatility. It was modular in design and could be built in four-foot segments. Plus, it had an angled reflector at the top that would provide “the greatest degree of sound reflection available anywhere.” If Jonathan were selecting the reflectors as a shield for his own protectee, that’s the one he would use, and he’d max it out in height to block out any target that a sniper might try to scope.
They had access to Barrett rifles. Would aim even matter?
Aim always mattered. If you’re going to risk everything on a shot at the most powerful human on the planet, you want to make sure it works. Or you name yourself Squeaky and become a punch line among your fellow terrorists for decades to come.
What about explosives? If Copley designed the panels with explosives embedded, an initiation in this configuration would create one hell of a blast wave. Explosions and sound were both mere variations in pressure, after all, so a configuration designed to focus sound would likewise focus a detonation. But how would that work?
“Okay,” Jonathan said aloud, trying to pull up his EOD training from back in the day, “how much explosive would it take?”
There were a lot of variables, the most important of which was distance to target. The inverse square law of physics said that for every tripling of distance from the surface of the explosive—say from three feet to nine—the energy of the blast is reduced by a factor of nine. Assuming the president wasn’t going to be sitting on the panels—in fact, assuming that the panels were going to be a good fifteen or twenty feet behind him, maybe more—Copley would need pounds of explosives to get the desired effect.
“How the hell would you do that?” Especially in a product whose primary selling feature is its light weight? Plus, he assumed that the Secret Service x-rayed and dog-sniffed every bit of equipment and organic matter that came that close to the president. Surely an explosive would be detected.
Or, maybe not. Jonathan wasn’t an expert in state-of-the-art explosive compounds, so maybe if there was some non-nitrate formulation, the dogs wouldn’t find it. Besides, the explosive would have been planted ages ago. Maybe once a purchase is made and the objects get into the warehouse, nobody pays much attention to them anymore.
He decided to assume that to be the case. So, how do you set it off?
Jonathan ruled out a standard detonator or fuse, simply because there’d be no opportunity to place it.
Again, he thought of the Barrett. He’d never believed in coincidences, and he wasn’t about to start believing in them now. The Barrett was too specialized a weapon—and one that had not been deployed in any of their previous terror raids—not to have some momentous importance.
“I suppose he could shoot Marine One out of the sky,” he mumbled, referring to the president’s helicopter. Certainly the Barrett had enough wallop to pull it off. When he navigated back to POTUS’s schedule, though, he saw that he was scheduled to arrive by limousine, and it was back to square one. Everyone in the Community knew that the presidential limousine—not so affectionately referred to as The Beast—was armored to the point where even the Raufoss would be impotent.
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