by Mark Nolan
An agent named Len Gannon was kneeling next to Congressman Daniel Anderson, loudly saying something to him again and again.
“It’s not blood sir,” Gannon said.
Daniel grabbed Gannon’s arm and yelled, “Get a doctor!”
Gannon looked the Congressman in the eye as his arm was being crushed in the man’s grip, and he spoke in a calm, professional voice.
“A doctor is on the way and will be here in a moment,” Gannon said. “But please listen to me. It was not a bullet. It was a paintball. This is not blood. This is only red paint.”
Daniel stared at Gannon for several seconds and blinked his eyes. He then rubbed the red liquid between his fingers, looked at it closely and smelled it. He checked his wife’s stomach carefully and realized there was no wound, not even a hole in her clothing. Katherine had been hit by a hard plastic paintball. It had created a wet splash of red paint when it burst open as it was designed to do. She’d fainted, and was probably suffering from shock, but she was not wounded or bleeding.
Now Daniel felt like he might faint too, with relief. His shoulders slumped, and he felt a massive wave of adrenaline coursing through his body. He gritted his teeth as his stomach lurched and he almost vomited. He let go of Gannon’s arm and then clenched and unclenched his fists and took deep calming breaths. He nodded his head and spoke slowly and deliberately.
“Understood. Thank you Agent Gannon.”
Daniel then whispered soothing words to Katherine. He told her it was only a paintball. She was not injured or bleeding, nor was their baby.
A Secret Service doctor arrived and knelt by Katherine’s side. He treated her for shock, and he spoke quietly to Daniel.
“I want to get her to a hospital immediately, to make sure there is no chance she might suffer a miscarriage.”
Daniel’s face went pale, and his nostrils flared when he heard the word miscarriage. “Yes, agreed. Let’s go right now.”
While several agents put Katherine onto a stretcher, Daniel glared toward the media area. The look of animal fury on his face was enough to turn Agent Gannon’s blood cold.
“Whoever did this is going to pay dearly for it, I swear to you,” Daniel said.
Gannon felt the truth of the threat in the sound of the congressman’s voice. He had no doubt that whoever had done this was a walking dead man or he would soon be wishing he was dead.
Zhukov drove along the highway, and he saw cars ahead of him slowing down and stopping. When he looked further up the road, he noticed a police roadblock. He wondered if it was a standard procedure or if it was happening because of his reckless phone call to Jake Wolfe. He would not be so careless in the future. What had he been thinking? What was it about Wolfe that angered him so?
He was prepared for a roadblock contingency, and he pulled over onto a side street to a touristy area that he’d seen on the map earlier. He parked the car, took a large handbag out of the trunk and walked across the street. When he reached the sidewalk, he heard the sound of tires squealing and saw the flash of lights from a police car coming around the corner. He quickly stepped into a clothing store and pretended to look at some jackets while he glanced out the window and watched the police car pass by. When the car was gone, Zhukov left the store and went through a doorway leading to the retail building’s parking area. He hid behind a garbage dumpster and took off the sunglasses and wig and tossed them into the trash.
Zhukov reached into his handbag for a variety of items and put on a starched gray shirt that had the word Security stenciled above the pocket and printed on the back. Next, he added a baseball cap that also had the word Security embroidered on the front. He strapped on a black web belt that held a pistol in a holster and a walkie-talkie police radio. To complete the costume he clipped a photo ID onto his shirt pocket that said he was employed by a well-known security company.
He used a wet wipe to clean the makeup off his face while looking at a pocket-sized mirror. The last item in the handbag was an official-looking clipboard that held a pad of business forms printed with a calendar-like schedule of weekdays and times. He put a few check marks next to various entries, as if he had been keeping track of his rounds.
The average person would not suspect anyone who wore a uniform and had a clipboard and looked like he or she was in charge of things. Many people were trained by their parents, schools and employers to be unthinkingly obedient and compliant to anyone in authority. A lab coat, a uniform, even a clipboard or a name tag along with a commanding tone of voice could make them obey in a response similar to Pavlov’s dog. Nobody would question Zhukov’s authority as a security guard unless an actual police officer passed by. Cops could smell criminal activity from a mile away. Their BS detectors were always on high alert.
Zhukov tuned the hand-held radio so he could listen to the police channel. Standing there in the open-sided parking area, he got decent reception and could listen to what was happening. And all the while he appeared as if he worked there and was a part of the establishment.
He listened to some chatter on the radio. The police were not talking about him, only about Jake Wolfe, “the suspect.” He smiled at the thought of the useful fool he’d impersonated. Wolfe was close to his same height and weight, and he was now the subject of a manhunt while he, The Artist, walked away free. Such is life in the world of instant news, quick judgments and the unthinking viral sharing of popular memes that have no basis in reality.
“I wish I could have stayed to watch more of the spectacle,” Zhukov said. “I was only being paid for one target, but I got three. The Madonna, the baby, and I also framed Wolfe at no extra charge. That’s because I’m the best.”
Zhukov knew he should call Banks and give him a report, but right now he wasn't in the mood to talk to the elitist and privileged oligarch. Banks could use a lesson in humility. Someday, Zhukov would deliver the lesson with extreme prejudice. He smiled at the thought.
Chapter 72
Jake had memorized the phone number of Secret Service Agent Shannon McKay, and now he typed it into one of the prepaid phones while his regular phone was on its way to the airport on the shuttle bus.
“Shannon McKay.”
“It’s Jake Wolfe, the shooter just called my phone to laugh at me. I’m sure he used a throw-away phone, like the one I’m on now. But if you hurry and put a trace on his phone that called mine, you might get lucky.”
“I’m on it. And you’re heading to the police department. Right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Liar.”
“Bye now.”
“Wait.”
“Okay I’m waiting, but I can’t stay on the phone for long, you understand why,” Jake said.
“I’ll be brief. The Secret Service knows that you were impersonated, and they have a good idea who may have done it. Right now I’m trying to get the San Francisco Police and the FBI to calm down, but they’re like sharks that smell blood in the water.”
“I can understand how they would react that way. But more importantly, how are Katherine Anderson and her baby?”
“You’re more concerned about them than you are for yourself?”
“Yes, of course, I’m not pregnant, and I haven’t been shot.”
“Katherine and her baby are both alive and well. She was shot with a red paintball, not a bullet.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“Affirmative.”
“Whew, that is such a relief.”
“But everybody in San Francisco with a gun and a badge is hunting you down. They want to punish you with extreme prejudice.”
“I’m sure they’re just doing their jobs, but it would be nice if they went after the real criminal with the zeal they are going after the innocent man. In the meantime, they’re letting the guilty person get away. This happens all the time, just ask the folks at the Innocence Project.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to explain to everyone. But I work for another agency, I’m from out of town
and I have breasts, so they aren’t listening to me.
“Talk to SFPD Sergeant Beth Cushman. She’s the partner of my buddy Terrell Hayes. Beth is super smart. She’ll listen to you and then talk to the Chief.”
“I’ll do that. And I’ve already sent photos of the real suspect to the FBI and the SFPD. But the man is a master of disguise so the photos might not be much help.”
“Who is this guy? I want to find him and make him sorry he was ever born.”
“This information is on a need to know basis, but you’ll need to know this when you get arrested.”
“Have a little faith in me, they haven’t caught me so far.”
“The suspect is a hired killer who works for the highest bidder, often for super wealthy multinational corporations and financial conglomerates. His name is Ivan Zhukov, and he almost always operates in disguise as part of his standard operating procedure.”
“What kind of corporation would hire a killer?”
“Secretive cartels that control vast empires of food, drugs, energy and commodities all around the world. Most companies would never do such a thing. But there are a few criminal organizations pretending to be businesses. Does that surprise you, being in the news media?”
“Nothing surprises me any longer. Who does this guy kill for his bosses and why?”
“We suspect he recently killed an inventor who was developing a hover-car that floats on four fans instead of rolling on four wheels,” McKay said.
“Like a quadcopter but way bigger and with a seat in the middle?”
“Yes, the hover-car looks similar to other cars but it floats a foot off the ground and it runs on electricity. It’s made out of hemp fiber which is lightweight like plastic but has an unbreakable kind of shock-absorbing quality like thick rubber.”
“That reminds me of how Henry Ford invented a car made out of hemp. I saw an old film clip of it on YouTube.”
“This scientist took Ford’s idea to the next level and made it into a hovercraft vehicle that costs half as much to buy and maintain as a regular car, plus it doesn’t burn any gasoline.”
“That would disrupt a lot of industries - car makers, tire manufacturers, oil and gas companies, auto parts suppliers, steel mills and plastic conglomerates, you name it.”
“None of those industries were aware of this invention. Somebody who was invested in their stocks found out about it and decided the world was not ready for such a breakthrough.”
“So a major investment firm or a super wealthy individual had the inventor killed?”
“My theory is a particular group of rogue investors hired a Russian assassin named Zhukov to kill the inventor,” McKay said. “The genius died in a hit and run car accident, and the prototype for the hover-car disappeared from a highly secure laboratory on the same night.”
“I imagine if the hover-car caught on, the stock of that company would shoot way up. Meanwhile the stocks of those other companies would go down, and the investors would lose millions.”
“So the inventor had to go. Someday these wealthy individuals will patent his hover-car idea and sell it, but that’s almost impossible to prove.”
“This Zhukov person made it look like I committed a crime, and my innocence will be hard to prove too,” Jake said.
“But if you’d died from the explosion in your Jeep, everyone would just assume you were guilty and it would be case closed,” McKay said. “The Secret Service knows it wasn’t you, but how do we prove it was Zhukov? He rarely leaves any evidence. No fingerprints, no DNA, no videos or photos of his face.”
“And today he was wearing a mask and using a fake I.D. to impersonate me.”
“He likes to leave notes at the scene of the crime, mocking law enforcement. I see in my reports that they found a note where he shot the paintball at Katherine Anderson.”
“What did the note say?” Jake said.
“It said, ‘The Prosecution Rests,’ and it was signed with your name.”
As Jake was talking on the phone and walking down a sidewalk at the Fisherman’s Wharf area, he saw two police officers drive up on Harley Davidson motorcycles and begin a search pattern. “Sorry McKay but I’ll have to call you back on another burner phone, this one has been traced.”
“Jake, stay with me. I need to tell you something else. It’s important.”
But Jake was already gone.
Chapter 73
At the Moscone Center, secret service agents searched the perimeter and found the white van that had been reported on the radio as Jake Wolfe’s hiding place. The report said that Wolfe was armed with a rifle. Agents surrounded the vehicle with their weapons drawn and ready to fire.
One agent spoke into a megaphone and said, “You are surrounded by Federal Agents. Drop your weapon and come out of the van with your hands above your head.”
There was no response. Agent Adams, the sniper, took aim at the van from his vantage point in an upstairs window. The sun reflected on the van windows, but he could just make out a man lying down in the back. The man was below the windows so he was not visible to people on the street. He appeared to be holding a rifle.
Adams had orders to neutralize, capture or terminate, and he didn’t waste any time. As he focused the riflescope’s crosshairs on the target, he spoke with Agent McKay over his radio earpiece.
“McKay this is Adams. I have eyes on target. He’s lying prone inside the van. Please advise if you want the target taken alive for questioning or if I should shoot to kill.”
“I want him alive for questioning, please stand by for further orders,” McKay said.
“Roger that McKay, standing by.”
Adams kept his sight on the target and his finger on the trigger, but waited with trained self-discipline for orders, even though he very much wanted to fire a round into the target’s head.
McKay spoke to one of the agents on the ground. “Easton this is McKay, our sniper has eyes on target. The suspect inside the van is lying prone and holding a rifle. If possible, we’d like to bring him in alive for questioning. I have a feeling he’s not the shooter but is an accomplice or a decoy. The shooter seems far too intelligent to be there.”
Easton said, “Understood, McKay. One question, can our sniper’s tranq dart break through the window glass?”
“No, that’s the problem, so I’m hoping you can break a window to clear his line of fire,” McKay said. “Or pull open one of the front doors and toss a flash-bang grenade inside the van.”
“Roger that, I’m on it.”
Easton debated whether he should shoot out a window or open a door and toss a flash-bang grenade. He decided that if he shot a window, it could cause the death of the person inside the van because the man would probably stand up and start firing his rifle. McKay wanted the suspect alive so she could question him, and that was his priority right now.
Easton took a stun grenade from the agent who was carrying the special weapons. Holding it in his right hand, he crouched down behind some parked cars and snuck up on the van. When deciding which door to try, he thought that if any of them would be unlocked, the driver’s door had the best odds. When Easton reached the parked car closest to the van he spoke into his collar microphone.
“Moving in on the target.”
He pulled the pin on the grenade but held tight on the trigger so it could not go off until he let go of it. He stood up and ran to the van and yanked on the door handle with his left hand. The door was locked, and when Easton grabbed the handle, a proximity detector picked up the van’s movement. It sent power to another device that ignited a string of firecrackers inside the van. Easton heard what sounded like a rapid series of gunshots coming from inside the vehicle.
Another Agent yelled, “Shots fired, get down!”
Easton dropped to the ground, still gripping the grenade, and he yelled, “This is Easton, I’m alright. Shoot out the back window so the sniper can use the tranc gun.”
His suggestion came too late, as the rest of the age
nts reacted the way they were trained to do. They opened fire with their machine gun pistols, riddling the van with bullets.
Adams, the sniper, had also seen what appeared to be weapon’s fire from inside the van, threatening his fellow agents. He fired one expertly-aimed steel-jacketed round, which went through the window, hit the target above the ear, and blew off half of his head. After taking the shot, he spoke calmly on the radio.
“Shots fired from inside the van, Target One is terminated,” Adams said. His voice sounded cool and professional, like a Navy Top Gun pilot landing a fighter on an aircraft carrier in the ocean, at night, during a storm, with one engine on fire. No problem.
Agent Easton signaled the others to hold their fire, and he approached the back door of the van. He took a quick peek in the window and saw the bullet-riddled body of a male Caucasian with half of his face blown away.
“Stay clear,” Easton said, “The van could be rigged to explode. Keep a safe distance while the bomb-sniffing dog does its job.”
Easton made a hand signal at a Secret Service Agent from the canine unit, in the Uniformed Division. The agent approached with his dog, and the two of them walked around the van in a slow circle.
“Seek girl; seek, seek, seek,” the Agent said.
The dog seemed uncertain and growled at the van as she circled it. She stopped near the back door, sniffed there for a while and sat down.
The dog handler spoke to Easton, “She’s indicating this back door as a probable location of explosives. It might be that she smells the gun smoke from inside, the burnt gunpowder. But she’s good, real good. If she doesn’t like the van’s back door, I’ll bet money there are explosives behind it. The question is whether or not they’re rigged to go off.”
“Nice work,” Easton said, “Everyone stand way back. We’re going to use the robot to open the door. Can your dog find the pin I pulled out of this grenade? I’m getting tired of holding it in a death grip.”
