by J. R. McLeay
Joe lifted his hand and turned his wrist. It was five minutes to twelve.
“Hannah,” he said. “Give me your binoculars.”
Hannah pulled a pair of field glasses from a pouch at her side and handed them to Joe.
“Do you see something?”
“Not yet,” Joe said. “But I think I know where to look.”
He swung the binoculars to his left as he panned the north section of the park through the window.
“Weir went to a lot of trouble to create a false trail around the park,” Joe said as he searched through the glasses. “This is the only building he entered. I don't think he plans to fire from a tower at all. He knows we're going to be watching every high perch with a clear shot at the platform. With this many cops covering the area, he wouldn't have enough time to get out. I think he's going to fire from the park.”
“How?” Hannah said. “Wouldn't the dogs pick up his trail?”
“Not if he entered the grounds on wheels.”
Joe moved the binoculars slowly up and down as he scanned the width of the park in the area above the reservoir. The only protected area was the thicket of trees above the North Meadow. He lowered his glasses and scanned a straight line from the stage. The area across the reservoir and the north field was completely open to the stand of trees.
He lifted the binoculars and adjusted the knob on top of the lens. Then he moved the glasses in a small circle and stopped.
“What the...”
Through the thin canopy at the top of one of the trees, Joe saw a small red reflection in the overhead sun. It almost looked like—
“A bicycle!” he said out loud.
“A what?” Hannah said, looking where he pointed. “There's a lot of bicycles in the park today. How can you be sure this one belongs to the sniper?”
“Because this one's sitting in a tree.”
Joe dropped the binoculars and ran out the front door of the apartment with Hannah and Lou in rapid pursuit. As he punched the elevator button repeatedly, he looked at his watch.
The President was scheduled to begin speaking in less than a minute.
59
The Loch, Central Park
July 25, 11:50 a.m.
Everyone's looking up.
I suppose that makes sense. I'm the rooftop sniper after all. The one who shoots defenseless citizens from the safety of a hotel room or high-rise tower. The anonymous coward who likes to blow faces off faceless people.
How about now?
It’s Todd Weir versus the President of the United States. The most powerful man in the world against Public Enemy Number One. Hardly anonymous, or safe. I'm mingling with the people now. In the most popular outdoor space in the busiest city in the world.
Could I make it any easier?
I see you, Secret Service. Can your sharpshooters see me? You're looking in the wrong places. The best-trained eyes in the world can only find targets in plain sight. And there are too many people in the park for your satellite cams to distinguish my heat signature. Congratulations, Mr. President. You've drawn the people out of their hiding places. You'll soon be a victim of your own success.
I don't see my favorite detective yet. Did you find the latest stooge? She's right where you'd expect. I see her curtains are pulled back. Was that you, Joe? I practically led you right to her. Seemed like a nice old lady, but she had a good long life. It was her time.
You must be pissed. So close, yet again. The killer who keeps slipping through your fingers. I saw the venom in your eyes as you stood beside the mayor. Sorry about your wife. So pretty and so vulnerable. But what were you thinking? You should have learned from the nightclub shooting. Everybody's fair game. Nobody can hide from me.
Shouldn't you be down here protecting the President with all of his men? It's such an impressive security detail. New York's Finest, the National Guard, and the best of the best—the Secret Service. If they can't find one man, I don't know who can.
Maybe the hounds can. If this were the jungle, they'd probably have caught me by now. Lucky for me, we keep them on leashes in the concrete jungle. But a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. And their handlers are so predictable. Follow your nose. It’s as plain as the one on your face.
Did you like the trail I left for you? The park is so pretty this time of year. You must have seen quite a bit of it. I'd have shown you more, but I thought you should get to the old woman before she stinks up such a nice building.
I see some trackers are moving about the park's interior. Smart move—you can never be too careful. Some of those copycat killers might try to take a shot at the President from behind a tree.
The dogs seem distracted, though. Too many scents to keep track of, I suppose. Must be confusing for the poor critters. One's right below me. He senses something. The scent's in the air, but the wind is playing tricks. Keep looking, little buddy. You'll find my trail soon enough.
Three minutes to twelve. How nice of the President to choose my favorite time of day to make his appearance. Offering his body as sacrifice. Judgment is about to be passed.
The glass stage is shining in the sunlight. Like an unspoiled vessel, cupped in God's hands. Visible to the heavens for the rapture to begin. The stage is darkening. Perhaps the chosen won't be going into the light after all. That's no regular glass, but I suppose we knew that already, didn't we, Mr. President?
No matter, I only need one open window. You wanted to look accessible. You wanted the people to be accessible. That's why you chose this venue. Protect the freedom of speech and freedom of assembly in America, and all that. You wanted to make a statement.
You're about to make a more powerful statement than you imagined. I see you, Mr. President. Step up to the podium. Your public awaits. You look very Presidential—defying the enemy, putting on a such brave face.
I can hear your echo as you speak. I'm a little too far away to make out what you're saying. But I'm sure it's very impressive. Even more than the mayor's speech. Assure the people, Mr. President. America is great. It will never be intimidated. It has prevailed over greater threats.
The time is nigh. Goodbye, Mr. President. Your fate is in the wind.
Poof.
What? You're still talking. That's not possible. I never miss. And you didn't even flinch.
Ahh… Very clever, Mr. President. You're not even there, are you? I didn't foresee that.
Who's the coward now?
Very tricky. A double-glass pane. Your team is lining up the holes. Now they’re pointing lasers toward me, telling your men to converge. It's time to leave the roost.
I'll see you another day, Mr. President. Keep your head about you. You won’t have it for long.
Part III
All In
60
Northern Central Park
July 24, 12:05 p.m.
Seconds after Weir fired at the President, hundreds of NYPD cops and Secret Service agents rushed toward his position. Weir cut his bike loose and quickly rappelled down the tree. Then he jumped on his bike and began pedaling furiously toward the nearest exit on the west side of the park.
He knew he'd have only seconds to escape the dragnet. But if he could make it out of the park, he'd have a good chance evading the pursuit in the maze of midtown Manhattan buildings. Most of the cops would be pursuing on foot and by car. He'd planned his escape route to make maximum use of narrow lanes, stairs, and other obstacles. His bike could outrun any person and go places other vehicles wouldn't be able to follow.
His biggest threat was the dogs. They'd soon pick up his scent from under the tree and connect it to the bike. His only chance was to get to the river before their handlers could catch up with him. Then he could hide underwater just as he did at the water tower and let the strong current carry him downriver out of harm's way.
When he emerged from the thicket of trees in the Loch, parkgoers were surprised by the camouflaged cyclist racing past them. They'd heard the crack of a rifle but could still
hear the President speaking from the platform. Nobody expected the sniper to be lying among them. But the President's security detail knew otherwise. They'd quickly pinpointed his location by lining up the holes in the dual panes of glass behind the President. The laser pointed directly at Weir's perch in the tree, and his position was radioed to every cop in the vicinity.
Weir stayed close to the tree line, zigzagging along the trails to evade the sharpshooters tracing his path from above. He heard the ping-ping sound as bullets struck the pavement beside him. Once he made it onto the side streets, he knew he'd have the protection of the tall buildings and narrow lanes to provide cover.
He just needed to get out of the park.
As he turned onto the bridle path, an equestrian cop noticed him and took up the chase. Weir looked over his shoulder and saw the horse quickly closing the gap. He veered back into the thicket and ducked under some branches. The horse struggled to follow the cyclist's path as it stumbled through the dense brush.
Bullets slammed into the trees beside Weir, sending splinters of bark into the air. The cop was shooting indiscriminately, looking for payback for his fallen comrade. Weir saw a large oak tree and pedaled directly toward it. At the last second, he ducked under a large branch and glanced back. The cop lined Weir up in his pistol's sight and was just about to fire when he slammed into the overhanging branch and fell backwards off the horse.
The cyclist turned onto the park's main boulevard and pumped his legs as fast as he could. A uniformed cop saw him coming straight toward him and raised his gun. Weir swerved toward the main exit. A bullet whooshed past his ear. He pulled up on the handlebars and thrust his weight forward to jump over a trip line. The cop who was following behind flew forward, slamming his face into the ground.
As he raced toward the park exit at 100th Street, Weir suddenly saw Detectives Bannon and Trimble turn onto the path from Central Park West. Joe spread his legs and raised his pistol, drawing a bead on the sniper. Weir crouched down to lower his profile and raced straight toward the detective. Two bullets flew over his head. He swerved to the side and kicked out his leg, striking Joe in his stomach. Joe went down on one knee and aimed at Weir's back as he crossed the intersection leading away from the park. A bullet slammed into Weir's bulletproof vest, thrusting him forward. He flinched in pain and wobbled for a moment, then sped away down 100th Street.
Joe caught his breath and saw another cyclist pedaling down Central Park West. He ran up to the rider and yanked him off the bike.
“Police! I need to borrow your bike,” he said.
He hopped on the bicycle and began racing after Weir down 100th Street.
“Follow me in the car,” he yelled to Hannah over his shoulder. “I'll radio where to cut him off.”
61
Manhattan, Upper West Side
July 24, 12:10 p.m.
Weir sped westward along 100th Street, weaving between oncoming traffic. He glanced over his shoulder, and when he saw Joe following only a block behind, he disappeared into a lane between two buildings. Joe pulled his police radio out of his pocket and struggled to support it on the handlebars as he pressed the call button.
“Sniper between Columbus and Amsterdam, just south of 100 Street,” he said. “Watch for a cyclist wearing camouflage clothing.”
Joe turned into the lane and saw Weir crouched over his bike racing southbound. The detective stood up on his pedals and pumped his legs furiously. He was beginning to close the gap when he suddenly felt a sting in his chest and was wrenched backwards, slamming onto the pavement. His bike coasted forward about thirty feet then crashed into the side of a building. As he lay on the ground with his head spinning, Joe looked up and saw a transparent fishing line quivering in the air four feet above him.
He looked down the lane and saw Hannah's car pull up, blocking the exit. The only way out of the alley was past either of the detectives.
Finally, Joe thought. He's got nowhere to go.
Hannah got out of her car and took aim at the cyclist. He zigzagged erratically, making it hard for her to get a direct line. She hesitated when she saw Joe fifty feet behind the cyclist. If she missed the sniper, she could hit her partner. She waited until the rider got close enough to fill her field of vision. Then she fired two rounds directly at him. But it was too late. Weir pulled up on his handlebars and hopped his bike over the hood of her car then sped westward along 97th Street.
Joe rose to his feet and looked at his partner incredulously.
How could she miss from that distance?
He picked up his bike and hurried down the alley in Hannah’s direction. As he raced past her patrol car, he glanced at his partner with a confused expression. Hannah just stared at him blankly.
Joe looked ahead and saw Weir two blocks away.
“All units,” he called into his radio. “Sniper heading west on 97th towards Broadway. Block all outbound routes.”
Within seconds, a wall of flashing police cruisers appeared at the corner of Broadway and 97th Street. Weir veered to his left and disappeared into another alley beside a church. Joe followed him into the laneway but lost sight of the sniper. He slowed down and removed his pistol from its holster. Sensing another trap, he looked up warily and to the sides for any sign of Weir.
Nothing.
Suddenly, Weir stepped out of an alcove thirty feet ahead and pointed his pistol at the detective. Joe instinctively flung his bicycle forward, holding the handlebars. The bike swung up ninety degrees, providing a modicum of cover. Two bullets pinged off the metal frame. Joe returned fire and Weir retreated into the alcove.
Joe knew he was exposed in the narrow alley. The flimsy bike wasn't likely to block another hail of bullets. He pointed his gun at the edge of the wall waiting for Weir to show any part of his body. If he could keep him cornered for just another minute, reinforcements would soon arrive and block any chance at his escape.
Just as he reached into his coat pocket to radio in the sniper's position, Weir raced out of the alcove, crouched over his handlebars. He turned away from Joe and sped down the lane. Joe fired four shots in rapid succession. Weir flinched as one clipped him in the right shoulder. But it wasn't enough to disable him. At the back of the church, Weir turned to the left and out of sight.
Joe raised his radio.
“Sniper between 97th and 96th Street, just west of Amsterdam.”
He could hear the wail of police sirens moving toward his position. A little further behind, the excited barking of tracking dogs closed in from the east.
Joe looked up at the cross atop the church steeple.
A little help? he pleaded. Please don't let this guy get away again.
Two seconds later, he heard shots on the other side of the church.
Not yet, he cursed. Save him for me.
Joe raced to the corner of the church. There was a throng of flashing police cruisers but no sign of the sniper. He saw Hannah standing beside her car and raced up to her.
“Where is he?” Joe panted.
“We got here within seconds of your call,” Hannah said. “No one’s seen him.”
Joe shook his head and cursed.
“What?” he said. “He can't get away this time.”
Joe looked down at the pavement and a saw a trail of red spots. They led into a maze of buildings across 96th Street. An NYPD supervisor's car suddenly skidded to a halt beside the detectives and Lieutenant O'Neill stepped out.
Joe wasted no time in enlisting O’Neill’s support.
“Lieutenant,” he demanded, “we need to close off the block. Hannah, circle around in the car. The sniper's injured and leaving a blood trail. Don't let anyone out on either side. I'll check the courtyard.”
Joe hopped on his bike and followed the trail between two buildings. He knew the sniper would have the advantage as long as he remained hidden. The detective was an easy target moving through the narrow lane. But if Weir was going to make a stand, he would have done so already. Nothing about this guy
was random. Holing up in a surrounded block didn't fit his profile.
Joe pedaled just fast enough to follow the blur of red dots on the pavement. The spots were coming more quickly now and in larger sizes. If the sniper was still riding, he'd soon start to lose energy. The odds were now in Joe's favor. If Weir stopped, the dogs would find him. If he kept moving, he'd bleed out and soon lose consciousness.
He only had a matter of minutes left.
Joe wove slowly through the courtyard, holding the bicycle’s handlebar in his left hand and his pistol in his right hand. The blood trail merged onto 95th Street and crossed the avenue between two police cruisers.
Joe cursed again. Weir was staying just ahead of the dragnet.
He heard the familiar chop-chop sound of rotor blades and looked up. A police helicopter appeared over the 95th Street block, shining a high-powered light into the darkened alleys. A ring of news helicopters fluttered a half-mile away on the periphery.
Good, Joe thought. The more eyes looking for this guy, the better.
He pulled out his radio and pressed the button.
“Suspect moving south of 95th street between Amsterdam and Broadway. I think he’s trying to get to the river. Block all exits to the west.”
62
Manhattan, Upper West Side
July 24, 12:30 p.m.
Joe pedaled his bike slowly through the courtyard looking for the camouflaged rider. Against the gray and red residential buildings of the Upper West Side, the sniper's mottled green clothing was no longer an advantage. Far from blending in with his surroundings, he appeared just as he was—a jackal among lambs.
