Term Limits

by Vince Flynn

  Wardwell tugged on his boss’s sleeve. “Skip, the cop is waiting for backup. He says he hasn’t heard a thing since he arrived.” Wardwell shouted as the helicopter grew louder and louder. “He wants to know what he should do.”

  “Tell him to wait for backup and then proceed with caution. . . . And tell them not to touch anything.” McMahon had an empty feeling in his stomach that they weren’t going to find any survivors at Turnquist’s house.

  The rotor wash of the props became intense, blowing their hair and ties in every direction. A man in a bright orange jumpsuit waved them toward the open door of the chopper, and with McMahon leading the way, they hustled up the five steps and onto the helipad. Keeping their heads low, they ran under the spinning blades and climbed into the backseat. The chopper lifted off and arced northward before turning back to a southwesterly course, leaving the bright lights of Washington behind. As they raced toward Fairfax, Virginia, McMahon turned to Jennings. “How often were the marshals checking in?”

  Jennings shouted into McMahon’s ear, “Every half hour. They made their seven-thirty check-in and were scheduled to check in again at eight.”

  “How many marshals were assigned to the congressman?”

  “Four.”

  “What’s the ETA for the Quick Response Team?”

  “When the call went out, most of them were in the lab working on the evidence collected from the bombing yesterday. We’ve got choppers coming in to pick them up on the roof, and their mobile crime lab and heavy equipment should arrive around eight forty-five.”

  McMahon couldn’t get the vision of a team of commandos assaulting Turnquist’s house out of his mind. The thought made him think of Irene Kennedy and General Heaney. He grabbed the digital phone out of his jacket and dialed the direct line to Roach’s office. “Brian, I need you to do me a favor. Get a chopper over to the Pentagon and have it ferry General Heaney and Irene Kennedy out to Turnquist’s.”

  “Consider it done. I just activated the Hostage Rescue Team. They’ll be airborne and en route in under five minutes. They should be arriving right behind you. If there’s the slightest sign of these terrorists, I want you to hold tight and wait for them to handle it.”

  McMahon doubted the killers were waiting around, but knew Roach had to do things by the book. “Have the HRT stay airborne. If I need them, I’ll call them in.”

  “You’re running the show. Have the Fairfax police been in the house?”

  “Not yet. I’ll call you as soon as I get there. We’re only a couple of minutes out.” McMahon hung up, and the next several minutes were punctuated by a nervous silence.

  The chopper came in at about three hundred feet and circled the neighborhood looking for a place to land. Three police cars with their lights flashing marked the end of Turnquist’s driveway. The chopper pilot knew enough not to land near the crime scene and have his rotor wash send evidence flying. He flew about fifty yards down from Turnquist’s house and checked the area with his spotlight for wires. He found a spot where the trees weren’t a problem and set the bird down in the middle of the road. The three agents again crouched as they ran away from the chopper. Halfway down the street they were met by a woman with grayish black hair carrying a flashlight. She looked at McMahon and said, “FBI?”

  Skip stuck out his right hand. “Yes, I’m Special Agent McMahon and these are Special Agents Jennings and Wardwell.”

  “I’m Police Chief Barnes. Follow me, and I’ll show you the way.” All four started down the street.

  “Have you been in the house, Chief?” asked McMahon.

  “No, I just got here.”

  “Have any of your officers been in the house?”

  “No.”

  As they walked up to the white sedan, Barnes pointed her flashlight down and illuminated several brassy objects. “Watch your step, we’ve got some shell casings on the ground.” She led them to the window of the sedan and shone the light on the dead marshal. The man lay slumped over the middle armrest with shards of glass covering his body. Three bullet holes were clearly visible on the left side of his head.

  McMahon noted the distance from the shell casings to the car and then looked at the marshal’s hands. They were empty. “Let’s go look at the house.”

  The chief told her two officers to stay put and then led McMahon, Jennings, and Wardwell up the driveway. As they neared the house, another body could be seen on the ground in front of the porch. Barnes shone her flashlight at it and illuminated the dead marshal. When they neared the body, McMahon stuck his arms out and stopped everyone from coming any closer. “Chief, may I borrow your flashlight for a second?” Barnes handed it to him, and Skip stepped closer to the body. Putting the flashlight under his armpit, he put on a pair of gloves and bent over the body. He looked at the bullet holes in the center of the man’s face and then the one in his neck. The marshal’s hands were open and lying away from his body. Skip looked at his holstered pistol and closed his eyes.

  Standing back up, he said, “Everyone stay here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  He started for the porch steps, and Wardwell shouted at him, “Skip, you’re not going in there alone.”

  “Yes, I am. Just stay put. The less people we have traipsing around here the better.”

  Jennings pulled out her gun and flipped off the safety. “I’m going in with you!”

  Without looking back McMahon said, “No, you’re not!”

  “What if someone’s still in there?”

  “What do you think . . . the people that did this are waiting around to get caught? Just stay where you are, and I’ll be back in a minute.” McMahon walked up the steps and tried the front door. It was unlocked. Swinging the door inward, he saw the next marshal lying on the floor with one leg still up on the chair. Standing over the body, McMahon’s eyes were drawn to the three red dots marking the dead man’s face and then down to his holstered gun. Sighing, he looked up to shake his head and saw the bright red streak on the wall at the top of the stairs. Only a pair of shoes were visible, and McMahon started the slow climb to the first landing.

  He’d seen the congressman on TV before but wasn’t quite sure the body he was looking at was Turnquist’s. Unlike the other bodies, this one was riddled with more than a dozen bullets. It has to be him, he thought to himself. McMahon’s phone rang, startling him slightly. He reached into his jacket and answered it. “Hello.”

  “What did you find?” It was Director Roach on the line.

  “Well, I’m standing over what I’m pretty sure is Congressman Turnquist’s body.”

  “Could you be more precise?”

  “The man has a half a dozen bullet holes in his face and chest, but it has to be him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” McMahon stared down at the body by his feet and waited for Roach to speak.

  “Any sign of the people that did it?”

  “No.”

  “I’d better tell the president before the media catches on. What else do you need from me?”

  “Nothing right now.”

  “All right, call me if there are any developments.”

  “Will do.” McMahon hung up the phone and looked down at the body, contemplating the precision of the wounds in Turnquist’s head.

  Scarlatti and O’Rourke were sitting in the corner booth of a new and yet to be discovered Italian restaurant. It was located in the basement of a building about two blocks from Dupont Circle. The booth was a dark-stained wood, and the table was covered with a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. The only light in the restaurant was provided by a candle at each table sticking out of an old Chianti bottle. O’Rourke looked around and thought he might enjoy the place under a different set of circumstances. His mostaccioli tasted good and the wine wasn’t bad.

  Michael had told Liz that Coleman wasn’t responsible for the deaths of Senator Olson and his four Secret Service agents, but he had neglected to mention Seamus’s involvement in the first four assassi
nations. He didn’t quite have the stomach to tell Liz that her future grandfather-to-be was an anarchist or revolutionary or whatever the term would be.

  Liz was attempting for the third time in twentyfour hours to convince Michael that he should go to the FBI. “Michael, I know you and his brother were best friends, but the man killed the Speaker of the House, two senators, and the chairman of the House Appropriations Committee.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Liz moved closer. “You have to turn him in. I don’t care if he had nothing to do with Erik’s death.”

  “For the last time, Liz, I am not going to turn him in.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  Michael looked at her for a long while and then answered, “I don’t expect you to understand why I feel the way I do.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Liz said defensively.

  “You have no reason to think those men deserved to die. You have lived a very nice life.” Liz shot him a scowl and Michael said, “I’m not saying you haven’t worked hard, I’m just saying you’ve had a nice life. Your parents are still alive. Your brother and sister are alive. Nothing has happened to you that would cause you to look at our political leaders with a truly critical eye.”

  “So, just because I haven’t lost someone close to me”—Liz folded her arms across her chest—“I’m not fit to judge my political representatives?”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t fit to judge. I’m only trying to say that I don’t think you understand why I feel the way I do.”

  “Oh, I understand why you feel the way you do. Despite you not letting me in, I understand. The death of your parents and Mark is a horrible thing, but I don’t think these bizarre assassinations are going to solve anything. You have got to let go of the past and move on with your life.”

  Michael placed his anger in check, but even so his voice became a little louder. “Liz, it’s easy to say you understand something when you haven’t experienced it, and it’s even easier to tell someone to get over something when you’ve never been through it. You can say you understand, but you will never really understand until you’ve lived it.”

  “So what? Do you want me to lose my parents so I can empathize with you?”

  “No, darling.” He reached for her hand. “I never want you to go through that kind of pain. When my parents were killed, my brothers and sister were robbed. They were robbed of dreams never realized and moments that should have been. They never got to look up in the stands during one of their games and see my mom and dad cheering. When the games were over and they came out of the locker room . . . all the other kids were getting hugs and kisses from their moms, but my brothers and sister didn’t have one. When they came home from school, they didn’t have a mother or father to help them with their homework, and when they ate dinner, there were two empty seats at the table. My parents never got to see the five children they brought into this world grow up.” Michael stopped and looked away.

  Liz looked around the candle flame and asked, “What about you?”

  Michael shrugged his shoulders. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not.” She pulled his hand closer. “What dreams did you miss out on?”

  Michael paused for a moment. “My father was my childhood idol. He was everything I ever wanted to be. My mother . . . she was my best friend . . . the nicest, most caring person I’ve ever known. Every holiday, every event for the last ten years, has been incomplete, and that’s the way it will be for the rest of my life.” Michael’s eyes glassed over. “When we get married, it’ll be the happiest day of my life, but I’ll still look down at that first pew, at the two empty seats, and think about how nice it would have been to have them there.” Liz squeezed his hand tight, and Michael forced a smile. “When we have our first child, he or she will only have one set of grandparents, and my parents will have never had the chance to hold their grandchild.

  “I have been robbed of all of these moments and many more . . . and why?” In a quiet voice he said, “All because some drunk, who had proven time and time again that he was going to keep getting hammered and climb behind that wheel, was allowed to walk free. And why was he allowed to walk the streets? Because we don’t have enough money to keep him in jail.” Michael poked himself in the chest. “Let me let you in on a little secret. We have the money. We have more than enough of it, it’s just that the egomaniacs who run this country would rather spend it on programs that get them votes. That’s why I think they deserved to die. It’s more personal to me because their inaction cost the lives of my parents and the life of Mark Coleman, and that is why I’m not going to the FBI.

  “I don’t expect the average person to agree with me. Most people have enough to worry about just getting through their day-to-day lives, but when you lose someone or something close to you, things take on a more serious tone.”

  Liz wiped a tear from her cheek and nodded. Michael reached over and brushed her cheek with his napkin.

  The hostess approached the table and asked, “Excuse me, sir. Are you Michael O’Rourke?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have a phone call at the hostess stand.”

  “Who knows we’re here?” asked Liz.

  “I told Seamus in case he needed to get ahold of me. I’ll be right back.”

  Michael got up and followed the waitress across the small restaurant. Liz watched him talk on the phone and became concerned when she saw him close his eyes and shake his head. After talking for only about ten seconds, Michael handed the phone to the hostess and walked back to Liz.

  “Was that Seamus?” she asked.

  Michael nodded yes and pulled out his money clip. He threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table and stuck out his hand for Liz. “Come on, let’s go. The networks are reporting that Congressman Turnquist has been assassinated.”

  McMahon was sitting upstairs in Turnquist’s study by himself. His eyes were closed and he had a pair of thin leather gloves on his hands. His large frame rested comfortably in an old wood rocking chair. The rocking of the chair had a hypnotic effect, and Skip was in the midst of trying to re-create how Turnquist and the marshals had been killed. He envisioned a group of darkly clad men moving into position and then simultaneously killing the three guards outside with silenced weapons. They had to have used silenced weapons. All of the clues indicated that the marshal inside had had no idea that the others had been killed.

  An agent poked her head through the open door. “Skip, there’re two people downstairs who are asking for you.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. One of them is a Marine. They said you were expecting them.”

  McMahon sprang the chair forward and bounded out of it. He’d been excitedly waiting to compare notes with Heaney and Kennedy. Taking the back staircase, he went downstairs, through the kitchen, and down the hallway onto the front porch. The Quick Response Team had arrived and was setting up their equipment. Turnquist’s house looked more like a movie set than a crime scene. Floodlights were everywhere, illuminating the entire yard. The hum of generators droned through the still night air. General Heaney and Irene Kennedy were standing by the steps on the front lawn talking to each other. McMahon approached and said, “Thank you for coming so quickly. Have you seen any of the bodies yet?”

  “We saw the one in the driveway and the other one right over there.” General Heaney pointed to the dead marshal on the front lawn.

  “Well, before I start picking your brains, I’d like you to look at all the bodies.” Skip led them up the steps, saying, “All of the marshals were wearing body armor, but it didn’t do much good.” A photographer was taking photos and several agents were taking notes and talking. McMahon asked them to step aside for a moment.

  Heaney and Kennedy examined the dead marshal lying at the foot of the stairs. They looked at the three bullet holes in the center of the dead man’s face and then at his holstered gun and radio. Kennedy looked into the dining room and poi
nted at the shattered glass. “The shots came from there, I assume.”

  McMahon nodded. “We found five shell casings on the porch.”

  Heaney looked up at the bloodstain on the wall of the landing. “Is that the congressman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I go up there?”

  “Sure.”

  Heaney and Kennedy walked up the stairs while McMahon stayed by the foyer. Standing over the body, Kennedy said, “Jesus, they really unloaded on him.”

  “Yeah, I count at least eight hits. Maybe more,” replied Heaney.

  “Any idea why they pumped so many into him?” asked McMahon from the bottom of the stairs.