Lethal Measures

by Leonard Goldberg

  “The billionaire?”

  Wales nodded.

  “And the most powerful man in the state of California. He comes and goes when he wants to.”

  Bremmer watched Rhodes struggle up the incline, thinking the old man had lived too long. His gaze went to the steps of the new institute, then to the sidewalk across the street. Secret Service agents were everywhere, their eyes constantly searching for anything suspicious. Atop the Bank of America building were two figures dressed in black, scanning the area with binoculars. Sharpshooters, Bremmer guessed.

  At the bottom of the steps they were stopped by Secret Service agents. Their invitation cards were examined, their faces matched against

  twelve-by-twelve glossy photographs. “Please place your thumb here,” an agent instructed Wales and pointed to an illuminated square in the center of a flat computer screen.

  Wales placed his thumb on the square. His thumbprint was electronically transmitted to a computer bank and compared with those known to belong to Josiah Wales. Seconds later the computer screen flashed the message access cleared.

  “Thank you, sir,” the agent said.

  “Please proceed directly up the steps.”

  Bremmer placed his hand on the screen and tried to remain calm, but his heart was pounding and sweat was rolling down his back. He could get through the thumbprint test without a problem. But the explosives-sniffing dogs were another matter. They could detect the barest trace of C-four. And although Eva had assured him that C-four sealed between layers of plastic gave off no odor, Bremmer was still nervous about it. If they caught him with C-four, he’d spend the rest of his life in a maximum-security prison, locked up in a small cell twenty-three hours a day. That would be worse than death. It would be a lifetime of torture. If they discovered the C-four in the prosthesis, Bremmer had decided to detonate it and kill himself.

  access cleared flashed on the computer screen.

  “Thank you, sir,” the agent said.

  “Please proceed directly up the steps.”

  Bremmer followed Wales up to the entrance and through the door. Another agent stopped them.

  “Please open your box,” the agent asked Bremmer.

  Bremmer removed the top of the cardboard box and showed its contents to the agent.

  “What are these devices?” the agent asked.

  “Prostheses,” Bremmer said.

  “Would you like to examine them?”

  “Yes. One at a time, please.”

  Bremmer took out a highly advanced prosthetic hand. He willed his own hand not to shake, but he knew it was trembling.

  “This is a prosthetic hand. Would you like to see how it works?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bremmer held the hand up. Its outer surface was whitish pink and closely resembled human skin. Uncovered wires and slender titanium rods projected from the wrist area.

  “When you push this button, the hand grips. Shall I demonstrate?”

  “Please.” Bremmer pushed a button on the hand, and the fingers slowly flexed.

  The agent moved in closer, fascinated. Another agent came over for a look.

  “And if you press the other button it opens,” Bremmer told them. He pressed a second button, and the fingers slowly extended.

  “Incredible,” the agent said, now thinking about a friend who had lost both hands in Vietnam.

  “Too bad it wouldn’t work in a double amputee.”

  “Oh, but it would,” Bremmer said.

  “The final product won’t have buttons. It’ll be activated by a shrug of the shoulder.”

  The agent made a mental note to call his friend and tell him about the highly advanced prosthesis.

  “Very impressive,” he said.

  Not as impressive as when the two buttons are pressed simultaneously to detonate the C-4, Bremmer thought. He reached back into the box.

  “And this is a foot prosthesis.”

  The agent examined it carefully and placed it back in the box.

  “The metal rods on that hand will probably activate the metal detector.”

  “They shouldn’t,” Bremmer said.

  “They’re made of titanium.”

  “Proceed through the metal detector, please.”

  Bremmer walked on, holding the cardboard box securely under his arm. He kept his pace slow and even and tried not to show any nervousness. But his heart was racing wildly and his throat was dry as sand.

  At the entrance to the metal detector, a bomb-sniffing dog eyed Bremmer warily, sensing his fear. The Belgian Malinois tilted his nose up and sampled the air.

  Bremmer forced himself to walk slowly and not look at the dog. The Malinois came over and sniffed at Bremmer’s ankles and shoes, making a low-pitched sound before it lost interest and went back to the side of its handler.

  Bremmer was almost through the metal detector when he heard loud murmurs and saw people moving toward the door. He turned and looked back.

  The presidential limousine was pulling up to the curb. Monday, April 19,9=04 a.m.

  Eva heard the siren coming closer and closer. Quickly she primed the detonating device on the cellar door, then hurried into the living room. Rudy was peering through a crack in the Venetian blinds, holding Jean-Claude by the nape of his neck.

  “What is it?

  “Eva asked.

  “A fire engine, and it’s right in front of our house,” Rudy answered.

  “I thought I smelled smoke a little while ago.”

  Eva turned and sniffed the air, but she detected nothing.

  “Where do you think it came from?”

  “I don’t know.” Rudy hastily let go of the Venetian blind and stepped away.

  “But two firemen are walking across our front lawn.”

  All of Eva’s senses suddenly heightened, her mind now racing. What was on fire and where was it? It couldn’t be very big. Otherwise they would have sent more than one engine. And the firemen were walking, not running. Maybe it was just a check of some sort. No, it couldn’t be that. They had used their sirens, and minutes earlier Rudy had smelled smoke.

  The doorbell rang.

  Eva ignored it and thought on. It couldn’t be coming from the cellar. The smoke would have seeped up under and around the cellar door. And besides, the Blalock women didn’t have anything to start a fire. They had both been carefully searched while they slept. But then again, it would be a mistake to underestimate-The doorbell rang once more, followed by a loud knock.

  “Well?” Rudy asked, reaching for his weapon.

  “What do we do?”

  “Play it by ear.” Eva tucked her gun into the back of her jeans so

  that only the handle was visible. Then she picked up Jean Claude who was still lethargic from the sedatives given to him the night before.

  “I’ll open the door and be the concerned mother with her child. You cover me from the kitchen.”

  “What if they want to check out the cellar?”

  “Then we kill them,” Eva said tonelessly.

  “Now go!”

  Eva waited for Rudy to disappear into the kitchen before opening the front door.

  She faced two firemen clad in heavy fire-resistant gear and wearing large plastic helmets.

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” the SWAT team member said.

  “But there’s a small fire smoldering near the side of your house.”

  “Oh, goodness!” Eva said, feigning alarm. She held Jean Claude closer, and he tried to wriggle out of her grasp.

  “Wh-what caught on fire?”

  “Some trash,” the SWAT team member said. He glanced over the woman’s shoulder and looked for more terrorists, but saw only an empty room.

  “I told my husband to clear that away,” Eva said.

  “I know how dangerous that can be.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Your whole house could have gone up in flames.”

  “Well, I really appreciate your putting it out for me.”

  “Yes, ma’
am. Now we’d like to inspect your cellar to make sure no sparks got in there.”

  “Is it really necessary to check out the cellar?” Eva asked, raising her voice to alert Rudy.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Eva stepped aside.

  As the SWAT team member in the fireman’s gear entered the house, Eva reached back for her gun. Now she was holding Jean Claude with only one arm.

  Jean-Claude leaned forward and grabbed the brim of the other fireman’s helmet, pulling it up.

  “Jacques!” he cried out happily.

  In an instant Jake slammed his fist into the terrorist’s face, splitting her lips and breaking her nose. She crumpled to the floor, her head bouncing on the hardwood.

  Jake picked up Jean-Claude and dove out the front door. He landed on the grass and rolled over, using his body to protect the little boy. From inside he heard two dull, popping sounds and knew they came from a silenced weapon.

  A moment later the SWAT team member staggered out of the house, holding

  a bleeding shoulder. He collapsed on the lawn. Jake was now in a prone position on the grass, Jean Claude beneath him. He had his weapon pointed at the door, as did the SWAT team marksman standing behind the fire engine.

  Eva was groaning loudly, and Jake could see her hand starting to move.

  “Jacques! I cannot breathe,” Jean-Claude complained.

  “Shhh!” Jake hushed him.

  “The outlaws are inside.”

  “You will catch them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.”

  Rudy came to the door, crouched low and tried to pull Eva inside the living room.

  Jake’s shot missed, but those from the SWAT team marksman didn’t. Rudy’s head exploded, brain and bone and blood flying into the air.

  Eva tried to stand. As she got to one knee, Jake fired again. She grabbed at her chest and fell back onto the floor.

  Two SWAT team members dashed across the lawn and up to the side of the house.

  One smashed the front bay window and tore out the Venetian blinds. They waited for their spotters with high-powered scopes and binoculars to give the all-clear signal. Then they disappeared into the house.

  Jake sent Jean-Claude back to the fire truck, where a genuine fireman waited for the boy with open arms.

  Jake stayed in a prone position with his weapon trained on the door until Jean-Claude was out of harm’s way. Then he got up and slowly moved toward the house, his gun still pointed at the door. Inside he saw Rudy on the hardwood floor. Except for the chin and mouth, there was nothing left of the terrorist’s head. Beside him was Eva Reineke, close to death. A bloody froth was bubbling up through the hole in her chest.

  “No more bad guys,” a SWAT team member called out.

  Jake put his weapon away and hurried into the hallway.

  “The people we’re here to rescue are in the cellar,” he said and reached for the doorknob.

  The SWAT team member grabbed Jake’s wrist and jerked it back from the knob.

  “Don’t touch!” He pointed to the wiring atop the door that came down to a small metal box next to the light switch.

  “Christ!” Jake shivered.

  “Should we get the bomb squad in here?” The SWAT team member shook his head.

  “There may not be time. They might have put a timer in it as a backup.”

  “Then we’ll go through the basement window.”

  “That may be wired too.”

  “Well, then, we’ll just have to take our chances, won’t we?” Jake moved close to the door, careful not to touch it.

  “Joanna! Joanna!”

  There was a silence that lasted several seconds.

  “Joanna!” Jake yelled out again.

  “Jake?” came the reply from within.

  Jake smiled, recognizing Joanna’s voice.

  “It’s me,” he shouted.

  “We’re going to get you out. But for now the most important thing is for you not to touch the door. It’s wired to explosives.”

  “I know,” Joanna called back.

  “How is Jean Claude

  “He’s playing in the fire truck.” Jake thought he heard someone crying, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “You stay put. We’ll get you out the side window. Can you tell if it’s wired?”

  “I don’t think it is,” Joanna said.

  “I broke the window out and pulled on the bars and nothing happened.”

  “Good.”

  “Jake, there’s something you have to do immed–-” “We’ve got to move,” the SWAT team member interrupted impatiently.

  “If there’s a timer on that bomb, it could go off any time.”

  “Stay put,” Jake yelled down to Joanna and ran out of the house, a step behind the SWAT team member. On the lawn he quickly pulled off his fireman’s gear.

  “We’ll need a pickax to break out that window.”

  “It could still be wired, you know,” the SWAT team member warned.

  “You want to argue or you want to help me?”

  The SWAT team member hesitated for a brief second.

  “I’ll get the pickaxes.”

  It was pure luck, Jake was thinking, that Joanna and Kate and Jean-Claude were still alive. Pure luck that the terrorists had stolen a van that gave off a radio signal. Pure luck. Just let it last a little longer.

  The SWAT team member came back with two pickaxes and handed one to Jake.

  “Let’s get to it.”

  They hurried to the side of the house.

  From the loft above the garage, George Walter Reineke looked through

  the wooden slats of a small window and watched two policemen swinging pickaxes. Carefully he aimed his high-powered rifle at the cop closest to him and pulled the trigger. The cop straightened up, then collapsed, facedown. Reineke took his time lining up the second target in his telescopic sight. The man was running away, but there was no

  rush. The cop had nowhere to hide. He was as good as dead. Monday, April 19,9=32 a.m.

  The President was nearing the end of the reception line, now talking with Mortimer Rhodes. The old man, leaning heavily on his cane, had refused to sit although a chair had been provided for him.

  “Mortimer, I really appreciate all the support you’ve given me,” the President said.

  “I didn’t do it for you,” Rhodes said bluntly.

  “I did it for the country. I thought you were the best man to lead us, and I was right.”

  “I take that as high praise.”

  “Take it as straight truth.”

  The President smiled broadly and patted Rhodes on the shoulder, liking the old man and his directness.

  “Stay well, Mortimer.”

  “You do the same, Mr. President.”

  Agent Jack Youngblood was right behind the President, moving with him as he went down the row of dignitaries. Youngblood watched the people’s heads and eyes.

  That was how he read them. When a person was about to do harm, the head moved first, then the hands. That instant was enough for Youngblood to throw himself between the attacker and the President.

  Youngblood adjusted his earpiece and listened to the communications between the agents outside. Everything was secure. The armor-plated limousine was running and waiting. And the backup car, a Chevy Suburban with enough firepower to wipe out a platoon, was nearby.

  Youngblood glanced at his watch. They were on schedule, and with a little luck they’d be out in less than thirty minutes. A quick tour of the institute. The medal presentation. Another round of handshaking.

  Then back to Air Force One. Youngblood’s eyes went back to the President, who was now being introduced to the last two people in line. They were doctors wearing long white coats. One of them held a cardboard box under his arm. It had been carefully checked and contained only new prostheses.

  “Mr. President,” Simon Murdock was saying, “I’d like you to meet Dr. Josiah Wales, the director of the institute.”

&
nbsp; The President shook Wales’s hand firmly.

  “I’ve heard nothing but good things about you, Dr. Wales.”

  “Thank you, sir. It’s an honor to have you here.”

  “It’s my privilege.”

  Wales pointed to Timothy Bremmer.

  “Mr. President, this is my associate, Dr.

  Bremmer.”

  Bremmer bowed awkwardly and shook hands with the President.

  “I’ll remember this day for the rest of my life, Mr. President.”

  The President nodded and smiled.

  “It’s a good day for all of us. What have you got in the box?”

  “Some of our newest prostheses,” Bremmer said.

  “May I show them to you?”

  “Please.”

  Bremmer took out the lifelike artificial hand and demonstrated its ability to grasp.

  “It can pick up a nickel from a table.”

  “Remarkable,” the President said, obviously impressed. He reached out and touched the surface of the pro thesis which resembled human skin, then turned to Murdock.

  “This is exactly how I like to see federal research dollars spent.”

  Murdock and Wales exchanged delighted glances. The President had signaled that even more research money would be coming their way.

  The President asked, “What else do you have in the box?”

  “A foot, Mr. President.” Wales removed the newly made prosthesis and held it up.

  “As you may know, Mr. President, I require one of these. If you’d like, I can show you how it’s made and fitted.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  The group headed for the door at the far end of the reception area.

  Youngblood spoke into the microphone on his lapel.

  “Liberty is moving. We’re going inside.” Bremmer stepped back and watched the small television screen overhead. The group was now in the inner corridor, walking briskly toward the fitting room.

  Bremmer placed the artificial hand back in the box, but he kept his fingers on the detonating buttons.

  9=40 a.m.

  George Walter Reineke was now on the ground level of the garage. He lay as close to the floor as possible, a wet handkerchief over his face to prevent the tear gas from seeping through. But his eyes and nose were still burning, and he was having trouble breathing. Desperately he kicked at the wall and felt it give. He kicked again, and the wood split apart. A cool draft of air came through the crack, and Reineke eagerly sucked it in. His eyes began to clear, and he could see a small fire truck now being parked at an angle in the driveway. It blocked his view of the street and of the small cellar window.