Reineke took the telescopic sight off his rifle and used it to study the ground beneath the fire truck. There were no feet or people visible, and that told him they were no longer trying to break through the cellar window. At least for now.
Reineke took long breaths of the fresh air and tried to think things through. He still wasn’t sure what was going on. But one thing was certain. Those weren’t firemen and ordinary cops out there. They had to be a SWAT team. When he shot the first cop, they’d responded with a volley of rapid fire that had blown the loft apart. And the response was so quick he didn’t have time to shoot the second cop. The big guy wearing a fireman’s uniform. But he got the other devil, the one in black.
Reineke reattached the telescopic sight to his rifle, now wondering if his daughter was all right. Probably, he decided. She and Rudy were still in control of the house, otherwise the cops wouldn’t be trying to gain entrance through the cellar window. All the police were interested in now was rescuing the hostages.
Good. Let them keep at it and be distracted. The Blalock woman was no longer of use anyhow. Just let the President go inside the institute so we can blow him to smithereens and send him to the hell he so richly
deserves. Reineke peered through the crack again and saw feet on the other side of the fire truck. They were going after the hostages again. Reineke reached for his rifle, careful not to put the barrel through the crack in the wall, then focused in with his telescopic sight. Abruptly he placed the rifle down. The SWAT team probably thinks you’re dead, he told himself. Let them continue to think that, and let them leave the fire truck where it is, so it will block their view and let me get to my daughter.
Reineke crawled to the rear of the garage and kicked out two large wooden boards from the back wall. He eased his way out, staying low in the thick bushes that separated the two adjoining properties. He looked over into the neighbor’s yard and saw no one. His escape route was still intact. A car was parked and waiting for them on the next street over.
His gaze went to the houses on each side. Tall trees in the backyard partially obstructed the views from both houses. From the second floors snipers could see nothing but branches and leaves. Reineke studied the distance to the back door of the house. Thirty feet. Maybe a little more. He took a deep breath and dashed across the grass, smashing into the door with his shoulder and rolling onto the kitchen floor.
There was no sound except for the pickaxes working on the window and outer wall of the cellar.
Reineke crawled across the kitchen and into the hallway. The front door was open, and he could see two bodies lying close to it. Now he could smell the stink of blood and death, and he hoped against hope that his daughter was still alive. He came to Rudy’s headless body and pushed it aside. Then he saw his daughter. She was barely breathing, her chest covered with blood and froth.
“Eva! Eva!” Reineke whispered urgently into his daughter’s ear.
“Can you hear me?”
Eva’s eyelids twitched before they opened slightly.
“Father?” she asked weakly.
“You just hold on,” Reineke said, dragging her away from the door and into the hallway.
“I’ll get you out of here.”
Eva shook her head and coughed up blood.
“No way. Cops everywhere. They .. .
kill us.”
“No, they won’t.” Reineke took the semiautomatic weapon from Eva’s jeans and checked to make certain it was loaded. ” Because I’m going
to carry you out of here with two hostages in front of us.” ” But the—” “You just rest here,” Reineke said, reaching for the door to the cellar.
Eva’s eyes opened widely.
“No! It’s wire—!”
Reineke turned the doorknob and pulled on it.
He saw a bright flash of light coming at him. For a fraction of a second he was engulfed in a sea of red and orange. Then everything went black.
Bremmer kept his eyes on the closed-circuit television screen, watching the group move into the room where the prostheses were manufactured. The prosthesis loaded with C-4 had been placed on a table near the door. A Secret Service agent was standing directly in front of it.
Bremmer took a very deep breath and tried to calm himself, but his pulse continued to race, and now his hands were starting to sweat. He dried his right hand with a handkerchief, then reached back into the cardboard box. His gaze stayed on the television screen as his fingers again rested on the detonating buttons.
“And the fitting room is right across the corridor, Mr. President,” Wales was saying.
“We have specially designed chairs to make it more comfortable for our patients.”
The President asked, “What’s special about them?”
“They can be automatically raised and lowered and tilted back by either the doctor or the patient.”
“I’d like to see them,” the President said, genuinely interested.
“Of course. And with your permission, I’ll serve as the patient and show you how the prosthesis is actually fitted on.”
“Excellent.”
Wales led the way across the corridor, the prosthetic foot tucked under his arm.
The fitting room was small and compact, with no furniture except two large chairs that were bound in leather. Between them was a metal cabinet, its drawers opened.
The President moved in for a closer look. The drawers contained tools and screws and thick elastic strips.
“So the final fitting is done in here, and the patient walks out on a new foot?”
“Exactly,” Wales said.
“Now, sir, if you’ll give me a little room, I’ll climb up and put on my
new prosthesis.” The President stepped back, bumping into Agent Youngblood.
Sorry’ Jack
“My fault, Mr. President.”
Wales plopped down in the chair and shifted around until he was comfortably seated.
“You can move in a little closer, Mr. President, and I’ll show you how the prosthesis is attached to my stump.”
The President stepped forward.
Wales removed his old prosthesis and let it drop to the floor. Then he picked up his new one.
“Now, these straps are critically important to a good fit. They—” Youngblood jerked the President away as the message came through his earpiece.
“Bomb! Bomb!”
In an instant Youngblood shoved the President out the door and hurried him down the corridor. Two more agents appeared, guns drawn, and ran alongside, covering the hunched-over President. Then another agent appeared and another, completely surrounding the President. They burst through the door into the reception area, knocking people down and out of the way.
There were screams and shouts as the dignitaries tried to reach the front entrance. Some stumbled and fell, others tripped over them. At the door people were bumping and shoving, desperate to get out. The Secret Service agents formed a phalanx and headed straight for the door, bowling over anybody in their path.
They ran out into bright sunlight and down the steps, keeping the President low and completely covered. Then they shoved him into the limousine, facedown, Jack Youngblood atop him.
The limousine sped away, tires screeching.
There was chaos in the reception area. Some of the dignitaries were on the floor, stunned by their falls. One old man was unconscious, another was clutching his chest and gasping for air. Mortimer Rhodes was groaning, holding his fractured wrist.
Rhodes looked up at the doctor in the long white coat.
“I think I broke my arm.”
Bremmer ignored the old man and frantically tried to organize his thoughts. They knew! They knew about the bomb! But how? Somebody must have talked. Or maybe one of the dogs sniffed it out. Yes! That was probably it. The dog! And that means they don’t know who’s involved. But they’ll figure it out as soon as they examine the
prosthesis and find the C-4. They’ll know it’s me! I’ve got to
get that prosthesis and destroy it. Without it they can’t prove a damn thing.
Bremmer looked up at the television screen. Wales was still in the inner corridor, attempting to skip along on one leg and making little progress. The prosthesis was under his arm.
“My wrist.” Mortimer Rhodes groaned in obvious pain.
Bremmer stepped around him and went through the door that led to the inner corridor. He wondered what to do if the arrogant bastard refused to give up the prosthesis. Just take it, Bremmer thought, and if necessary kill him. Crush his skull from behind and make it appear that he tripped on his one leg and hit his head on the floor.
“Tim!” Wales called out.
“I need a hand.”
Bremmer hurried over.
“What’s wrong?”
“One of the straps came off, and the damn prosthesis won’t stay on my stump.”
Wales handed the prosthesis to Bremmer.
“Can you fix it?”
Bremmer quickly examined the prosthesis. A screw was loose.
“Sure. But I’ll need a screwdriver and a new strap.”
“Then let’s go back and get—” “They’re evacuating the building,” Bremmer interrupted.
“You limp your way out to the front. I’ll grab a screwdriver and new strap and be right behind you.”
“Good,” Wales said and struggled away, using the wall as a support.
Bremmer waited for Wales to disappear, then hurried down the corridor and out the rear door. Screw Wales! he thought. Get in your car and drive and conveniently lose the prosthesis. Without it, nobody could prove a damn thing.
Joanna stood behind a black-and-white squad car a block away from the site of the explosion. She slowly scanned the devastation, again thinking it was a miracle that none of the neighbors had been killed. The terrorists’ house had been demolished; only a fireplace and the back of the kitchen were still standing. The surrounding homes were badly damaged, with blown-out walls and windows. And the small fire truck that had been parked close to the cellar window was now on its side on the next-door neighbor’s front lawn. Lucky, she thought. Lucky to be alive.
Joanna slumped down to the curb and sat beside Kate.
“How are you doing?” “Pretty good,” Kate said, gently rocking the sleeping Jean Claude
“And my little cowboy has decided to rest now that all the bad guys are gone.”
“He’s a tough little critter, isn’t he?”
“He’s a Blalock,” Kate said and kissed the little boy’s head.
Joanna looked over at Jake, who was sitting next to them smoking a cigarette.
His hands were bloody from pulling on the iron bars and digging them out of the cement around the cellar window. Even when a SWAT team member saw a terrorist dash from the garage into the house, Jake kept digging and pulling and scratching. He was ordered to leave, to get out while the getting was good. Jake stayed.
Joanna moved closer to him.
“I owe you.”
“Next time leave more clues. Okay?”
“What makes you so sure there’ll be a next time?”
Jake smiled thinly.
“With you, there always is.”
“I guess,” Joanna said wearily, wanting to find a bed and sleep for a week. She glanced up as Hurley walked over. His earpiece was now in his hand.
“Did the warning get through in time?”
Hurley nodded.
“The President is on his way to LAX, and they’re warming up Air Force One.”
“Good,” Joanna said, then rested her head on Jake’s shoulder.
“Jake?”
“What?”
“Thanks.”
Timothy Bremmer was on the Santa Monica Freeway heading west and wondering what he should do next. Get rid of the prosthesis, he decided. Break it into small pieces with a hammer and dump them into the ocean off the end of the Santa Monica Pier. Good! But first, call Eva and tell her what happened and get instructions.
Bremmer used his car phone. He dialed Eva’s number and waited. It rang a dozen times. There was no answer.
“Where the hell is Bremmer with my prosthesis?” Wales demanded. He was back in his office at the old institute, his stump resting on his desk.
“He was supposed to fix the damn thing and give it back to me.”
Lucas, the black therapist, shrugged.
“I saw him get into his car and drive away like a bat out of hell.”
“With my prosthesis next to him, no doubt.”
“He was probably scared of the bomb.”
“Shit! We’re all scared,” Wales said angrily. He flipped through the Rolodex on his desk and picked up the phone.
“Let’s see if we can reach him in his car.”
Bremmer’s car phone rang. He smiled. It was Eva. It had to be. He lifted the receiver, and that sent an electrical charge to the C-4 under the hood.
Bremmer saw a brilliant ball of fire through the windshield. In the instant before he died, he thought the sun was falling from the sky.
Joanna had never seen or been to a rodeo. It was not what she expected. There was something majestic and courageous about the cowboys as they came out of their chutes riding angry bulls that twisted and turned and did everything possible to throw the rider off.
A bell rang. A chute opened and out came a mean bull named Terminator. The bull bucked and jerked ferociously, but the cowboy managed to hang on for a full eight seconds.
“God,” Joanna said in wonderment.
“How do they stay on?”
“The cowboys call it grit,” Jake told her.
“What does that mean?”
“It means they will themselves to do it.”
Another cowboy on a bull came out of the chute and held on for dear life. But the bull was too strong. The rider lasted only a few seconds before hitting the ground hard. Joanna winced.
“It’s amazing they don’t get killed.”
“Some of them do.”
“Why do they do it? For the money?”
Jake shook his head.
“For the trip.”
“A trip to where?”
“To a place only cowboys know.”
The crowd applauded the cowboy, now limping out of the Long Beach Arena.
Jean-Claude applauded with them. The little boy was standing up in his seat, mesmerized by the rodeo. He was wearing boots and a white cowboy hat. The hat was autographed by Webb Stevenson, a champion bull rider, whom Jake had arranged for Jean-Claude to meet before the start of the rodeo.
Joanna moved in closer to Jake and asked, “How do you know Webb
Stevenson?” “I don’t,” Jake answered.
“Webb is related to a desk sergeant in the Rampart Division. He’s the guy who set it up.”
“With a big nudge from you.”
“All it took was one phone call.”
“Well, you’ve made Jean-Claude a very happy little boy.”
“I just didn’t want him to go back to France thinking America is full of goddamn terrorists.”
“We’ve still got our share of them,” Joanna said disgustedly.
“But there’s four less now.”
“Can you believe that damn Timothy Bremmer?” Joanna asked angrily.
“A doctor, for chrissakes!”
“They go bad too.”
“But not as bad as George Walter Reineke. Can you imagine sending your daughter out to kill the President?”
“He probably thought it was a good idea,” Jake said flatly.
“He had some fatherly instincts, though. I’d guess he went back into that house to try to save his daughter.”
“Why didn’t the sharpshooters get him?”
“Their views were partially blocked by the trees in the backyard. They couldn’t get a clear shot.”
“In a way, I’m glad they didn’t,” Joanna said.
“It’s kind of poetic justice that they all got blown up by a bomb.”
�
�I guess,” Jake muttered, his attention now on the next cowboy coming out of the chute.
Joanna stretched her back, which was still sore from her ordeal in the cellar.
She waited for the ride to end, then said, “Jake, I’ve got to get away for a while.”
“You want to go by yourself?”
“Yeah.” Joanna took Jake’s hand and held it.
“I’m going to fly to Washington to receive my medal from the President. Then I’m going on to Paris with Kate and Jean-Claude.” She sighed before continuing.
“I still haven’t gotten Paul du Maurier completely out of my mind. I guess I need a little time alone to get over it altogether. Does that bother you?”
“Nope,” Jake said evenly.
“It’s something you’ve got to do, and you’ve got to do it alone. It’s what the shrinks call closure.”
Joanna nodded slowly.
“Now I know why you had to go back to Eleni’s funeral in Greece.”
Jake nodded back as a picture of his former wife flashed into his mind. They were at an outdoor restaurant near Athens, the wind blowing through her hair.
She was smiling at him. “Does it help?” Joanna asked, breaking into his thoughts.
“This closure thing?”
“Some.”
The PA system squealed loudly.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the final bull rider of the night, Webb Stevenson. He needs an eighty-six to walk away with first prize.”
The crowd applauded, then became silent.
“Is eighty-six points a lot?” Joanna asked.
“It takes a hell of a ride to score that much.”
The gate to the chute flew open. Stevenson was atop a big black bull that twisted and turned and threw its head back fiercely.
Stevenson seemed to be floating, as if he were one with the bull. He kept one hand high, balancing himself, while he held on to a leather strap with the other. With one mighty jump, the bull leaped off the ground, its body almost twisting on itself. Stevenson stayed on.
Lethal Measures Page 37
