American Sniper

by Ian Patterson

With him, Bohannon carried an expensive-looking Louis Vuitton knockoff duffel slung low over his left shoulder. On his right wrist, he sported a chunky, diamond-encrusted Rolex timepiece. Though bought for only thirty dollars cash on a downtown street corner the night before, the watch was sufficiently authentic as to look real. Dark hair parted and pushed stylishly to the side, he wore glasses with rectangular lenses and thick, dark plastic frames. As an added touch, he sported a perfectly sculpted Van Dyke goatee.

  Approaching the registration desk, Bohannon greeted the desk clerk with a cheery “Howdy-do, miss, Bryce Cutler, Fort Worth, Texas, here for a four-day stay.”

  The young woman smiled in the vacuous and ingratiating way typical to desk registration clerks the world over. Alysha processed his stolen credit card, scanned his bogus ID, wished him a pleasant stay in the Peachtree State, and closed with: “If there’s anything we can do to make your stay with us more comfortable, Mr. Cutler, please say.”

  “Indeedy, I shall.”

  Bohannon wouldn’t want to harm the young woman but was tempted just the same by her utter lack of sincerity. The Magnum at the small of his back twitched.

  Crossing the expansive lobby, Bohannon clocked what appeared to be an undercover cop—no earbuds and too old to be FBI—and a pair of hotel security looking aimless. Somehow, Bohannon felt let down by the underwhelming reception.

  Taking the atrium staircase winding like a serpent seven stories high, Bohannon climbed to a mezzanine level overlooking the lobby. From here, he diagramed the layout in his mind; floorplan, security cams, exits, chokepoints, connecting corridors, blind corridors leading nowhere, service doors and employee only entrances—a dozen ways for him to escape, a dozen ways for him to be trapped.

  ◊◊◊

  From the mezzanine, Bohannon rode the glassed-in scenic elevator all the way to his fifty-second-level room overlooking Peachtree University’s Faculty of Law rooftop garden. From the floor-to-ceiling window of his suite, the garden below appeared lush and inviting as a desert oasis baking under an Egyptian sun.

  After unpacking his case, Bohannon stripped, showered, and dressed in a pair of fresh chinos and a stylish slim-fit short-sleeve shirt. Calling the front desk, he asked that his packages be delivered to his room. Ten minutes later, they arrived. Bohannon gave the bellman a forgettable five dollars tip.

  Placing the Staedtler carrying tube and the document case on the floor at the foot of the bed, Bohannon first checked to ensure the locks were secure. Satisfied they hadn’t been tampered with, he removed each item in turn, setting them out on the carpet. A quick inventory showed nothing amiss.

  Bohannon repacked the equipment, secured the locks, placed the packages in the bathroom which he locked from the inside.

  Slipping on a pair of loafers, he left the room, engaged the “Do Not Disturb”. Taking the elevator to the second-level lobby, he entered the bar where he treated himself to a burger and a craft beer courtesy of another man’s dime.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAMBLEE, GEORGIA

  DETAILED TRACKING DATA obtained from the NSA through Dabney Berkshire showed tens of thousands of packages fitting a long-gun profile arriving into the Atlanta metropolitan area daily by air, rail, semi-trailer transport, small truck, and mini and transit van. What the NSA data couldn’t show—and likely never would—was deliveries by Uber and Lyft drivers and cash-only independent couriers, an explosion in numbers fueled by immigrants arriving to Atlanta desperate for any job to support their families. The privateers could be transporting bombs for all they knew or cared.

  Mathias didn’t expect the data to show Bohannon was in Atlanta let-alone had booked a room at the Westin Peachtree. But he believed Bohannon would be traveling light, shipping his weapons in advance rather than shouldering them through a hotel lobby drawing unwanted attention. And with its one thousand rooms, reflective windows, height, and location, even to a novice shooter the Peachtree was an obvious location.

  After New Orleans, Mathias suspected his former commanding officer would be cautious, planning like a counterinsurgent as he’d had to do to survive after going rogue in Iraq.

  But was Bohannon mad, as the media claimed? Were the killings run-up to a more deliberate and spectacular finale? And if so, what? If Iraq hadn’t turned Bohannon mad, would a return home push him over the edge?

  Knowing his own struggles, Mathias thought not.

  ◊◊◊

  Special Agent in Charge Mark Lavender requested the private meeting with the Deputy Director over dinner ordered in. In deference to his position as Agent in Charge, Resnick agreed.

  “Why are we using a private contractor anyway, ma’am? A man from Brookbank, no less. After the way they shit-the-bed in Afghanistan, I’m surprised the Bureau would allow it.”

  Meaning Me, Resnick imagined Lavender wanted to say.

  “I understand your reservations, Mark. I’ve had them myself. But Mathias comes highly recommended by people who should know and consider him our best shot at taking down Bohannon, pardon the pun. If it weren’t for Mathias, we’d never have identified Bohannon as The Shooter in New Orleans.”

  “You don’t think his instinct is suspiciously on-point?”

  “Mathias has access to contacts and intelligence we do not.”

  “CIA? Are you serious? You’re willing to trust the same people who sent us into Iraq?”

  Speaking through a mouth half-full, Resnick said, “Mathias is in charge, here, Special Agent. You’d do well to remember it.”

  Later, returning with Dubnyk to their motel, Resnick said, “What do you think of Mark Lavender?”

  “As good as any,” Dubnyk replied, “and no worse than most.” Powering down the window for a breath of fresh air, he added, “Would he take a bullet for a partner? Not likely.”

  ◊◊◊

  In her room, Toni Colletti disassembled and reassembled her standard issue Sig Sauer P226 9mm a half dozen times. Satisfied, she chambered a round, placed the weapon on the bedside table within easy reach.

  Though never tested in battle, on the range Colletti was known as a marksman, winning competitions for the Bureau across the country. As much as she doubted Bohannon would show, Colletti now prayed, prayed, prayed that he would. And when he did, she’d take him out with pleasure, with prejudice, and with pride.

  Because in upholding the law, Special Agent Toni Colletti believed it better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission.

  ◊◊◊

  Resnick knocked. Mathias answered. “Drink?” she said, extending a bottle of Jim Beam.

  “I’m a recovering alcoholic and drug addict,” Mathias replied as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Coloring, Resnick said, “Sorry, of course, you are; it’s in your file.”

  “Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?”

  Resnick flashed a twisted grin. “No longer on a first name basis, are we?”

  Mathias remained unmoved.

  “Listen, Mathias,” Resnick said. “I know what you think. But it’s important to me for you to know I did not leak Tara McDonald’s name to the media.”

  Mathias sighed.

  “If you recall, it was not my idea to set you up as bait for Bohannon in the first place; it was yours. Why would I do this to your girlfriend?”

  “Is that all?”

  Frustrated, Resnick said, “Should I reconsider your commitment to the mission, Mathias?”

  “No, ma’am. My participation, but never my commitment.”

  With that, Mathias closed the door leaving Resnick to return to her room to drink alone.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  DRINK IN HAND, the woman joined him at the bar. Fortyish, well-dressed, bleached blonde hair, face like a mile of rough country road. Still, to Bohannon, she would do.

  She asked where he was from.

  “Fayetteville, Arkansas.”

  “A Razorback. Oklahoma City, myself; a Sooner. Makes us practic
ally neighbors.”

  “Sure,” Bohannon said. “Like the Hatfields and McCoys.”

  The woman laughed. “I’m here on business.” She shrugged. “What else? You?”

  “This ‘n that.”

  “What is it you do?”

  “Get by.”

  The woman rattled the ice in her empty glass, tapped the bar, ordered another. “Care for a refill? My treat.”

  Bohannon fingered his glass of club soda. “I’m good.”

  The woman’s drink arrived, she signed it to her room. After a long pull, she said, “In town long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Long enough for what?” When he didn’t reply, the woman said, “Listen, if I’m boring you, just say.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Not much of a talker? Is that it?”

  “They say talk is cheap.”

  “So, stop talking.” The woman drained her drink. “Your room or mine?”

  ◊◊◊

  The following morning Bohannon woke early before dawn. In the bathroom, he relieved himself, rinsed his face, cleaned his teeth. Beside him, Sheila “no name” lay in the tub, naked. Despite having a face like a mile of rough country road, she had a surprisingly taut physique.

  “Pilates,” Sheila confessed. “Six days a week when I’m not on the road.”

  After making love a second time, Bohannon strangled Sheila to death with his bare hands. Though he had latex gloves in his kit, having already been identified by the FBI made using them redundant.

  In the bedroom, Bohannon slipped into a pair of jeans and a Braves tee shirt. Returning to the bathroom, he hoisted Sheila over his shoulder with relative ease. She weighed about one-twenty-five. For a man accustomed to carrying a hundred-pound pack for hours in hundred-degree heat beneath a blistering sun, a mere featherweight.

  At the door, he checked to ensure the hallway was empty. Quickly, he carried Sheila to the nearest elevator. An agonizing ninety-second wait until a car finally arrived on the fifty-second floor. When the doors opened, the car was empty. Bohannon tossed Sheila’s naked body unceremoniously to the floor; the body landed awkwardly, shamefully exposed.

  A Sight, indeed.

  Finally, Bohannon pressed the button down.

  ◊◊◊

  In his room, Bohannon shaved the Van Dyke and showered. Seated at the foot of his bed, he ate Cliff Bars chased by a tin of Red Bull. To the southeast, he watched the new day dawn like a lip over the horizon. Bohannon heard the first wail of sirens before the sun cleared the shadow of the earth.

  Moving to stand by the window, Bohannon looked down. He watched a pair of cops appear from beneath the portico of a building kitty-corner to the Peachtree Plaza: Atlanta Police Department Precinct Zone 5.

  Looking like ants, the cops crossed the intersection to the hotel. Three minutes later, four more cops exited the building, no doubt in response to reports of a dead naked woman in an elevator in the lobby of the Peachtree Plaza across the street. In minutes, four patrol cars with rooftop lights flashing had blocked the main entrance to the hotel.

  In the lobby, Bohannon imagined bedlam. And it would only get worse; more cops, the Medical Examiner, Crime Scene Investigators, Homicide Squad investigators, registered guests, curious onlookers, even local media.

  Bohannon smiled. Whatever Mathias had planned—if he had planned anything at all—would be totally derailed.

  He hoped Mathias had a sense of irony.

  FIFTY-SIX

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  MATHIAS AND HIS TEAM of Agents planned to meet with Atlanta PD downtown at Police Department Precinct Zone 5 at six a.m. To do so, they were on the road from Chamblee by four.

  At precisely five-thirteen, on the approach to the city, Resnick telephoned Mathias to say she’d received a call from Atlanta Chief of Police, Hoss Watkins.

  “It’s all gone to shit, Mathias. A body, female and naked, found dead in a public elevator opening onto the hotel lobby. Including registered guests, onlookers, and police personnel, Watkins claims it’s a mob.”

  “Is he denying us access?”

  “You bet he is. We might need to change our plan.”

  “It’s Bohannon.”

  “The Westin is a pretty big hotel, Mathias.”

  “It’s Bohannon, trust me.”

  “You saying the woman is a diversion?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “Why? He’s just guaranteed cops will be everywhere.”

  “Cops and chaos.” As if it should be obvious, Mathias explained. “Do you recall in the last days of Iraq? Insurgents detonated small explosions in busy streets and in market squares. Not enough to make people run away in fear, but enough to rush in to help. Once a large enough crowd had gathered, the insurgents would detonate a second, much more powerful device killing the already wounded and the dozens of good Samaritans who came to help.”

  “Are you saying Bohannon is planning a bomb?”

  “You need to have Chief Watkins clear that lobby, Gloria. The woman will keep another six hours.”

  “Sure,” Resnick said, her morning voice sounding like a growl. “And someday pigs will fly.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  THE WESTIN PEACHTREE PLAZA is cast in mirror glass in a cylindrical shape that reflects much of the downtown skyline. Each of the fifty-six hundred windowpanes is flat, not convex, four panes to a standard room each nine feet tall by four feet across. Knowing this, Bohannon arrived equipped with a glass cutter and a heavy-duty suction device.

  With the hour approaching noon, Bohannon ventured a trip to the seventh-level mezzanine overlooking the lobby. The chaos had subsided, the crime scene sealed off to guests and employees. A team of CSU investigators remained to dust for prints, swabbing surfaces for DNA, taking pictures and video. Unable to see the door to the elevator where he’d dumped Sheila, Bohannon didn’t know if her body had yet been removed.

  Undoubtedly, a team of detectives and uniformed patrol was knocking on doors and canvassing the building. Eventually, they’d come to the fifty-second floor. Bohannon couldn’t let that happen.

  He removed an explosive device from his jacket pocket. Using adhesive putty, he fastened the device beneath the handrail where it was hidden from view, directly above an open space leading from the elevators to the main entrance doors. Here, using yellow crime scene tape, police had created a corridor for guests making their way through the lobby. When the device detonated, it would shower debris on anyone passing below.

  Possibly, there would be collateral damage.

  ◊◊◊

  Back in his room, Bohannon used a twenty-five-cent coin to unlock the door to the bathroom and to retrieve his equipment.

  First, he assembled the CheyTac M300 and its component parts. On the bed, he laid out a lightweight nylon tactical vest with machine pistol holsters each side; an adjustable sidearm strap for the Magnum; a breathable mesh pouch able to hold four extra magazines; hook-and-loop detachable pouches for stun-grenades, smoke bombs, and the disassembled CheyTac. He equipped the vest with items from the hard-side photographer’s case including a pair of 9mm Luger Parabellum Mini-Uzi machine pistols each with a twenty-five-round mag and suppressor.

  Next, he laid out a polyester rappelling harness with a five-hundred-pound capacity and an eight-hundred-foot-long Kevlar zipline tested to a thousand pounds. Inspecting the equipment to his satisfaction, Bohannon set the stop-guard at five hundred feet from the sill of the hotel room window. After coming to a full stop on the line, he calculated a manageable five-foot drop to the roof of the mezzanine level of the hotel above the lobby.

  Of more importance was his ability to control the speed of his descent along the full five-hundred-plus-foot drop. If the descender jammed or failed, a sudden stop at high speed could dislocate his spine, his pelvis, or both. If the zipline failed completely, he’d be smashed to a bloody pulp on the rooftop below.

  From the mezzanine level, B
ohannon would use a grappling hook and a hundred-foot length of lightweight nylon twine to reach the street. Andrew Young Boulevard was a narrow artery with nominal foot traffic, service entrances, access to the Peachtree underground parking garage, and mostly commercial truck traffic making deliveries. If he met resistance, it was bombs away; the Uzi’s would settle the rest.

  If all went according to plan, a four-minute jog from the Westin to the Peachtree MARTA on Carnegie Way.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  CHIEF OF POLICE WATKINS DECLARED the murder of out-of-town businesswoman, Sheila Armstrong, a priority to a speculative FBI operation; he denied the Bureau access to the Westin Peachtree Plaza.

  Gloria Resnick argued. After five minutes of badgering by the DD, Watkins agreed to allow four Atlanta PD to work the Westin lobby thinking patrol officers would be less conspicuous than the FBI. This forced Mathias to improvise, doubling the number of Bureau Agents on the street along the perimeter of the hotel.

  Much to the displeasure of Agent Colletti, Mathias assigned her to work with Special Agent in Charge Lavender, who Colletti considered a malcontent.

  “Bohannon will take the shot from a room with a southeast exposure,” Mathias told his team. “Still, with the confusion of the murder, he could exit through the main lobby, a service entrance, or the car park. Without us watching, he could slip away in plain sight unnoticed. Or, he could set a secondary diversion.”

  “You’re talking about a bomb, aren’t you,” Arthur Dubnyk said.

  “Low yield; not large enough to impede his own progress but enough to cause a stampede. He’ll use the mob as a shield.”

  Suddenly sober, the team considered the implications.