Face Blind

by Len Melvin

  “We’re gonna need it.” Number Eight gave a scowl, his voice laced in sarcasm.

  Connor glared at Number Eight, then crossed the room and nudged the stockpile of weapons with his foot. He knelt and pulled the corner of the tarpaulin back with his hand.

  Number Six came out of the tunnel and stood before Connor, out of breath. Connor held up a hand.

  “Okay, here is the plan.”

  ◆◆◆

  Beaux cursed and lowered her arms. The crowd was swelling in number, making her efforts to catch her uncle’s attention difficult. Simon strolled along in the opposite direction as if he were enjoying a walk in the woods, his limp barely noticeable.

  She surveyed the outer barrier and then the checkpoints she would have to get through. If she got in the back of the line now she might not be able to get in before the rally started.

  And, she thought with a lump in her throat, before the event began.

  As she stood, trying to decide a course of action, four people bolted from the line and ran toward the fence. A girl in front tried to climb the fence and screamed. A boy running behind grabbed her and he screamed also. The two that remained managed to drag them off of the fence. The boy curled into a ball, his arms wrapped tightly around his body, as he rolled over in pain. The girl lay still, black marks on her hands, an expression of agony etched on her face.

  A security officer had run after them but now stood to the side. The two who had not actually touched the fence, were taken and escorted out of the venue, leaving the other two on the ground, the smell of smoldering flesh a visceral warning against attempts to breach the electric fence.

  Beaux turned away. The lines had become distended as people surged forward in anticipation and fear of not being admitted in time for the speech. She checked the time, took one last glance at her uncle on the far side of the field, then turned and sprinted back to the restaurant.

  ◆◆◆

  “There are seven main tunnels that come out from below the field but we only have two monitors working, one in the tunnel where Number Seven will be,” Connor motioned to Cori, “and one in the cavern. She will know by looking at the monitor when the initial attack has begun and will come out with arrows blazing.” Conner smiled at Cori through his mask.

  “Don’t worry about that.” Cori held the bow up to the group.

  “Number Six will back you up.”

  “I really don’t need…”

  Connor stopped Cori in mid-sentence. “We can’t use all of the tunnels now due to lack of communication so we’re all going to double up. Besides, someone assisting you in lighting the dynamite might help things go faster.”

  “Maybe,” Cori muttered.

  “The rest of us will double up also. Number Two and Three go in this tunnel.” Connor motioned to a rough map of the tunnels he had drawn. Four and Five in this one.” He pointed to the other tunnel. “I’ll go alone in this one. Numbers Six and Seven won’t have a walkie talkie as they can watch the monitor and see what is happening and just go when the time is right. Number Eight, you’ll be in the cavern with a walkie talkie and camera, coordinating everything. When you see the attack begin, you notify the rest of us by walkie talkie.” He glanced at Number Eight. “We all go on your direction.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Connor straightened and turned to the rest of the group. “All right, we work in pairs now. One person will open the trap door and the other will rush out and provide cover until his partner can get out of the tunnel. Everyone got it?”

  “Then what?” asked Number Two.

  “Number Seven will be first with the dynamite.” Connor turned to Cori. “First one goes on the stage. Second one goes to the area between the stage and their cars.”

  “What about the third and fourth?”

  Connor shook his head. “C’mon, you know that…”

  “I’ve got help now,” Cori said. “I can get off more than two shots.”

  Connor bit his lip. “If you can do it quickly. I don’t want these dynamite arrows coming down on our heads when we’re rushing the kill area.”

  Cori held her bow up. “Got it.”

  “Then…” Connor smiled, “we come out blasting. And all of our attention in the beginning should be on the stage. When everyone comes out and you have a secure area, throw some grenades at the stage first, then charge the stage and the kill area. Get the leaders. As many as you can. Then if you’re able, go for the area between the stage and the cars. I imagine that’s where they’ll be heading. Concentrate first on the leadership but anyone in uniform or security is fair game. Try to stay away from civilians. They’ll be unarmed anyway. But if any of them come at you, don’t hesitate to take them out.”

  “And you?” Cori asked

  “I’m waiting,” Connor said.

  “Waiting for what?” Number Eight asked.

  Connor stepped over to the pile of weapons, grabbed a corner of the tarpaulin, and threw it to the side. He knelt and, from the back of the pile, picked up a green, tubular weapon with black circular ends, one bigger than the other. He settled it on his shoulder and squinted through the sight attached to the side.

  “What the fuck is that?” Cori ran her hand along the surface of the weapon as Connor held it on his shoulder.

  Connor took it off his shoulder, then gently placed it back on top of the pile. “Our ace in the hole. Number Eight, as soon as you give the word that the attack is underway, you hustle up the tunnel I’m in.” Connor motioned to the tunnel in the middle of the cavern. “By the time you get there, the attack will be under way. You open the trap door for me, wait for me to get out and then you come out and give me cover while I get a shot off.”

  “What the fuck is that?” Cori asked again, her eyes riveted on the weapon. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Where’d you get this?”

  Connor picked it up again and held it up for the others to see, turning it around and showing the other side as a child might show a new Christmas present to his neighbor. “The person who got us all here imported it from Finland.”

  “Finland?” asked Number Six.

  “Yeah. There’s probably not another one of these within a thousand miles. So, they can’t be expecting something like this.”

  “What is it?” Cori asked again.

  “It’s called an NLAW, or next-generation light anti-tank weapon. It was originally designed by the Finns to be able to knock out Russian tanks. It’s good for one shot with a range of six hundred yards.”

  “You can fire it by yourself?” asked Number Eight.

  “Yeah, that’s the beauty of it.”

  “How does it work?” Cori ran her hand along the weapon again. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “It is, isn’t it? And all I have to do is just aim at the target for three seconds, and it gets the guidance from the predicted line of sight. I don’t even have to estimate the range. After it’s launched, the trajectory will automatically lock in on the target.”

  “And,” Cori asked, “what is the target?”

  Connor smiled. “Well, if the dynamite doesn’t get him or the grenades or the assault weapons and he somehow makes it back to his limousine, then that’s the target.”

  “And if he doesn’t make it back?” Number Five asked.

  “Then I’ll fire it at his last position.”

  “I heard his limousine is almost impregnable,” Cori said.

  “The key word is ‘almost.”’ Connor patted the weapon. “The NLAW has armor-piercing shells.”

  Cori shook her head and smiled. “We have got some serious fucking weaponry.”

  “That we do,” Connor said. “The Professor made sure of that. And all of their defenses are set up to confront an enemy coming from the outside. If we come up right in the middle of them and catch them unprepared, and get really lucky, well…”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, they might be talking about this day for a long time.”

  ◆◆◆

 
Beaux stooped over, put her hands on her knees and tried to catch her breath as Maddie came from the kitchen. “What are you doing? Where have you been? I need help prepping for tonight. You know that.”

  Beaux held up a hand, out of breath. She straightened and headed to the bar. “Just a minute.” Behind the bar, she pulled a backpack from a shelf. She grabbed a black baseball cap from the backpack and stuck it on her head, tucking her hair up under it.

  “What are you doing?” Maddie asked. Beaux ignored her, stooped over, picked a rubber mat up from the floor of the bar, and stuffed it into her backpack. “Beaux….” Maddie frowned, perplexed, her voice trailing off as she watched Beaux struggle to fit the mat inside the pack. “Beaux, what are you doing?”

  “Can you help me with this?” Beaux tried to pull the zipper up.

  “What? Beaux, what are you doing?”

  “Never mind. I got it.” Beaux exhaled as the zippers connected. She looped the backpack over her shoulder, went to Maddie and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m going to the rally. See you later, Mom,” Beaux said, running for the door. “I love you.”

  “But Beaux,” the door slammed before Maddie could get out the rest.

  ◆◆◆

  A voice sounded in Simon’s earphone and he turned to see the Boss’s motorcade round the corner from the main highway. There were three black SUVs leading a long line of limousines with three more black SUVs trailing. Six hover bikes escorted them, two at the front of the column and two at the rear. Directly over ‘The Beast,’ at the center of the caravan, two more hover bikes floated. The Boss might be in any of the dark-tinted limousines but Simon knew the Boss’s ego would keep him from any of the vehicles but the best. The streets were empty but the column moved slowly, a symbol of its power, a testament to its invincibility and to allow the agents running along side the column to keep up.

  Simon hurried to the area where the Boss and the others would disembark. It would be heavily guarded, and he preferred to remain on the fringe of the crowd, but the Boss would want to see his face. He made his way through the throngs of people pressing forward, trying to get closer to the President. He held his badge out in front of him for the younger, less experienced agents and local law enforcement, but as he got closer, he put it away as the more experienced agents knew him.

  He arrived at the staging area as the limousines pulled into the slots reserved for them. Facing away from them, he surveyed the crowd, searching for any potential problems, and listening to the earphone for any hint of trouble. The hum in the air intensified and chants cascaded across the field in earnest as the Boss’s car drew closer. People surged forward behind the barriers and the warnings from law enforcement became louder as they tried to control the crowd.

  ‘The Beast’ inched closer to where the Boss would exit but Simon knew he would milk the situation. Wait a long time to get out, then exit slowly, walk toward the podium and then stop to take in the adoration of the crowd. He would clap his hands to them, walk a few more steps, and clap again. Smile, hold up a fist as he soaked up the applause and acclamation and then walk a few more steps before stopping again and repeating the ritual. The whole routine always exasperated Simon. The slow walk and the posturing for the crowd was an unnecessary risk and created opportunities for a potential assassin. And today, the thought of the Boss’s slow entry and casual lingering sent a shiver down his back. He glanced up at the bell tower and grimaced.

  ‘The Beast’ stopped and agents gathered around the Boss’ door. The noise from the crowd grew in anticipation and then finally the Boss’ massive body heaved itself forward and upward and exited. Simon moved forward, positioned himself within sight of the Boss. Almost immediately, the Boss made eye contact, nodded and stuck a thumb in the air. Simon did the same, then turned and headed back to the outer margins of the crowd.

  He studied faces as he went, listening, watching and still perplexed. He hadn’t seen Malouf or any of his friends. Maybe the assassination attempt would be at a different time or location and Malouf and his friends were already there. The Boss was as well protected at the moment as anyone could be in this day and age.

  Maybe the assassination would be an inside job. Maybe that was the answer. Had one of the people on the stage decided to become a martyr? Was someone going to blow the entire group up with a smuggled-in bomb?

  A flicker of a smile played around his lips as he leaned against an old oak tree at the back of the field and surveyed the crowd. All the better to be away from the podium then.

  ◆◆◆

  Gaby stepped up on the box, gripped the rifle and gazed out over the crowd. She had seen the row of limousines snaking their way along the streets but had lost sight of them once they got closer to the stage. She swore under her breath as she struggled to see what was happening below her.

  She stepped down from the box and laid the rifle on the floor. She stretched and then moved slowly around the small room, her eyes moving steadily back and forth along the floor and then the walls, making sure she had not overlooked anything. Her bag lay on the floor next to the exit. She went to it, picked it up, checking again to make sure it was packed and ready.

  Just a few more minutes now. She had something really important to do and then it would be time to leave the bell tower.

  ◆◆◆

  Beaux checked her Glock 19 at the first barrier, tossing the receipt into her backpack. The line moved a bit faster now, but by the time the limousines pulled in next to the podium, she was still waiting to be scanned at the second barrier.

  She stood on her toes and thought for a moment she saw the President but couldn’t be sure. The line was still too long. She searched the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Simon or Malouf or the droids but didn’t see any of them. There were just too many people.

  Her heart beat harder and beads of sweat posted on her forehead. She had to get inside before the rally began.

  Before it was too late.

  ◆◆◆

  Connor gathered with the group in the middle of the cavern. Each held an automatic weapon by their side as they lifted a hand to the others. Eight fists joined in the center of the circle.

  “For the Country,” Connor uttered.

  “For the Country,” came the low refrain.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Attack

  From a distance, Simon appeared to be a casual, unconcerned observer; his back against a tree, aviator glasses perched on his nose, his ponytail lying over one shoulder and hands in his pocket. He was actually on full alert, attuned to the staccato voices giving continued updates through his earpiece, scanning the burgeoning, chanting crowd for any hint of a problem, searching for familiar faces or gaits or movements.

  The Boss ambled onto the stage, alternately shaking hands with the people there and waving at the crowd. Simon crept along the edge of the crowd, moving steadily, searching, watching and listening. He turned, then stopped suddenly as he saw a familiar face. The man at Malouf’s table, the one Christina had recognized from the Zapruder film, stood alone, his attention focused on the stage.

  Simon took a deep breath and braced himself. If they were here, then this must be the time and place.

  ◆◆◆

  Christina sat at the bar next to Bobby gazing up at the television, a cup of tea in front of her. All of the football games had been pre-empted and the screen of every channel was filled with the image of the President. “Oh, shit.” Bobby glowered at the television screen then turned back to the newspaper.

  Mae Helen swiped a towel across the bar in front of him. “How come you didn’t go see him? It’s probably less than a mile from here.”

  Bobby made a sour face, but said nothing, his attention back on the board.

  “I don’t see why some people don’t like him,” Maddie said. She came to a stop behind Bobby, hands resting on her hips as she watched the President walk onto the stage and wave. “He’s done a lot of good things.”

  Bobby swiveled in his chair. He o
pened his mouth, but he glanced at Christina and closed it again. He grimaced and held his glass up to Mae Helen.

  “Hitting it hard early today, aren’t we?” Mae Helen asked. Bobby mumbled an unintelligible reply. Mae Helen turned to Christina. “Would you like another hot tea, Miss?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Christina felt nauseated and hoped the hot tea might help.

  “Maybe we’ll see Simon on TV,” Maddie said in a cheerful voice.

  “I hope he’s as far from the President as possible,” Christina replied.

  “Why?” Maddie asked.

  “In case something happens.” Christina took the tea from Mae Helen. “Thanks.”

  “You don’t worry about your man.” Mae Helen said. “There’s no safer place he could be than here. He’s got Simon protecting him.”

  Christina gripped the cup of tea tightly in her hands and turned back to the TV.

  ◆◆◆

  Gaby stood to the side of the window, tense, sensing that the moment was upon her.

  She checked the magazine of the 300 Win Mag again and then peered through the slats of the window. She could only see one side of the podium. On the field below, people applauded and cheered and then the crowd broke into a chant.

  Be patient. The other attackers were waiting on her. Get this right.

  She ran her fingers along the rifle’s scope. She had practiced extensively in the prior months. It had taken a while to get use to the recoil but she had adjusted and learned after a black eye not to get her head too close to the scope. It was a big weapon, and she was slight of build, but even at a thousand yards she was nailing the target.

  Everyone abruptly sat and a speaker began introductions but stopped as the chanting of the crowd drowned out his voice. He began again and then waited as the chant grew and gained momentum. The speaker kept asking for quiet and Gaby sensed rather than saw the President appealing for quiet.