by C. J. Box
There was silence for a moment. Victor broke it by asking, “You are having doubts?” A moment later the man’s slick voice continued, “You can back out, you want. But we take it a few steps further, we can’t.”
But Bil hadn’t been hesitating because of concerns; he’d just been scanning the parking lot for prying eyes again. All was good. He said firmly, “No doubts at all.”
Victor muttered, “I’m just saying we’re looking at a lotta shit and a really big fan.”
“This is what I do, my friend. The plan stands. We take this son of a bitch out.”
“Good, glad you feel that way. Just exercise extreme caution.”
Bil hardly needed the warning; extreme caution was pretty much the order of the day when the son of a bitch you were being paid to take out was a candidate for president of the United States.
II
May 6
The Gun Shack was on Route 57, just outside Haleyville.
The owner of the well-worn establishment was a big man, tall and ruddy, plump with fat rolls, and he wore a .45 Glock 30 on his hip. He’d never been robbed, not in twenty-one years, but he was fully prepared—and half hoping—for the attempt.
Now, at 9:10 a.m., the shop was empty and the owner was having a second breakfast of coffee and a bear claw, enjoying the almond flavor almost as much as he enjoyed the aroma of Hoppe’s Gun Cleaner and Pledge polish from the rifle stocks. He grabbed the remote and clicked on ESPN. Later in the day, when customers were present, hunting shows would be on. Which, he believed, goaded them into buying more ammunition than they ordinarily would have.
The door opened, setting off a chime, and the owner looked up to see a man enter. He checked to see if the fellow was armed—no open carry was allowed in the store, and concealed weapons had to stay concealed. But it was clear the guy wasn’t carrying.
The man wasn’t big, but his shaved head, bushy mustache—in a horseshoe shape, out of the Vietnam War era—and emotionless face made the owner wary. He wore camouflaged hunting gear—green and black—which was odd, since no game was in season at the moment.
The man looked around and then walked slowly to the counter behind which the owner stood. Unlike most patrons, he ignored the well-lit display case of dozens of beckoning sinister and shiny handguns. There wasn’t a man in the world that came in here who didn’t glance down with interest and admiration at a collection of firepower like this. Say a few words about the Sig, ask about the Desert Eagle.
Not this guy.
The owner’s hand dropped to his side, where his pistol was.
The customer’s eyes dropped too. Fast. He’d noted the gesture and wasn’t the least bit intimidated. He looked back at the owner, who looked away, angry with himself for doing so.
“I called yesterday. You have Lapua rounds.” An eerie monotone.
The owner hadn’t taken the call. Maybe it’d been Stony.
“Yeah, we’ve got ’em.”
“I’ll take two boxes of twenty. Three-three-eights.”
Hm. Big sale for ammo. They were expensive, top of the line. The owner walked to the far end of the shelves and retrieved the heavy boxes. The .338 Lapua rounds weren’t the largest-caliber rifle bullets, but they were among the most powerful. The load of powder in the long casing could propel the slug accurately for a mile. People shooting rifles loaded with Lapuas for the first time were often unprepared for the punishing recoil and sometimes ended up with a “scope eye” bruise on their foreheads from the telescopic sight, a rite of passage among young soldiers.
Hunters tended not to shoot Lapuas—because they would blow most game to pieces. The highest-level competitive marksmen might fire them. But the main use was military; Lapua rounds were the bullet of choice for snipers. The owner believed the longest recorded sniper kill in history—more than a mile and a half—had been with a Lapua.
As he rang up the purchase the owner asked, “What’s your rifle?” Lapuas are a type of bullet; they can be fired from a number of rifles.
“Couple different,” he said.
“You compete?”
The man didn’t answer. He looked at the register screen and handed over a prepaid debit card, the kind you buy at Walmart or Target.
The owner rang up the sale and handed the card back. “I never fired one. Hell of a kick, I hear.”
Without a word, the sullen man grabbed his purchase and walked out.
Well, good day to you, too, buddy. The owner looked after the customer, who turned to the right outside the store, disappearing into the parking lot.
Funny, the owner thought. Why hadn’t he parked in front of the gun shop, where seven empty spaces beckoned? There’d be no reason to park to the right, in front of Ames Drugs, which’d closed two years ago.
Odd duck . . .
But then he forgot about the guy, noting that a rerun of a recent Brewers game was on the dusty TV. He waddled to a stool, sat down, and chewed more of the pastry as he silently cheered a team that he knew was going to lose, five to zip, in an hour and a half.
* * *
Secret Service Special Agent Art Tomson eyed the entrance to the Pittstown Convention Center.
He stood, in his typical ramrod posture, beside his black Suburban SUV and scanned the expansive entryway of the massive building, which had been constructed in the 1980s. The trim man, of pale skin, wore a gray suit and white shirt with a dark blue tie (which looked normal, but the portion behind the collar was cut in half and sewn together with a single piece of thread, so that if an attacker grabbed it in a fight, the tie would break away).
Tomson took in the structure once more. It had been swept earlier and only authorized personnel were present, but the place was so huge and featured so many entrances that it would be a security challenge throughout the nine and a half hours Searcher would be at the center for the press conference and rally. You could never scan a national special security event too much.
Adding to the challenge was the matter that Searcher—former governor Paul Ebbett—was a minor candidate at this point, so the personal protection detail guarding him was relatively small. That would change, however, given his increasing groundswell of support. He was pulling ahead of the other three candidates in the primary contest. Tomson believed that the flamboyant, blunt, tell-it-like-it-is politician would in fact become the party’s nominee. When that happened, a full detail would be assigned to nest around him. But until then Tomson would make do with his own federal staff of eight, supported by a number of officers from local law enforcement, as well as private security guards at the venues where Ebbett was speaking. In any case, whether there was a handful of men and women under him or scores, Tomson’s level of vigilance never flagged. In the eighteen years he’d been with the Secret Service, now part of Homeland Security, not a single person he’d been assigned to protect had been killed or injured.
He tilted his head as he touched his earpiece and listened to a transmission. There was a belief that agents did this, the touching, which happened frequently, to activate the switch. Nope. The damn things—forever uncomfortable—just kept coming loose.
The message was that Searcher and his three SUVs had left the airport and were ten minutes away.
The candidate had just started to receive Secret Service protection, having only recently met the criteria for a security detail established by Homeland, Congress, and other government agencies. Among these standards were competing in primaries in at least ten states, running for a party that has garnered at least 10 percent of the popular vote, raising or committing at least $10 million in campaign funds, and, of course, publicly declaring your candidacy.
Besides the normal standards, one of the more significant factors in assigning Ebbett a detail was the reality that the man’s brash statements and if-elected promises had made him extremely unpopular among certain groups. Social media was flooded with vicious verbal attacks and cruel comments, and the Secret Service had already respon
ded to three assassination threats. None had turned out to be more than bluster. One woman had called for Ebbett to be drawn and quartered, apparently thinking that the phrase referred to a voodoo curse in which the governor’s likeness would be sketched on a sheet of paper, which was then cut into four pieces, not to an actual form of execution, and a very unpleasant one at that. Still, Tomson and his team had to take these threats, and the ones that he knew would be forthcoming, seriously. Adding to their burden was intel from the CIA that, more than any other primary candidate in history, Ebbett might be a target of foreign operatives, due to his firm stance against military buildups by countries in Europe and Asia.
Another visual sweep of the convention center, outside of which both protesters and supporters were already queuing. Attendance would be huge; Ebbett’s campaign committee had booked large venues for his events months ago, optimistically—and correctly—thinking that he would draw increasingly large crowds.
He glanced across the broad street, the lanes closed to handle the foot traffic. He noted his second in command, Don Ivers, close to the rope, surveying those present. Most of the men and women and a few youngsters had posters supporting the candidate, though there were plenty of protesters as well. Ivers and a half-dozen local cops, trained in event security, would not be looking the protesters over very closely, though. The true threats came from the quiet ones, without placards or banners or hats decorated with the candidate’s name or slogans. These folks would have all passed through metal detectors, but given the long lead time for the event, it would have been possible for somebody to hide a weapon inside the security perimeter—under a planter or even within a wall—and to access it now.
Tomson much preferred rallies to be announced at the last minute, but of course that meant lower attendance. And for most candidates—and especially fiery Ebbett—that was not an option.
“Agent Tomson.”
He turned to see a woman in her thirties wearing the dark blue uniform of the Pittstown Convention Center security staff. Kim Morton was slim but athletic. Her blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun, like that favored by policewomen and ballet dancers. Her face was pretty but severe. She wore no makeup or jewelry.
Tomson was unique among his fellow Secret Service agents; he believed in “partnering up” with a local officer or security guard at the venue where those under his protection would be appearing. No matter how much research the Secret Service detail did, it was best to have somebody on board who knew the territory personally. When he’d briefed the local team about how the rally would go, he’d asked if there were any issues about the convention center they should know about. Most of the guards and municipal police hemmed and hawed. But Morton had raised her hand and, when he called on her, pointed out there were three doors with locks that might easily be breached—adding that she’d been after management for weeks to fix them.
When he described the emergency escape route they would take in the event of an assassination attempt, she’d said to make sure that there hadn’t been a delivery of cleaning supplies, because the workers tended to leave the cartons blocking that corridor rather than put them away immediately.
Then she’d furrowed her brow and said, “Come to think of it, those cartons—they’re pretty big. There might be a way somebody, you know, an assassin, could hide in one. Kinda far-fetched, but you asked.”
“I did,” he’d said. “Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. If you have to get out fast, be careful on the curve on the back exit ramp that leads to the highway if it’s raining. Was an oil spill two years ago and nobody’s been able to clean it up proper.”
Tomson had known then that he had his local partner, as curious as the pairing seemed.
Morton now approached and said, “Everything’s secure at the west entrance. Your two men in place and three state police.”
Tomson had known this, but the key word in personal protection is redundancy.
He told her that the entourage would soon arrive. Her blue eyes scanned the crowd. Her hand absently dropped to her pepper spray, as if to make sure she knew where it was. That and walkie-talkies were the guards’ only equipment. No guns. That was an immutable rule for private security.
Then, flashing lights, blue and red and white, and the black Suburban SUVs sped up to the front entrance.
He and Morton, flanked by two city police officers, walked toward the vehicles, from which six Secret Service agents were disembarking, along with the candidate. Paul Ebbett was six feet tall but seemed larger, thanks to his broad shoulders. (He’d played football at Indiana.) His hair was an impressive mane of salt-and-pepper. His suit was typical of what he invariably wore: dark gray. His shirt was light blue, and in a nod to his individuality, it was open at the neck. He never wore a tie and swore he wouldn’t even don one at his inauguration.
Emerging from the last car was a tall, distinguished-looking African American, Tyler Quonn, Ebbett’s chief of staff. Tomson knew he’d been the director of a powerful think tank in D.C. and was absolutely brilliant.
The candidate turned to the crowd and waved, as Tomson and the other agents, cops, and security guards scanned the crowd, windows, and rooftops. Tomson would have preferred that he walk directly into the convention hall, but he knew that wasn’t the man’s way; he was a self-proclaimed “man of the American people,” and he plunged into crowds whenever he could, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and tousling babies’ hair.
Tomson was looking east when he felt Morton’s firm hand on his elbow. He spun around. She said, “Man in front of the Subway. Tan raincoat. He was patting his pocket and just reached into it. Something about his eyes. He’s anticipating.”
In an instant he transmitted the description to Don Ivers, who was working that side of the street. The tall, bulky agent, a former Marine and state patrol officer, hurried up to the man and, taking his arms, led him quietly to the back of the crowd.
Tomson and Morton walked up to the candidate and the agent whispered, “May have an incident, sir. Could you go inside now?”
Ebbett hesitated, then he gave a final wave to the crowd and—infuriatingly slowly—headed into the convention center lobby.
A moment later Tomson heard in his headset: “Level four.”
A nonlethal threat.
Ivers explained, “Two ripe tomatoes. He claimed he’d been shopping, but they were loose in his pocket—no bag. And a couple of people next to him said he’d been ranting against Searcher all morning. He’s clean. No record. We’re escorting him out of the area.”
As they walked toward the elevator that would take them to the suites, Ebbett asked, “What was it?”
Tomson told him what had happened.
“You’ve got sharp eyes, Ms. Morton,” he said, reading her name badge.
“Just thought something seemed funny about him.”
He looked her over with a narrowed gaze. “Whatta you think, Artie? Should I appoint her head of the Justice Department after I’m elected?”
Morton blinked and Ebbett held a straight face for a moment, then broke into laughter.
It had taken Tomson a while to get used to the candidate’s humor.
“Let’s go to the suite,” Ebbett said. He glanced at Tomson. “My tea upstairs?”
“It is, sir.”
“Good.”
The entourage headed for the elevator, Tomson and Morton checking out every shadow, every door, every window.
* * *
Ten miles from Pittstown, in a small suburb called Prescott, the skinny boy behind the counter of Anderson’s Hardware was lost in a fantasy about Jennie Mathers, a cheerleader for the Daniel Webster High Tigers.
Jennie was thoughtfully wearing her tight-fitting uniform, orange and black, and was—
“PVC. Where is it?” The gruff voice brought the daydream to a halt.
The kid’s narrow face, from which some tufts of silky hair grew in curious places, turned to the customer. He ha
dn’t heard the man come in.
He blinked, looking at the shaved head, weird mustache, eyes like black lasers—if lasers could be black, which maybe they couldn’t, but that was the thought that jumped into his head and wouldn’t leave.
“PVC pipe? ” the kid asked.
The man just stared.
Of course he meant PVC pipe. What else would he mean?
“Um, we don’t have such a great, you know, selection. Home Depot’s up the street.” He nodded out the window.
The man continued staring, and the clerk took this to mean If I’d wanted to go to Home Depot, I would’ve gone to Home Depot.
The clerk pointed. “Over there.”
The man turned and walked away. He strolled through the shelves for a while and then returned to the counter with a half-dozen six-foot-long pieces of three-quarter-inch pipe. He laid them on the counter.
The clerk said, “You want fittings too? And cement?”
He’d need those to join the pipes together or mount them to existing ones.
But the man didn’t answer. He squinted behind the clerk. “That too.” Pointing at a toolbox.
The kid handed it to him.
“That’s a good one. It’s got two little tray thingies you can put screws and bolts in. Washers too. Look inside.”
The man didn’t look inside. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a debit card.
Hitting the keys on the register, the boy said, “That’ll be thirty-two eighty.” He didn’t add, as he was supposed to, “Do you want to contribute a dollar to the Have a Heart children’s fund?”
He had a feeling that’d be a waste of time.
* * *
The hallway of the suite tower’s penthouse floor was pretty nice.
During his advance work—to check out the security here—Art Tomson had learned that in an effort to draw the best entertainers and corporate CEOs for events here, the owners of the convention center had added a tower of upscale suites, where the performers, celebrities, and top corporate players would be treated like royalty. Why go to Madison or Milwaukee and sit in a stodgy greenroom when you could go to Pittstown and kick back in serious luxury?
