by J. B. Turner
THIRTY-NINE
Meyerstein’s car pulled up at the outer security cordon and she stepped out. She walked up to the huge security guard, Reznick by her side, and flashed her badge. “FBI,” she said. “Assistant Director Meyerstein. Who is your head of security?”
The man-mountain shrugged. “Your guys are already inside.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Three Feds, Miami FBI.”
“Get me your head of security now, goddamit!”
The man radioed the instruction. A few moments later a well-groomed man in a pale-blue suit appeared.
“Trevor Armstrong,” he said. “How can I help?”
Meyerstein sighed and repeated what she had said to the security guard. “So we need immediate access. I also want to see the details of the FBI individuals who went through earlier.”
“I’m sorry – that’s not possible. This area is out of your jurisdiction. We run a very tight ship. And whilst I’d be delighted to grant you extra passes, it might take an hour or so.”
Meyerstein took a step forward and stared at the man. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. We need to know who is here today. Now.”
“The database is strictly confidential. You can understand that.”
The sound of a car pulling up sharply could be heard behind them. Meyerstein turned and saw it was full of FBI Miami. She signaled the special agent in charge across. “Jimmy, come here,” she said.
Jimmy Albright stepped forward and stood beside Meyerstein. “Ma’am?”
“This gentleman says there are three accredited FBI Miami special agents already inside.”
Albright screwed up his face. “Absolutely, categorically not.”
Reznick stepped forward and eyeballed the head of security. “Categorically not, he said. So here’s the thing, pal. You either move aside or you’ll be placed under arrest. What’s it going to be?”
The head of security showed his palms. “Woah … guys.”
“Make the call,” Reznick said, “right fucking now!”
The head of security said, “You can’t have access to such things!”
Reznick grabbed the man by the throat and pressed tight. “This is how it’s going to work, you sanctimonious fuck. We’re going in. And you’re going to stay here with your guys and make sure no one leaves.”
The man’s eyes were filling with tears. “Sure, sure!” He handed an iPad with a list of delegates and security attendees to Reznick.
Reznick let the man go and began to scan the list as Meyerstein edged closer.
“Jon, we really need to work on your social skills.”
“Let’s talk about that later.” He pulled up the names and photos of the three FBI accredited agents. Reznick immediately saw the unmistakable face of Hunter Cain and Ken Pearce. “These are our guys. And one other we don’t know.”
Meyerstein looked at the faces long and hard before she handed the iPad to Albright. “These your guys?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I want full tactical back-up right now. This is a Code 42. Do you understand? And I want this place on total lockdown, got it?”
Albright nodded and pulled out his cellphone.
Reznick had seen enough. He brushed past the head of security. His men just looked on as Meyerstein followed close by.
“Jon, where are you going? You can’t go in without a plan. You know that.”
“It’s too late for plans. We’re clean out of time. Their operation is underway, Meyerstein. And we need to locate these fucks. This is going down as we speak.”
FORTY
Hunter Cain squeezed into a spare seat in the back row of the main auditorium. He felt the contours of the Semtex plastic under his shirt. He grinned and adjusted his spectacles. Then he scratched the false beard under his chin. He turned and smiled at the delegates either side of him and they smiled back.
He turned and saw Pearce standing beside security, pretending to talk into his cellphone. His gaze wandered around the auditorium. At the far end, diagonally opposite where he was seated, he made eye contact with the instructor, who gave a small nod in his direction.
On the big screens a small bespectacled man appeared. Applause rang out. He walked on to the stage, a huge backdrop of the Manhattan skyline at night behind him.
Cain began to clap too. He nodded as those around joined in too. He felt a surge of adrenalin rush through him. He was so ready it was unreal.
The man on stage looked out over the audience and smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to welcome you all to this introductory meeting and greeting. We think it’s never been so important to communicate and facilitate the exchange of ideas to protect and grow the economies of our world. Great cities like New York, where I live, know the importance of the global economy. The importance of strong security in an uncertain world. A more interconnected world. But a world where we need to defend our values.”
Cain felt his stomach knot.
The man cleared his throat. “Our organization is much maligned. Some say it’s a secretive club of bankers, politicians on the make, and military strategists who love starting wars. That’s only partly true.”
The auditorium erupted with laughter and clapping.
“But seriously, we are all about charting strategies for the twenty-first century and beyond. We’ve got to think even more seriously about existential threats. But also threats to the hegemony of the United States of America as the bulwark against China, a resurgent Russia and a recalcitrant Iran. We need to protect the interests of our America all around the world. And that’s why, over the next forty-eight hours, we will hopefully come up with a working agenda for the Bilderberg conference in the fall.”
Cain peered over the top of his glasses. He watched as the instructor got to his feet. Took out the Magnum. Fired two shots straight at the speaker’s face. One side of the man’s head ripped apart as blood and brains splattered onto the projected image of New York in the background. Screams and pandemonium as delegates ran for cover.
It was like in slow motion. The instructor turned and shot the man either side of him.
Cain stayed seated as everyone fled. The instructor shouted: “Freedom from tyranny!”
Then he put the gun in his mouth and blew his own brains out.
FORTY-ONE
The sound of the gunshots flicked a switch in Jon Reznick. He pushed his way through glass doors and headed in the direction of the gunfire. He turned and saw Meyerstein in hot pursuit, gun in hand. His earpiece crackled into life.
“Reznick.” The voice of the special agent in charge of the FBI in Miami, Albright. “My guys are leading! Do you understand?”
“I don’t see any SWAT. Listen, I’m on this. You need to tell me where Hunter Cain disappeared to once he was cleared to go inside.”
“Jon, we’re looking over the footage as we speak. He headed down to level minus three, which is a sub-basement, lockers.”
“Then what?”
“He headed in with Pearce half a dozen yards behind him.”
Reznick saw a sign for the auditorium. “He’s the blocker. What else?”
“We can’t see what’s happened to him.”
“No cameras inside?”
“Apparently not.”
“Fuck. Listen, Albright, check the footage. Face recognition. Run it all. He’s here.”
“Will do. Take care.”
The sound of screaming and shouting and arguing and frightened voices drifted towards him. Reznick headed through more doors and was met by a swarm of delegates rushing towards him, fleeing.
“Get the hell out of here, man!” one shouted at Reznick.
Reznick pressed on and pushed through the delegates. He turned and saw Meyerstein with a SWAT team.
“Jon, wait!” she shouted.
But Reznick didn’t. He turned and headed into a lobby area, and then into the auditorium, the smell of gun
shot and smoke in the air. He saw two men in suits bending down over the man on the podium, weeping. Reznick saw the man had been blown away at close range. But it wasn’t Cain or Pearce. He turned and saw two security guards beside the shooter. Back of his head missing, oozing God knows what.
Reznick flashed his FBI badge. “There are two others!”
The guards just shrugged. “Man, I’m sorry. This is kinda fucked I guess, but I don’t know what the hell is happening.”
Reznick kicked over a chair and spoke into his cuff to confirm the shooter was dead. “Cain and Pearce still inside the complex! The dead man is not Cain or Pearce!” He headed back out into the lobby. The earpiece crackled into life.
“Jon, we copy that. We just heard gunshots on the fourth floor.”
Reznick headed through some doors to the stairwell and bounded up two steps at a time.
“SWAT are dealing with gunshots on the second floor. A dozen lying dead.”
“Fuck.”
“Please be aware Secret Service are on the fourth floor. They will shoot to kill.”
“Good.”
“One final thing.”
“Hang on … standby.”
Reznick headed up and up, heart pounding hard. He was only one level from the fourth. “What is it?”
“Cain is now wearing a beard and spectacles. He’s shot two Secret Service men.”
The line went dead.
Reznick had a sense of foreboding unlike any he’d ever known.
FORTY-TWO
Hunter Cain ignored the sound of screaming and alarms going off as he prowled the second floor. His earpiece crackled into life.
“Target identified on fourth floor.” The voice of Pearce.
“Good work.”
“Hunter, they got me. I’m not gonna make it, bro.”
Cain felt as if his head was going to explode. “I’m coming, buddy.” He rode the elevator to the fourth floor. He took out the handgun and concealed it behind his briefcase. The elevator door opened.
He could see Pearce lying soaked in blood and at a weird angle alongside two dead Secret Service agents.
Cain spotted the target in a state of shock stumbling past. He dropped the briefcase and grabbed him. Then he pressed the gun to the former president’s temple.
Suddenly he saw another Secret Service man lying crouched on the corridor carpet, aiming a handgun in his direction.
“Put down the gun!” the guy shouted.
Cain pressed his face close to the back of the ex-president’s ear. “How much you getting paid for taking blood money off the corporations, sir?”
The ex-president began to shake uncontrollably.
“What was that? You don’t care? Is that what you said? Because that’s exactly what it fucking sounded like, you fuck. I know exactly how you’re being paid. You were paid three months before this speech. A rather secret Swiss bank account. Five million US dollars to give a speech, and schmooze with these blood-sucking bastards all weekend. You think that’s a fair price? What’s that as an hourly rate, sir? I’ll tell you what it is. It’s far more than I’ll ever earn in a hundred lifetimes. I fought for my country. I went to war with people I’ve never met. And you know what I came back to? Nothing! No gratitude. No love. No money. No respect. You know how many friends of mine died in shitholes out there?”
The ex-president said, “I’m begging you …”
Cain pressed the barrel of the gun tight to the ex-president’s neck. The carotid artery was pulsating. He turned and faced the Secret Service man. “Drop your weapon or he dies. I’m going to count to five. And then he’s gone. Make your choice.”
The sirens wailed.
The Secret Service agent got to his feet and took a step forward. “You will do what I say. Drop the goddamn weapon! Now! There’s no escape!”
Cain began to laugh. He leaned in close behind the ex-president. He slid the barrel slowly under the man’s right arm. Then he fired. The agent fell to the ground, clutching his shoulder as the gun fell out of his hand.
Cain stared at the guy for just a second. Then he pulled the trigger. Blood and gray matter splattered off the beige walls.
The ex-president collapsed to the ground, clutching his chest.
Cain began to smile. He ripped off his beard and threw away the glasses. He leaned down and hauled the ex-president to his feet. “Helluva day, huh?”
FORTY-THREE
As he bounded up to the fourth floor, Jon Reznick could hear the threats and shouts from Cain amid the fog of smoke and din of fire alarms. He peered through a glass door and squinted. The Florida sun was flooding through the windows. His brain was racing.
Think, goddamn it, think.
The memory of the ex-president pleading for his life, sobbing, and begging Cain for forgiveness, cut into him like a knife.
Reznick’s earpiece crackled into life.
“Jon, where the hell are you?”
Reznick pressed his mouth to his cuff. “Fourth floor. Ex-president about to be killed.” He leaned over and cracked the door. He sensed Cain was close to the stairwells. He craned his neck through the door and looked right. Twenty yards down the corridor Cain was laughing as he dragged the handcuffed ex-president through a fire-escape door.
Fuck.
“Be advised,” Reznick whispered, “Cain heading to the stairs on the north side of the fourth floor. Handcuffed to ex-President Adamson.”
The earpiece crackled. “Jon?” The voice of Meyerstein. “Jon, Assistant Director Meyerstein. We copy that. You have full authorization to do what you see fit. I repeat, full authorization. SWAT are headed up the stairs on the north side. They’re on the second floor.”
Reznick made a mental calculation. “They’ve got that covered. I’m headed up.”
He ran down the corridor and through the doors. Higher up the stairs came the sound of footsteps, panting and sobbing.
Reznick bounded up the stairs two at a time. “He’s on five! But I think he’s headed higher.”
The earpiece static whistled in his ear. “Repeat, take down Cain!”
Reznick headed higher. Senses switched on. Dark thoughts crowded his head. He pushed them aside. He was back in the zone. The seconds were counting down.
FORTY-FOUR
Hunter Cain was breathing hard as he dragged the handcuffed ex-president to a fire-exit door on the sixth floor. He pulled the handle. Locked. “Fuck.” He shot off the lock and pushed it open. Harsh sunlight flooded in. He headed out on to the roof of the complex. Views of Fisher Island. Biscayne Bay and the skyscrapers of downtown Miami in the distance. “Wow, now this is nice, huh?”
The target was sobbing hard. “Please … I have no idea who you are, or what your grievances are.”
Cain grabbed the target by the hair and dragged him to the edge of the roof terrace. He looked down and saw cop cars and dazzling lights down below. “Bit of a crowd already.”
“Please, I beg you. I have a wife, children. Grandchildren.”
“You know what I have? Nothing. I have no wife. No family. No anything. Do you think that’s fair? Well, do you?”
Ex-President Adamson bowed his head, as if resigned to his fate. “Please … son, I’m begging you …”
“I ain’t your son, you fuck. You corrupt fuck. You think you represent me? You think you represent America? The real America? Well, listen to me. I’m the real fucking America.” Cain took off his tie with his free hand and ripped open his shirt, partially exposing the Semtex vest strapped to his tattooed torso. He flicked a switch on the front, connected to a cellphone and battery inside the vest, and a red light flashed on.
The ex-president glanced round and saw what Cain had strapped to his body. He closed his eyes and began to pray.
Cain pressed the gun to his head. “Praying ain’t gonna save you. Praying ain’t saved no one. You ever seen anyone blown up by a suicide vest, Mr President? No, I don’t suppose you have.”
He pulled the cellphone out of his pocket, pressed a button and began to film himself and his victim. “This is gonna go viral like you wouldn’t believe, bro.” He began to laugh, cackling maniacally. “This is a great day to die, ain’t it?”
FORTY-FIVE
The sound of laughing seeped through the partially open rooftop door. Jon Reznick peered out and saw the dire situation. He pulled back from the door. He looked up and squinted as the fierce sunlight streamed through a skylight above. His mind raced.
“Meyerstein, are you there?” he whispered into his cuff.
“Yeah, Jon. SWAT are fanning out.”
“Please be aware, Cain is handcuffed to the ex-president and wearing a suicide vest.”
“Goddamn.”
“I need bolt cutters.”
“Hold the line, Jon.” A few moments later. “Jon … bolt cutters with Team B.”
“What?”
“Long story.”
“We haven’t got time. Almost certainly already set on a timer.”
“Jon, full authorization to do the necessary. Right now.”
“Got it.”
Reznick saw piles of tables and conference chairs in the corner. He pulled out a table and put a chair on top. He clambered up and reached for the steel frame of the skylight. Then he pulled himself up and peeked over the edge. He was located ten yards diagonally behind Cain. He needed to shoot from a particular angle, or Cain would inadvertently pull his captor over the edge.
He hoisted himself up onto the roof terrace. Cain’s wild ranting was in the ex-president’s face.
Reznick aimed at Cain. He needed to be sure. Suddenly Cain spun round, the look of a cornered animal in his eyes. In that second, memories flooded back through Reznick’s head. This was the man he had fought with. He stared at his friend for a split second.
Time seemed to stop. He felt the cold metal of the trigger. Pulled it twice. Two bullets ripped into the forehead. Blood erupted from the wounds.
Cain slumped to the ground and fell backward. His limp body began to drag Adamson towards the edge.
