by Peter Sexton
“And you haven’t gone to the cops directly cuz they’ll think you’re out of your mind.” It wasn’t a question.
“Pretty much,” Miranda said. “Also, they made it look like my dad and I were working together. Right now I’m wanted for murder.”
“So do we know where these trucks are? Where they’re headed?”
Trammel said, “We don’t know the actual destin- ation, but I have a pretty good idea of the route they’ll be taking.”
“How many trucks?”
“Four.”
“Can we hit them before they get on the road?”
Trammel shook his head and frowned. “They’re already moving.”
Jimmy looked at his watch. He was about to comment when Franky walked in with the food and wine. The chef turned Jimmy’s desk into a makeshift dining room table in less than a minute.
“Thanks for all of the food, Mr. Gemignani,” Miranda said. “That was very kind of you.”
“Forget that ‘Mr. Gemignani’ shit. Call me Jimmy.” To Trammel, he said, “When you’re done eating, we’ll see what we can do about your arm. I need to go make a few calls. If any of you need anything, have Sarah call Franky in the kitchen and he’ll take care of it for you.”
“This is more than fine, Jimmy,” Miranda said. “Thank you, again.”
They all ate their food while Jimmy was out of the room making his phone calls. After several min- utes, he returned. “How’s everything?”
Miranda was in mid-bite, so she just nodded and gave him a thumbs-up.
There was a knock at the door, and a young man entered, crossed the room, and spoke quietly with Jimmy. Jimmy lifted one side of the tablecloth covering his desk and reached into the drawer he had opened earlier and removed a nickel-plated handgun and pushed it into the holster he was wearing under his black blazer. He pulled out two additional maga- zines, confirmed they were loaded, and dropped them into his coat pocket.
He said, “Everyone’s here now. Once we’re on the road we don’t let anyone know where we’re heading ‘til we’re pulling up at the front door.”
“Good,” Miranda said. After eating several more quick bites, she dabbed at her mouth with her cloth napkin and stood up. “I’m ready.”
Three dark-blue Ford Expeditions were out front on Sunset Boulevard, when Jimmy escorted Trammel and the women out of Ferraro’s, one of his Los Angeles-based Italian restaurants. Miranda glanced around anxiously, expecting shots to ring out at any moment. There were three men in each vehicle, all dressed in expensively tailored suits and donning dark sunglasses. Each man had one hand conspic- uously hidden under his designer coat, scanning up and down the street. One of the men opened the side door of the second Expedition.
Jimmy said, “We’re all going in the second car. One car will lead, another follows behind.”
Everyone mounted the Expeditions. Miranda watched as Jimmy gently grabbed Sarah by the arm and said, “It’s gonna be all right, baby.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m not gonna let nothin’ happen to you.” He glanced at Miranda and Trammel. “To any of you.”
Seventy-Two
It was all over the network news. Every channel General Foster tuned to was either spinning news of the conspiracy theory, or suggesting who all the key players might be. On channel seven Foster saw the White House seal plastered all across the screen. He stopped there and turned up the volume. A male news commentator Foster didn’t recognize announced that the President’s address was mere moments away. Then the screen went black for a moment. When it came back the President was at the podium. He launched right into his speech.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “Along with our friends around the world, America has been enjoying a time of relative peace and freedom. A peace that has gone unchallenged, a freedom that has been well appreciated.” He paused. “But I’m afraid that peace may be coming to an end, and that freedom has indeed been infringed upon.
“My fellow citizens, just an hour ago we received intelligence that a radical terrorist group plans to deploy a deadly chemical agent in or around one or more of our military bases overseas. At this time we have not identified the specific target, or targets. However, we have confirmed that the threat is genuine. All of our personnel are on high-alert, and all possible precautions are being taken.”
Foster watched silently as the President contin- ued to address the nation regarding the “threat.” After several minutes, the President concluded his address and left the podium and the screen once again went black. Almost immediately following the address, General Foster’s phone rang.
He let it go unanswered. General Foster turned off the television and sat back in his chair, continuing to ignore the ringing phone. No doubt it was a reporter or someone from the White House staff. He feared he had received his last communication from the man himself.
He started thinking about the evidence. How far up would the paper trail lead? All the way to the top? Or would it stop with him? He thought about Lee and Anderson. Had he put too much trust in Anderson’s ability to get things done, too much trust in his own...eye for detail, his ability to exercise extreme caution? Had this trust sealed his own fate?
There was a sharp knock at the door before it opened and his secretary entered.
“Is everything all right, Sir?”
Foster was staring at a cluster of photographs on the east wall of his office. A long moment passed before he turned his attention to the woman. He gave her a half nod. “Yes,” he said. “Fine. Thank you.”
He said nothing more as the woman remained standing at the open door.
“What is it?” Foster asked.
She hesitated, a worried look on her face. “You’re not answering your phone,” she finally said.
“Not much in the mood for conversation right now.”
“Yes, Sir.”
As the woman was leaving his office, Foster’s private line rang. She stopped at the door and glanced back toward the ringing phone. It, too, went unanswered. Foster made no move toward it whatsoever.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“No, Sir,” the woman said. “Sorry, Sir.”
Seventy-Three
The three dark-blue Expeditions exited the 210 free- way at White Oak Avenue and proceeded cautiously onto Harrington Drive. No one spoke until the caravan had pulled into White Oak Park.
“We’re meeting the reporter at the horse track?” Sarah asked.
“I like this place,” Jimmy said. “Do a little business, wager on the ponies. I have a private room in the Club House.”
“Since when have you been interested in race horses?”
Jimmy smiled. “Since a year ago when I bought one.”
“You bought a race horse?”
“What’s wrong with that?” Jimmy asked.
“What’s his name?” Miranda asked.
Jimmy stole a quick glance toward Sarah before he said, “My Girl Sarah.”
Miranda struggled to hold back a laugh.
“You named a horse after me,” Sarah said good-naturedly.
“A very beautiful horse,” Jimmy said, “with pride and class.”
“How many races has she run?” Trammel asked.
“Two,” Jimmy said. “She took second her first race on a photo-finish, and won her second.”
Jimmy looked out the window and scanned the area as the Expeditions pulled to a stop at the curb along the Preferred Parking area. He drew his pistol, released the safety, and held the weapon flat against his leg. Sarah, Miranda and Trammel all drew weapons of their own.
“You ain’t gonna need those,” Jimmy said. “This is gonna go down like clockwork.”
They all kept their guns out.
Miranda said, “After everything I’ve already been through, I’ll feel better with this in my hand.” It surprised her how quickly she had come to rely on a gun to feel safe. It was a dangerous world. It bothered her just how dangerous.
“Fine,” Jimmy sai
d, “but you won’t need it.”
The men from the lead and tail Expeditions exited their vehicles and proceeded to secure a path into the park. The Preferred Parking area was considerably less crowded than general admission, so there were fewer people present to observe and question their activities. Two of the men were wear- ing overcoats. Miranda caught a glimpse of a shotgun under one of the coats. Knowing the amount of firepower they had on their side, Miranda should have felt confident and safe. She should have, but she didn’t. Couldn’t.
One of the men knocked on the window next to Jimmy. Jimmy lowered the window and listened as the man explained that everything looked good.
After raising the window again, Jimmy said, “Ready?”
Miranda took a slow, deep breath. “Let’s do it.” She held a large manila envelope snug under her left arm, her gun in her right, held just under her jacket.
They all climbed out of the Expedition and followed the lead men. The two men who rode in their vehicle followed behind them. Everyone was scanning the area for danger as they proceeded into the park.
Trammel said, “Where’s your private room?”
“Club House on Level Five,” Jimmy said, as he continued walking toward the building.
“When’s the reporter supposed to get here?” Miranda asked.
“He’s already here. I told Angel to make sure he was ready for us before we got out of the car.”
Trammel: “And he’s gonna help us track down the trucks? Go on the air with this tonight?”
“Might not even wait ‘til tonight. Said once he sees the evidence for himself, knows everything we told him is legit, he’ll call his contact at the FBI. He figures it’ll be a law enforcement-slash-media circus when we find and take down the trucks.”
“If we find them,” Miranda said.
“If my hunch is right about the trucks Anderson had me arrange, and if everything I heard about that underground railroad is true,” Trammel said.
“Jesus! That’s a lot of ‘ifs’ I just heard,” Sarah said.
“Don’t sweat it, beautiful,” Jimmy told her.
They all stood in front of the elevator, surrounded by a human barrier of their own security, waiting for the elevator car to arrive. When the doors finally slid open the elevator operator stepped out.
“Hello, Mr. Gemignani,” he said.
Everyone made their way into the elevator. The ascent to the fifth level seemed to take forever. And when the light panel indicated they were approaching their destination, Jimmy told Trammel and the women to move back into the corner, away from the door. The two men in overcoats pulled out their shotguns, pumped them with one hand, and held them ready in front of them. The elevator operator didn’t seem shocked or bothered by the appearance of the weapons, as though something like this happened here every day.
When the door slid open, the first two men exited, scanned, then two more exited and scanned. Jimmy, Sarah, Miranda and then Trammel followed, flanked by the men with the shotguns under their overcoats.
“It’s clear,” Jimmy said, “let’s go.”
They moved cautiously through the Club House dining room. Through the large windows to the right was the track. A few patrons glanced in their direction as they passed. Miranda recognized none of the faces. This is gonna work, she thought. We’re gonna make it. She smelled some kind of chicken dish. It seemed like a strange detail to notice, but it suddenly seemed to overpower all else.
“How you doing?” Sarah whispered to Miranda.
“Okay,” Miranda said. Her eyes continued to scan the faces of the various patrons.
“I told you,” Jimmy said, “piece of cake.”
And that’s when Miranda noticed the gunman.
“Get down!” she shouted, as she shielded Sarah and pushed her to the ground behind a heavy wooden podium at what must have been a hostess station.
Suddenly the room was filled with screaming people and explosions of gunfire. Several bullets tore into the podium. And while blocking Sarah’s body with her own, Miranda returned fire. Several of Jimmy’s men were down and bleeding, either barely moving or not moving at all. When she ran out of bullets, Miranda looked around for Steven Trammel, but couldn’t see him. As she continued searching, she saw Jimmy. He was behind an upturned table, re- turning fire. He looked over at Miranda and said, “You hit?”
“No,” Miranda said. “We’re okay.”
“We gotta get the fuck outta here,” Jimmy yelled.
More shots rang out. More screams. People began running for the doors. The room was bedlam and pandemonium.
Miranda ejected her spent magazine and slammed a fully loaded one into the Glock and fired several more times. Then two of Jimmy’s men appeared from the stairwell. Miranda saw Steven there too. They made eye contact, and he silently motioned her to wait just a moment longer. Several more shots from what sounded like automatic weapons, then the room fell completely silent. Most of the bystanders had escaped, and those who hadn’t run for an exit re- mained hiding as best they could.
“You okay, Jimmy?” one of the men asked.
Jimmy didn’t answer. He grabbed Miranda by the arm and pulled her up off Sarah.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s get out of here.”
Sarah was slow to her feet.
“Come on, baby,” Jimmy said. “We fuckin’ gotta move.”
They followed Steven and Jimmy’s men down the stairs at a run.
“You okay, baby?” Jimmy asked Sarah. Sarah didn’t answer him, just kept running. Jimmy turned his attention from Sarah for just a moment, and said, “Miranda, you okay?”
“Yeah,” she answered.
“Fucking reporter must have told someone where he was going and why. I warned him! I told him what we all could be up against.”
On the ground level, Steven and Jimmy’s two remaining men took positions in front of Jimmy and the women and quickly scanned the area. Confident that the coast was clear, the men signaled everyone out to the vehicle.
“All right,” Jimmy said, “let’s go. Don’t stop until you’re in the car.”
They took the remaining distance at a sprint, heading for the third Expedition. People scattered out of their way as they ran. White Oak Park security personnel were attempting to get a handle on the situation. Sirens could already be heard in the near distance, closing in. Jimmy had his hand on the car door when a black Crown Victoria came out of nowhere and rammed their vehicle from behind.
“Get in the car,” Jimmy screamed. He drew down on the driver of the Crown Vic and opened fire.
Miranda scrambled to the door of the SUV, fumbled with the handle and couldn’t get the door open. Jimmy moved around the black sedan with one of his men, both apparently ready for another assault. But none came. The driver of the sedan was dead, foot still pressing down on the accelerator causing the smaller vehicle to nudge the Expedition forward, making it more difficult for Miranda to get a firm grip on the door handle.
“Get in,” Jimmy shouted again.
“I can’t get the fucking door!” Miranda shouted back, her adrenaline causing her to shake uncontrol- lably, to fumble with the door handle. She dropped the manila envelope and quickly crouched to retrieve it. She tried again at the door, and finally had the handle firmly in her hand and was pulling the door open when she heard another volley of shots ring out and saw one of Jimmy’s men slam forward against the driver’s door of their vehicle, closing the open door again from the force.
Miranda turned in time to see a tall black woman running toward them from the track, a large handgun in each hand, firing in her direction. Miranda’s ears were ringing from all the explosions of gunfire. She barely heard Jimmy screaming at her and Sarah to get down. But there was no time.
The black woman kept coming.
And she kept shooting.
Miranda stepped in front of Sarah as she lifted her own weapon and fired several times at the approach- ing woman. When her gun was empty, Miranda heard still more
gunshots and figured that Jimmy was still returning fire. She saw Jimmy’s other man go down, heard Jimmy utter a painful cry and let out a loud curse over what turned out to be the black woman’s final round of gunshots.
And then Miranda felt her chest erupt in fire, as though an explosive device had been detonated from within. The blasts threw her backwards into Sarah with a force that carried them both into the side of the Expedition.
“MIRANDA!” Trammel screamed from his crouched position, from where he fired several shots at the black woman. He continued firing until the hammer of his weapon fell on an expended casing. His gun was empty. And the black woman appeared to be dead. He climbed to his feet and hurried to Miranda.
The last of the gunfire melted into scattered screams and the wail of sirens.
Seventy-Four
Brigadier General Nelson Foster was sitting in his dark office, the only light coming from a television mounted in the north-east corner of the room, when Tom Brokaw came onto the screen. Foster had yanked the phone cord out of the wall more than an hour earlier in an attempt to avoid the inevitable. He moved closer to the television and turned up the volume in time to hear Brokaw say, “...rescheduling our regularly programmed show tonight to bring you this breaking story: Could the White House be behind the recent threat to American soldiers overseas? It’s disturbing to even consider the possibility. However, less than an hour ago I received solid, irrefutable evidence that proves just that.
“The story actually begins several days ago with the investigation of Earth’s Own Flavors chemist, Edward August, who had been suspected of tainting several cases of, not only Earth’s Own baby food products, but those of its closest competitor, Faber’s brand, as well.
“August, found dead approximately eight days ago, had been purported to be the victim of suicide. However, new information proves that August was actually murdered. Physical and electronic evidence provides a clear link to high-ranking government officials.
“U.S. Independent Counsel, Lydia Johnson, has been assigned to investigate the situation to deter- mine whether or not criminal charges will need to be filed.
