American Sniper

by Ian Patterson

  “Or,” Mathias said, giving them little time to think. “He could jump out a window.”

  “A parachute?” Lavender said, incredulous.

  “A zipline,” said Colletti before Mathias could reply. “Like Spiderman.” Said with sincerity this time, and no disrespect.

  “Exactly, like Spiderman.” Mathias grinned. “I want Lavender and Colletti on Andrew Young Boulevard with two Agents stationed at the intersection each corner. It’s the most likely place for Bohannon to drop if for no other reason than convenience and speed.”

  “Isn’t jumping from a window risky and extreme?” Lavender said, doubtful.

  “Risky for any man,” Mathias agreed. “But for a man like Bohannon, anything but extreme.”

  Mathias would remain centrally positioned outside the main lobby door on Peachtree Street, on comm, ready to move at an instant on the first sign of trouble.

  “I want everyone locked and loaded. If you fire, make it count. Nothing fancy; center mass, empty your mag.”

  “An assassination,” said Dubnyk.

  “No,” Mathias said. “An execution.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  FIXING THE SUCTION CUP IN PLACE to keep the plate-glass steady, Bohannon used the glass cutter to make a thirty-inch-high by thirty-inch-wide opening in the sealed windowpane where the frame joined the floor.

  At a half inch thick, it was a slow and arduous task; Bohannon perspired even with the AC blowing full blast. Struggling to keep the fifty-pound plate falling outward forty-five stories to the rooftop below, Bohannon carefully shimmied it loose by working it side-to-side, up-and-down.

  Forearm muscles quivering, he eventually pulled the plate free and into the room. A great whoosh of steamy outside air entered through the opening, momentarily destabilizing his grip. But within moments, the inside air pressure equalized with the outside air and the whoosh became a low whine. Bohannon was able to set the glass sheet safely to the floor.

  Bohannon spent the next ten minutes setting up the CheyTac on a low-rise tripod, calibrating the eyesight on the rooftop garden below. Next, he prepared for a five-hundred-foot free-fall through mid-air.

  SIXTY

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  “IS THAT EVEN LEGAL?” Colletti said to Lavender.

  Igniting his third Pall Mall from the butt of his last, Lavender said, “This isn’t DC, Agent Colletti, it’s Georgia.”

  As far as Colletti was concerned, Special Agent in Charge Mark Lavender was being far too casual texting on his mobile phone and making patently obvious personal calls. But Lavender was Agent in Charge; who was she to say?

  Six-foot-two and going to fat, Lavender had a look and the disposition of a failed college athlete. Likely, he was pushing forty, his baby-face making him look ten years younger. Colletti resented Mathias partnering her with the prima donna, banished to what amounted to a no-man’s-land back-alley of the Westin Hotel.

  If there was action to be found, Colletti doubted it would be found here. In fact, she doubted it would be found anywhere in Atlanta, the entire operation going down as an epic fail.

  Deciding this, she said to Lavender, “Give one here.”

  Perplexed, Lavender shrugged.

  “A smoke; gimme’ a smoke. Might as well die of lung cancer as of boredom, and the way things are shaping-up, boredom will kill me first.”

  ◊◊◊

  Special Agents Trent Ottaway and Lorraine Backus were happy to cover the Gunowner’s Association reception from atop the Faculty of Law building rooftop garden surrounded by lush vegetation, a pond stocked with colorful koi fish, and celebrities from The Walking Dead. No sugary cocktails, wine, or specialty beer, but all-they-could-eat Gulf shrimp, crab cakes, mushroom stuffed hors d'oeuvres, and lobster dip on trays carried by a dozen servers hired to cater the event.

  As a bonus, the speaker recruited to deliver the keynote address and open the session was a major television actor and NRA activist whose real-life persona meshed perfectly with the on-screen characters he played.

  Stepping to the podium at twelve-forty-two and stepping down seven minutes later, both Ottaway and Backus were relieved that the famous man wasn’t taken-out on their watch by a kill-shot to the head.

  Following two more featured speakers, the session was declared officially Open by the Association President, a scrawny, brassy-haired blonde woman with narrow hips who cackled: “Party-on!”

  Though Backus thought the Association President horribly thin, she envied the woman her figure, Backus, herself, having fought the battle of the bulge and lost.

  Suffering a sudden loss of appetite, the Special Agent deposited her shrimp canape in a nearby waste-bin.

  SIXTY-ONE

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  WHEN IT CAME, THE EXPLOSION caught everyone by surprise but Mathias.

  “It’s started!” he said over his comm. “Look sharp.”

  Resisting the instinct and the urge to rush forward into the lobby to help, Mathias remained anchored to the sidewalk outside the main entrance door to the hotel. Inside, a dozen cops and a dozen more law enforcement personnel were available to offer assistance. In minutes, a dozen EMTs and emergency response vehicles would arrive, clogging the streets.

  Over comm, Mathias alerted Ottaway and Backus of the explosion in the hotel. “What’s happening there?”

  “Nothing,” replied Ottaway.

  “Nothing, sir,” repeated Backus.

  “Let me know at once if—”

  Then, like the staccato shot of gunfire: “Shit!” from Backus, “Jesus Christ!” from Ottaway.

  “What’s happening?” Mathias shouted through his mouthpiece.

  “The shooter just dropped the President of the Association, the actor, and a State senator.”

  Barking the order, Mathias shouted, “Get everyone down and off the roof! Stat! Move, move, move!”

  “Yes, sir!” Backus screamed before her comm crackled and died.

  SIXTY-TWO

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  BOHANNON PRESSED THE TRIGGER just moments after the detonation.

  Because she was most vulnerable standing atop the raised dais, he put down the scrawny blonde-hair woman first. Because he was most recognizable, he put down the famous actor next. The third victim Bohannon chose because he smiled like an idiot: a smarmy, glad-handing politician, he suspected. The fourth, an overweight woman because she was first to produce a weapon. From there, Bohannon chose at random.

  Eight victims in ninety seconds each felled by a single three-seventy-five projectile to the head or to the chest.

  Satisfied, Bohannon smiled.

  After his last shot, Bohannon disassembled the CheyTac in record time. He slipped the barrel, the receiver, and the buttstock into the detachable pouches at the rear of his vest. He kicked the tripod aside.

  Having already secured the zipline, Bohannon stretched his legs over the lip of the sill.

  “Geronimo!” he shouted, propelling his bum over the edge and into thin air.

  SIXTY-THREE

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  LAVENDER WAS ON A CALL when Mathias shouted It’s started, look sharp.

  Removing her Sig Sauer from its holster, Colletti shouted out, “Active shooter, active shooter!”

  Looking north and south along Andrew Young, she watched the Agents both ends of the street take position and draw their weapons. Handguns level, for an instant, everyone froze, unsure of what to do next.

  Then, in response to the uncertainty came the reassuring voice of Mathias. “Hold your positions, everyone. We can’t undo what’s been done; let’s contain the damage. Hold your positions.”

  Lavender, still holding his mobile, remained cloistered beneath a protective overhang.

  “A little help, here, Mark,” Colletti said. “Maybe a little cover?”

  Tentatively, Lavender moved from the recessed alcove and onto the sidewalk.

  “Jesus, Lavender; draw your bloody weapon!”


  To Colletti, the Agent in Charge appeared to be in shock standing in the sidewalk one hand empty, the other holding his mobile phone.

  Disbelieving, Colletti commanded, “Draw your weapon, asshole!”

  But before Special Agent in Charge Mark Lavender had the chance, his head evaporated in a puff of bloody mist, brain tissue and bone fragments painting the sidewalk in a colorful splotch even before his body hit the ground.

  Reacting to protect herself, Colletti withdrew to the shelter of a service entrance. Coming from above, she heard the suppressed burst and puff, burst and puff of an automatic machine pistol spraying the length of Andrew Young Boulevard north to south. Venturing a look beyond the alcove, up the street Colletti saw one Agent drag another away from the line of fire leaving a bloody swatch in his path.

  This curiosity invited a prolonged burst of gunfire from the rooftop above. The blast chipped the exposed concrete block shooting fragments of stone onto Colletti, lacerating her skin. She turned away to protect her eyes.

  Over the comm, she said in a voice as level as she could manage: “Agents down. Bohannon is here, dropped from the sky onto Andrew Young. Repeat, Agents down, Bohannon on Andrew Young.”

  “Stay put, Colletti,” came the reply from Mathias. “I’m coming.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  MATHIAS ROUNDED THE CORNER onto Andrew Young Boulevard. “Stay put,” he said to the surviving Agent cradling the other in his arms.

  On the sidewalk ahead, Mathias clocked the body of Mark Lavender and abandoned all hope for rescue. Thankfully, there were no more victims, and the street was now empty.

  Into his comm, Mathias said, “Where are you, Colletti, exactly.”

  Through his earpiece, the voice of Colletti came through steady and strong. “Fifty yards south of Peachtree, west side of Andrew Young in the first service entrance alcove of the hotel. Bohannon is now off the roof and on top of the tractor-trailer parked my side of the street, fifteen yards further on.”

  “He won’t stay there long.”

  “He has me pinned down, Mathias. Machinegun fire, not a semi-automatic pea-shooter.”

  To the Agent taking cover on Peachtree, Mathias said, “On my count, you plant a few rounds into that trailer, there.”

  “What about him?” the Agent said of his downed companion.

  “Take up a collection for his family. Now, look sharp. If you see The Shooter, blast away. One, two, go!”

  Hugging the wall of the Peachtree, Bohannon made it only as far as a nearby wrought-iron trash can before taking fire from Bohannon. Even with covering fire from the Agent, Bohannon had pinned Mathias down.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Mathias muttered under his breath.

  A moment later, Bohannon lobbed a stun grenade in his direction. Landing near, the concussion from the explosion rattled Mathias, making his ears ring. A moment after followed a smoke bomb leaving Mathias deaf and blind.

  “What’s happening!” Colletti shouted over the comm. “It’s like world war three. Is anyone still out there?”

  “Sit tight, Colletti,” Mathias said.

  “Like I have a choice?”

  Mathias reconsidered his strategy. He could cross to the opposite side of the street where there was a multi-level parking garage entrance along with a trio of storefronts. The parking garage would give him cover and allow him to gain the advantage of height over Bohannon. But it would leave Colletti fatally exposed. Still thirty-five yards out from reaching her, any attempt at rescue from his current position doomed them both.

  Taking two seconds to decide, Mathias said into his comm: “Anyone listening, fire at will into that goddamn trailer.”

  Staying low, Mathias crossed Andrew Young to the opposite side of the street as Agents either end of Andrew Young filled the trailer with lead.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  WATCHING MATHIAS CROSS to the opposite side of the street, Colletti said, “Fucker; I’m dead.”

  All around her she heard the wail of sirens, emergency vehicles, and cops converging from all directions onto the Peachtree Plaza and Faculty of Law buildings. From listening over comm, she knew of the bomb in the lobby. She heard the comm of Special Agent Lorraine Backus crackle and die. And here was The Shooter granting her own special wish not fifteen yards away, both Shooter and Colletti pinned down and helpless.

  Not helpless; never helpless. At that moment, Special Agent Toni Colletti decided to go out a hero.

  SIXTY-SIX

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  EZEKIEL BOHANNON HAD MISCALCULATED. Who would anticipate him jumping out a hotel room window from the fifty-second floor?

  Mathias, that’s who; goddamn Mathias.

  Which left Bohannon pinned down atop a tractor-trailer with few options but dead.

  Heavily armed, he could try to shoot and blow his way out using brute force. But a tactical vest was not full body armor; inevitably, he would take return fire. He could pick-off Mathias and his team one-by-one, but this would take time. Eventually, a shooter would appear rooftop of the mezzanine, take him out from above with one shot.

  Bohannon needed to act quickly. Raising his head, he searched for Mathias in the street through the swirling smoke. But Mathias had disappeared; like in Iraq, a chameleon. Pondering his options, Bohannon decided on the woman as his best chance for survival. Only fifteen yards away, she remained vulnerable and exposed. Unless he’d changed, Mathias would never risk the life of a hostage.

  Rolling, Bohannon dropped from the trailer-top to the street.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  SEEING HIS DARK SHOES APPEAR on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the tractor trailer, Mathias knew at once what Bohannon planned.

  Thighs churning like a speeding locomotive, Mathias burst from the doorway and into the street calling for his men to stand down. He reached Colletti a split-second after Bohannon. Drawing his weapon to fire, Mathias froze as Bohannon’s machine pistol pressed deep into the soft pale flesh beneath Toni Colletti’s chin.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  “A MEXICAN STAND-OFF is what it’s called,” said Bohannon.

  “If you shoot her, I’ll snap your neck before her body hits the ground.”

  “I believe you, Mathias. I don’t want her to die any more than you do. But if you leave me no choice…”

  Colletti winced to hear the men speak of her as if she was a poker chip.

  “It’s me you want, Chief, not her. Take me off the board, you live to kill another day. Harm her, it ends here.”

  Bohannon was a survivor. Mathias knew he’d be calculating the odds of escape, not to go out in a blaze of glory.

  Gesturing to Mathias’s earpiece, Bohannon said, “First, lose the comm.”

  Mathias did as he was told.

  “Now her; slow.”

  Mathias removed Colletti’s earpiece and microphone.

  “Now that we’re alone, Mathias, what do you suggest?”

  “Take me.”

  Bohannon shook his head. “No. There’s people out there would see you dead as soon as they’d see me.”

  An odd remark Mathias spared little time to process. “Fine,” Mathias said. “Go for it. After what you’ve done, what’s one more kill? Colletti knew what she signed on for when she joined the Bureau.”

  “Harsh, Mathias, harsh. You’ve come a long way since Iraq.”

  Mathias grinned. “I survived the Registan, Chief. After the Registan, the rest was easy.”

  “You won’t let her die, Mathias. Not even to stop me.”

  The tip of Bohannon’s machine-pistol digging deep, Colletti swallowed, eyes shifting from Mathias to Bohannon like a spectator at a tennis match.

  Mathias said, “In five minutes, you’ll be out of options, Chief. We’ll be out of options. You’d best decide for yourself while you still can.”

  Bohannon considered the truth in what Mathias said
. “You’re right.” With a nod, Bohannon said, “You see that line, there?”

  Following Bohannon’s eyes, Mathias spotted the rope Bohannon had used to reach the tractor-trailer from the mezzanine rooftop. Mathias nodded.

  “Bring it here.”

  Taking the line from Mathias, Bohannon placed it in Colletti’s hand. “Climb aboard, sister. You’re going for a ride.” Confused, Colletti stared. Bohannon said, “Like we’re making love, missionary style.”

  Realization dawning, Colletti gripped the line tight, grasping Bohannon’s waist with her thighs.

  Face near enough to smell his wicked scent, she grinned. “Or I could choke the life out of you before we’re half-way up.”

  Bohannon grinned back. “Indeedy, you could. I might even enjoy it.”

  “Not as much as me.”

  Bohannon retrieved a smoke bomb from the pouch in his vest. With one hand on the Uzi, he tossed the bomb toward the intersection at Peachtree. Retrieving another, he lobbed it in the opposite direction.

  Immediately, the street filled with smoke.

  “Climb,” he ordered Colletti.

  On the street, Mathias could only watch, helpless.

  SIXTY-NINE

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  FBI AGENTS FOUND COLLETTI three hours later bound, gagged, and tied to a support beam on the fifth level of a parking garage three miles away. And only because the driver of a low-slung Porsche Carrera spotted her in his rearview mirror before running her over.

  By this time, FBI Director Padgett had recalled Deputy Director Resnick back to DC for an emergency debriefing. When Resnick asked if Mathias should join her, the Director said: “Mathias? He’s fired. Where did you find that clown, anyway?”