by Tal Bauer
A crack split the air.
The effigy of the Russian president fell, as if his string had been cut from the pole holding him aloft. Stunned silence covered the protestors for a half-second.
A second crack, like a far-off cannon, somewhere to the north.
The Russian president crumpled to the steps of the Capitol.
Instantly, a tight circle formed around the Russian president, collapsed, not moving. Russian security threw themselves over him as Secret Service agents stood shoulder to shoulder with their Russian counterparts. FBI agents ducked low and formed a wagon wheel around the inner circle. Everyone had their weapons out, up, ready to fire. Above, the U.S. congressional leadership had already been hustled back into the Capitol.
Another crack, and then another. A fifth. Sixth. Seventh.
A Secret Service agent fell. A Russian security man. Another Secret Service agent, landing face first and sliding down the steps, limp and boneless.
Screams rose, different than the protest chants. Shouts of horror, of shock.
The cluster of agents around the fallen Russian president hefted him into their arms, folded over his body, and raced for the motorcade. They looked like a horde of barbarians running with a battering ram, except the battering ram was the Russian president, shot on U.S. soil on the steps of the Capitol, and the barbarians were being picked off one by one. Another Secret Service agent fell, staggering, tripping and falling, blood pouring from his neck and down the steps. The rest of the agents stepped over his body, racing the Russian president down to the SUV.
A line of blood, a crimson ribbon, appeared behind them, a stream that trailed behind the Russian president all the way to the motorcade.
The motorcade roared, burning rubber and screeching away as the protestors fled, scrambling and shrieking as the reality of what was happening sank in.
Blood stained the Capitol steps, and the bodies of four men lay in the sun, pools of ruby growing beneath their still forms. FBI agents raced to their fallen comrades, hustled down the steps, moved to close off the Capitol, the park, the square. Sirens rose all over the city.
Mike pulled Tom close, ducking them down as low as he could beside a planter filled with summer flowers. “Shooter.” His voice was hard, taut. “Sniper.”
“From where?”
Mike shook his head. “I don’t know.” He shifted, putting himself in front of Tom and pressing Tom almost into the planter, as if he could merge him with the concrete and hide Tom in the stone. “Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. I have to get you out of here.”
“The Russian president? Is he…”
Again, Mike shook his head. “Dunno. Looks fucking bad.”
Tom tried to look over the planter, tried to look back at the Capitol, but Mike grabbed him and turned him away. “Don’t look, Tom. You don’t need to see that.” Mike’s voice shook, trembling. His hands were warm where he grabbed Tom’s face, held him a little roughly.
But he had, he’d already seen. A kaleidoscope of death, of nightmares, of terror. Dead bodies sprawled in the sun, blood on the Capitol steps, rivers of it running down the marble like Slinkys racing for the bottom.
Tom turned his face into Mike’s shoulder and screamed.
Chapter 18
Mike walked Tom into the house and led him to the kitchen, physically putting him into one of his kitchen chairs. Etta Mae, oblivious to the tectonic shift in reality, scampered to them both, leaping up and putting her front paws in Tom’s lap.
Tom buried his face in Etta Mae’s neck.
The TV winked on, news blaring. Every channel was covering the shooting, the attack on the Capitol. News anchors stammered through what they knew, tried to interview bystanders and witnesses. Cameras panned over the Capitol steps, the bloodstains, the FBI agents scurrying like ants over every square inch. DC Metro police units raced up and down DC streets. Manhunt for shooter, the crawl screamed in capital letters. Search for DC Capitol Sniper Ongoing.
A glass of water appeared on the table in front of him. Mike crouched between his knees, beside Etta Mae. He reached for Tom, cupping his cheek. “I have to go. I’m getting called in. All-hands-on-deck for this search.”
Tom nodded. “I know.” His voice didn’t shake, and he was absurdly proud of that. He leaned into Mike’s touch and closed his eyes. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.” Mike didn’t hesitate. “Promise me you will stay inside. Lock all the doors. All the windows. Don’t open the door for anyone.”
“Except you.”
“Stay inside. Stay safe. Whoever did this is on the run or in hiding, and as we close in on them, they might try to flee. Escape and hide. Take a hostage.” Mike’s thumb ran over Tom’s cheek. “Stay here with Etta Mae. Go upstairs. Watch the news in bed.”
Tom nodded again. “I will. Will you let me know you’re okay? When you can?”
“We’ll be moving fast, but I’ll text you. I promise.” Mike leaned in, kissed him hard, holding his face gently. “It’s going to be okay,” he breathed against Tom’s lips. “We’ll get this asshole.”
Tom pulled out his keys from his pocket and removed his house key from the ring. He had a spare he’d thought about giving Mike, but now he’d just put that one on his own ring. Tom pressed it into Mike’s hands. “Go get him and them come back to me.” Tom kissed him once, twice. “Go. They need you.”
Mike palmed the key, kissed his forehead, lingered, and then rose. There was nothing more to say, and he hustled out of Tom’s house as he pulled out his cell. He dialed as he shut the door, and Tom heard the heavy slide of the deadbolt a second after he left.
And then Tom was alone, left with the blaring TV, the shaking voices of the anchors, and the images that played on an endless loop. White marble, red blood, blue sky.
And when he closed his eyes, he saw the fallen bodies, their limbs sprawled across the steps like broken rag dolls.
He did what Mike said, went upstairs with Etta Mae and crawled into bed. His sheets smelled like Mike.
The TV in his bedroom played the news as he held the pillow Mike had slept on to his chest. Mike’s scent calmed him, and he buried his nose in the pillow as he watched the cascading news reports. A battalion of news organizations camped outside George Washington University Hospital, waiting for any update on the Russian president, rushed into surgery. The hospital might have been a vault for all the news that leaked out.
Mike texted throughout the afternoon, the evening.
[Search closing in on Penn Quarter and Federal Triangle]
[Forensics suggest Penn quarter. Bullet from one of fallen USSS agents shows trajectory.]
[Gearing up for house-to-house search.]
Stay safe he texted back. God, stay safe, Mike.
President McDonough addressed the nation, speaking about the fallen Secret Service agents, and the fallen Russian security man. “We have lost great men today, men who gave their lives in service of their country. Men who represent the greatest values of the American spirit: bravery, fidelity, and a commitment to their fellow man.”
Noticeably absent was any mention of the Russian president.
At six-thirty-three PM, the Russian ambassador called a press conference on the steps of George Washington University Hospital.
“I can confirm,” he said in his slow, rumbling voice, his accent grating, “that Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev has survived this horrific assassination attempt. He is in critical condition, but will recover. Our president is too strong to die.”
He swallowed and glared into the cameras. “The Russian Federation immediately demands a full investigation into this heinous crime. How has the Russian president been attacked on United States soil, on the steps of the United States Capitol? This supposed shining beacon of freedom has brought about the world’s greatest political crime. We demand an international investigation into this incident, before the United States covers up what truly occurred today.” He took no questions, and strode back
into the hospital.
Tom exhaled slowly and clutched Mike’s pillow tighter.
News broke an hour later that cordons of joint task team members had surrounded a neighborhood in Penn Quarter. Residents in their condos had been evacuated, and SWAT teams from DC Metro, HRT from the FBI, and Special Operations teams from the U.S. Marshals, Secret Service, ATF, and others were swooping in from all sides. The news anchors hedged their reporting, not wanting to reveal the exact specifics of the operation.
Tom squeezed his phone, buried his chin in the pillow, and stopped blinking. His eyes watered, but he couldn’t look away.
Just before nine PM, the breaking news alert blared, and the screen violently shifted, veering to a helicopter’s perspective hovering over DC’s downtown, Penn Quarter. Law enforcement agents, geared up in full tactical gear, swarmed up and down an alley between a tall condominium building and a bank.
DC Sniper Caught.
The anchors stumbled over themselves, trying to blurt out the news first. The DC sniper had been penned in, an anonymous tip coming in just after the shooting that pinpointed the source of the shots. DC Metro police blockaded the neighborhood, cutting off his escape as the task force built a perimeter. The sniper tried to flee through connected buildings, but was cut off at all exits. He tried to disappear down the side of a building into a dark alley and was confronted by a phalanx of avenging law enforcement officials.
Tom held his breath. Secret Service agents had been killed, members of DC’s, and the nation’s, law enforcement community. He’d seen it all in his time as AUSA, including the retribution unleashed upon a criminal who had hurt one of law enforcement’s own. Anyone who hurt a federal agent or officer had a low, low chance of coming out of a search and arrest alive.
But, the news kept coming in. DC Sniper Arrested Alive. DC Sniper Injured. Expected to Recover. Sniper Rifle Recovered. Law Enforcement Has Found the Location of Shots Fired.
At eleven PM, Dylan Ballard, the United States Attorney for the DC Federal District, Tom’s former boss, came on camera outside of FBI headquarters. There were too many production lights set up, the news crews from twenty different organizations each setting out their light boxes and trying to burn away the night. Ballard looked washed out, wan. Maybe he really was. His tie was just a bit askew, his hair cowlicked at the back. Tom had never seen him so out of sorts.
A swarm of FBI agents and DC police officers surrounded Ballard. He was the hero of DC and federal law enforcement. He’d always been their man, the United States Attorney who dug in and turned the screws on the bad guys. No mercy. Ever. Of course they would back him up, surround him for this moment. Give him all their support.
Ballard read from a sheet he held just out of sight of the cameras. He’d always prided himself on his ability to speak extemporaneously, to skewer witnesses and reporters alike. Now, he read from a statement? Tom leaned forward, unconsciously, and held his breath.
“We have, at this time, definitively identified the DC Sniper as thirty-two-year-old Bulat Desheriyev, a Chechen national and a citizen of Russia. Mr. Desheriyev entered the United States on a B-2 tourist visa approximately three months ago. He appears to have settled into the Chevy Chase neighborhood in ward three, Washington DC. He does not appear to have secured employment. At this time, we believe he came to the United States for the sole purpose of carrying out these murders.”
Ballard paused, took a careful breath. Reporters hung on his every word. Cameras snapped, and flashbulbs washed out his face, made him look like a ghost. “We consider this to be an act of terrorism.” He looked straight into the cameras. “I can confirm that Mr. Desheriyev is in stable condition following his arrest. I cannot confirm any further information at this time and I will take no questions. Thank you.”
Ballard turned away from the cameras and disappeared into the law enforcement agents and officers behind him. They formed an impenetrable wall, staring down the reporters and the cameras and the flashing lights, stalwart in the face of the media’s shouted questions. Ballard strode into FBI headquarters, tucking his speech into his suit jacket pocket.
It hit Tom all at once, a massive sledgehammer to his chest. He couldn’t breathe, and the world went sideways, blurred out as his brain suddenly clenched, pain striking him every which way.
There was going to be a trial. Jesus Christ, there was going to be a trial, held on the world’s stage in his courthouse. A quadruple homicide, an attempted assassination of a foreign leader, an act of terror in the nation’s capital. Jurisdiction was unquestionably the Department of Justice and the DC federal court. A quadruple homicide and an assassination attempt as acts of terror opened the doors for capital murder charges. The death penalty. With relations between Russia and the U.S. at an all-time low, and now the Russian president’s blood staining the Capitol steps, this trial had the potential to define U.S.-Russian relations for decades to come, and global security, global stability in the world order. The whole world would be watching the United States, and this trial, a billion eyeballs watching and weighing his court’s actions every second of every day.
And he had a one-in-fifteen chance of being the presiding judge.
Something chewed on the base of his skull, a warning, a whisper of fear wreathed in caution. The world was going to turn to his court now, the eye of the global media fixed squarely on him and his fellow judges.
What now, with him and Mike? He’d wanted to stay quiet, stay concealed, at least for a little while. Come out slowly, safely. Away from the public eye.
But the public was coming, hordes and hordes of eyeballs that were going to tear apart his closet, put him and the rest of the court under the magnifying glass, burn them away like ants in the sun.
Slowly, Tom sank into the bed, clinging to Mike’s pillow as he pitched to his side.
Mike texted just after midnight, telling him he’d be out all night working with the task force to try and chase down as many leads as they could. Desheriyev hadn’t acted alone. His cell had texts on it from a handler. They needed to keep searching for Desheriyev’s handler, his co-conspirator. Follow the trail and see how large this terror cell was.
Stay safe, Mike. Are you coming here when you leave?
[I’d like to. Is that okay?]
Please come.
[Give Etta Mae a kiss for me. Try and get some rest.]
I’ll sleep better when you’re back.
But Mike didn’t come back, and Tom fell asleep with the TV still on, just after two in the morning.
He woke with his face smashed in Mike’s pillow and his cell phone ringing. He answered before his blurry gaze focused on the caller ID.
“Mike?”
Silence. “Tom, it’s Dana Juarez.”
Shit. Judge Juarez. His fellow federal judge. “Hi, Dana. How are you?”
“As well as can be.” She sighed heavily. “I got a call from Clarence.” Chief Judge Fink, to Tom. “He wants us all to come in. We need to prepare for this.”
Prepare for this. For the trial of the millennium. It was coming, a hurricane that was bearing down on them all. “All right. I’ll get dressed and head downtown.”
“We were told DC police are providing extra security around the courthouse. Have you heard anything from the marshals?”
His stomach clenched, a fist tightening in his belly. “From the marshals?”
“You seem close to Inspector Lucciano.” Judge Juarez spoke carefully, softly.
He swallowed. “Just friendly at work.”
She was quiet again. The phone line scratched, like she had sighed away from the microphone. “I’m driving into DC in an hour, Tom. Do you want me to pick you up on the way?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
He showered and dressed and fed Etta Mae, taking her out to the backyard as he texted Mike. Going to the courthouse. Fink called everyone in.
[Don’t take the Metro. I can get PD to pick you up.]
Juarez is swinging by and we’re driving in t
ogether. How are you?
[Processing his house in Chevy Chase.]
Tom exhaled slowly. Processing the scene. Building evidence. Building a case. Don’t run yourself ragged.
[I’ve got a few more hours in me.]
Tom watched Etta Mae sniff the roses, the planter bed. His cell buzzed again. [I’ll see you soon. Miss you.]
I miss you too.
No more texts. Mike must be back at work. He curled over his lap, holding his phone in both hands, the case pressed against his forehead. What had Judge Juarez meant when she said she thought he and Mike were close? Did she suspect something? Or had she just seen them going to lunch together? What did it mean? God, he was going to second-guess himself to death. Anxiety rose inside him like bile, burning his throat.
Judge Juarez called him when she pulled up, and he gave Etta Mae a kiss and then ran out the door, grabbing his briefcase on the way. They didn’t speak on the drive downtown. Judge Juarez had the radio on, the news continuing in an endless stream of updates and speculation on what came next.
They had to show identification blocks away from the courthouse, and then were escorted through two separate police barricades by a uniformed DC patrol car. Armed guards with automatic rifles stood post outside the courthouse.
“Welcome to the bench of the DC federal court, Tom,” Judge Juarez said as she slid her car into the underground garage. Darkness wreathed them in shadows. “As judges, we have to preside over the biggest investigations on the planet. And, we’re all on the world stage with this one.”
His heart hammered, a furious, racing rhythm. “I feel for the judge who’s going to get this case.”
“We’ll find out soon. Clarence called us all in to make the assignment.”
Everyone met in Chief Judge Clarence Fink’s chambers. As Chief Judge, he had the panoramic chambers at the top of the glass-walled silo on the southern end of the Annex. He had a picture-postcard view of the National Mall and of the Capitol. Standing in Fink’s chambers, they were only a hundred feet away from where he and Mike had watched the shooting unfold, the murder and assassination attempt. There was Grief, hiding her marble face against the stone shoulder of History, almost the exact position he’d ended up with Mike, burying his face in Mike’s shoulder as he screamed. The helplessness, the crippling fear he’d felt. What had happened? Where were the shots coming from? He still felt like he was huddled beneath the statue, but Mike wasn’t there to shield him anymore. He was adrift.
