[Jack Emery 01.0] The Foundation

by Steve P Vincent

  The space allowed one of the most breathtaking views in the entire stadium, from a location few knew about and even fewer visited. Importantly, it also gave a clear view to some of the corporate suites. He knew all of this thanks to the briefing pack that had been provided, along with his rifle and uniform. He thought again about his disguise. An amazing beast, the cleaner, often maligned, never considered. Invisible. He’d moved his way through the stadium and to his perch without being questioned.

  He moved to the case and opened it. He took in the beauty of one of the tools of his trade. It was pristine, cold and deadly, even disassembled into a half-dozen pieces. The long-barreled sniper rifle was as clean and beautiful as the day it had been manufactured. South African by design, it was light and portable, its sight able to zoom many times the magnification of the human eye. Most importantly, Chen had used it before and considered it suitable to cover the mission.

  He assembled the weapon in silence and worked through all possible scenarios in his head. He mentally rehearsed the shot and how he’d escape from the scene. He could count on a few seconds of paralyzed fear that would grip the crowd and the authorities alike. If all went to plan, it should be a relatively easy job. In and out quickly.

  If not, then all bets were off.

  As he slid the gun onto its tripod, he didn’t think for a second about the life of the man about to be snuffed out. He’d done something to irritate the wrong people, and that was it. To Chen, it was a business transaction, as normal as ordering dinner. He owed Michele Dominique one more job, and this was her chosen payment.

  With the gun in place he stripped off his janitor’s uniform and changed into some New York Yankees gear. All was now in place for the job to proceed. He slid up alongside the weapon, looked down the sight and touched his finger lightly on the trigger. He slowed his breathing and waited with well-practiced patience for the right time.

  Ernest shook hands with Claire Paine and left the conversation. Paine was a political reporter he’d been trying to poach for a while, but since she’d won a Pulitzer the price had gone up. She’d declined Ernest’s latest offer, so Ernest saw no point in continuing to talk to her.

  He walked to the bar and asked for a whisky. As it was poured, he mused darkly about the last phone call he’d shared with Michelle Dominique. She hadn’t been happy at his request to revise their deal, and it had been several days since he’d heard from her. His attempts to contact her had been fruitless.

  He needed to think about something else. He scanned the room and smiled as he watched his daughter fend off the advances of the latest young suitor. Since Sarah had abruptly lost interest in the Wharton grad she’d been dating, word had reached every young, eligible bachelor on the East Coast. Even here, among friends, she was targeted.

  While it would have been easy for him to march over and rain fire and brimstone down on the young, overly drunk EMCorp sales executive, he waited. He’d learned long ago that she could take care of herself, and there was no point in ruining a promising career unless it was absolutely necessary.

  As her suitor leaned in to whisper something into her ear, he also placed his hand on the small of Sarah’s back. The hand then began to trend downward. Ernest recognized a grope when he saw one and felt a flash of anger. Sarah was wearing a conservative gray tunic dress, but that clearly wasn’t enough to dissuade those intending ill. As soon as the hand reached ground zero, Sarah took a step back and swung her small purse right into the exec’s face. He didn’t get his free hand up in time to defend the shot, but he did remove his other hand from her backside without delay. Sarah glowered at him and he backed away, mumbling some sort of apology.

  Ernest chuckled and picked his whisky up from the bar. As he walked over to his daughter, he reflected on her fire and her focus—traits they shared. Despite this, he hadn’t managed to focus her in the same direction as he had taken. While he’d been driven to succeed in business, Sarah was interested in art and theater.

  “You okay?” He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “I hope you’re not getting into too much mischief.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed in mock contempt. “It’s your staff trying to get me into mischief. It’s like they see a big dollar sign above my head or something.”

  He laughed. “Not quite. More likely they see a dollar sign above my head and a big green arrow pointing at me above yours. I’m an old man, after all. Won’t last forever.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” She punched him softly on the arm. “Besides, you better last a few more years yet, because I sure as hell don’t want your company.”

  He thought about saying something, but decided against it. They’d had that particular argument a few too many times. “Enjoying yourself?”

  She shrugged and smiled. “Prefer Broadway.”

  He laughed. Truth be told, he hadn’t really enjoyed the pre-game reception and the meal. His mind was on other things and he couldn’t escape the crushing knowledge that a reckoning was coming. He was playing with fire, and it was only a matter of time before he got burned.

  His gloom was penetrated by the mighty roar in the stadium, which seeped through the glass windows of the suite. A few of his guests shushed others as the stadium announcer gave some cheesy tribute to the American troops currently battling the Chinese in the skies above Taiwan. Once the announcer was finished, the national anthem was sung.

  A short while later the game started. Ernest watched the first Yankees hitter put one into the stands. The reaction on the field seemed subdued compared to the scenes in the crowd, as grown men jumped up and spilled their eight-dollar beers and cold burgers. A few of the guests in the EMCorp skybox cheered and one Red Sox fan groaned, but most gave it little thought, continuing to chat and enjoy the hospitality.

  “Wow, that was awesome.” Sarah laughed.

  He had a momentary pang of regret, and thought for a moment that he should have just taken his daughter to the game and jettisoned the freeloaders. The thought passed quickly. As much as he loved his daughter, it was commercial necessity that he use the box widely for events like this.

  He turned to Sarah and smiled. “Plenty of time left for some more fireworks.”

  Chen thought it would have been all too easy to pull the trigger the moment Ernest McDowell entered the crosshairs. The amateur—or immature—killer might have taken the shot, which was both simple and inviting. Even some professionals would have been hard pressed to turn down one of the easiest kills of their careers.

  But those weren’t the instructions.

  At the crux of it, he knew that despite the veneer of legitimacy and professional standards of the special forces, retired or not, he was paid to kill people and break stuff. The same colleagues who would have taken the shot, though, were thugs; they had no restraint, no appreciation for detail or the art of their trade.

  He was different. He followed specifications exactly. It was the reason he’d kept vigil on Ernest McDowell for forty minutes, not taking the first shot, but waiting for the best one. A perfect shot that not only produced the desired result, but gave the best chance for escape from the scene with minimum fuss.

  He’d watched McDowell enjoy the highs and suffer the lows of the game so far alongside his daughter. McDowell seemed to pay no attention to the hangers-on who were also in the box. One innings had passed, and then another, until finally the time to strike had come.

  With little emotion, Chen made sure his breathing was slow and waited. He had a perfect understanding of his weapon and his finger pressed on the trigger as much as possible without firing. He applied slow pressure until the precise moment. He was a hair’s breadth away from his final squeeze when he aborted the shot.

  McDowell’s daughter had wrapped her arms around him for a hug. He eased off on the trigger and readjusted his aim slightly. He inhaled deeply, and then exhaled. He took the new target profile into account, inhaled again, and as he exhaled he squeezed the trigger slowly. This time it was enough to fire the weapon.
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  He nearly screamed. The girl had fucked it up. He could see the small spray of fine red mist through his sight and knew the shot had hit. But even as the man fell limp a moment after the round struck home, and chaos and confusion erupted in the box, he knew the shot was off: the girl had punched McDowell on the arm just as Chen had fired.

  The movement had been enough to put the shot through McDowell’s neck, instead of the center of his head. He knew it would probably still be enough to do the job, but it was not the perfection he sought.

  Jack froze. His mind was screaming in protest at the scene in front of him, only vaguely aware of his glass of Coke falling to the ground. Each second felt like an eternity, and all he could seem to recognize was the clunking of the ice on the floor and the slosh of the liquid on the carpet.

  His immediate instinct in that first second or two was to run, but as the others in the suite began to scream and run away from the source of the violence, he stood still. His feet felt like they were set in cement, refusing to move forward, as much as his mind refused to let him run away.

  A woman’s voice called out in distress: “Somebody fucking help my dad!”

  Jack’s feet started to move, his vision widening and life speeding up again. Past the panicked guests who were rushing right at him, he saw several people huddled around a figure on the floor. He had a sinking feeling he knew who it was and what had happened. He had to help.

  He turned to Celeste. “Get out of here!”

  He didn't wait for an answer as he broke into a run. His legs moved faster with each step as he ran the length of the function room. A few times he had to push his way forcefully through the crowd, and the closer he got the more chaos there was. Jack’s mind had not had so much to process since China.

  Ernest McDowell was on his back, writhing in pain and surrounded by blood. His daughter Sarah and a few others were crowded over him, while Peter Weston was shouting for help. When Jack reached Ernest’s side he fell to his knees. Ernest was gulping for air, but when he saw Jack his eyes bulged wider than Jack thought possible.

  Jack grimaced. “Ernest, just take it easy, help is nearly here.”

  Ernest tried to speak, but the gurgling sound that emerged from his throat sounded as if he were trying to suck all the air from the room.

  “Where’s the fucking help, Peter? He’s going to bleed to death.” Jack looked up to Sarah. “And someone get her out of here, she doesn’t need to see this.”

  Ernest coughed and tried to speak again, but all that came out was a gargling sound. Jack didn’t know much about medicine, but the very dark blood running down Ernest’s neck and mouth was not a good sign. Jack’s eyes widened in surprise as Celeste slid down beside him and put her hand over the wound to stem the bleeding.

  “I told you to get out of here!” He stared at her. “It’s not safe!”

  Celeste gave him a dark look. “He saved me too, Jack.”

  “They’re here!” Peter’s voice sounded relieved. “The paramedics are here.”

  Jack looked up. A pair of paramedics were rushing to Ernest’s side. One of them kneeled and took over from Celeste, placing a gloved hand over the wound. The other waved them all away.

  “We’ll take it from here, everyone. You all need to step back.”

  Jack started to climb to his feet and back away, but felt someone squeeze his hand. He looked down. Ernest was pressing his cell phone firmly into Jack’s hand. He grabbed it and looked around. Celeste had noticed and raised an eyebrow, but nobody else seemed to see as he slipped the bloodied phone into his pocket.

  Less than three minutes after his shot had struck home, Chen had finished disassembling his rifle. He walked back to the access hatch and paused only to press a button on his cell phone. He put his hand on the hatch as he heard the small charges he’d placed at four locations around the stadium detonate. The explosions weren’t very large, merely designed to make a lot of noise and blow out smoke. They’d add to the gunshot and together be enough to send the crowd rushing for the exits faster than the police and venue security could handle. The confusion was his ticket out.

  With one last check of his surroundings, making sure no trace was left of his presence, he opened the hatch. He looked down the ladder and saw that despite the mayhem of the past few minutes, the passage was deserted. He closed the hatch on the way down and grunted as he dropped the last few feet to the concrete below.

  He put on a crumpled Yankees cap that had been in the case. He looked the part, complete with an old jersey. He walked quickly along the maze of passages that led him back to the main concourse, where he quietly joined the tidal wave of people rushing to the exits.

  He saw a few police officers and security staff. They were trying hard to wrest back control of the situation, but they had no chance. They were too late to catch him. He was no longer vulnerable to detection. He’d packed up and left the scene flawlessly, now just another scared fan.

  Within five minutes, one suspect suddenly became thousands. There would be an unparalleled manhunt, but with no DNA, footage or fingerprints, the job was complete. A few might remember the Asian Yankees fan with the briefcase, but for all that they may as well have seen Elvis.

  Chen allowed himself a small, barely discernible smirk. For all the money spent on security, it was still easy. The art of killing was not complex once emotion was removed, it simply required thought and planning like any other worthwhile human endeavor. The engineer doesn’t build a bridge without a plan, nor should a killer pull the trigger. There had been no messy bomb killing hundreds, just a single round and a clean getaway. To Chen, it was another face filed away among many. While he was mad his shot hadn’t been perfect, he hoped the result was the right one.

  Even the best got it wrong sometimes.

  16

  There has been significant fallout from the attack on Ernest McDowell, billionaire owner of EMCorp. The Department of Homeland Security has stated it has credible evidence linking the attacks to terrorists and, as the investigation continues, the attack has caused chaos in the markets this morning. The Dow and the NASDAQ, which have both been hammered by the war with China, experienced further falls at the opening bell. EMCorp’s board attempted to soothe the market by announcing caretaker arrangements, though EMCorp shares were off 14.2%.

  Maree Silaski, Wall Street Journal, October 6

  Jack was fascinated by the complex series of machines keeping Ernest alive. He’d watched them for hours, the monitors that bleeped, the screens with colored lines and an array of constantly changing numbers. Another machine—the respirator—inflated and deflated with its own rhythm, ensuring that Ernest continued to breathe.

  Jack had been there from the moment Ernest exited surgery. The only others allowed into the suite were Peter Weston, Josefa Tokaloka and Ernest’s daughter, Sarah. They’d kept a constant vigil for the last day, sharing some dark jokes about the suite being big enough for all of them to move into permanently.

  Nothing had changed with Ernest’s condition in those hours, all Jack had noticed was the increase in the number of well-wishers sending flowers, presents and other trinkets. It had been a constant stream. While the hospital had flexed their muscles and restricted the number of visitors, they seemed powerless to stop the avalanche of gifts.

  He had spent hours searching through the cell phone Ernest had handed him. He knew that the phone must have some answers, given the energy Ernest had expended handing it to him. At first, he’d tried to unlock the phone using any date or number of significance he could find on Ernest’s Wikipedia page. None had worked, until he’d tried Sarah McDowell’s birthday. The problem was that there was so much on the phone it would take days or weeks to dig through everything and find what Ernest wanted found. Jack wouldn’t give up.

  He sighed and looked away from the machines. He knew that his presence here would make no difference to Ernest’s recovery, but he didn’t leave. He was not a religious man, so there was no point in praying. So he
waited and watched the machines keep Ernest alive. He owed it to the man who’d secured his release from China. Was this the price that had been paid? Was he the reason Ernest was lying there?

  Jack heard the electric door behind him whir open. He turned to see Peter Weston entering the room with an armful of flowers and cards. Jack patted his pocket, making sure the phone was still there, then smiled sadly at Peter as he placed the gifts on a coffee table. Peter collapsed into the armchair next to Jack.

  Peter looked up at him and rubbed his temples. “Still here?”

  “Yeah, there’s been no change.”

  “You can go home for a while. Nobody will think less of you.”

  Jack shrugged. “I would. I owe him. Sitting here is hardly a big deal.”

  Peter nodded and sank back into his seat. They sat in silence for several minutes. Jack considered telling Peter about the phone, but held off for now. Ernest had handed the phone to him, not to Peter, and he wondered if there was a reason. Maybe Ernest had distrusted Peter, in which case telling him about the phone would be a mistake.

  Peter sighed, breaking Jack’s reverie. “Cops came by the office earlier.”

  Jack nodded. “They came here again too. Just confirmed a few facts. I still don’t really understand it though. It was the sort of attack normally aimed at a president, except Ernest didn’t have the Secret Service by his side.”

  “Homeland Security is saying terrorists, but I’m not buying it.” Peter shook his head. “He’s a prominent man, with a lot of enemies. The cops won’t find anything.”

  Jack was silent as he watched Peter closely. He had a pained look on his face, especially when he spoke of the enemies Ernest had made. Jack considered that Peter had probably been at Ernest’s side when he’d made some of them. He made his decision, rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out the phone.