WINNER TAKES ALL

by Robert Bidinotto

  It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best they could do. They’d be glad when it was over.

  2

  When he first saw news of the event posted on the candidate’s website, Lasher headed to Arlington, then drove the streets around the park, studying the area. He couldn’t believe the Secret Service team would permit their candidate to appear in a place this exposed. If Helm and his people insisted on coming here, they were suicidal idiots.

  He returned the next day in disguise, in case any advance team was keeping an eye on the area. While kids played in the sports fields, he pretended to be a bird watcher, using a camera and tripod to snap photos of birds—and of the various buildings in the area, lines of sight, obstructions. He had plenty of options about where to set up, but that depended on where, exactly, they would position Helm.

  The safest place for him would be in the small parking area bordering the north wall of the library. With the building at his back, Helm would be protected from any sniper perched in the tall structures to the south. But Lasher didn’t think it likely they’d hold the ceremony here; small trees bordering the parking lot would block the crowd standing in the field from seeing him clearly.

  No, the ideal spot for visibility to his followers also would be the worst from the security standpoint: at the far northern end of the park, in the baseball infield, where VIPs could sit in the bleachers behind him while he spoke. His speculation was confirmed the same evening, when he read in a local paper that Helm would throw out the first pitch of the new Little League season.

  Lasher showed up for a third day, Wednesday, this time in jogging clothes. He spent the first twenty minutes trotting around the park grounds, pausing briefly to flirt with a soccer mom watching her kid on the field, and otherwise looking normal, before wandering over to sit on the bleachers and sip from a water bottle. He lounged back, breathing deeply, resting his arms on the riser behind him, his sunglasses turned up toward the sun—and the high-rises just a few hundred meters in the distance. He noted which balconies and windows in which buildings afforded the best possibilities for concealment, and which had the line of sight blocked by trees. He took out his cell phone and pretended to place a call, then paced around the area near home plate and the bleachers while he surreptitiously snapped photos of the distant buildings.

  After half an hour, he drove back to his latest hotel room with the sketch of a plan in mind. He had a lot of preparation ahead of him.

  3

  Hunter had more than enough to preoccupy himself when Bronowski called late Friday, begging him to do a follow-up interview with Roger Helm, to run as a sidebar with his Sunday story. He wanted Helm’s response to the recent terrorism and to the growing scandal in the Spencer campaign.

  When Hunter phoned the campaign’s press secretary, he was told the candidate had no time Saturday for a phone interview, but that Hunter was welcome to join him at a noon ceremony in Arlington, then interview him afterward in his car, en route to his next campaign stop in downtown D.C.

  To reach the ball field, Hunter had to park on 11th Street and walk over, crossing North Quincy. It took ten minutes for two lines of cops, then a couple of Secret Service agents, to verify his press credentials and the faxed invitation from Helm’s press secretary, then send him through a body scanner set up in the parking area behind home plate.

  Out on the field a rope line, manned by cops and Secret Service agents, had been strung along the base paths, and a crowd of at least fifteen hundred was already there, with many more arriving. TV camera crews had set up between the pitcher’s mound and second base, to get promised shots of Helm tossing a pitch to a Little League catcher.

  Just to the right of home plate they’d put a small platform with a lectern; it blossomed with spiky microphones, like a cactus plant. A couple of large speakers attached to tall metal stands aimed toward the crowd. About a dozen boys in Little League uniforms stood near the first-base dugout with four men who must have been their coaches. Just beyond, on the bleachers, members of a local school band, dressed in smart navy-blue-and-white uniforms, were tuning up.

  The print press, about two dozen, milled on the third base side. Hunter joined them reluctantly, knowing what was coming.

  “Well, well, well—if it isn’t the international man of mystery.”

  “The fake reporter has arrived to gather more fake news.”

  “Did the Marshals Service give you a furlough from your witness protection?”

  “Careful, now, don’t piss him off. He could be a mobster under alias.”

  “That face . . . he does look like a Mob enforcer, doesn’t he?”

  “Or maybe he’s a spy.”

  “Yeah, but for what country?”

  “Come on, the last Nazi spies died years ago.”

  He ignored them. He’d been trained to undergo far worse than verbal harassment, and knew that after failing to provoke a response, they’d soon lose interest. Besides, the terrorism attack had reminded him always to keep his situational awareness focused on what was happening around him.

  Hunter hated crowds. Here, in the open and without a weapon, he felt naked. He stepped toward the third-base dugout, to have a bit of a protective barrier at his back.

  Eyes hidden behind sunglasses, he surveyed the crowd, the expansive field beyond, and the line of apartment towers barely a quarter mile away, under the bright midday sun. Those buildings especially bothered him. He spotted counter sniper teams on several rooftops, but they had way too much to watch.

  Who in hell approved this event location, anyway?

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Four hundred twenty-five meters south on North Quincy Street, a large apartment building soared into the clear May sky. It towered behind a low, single-story commercial building that occupied the corner of North Quincy and Fairfax Drive. Because of that, the high-rise—unlike its neighbors—was set back about three hundred feet from Fairfax. And that setback allowed a neighboring building to block it from the view of the Secret Service’s rooftop counter-snipers, who were positioned farther down Fairfax.

  All along the broad front of the massive building, balconies faced Quincy Park. These stood exposed to the eyes of agents in the park, who were watching the buildings through binoculars. However, another set of balconies, much harder to see, clung to the eastern side of the building above North Quincy Street. These offered only narrow, end-on views toward the park.

  For Lasher, though, their three-foot width was quite enough.

  He lay prone on the seventeenth-floor apartment balcony, which he’d made a little more comfortable with pillows taken from the bedroom. He had hung large brown bath towels over its railings to obscure his presence. In hands covered by shooting gloves was his newest toy: a Desert Tactical Arms SRS—a compact, bolt-action sniper rifle in .308 Winchester. He had zeroed and fired it at a local range, delighted that it lived up to its impressive accuracy claims. The weapon rested nice and steady on its front bipod as he tracked across the baseball field through a Schmidt & Bender 5-25x scope.

  Trammel sure had a right to worry about Helm’s popularity. Thousands had shown up to see him, mostly families and their kids. They flowed like a slow-moving amoeba up to the rope line, where dozens of cops and Secret Service agents stood to keep them back. Up here, he could hear the band in the bleachers clearly, their brass and drums reverberating off the walls of the buildings around him. On the platform to the left of home plate, an American flag flapped in the breeze. He’d have to pay attention to that, although at this distance, and with the accuracy of the rifle, a little wind shouldn’t make more than an inch of difference.

  Before selecting this building from several options, Lasher had checked online apartment review sites and found out security here was lax. Wearing a disguise and a well-known delivery company’s uniform, which he’d bought second-hand on eBay, he carried his box, covered with all the right shipping labels, right past the guy at the front desk. He started his search for an appropriate apartment on the
top floor, knocking on the doors of those with balconies overlooking North Quincy. If the unit was occupied by a family, he pretended he’d gotten the wrong address and left, going down one floor and trying again. On the 17th floor, an elderly man opened the door. Once assured that the old gent was living alone, Lasher raised his silenced pistol to the man’s face and shot him.

  Inside, he dragged the body into the bedroom. Next, he set up his firing position on the balcony. Back inside, he opened the box and retrieved the rifle, scope and bipod. He took his time preparing and checking it out. At 1100 hours, he wrapped it in a blanket, carried it outside, and settled down into position.

  He had told Trammel that—given the risk, plus the likelihood that he would be hunted for the rest of his days—this job would be the last of his career. For that, he required an amount sufficient to make it worth his while. They negotiated for a while and finally settled on a price. Two days ago, half his fee was transferred into one of his offshore accounts. That sum alone was many times greater than anything he’d previously received for a job. When he received the rest afterward, he knew he’d be set for life.

  Lasher spent some of the hour before noon fantasizing about how he would invest and spend thirty million dollars.

  2

  At twenty before noon, the school band broke into a medley of Sousa marches. Hunter thought the kids were really good, and so did the crowd, which cheered and clapped after each selection.

  At ten minutes before noon, the band stopped and some guy who identified himself as a local radio personality took the platform as the event’s emcee. He offered a boisterous welcome to the crowd, which had now swelled to around five thousand. Hunter tuned him out, focusing his attention on the crowd and all those distant windows and balconies.

  He couldn’t shake that tingly feeling—the one he often used to get during ops, when something wasn’t quite right.

  At five minutes before noon, over the voices from the platform and the chatter of the crowd, Hunter heard a commotion in the parking lot. Secret Service agents were moving about back there and calling to each other. Out on Washington Boulevard, a couple of motorcycle cops, strobes flashing, made the turn onto North Quincy and rolled past the lot entrance. Behind them, a procession of three black Chevy Suburbans turned in and pulled up behind the tarp-covered backstop. Agents from the lead and follow cars emerged and swarmed around the middle vehicle.

  Lasher watched the line of vehicles approach the site from the north along Washington Boulevard. He lowered his head to the scope again, tracing what would be their route entering the parking lot behind home plate, then his target’s path on foot around the backstop to where the ceremony would take place. The scope’s reticle marks crawled across the faces of the waiting Secret Service agents, then over to where the media had gathered, then back toward—

  He felt a jolt of recognition—then swept the scope back toward the cluster of reporters, settling on a face.

  “Oh . . . my . . . God,” he murmured aloud.

  His breathing quickened. This was just too good to be true.

  Roger Helm and Dylan Hunter.

  He would get a “two-fer”. . . and so would Trammel. Maybe he could even talk the old bastard out of a few more millions, as a bonus.

  He had to adapt his plan on the fly. During the coming moments, it would be necessary to keep track of the relative positions of both targets. His primary objective was Helm, so it was crucial to take him out first. Then he’d have to immediately swing over and fire at Hunter, before the man realized what was happening and could react. With luck, though, the horror of what was happening would just begin to dawn on Hunter when he, too, would feel a round smash into him. That would be perfect.

  Lasher suddenly wished he had selected a semi-auto sniper rifle rather than the bolt-action SRS. Fast as he was, chambering the second round by hand, then re-aiming and firing, would slow him down a bit. Maybe a second between shots, or even a tad more.

  He raised his head, watched the black Suburbans enter the lot and disappear behind the tarp they’d hung on the backstop. He readjusted his ear protectors. Lowered his eye to the scope once more. Established a firm cheek weld against the stock. Worked on steadying his breathing.

  That’s right . . . breathe . . .

  He had to remain calm, now. There would be years to savor this moment, the greatest of his life—the moment he not only changed history, but finally beat his hated rival . . .

  He moved the scope to where Roger Helm would emerge from behind the backstop and enter the baseball field.

  Flicked off the safety.

  Moved his index finger from the side of the trigger guard and onto the trigger . . .

  “And now, everyone, the moment you’ve been waiting for. On behalf of all our teams, their parents, and every one of you who enjoys America’s pastime, I’m honored to introduce a friend of our community and a great benefactor of our youth . . . ROGER HELM!”

  At this, the band struck up some fanfare Hunter didn’t recognize, and the crowd began to cheer and applaud enthusiastically. He stepped forward to the near end of the dugout to see better. Surrounded by a knot of agents, Helm emerged from the back door of his SUV, and together they strode briskly toward the pathway around the backstop. Two agents moved in front of him as they emerged onto the field.

  The reporters and photographers clustered just behind Hunter suddenly surged forward, and he found himself in their midst.

  “Damn it!”

  Lasher watched helplessly as the target stepped out from behind the tarp with two agents in front of him. As the man waved to the crowd and made the turn for the platform, a third stepped up beside him and kept pace.

  He didn’t have a clear shot.

  He swung the rifle a few degrees, noting Hunter’s new, closer position at the end of the dugout, then swept it back onto the candidate. He was still blocked by the agents.

  He fought to keep his frustration in check.

  Patience . . . just a few more seconds . . . right after he steps onto the platform . . .

  Jostled by the mob of reporters, Hunter moved back a few steps to let them to pass. Unable to shake his feeling, he watched the emcee move to the edge of the platform to greet Helm as he approached. Then the protective detail split off to take their posts. The candidate hopped up onto the platform and into the immediate embrace of the emcee. They separated, shook hands, and the host swung him around to face the crowd, raising his arm in triumph, like a referee declaring the winner of a boxing match.

  Roger Helm stood there, every inch a leader—tall, commanding, vibrant, handsome in his dark suit. He turned his gray-blond head—then somehow spotted Hunter standing in front of the dugout. His grin broadened as he pivoted and pointed at him.

  Hunter smiled and was raising his own hand in response when the shot rang out.

  Lasher watched the target hop up on the platform, and he was about to fire when the host stepped forward to grab him in a bear hug.

  He clenched his teeth. Drew a breath, let half of it out, held the rest.

  Wait . . .

  The two men separated, and the host spun him and raised his arm.

  Steady now . . .

  The scope’s crosshairs settled in the middle of the target’s chest as he turned his head to the right.

  Squeeze . . .

  He felt the trigger snap and the blast. Not waiting to watch the hit, he worked the bolt to chamber a new round as he swung the muzzle toward the end of the dugout . . .

  Hunter wasn’t there.

  He swung farther right and found him a few steps away, in front of the dugout.

  The crosshairs settled on his head.

  Squeeze . . .

  Hunter saw Helm take the impact, then heard the distant crack above the din.

  Only because the disquieting feeling had put him on edge did he know at once what was happening, and immediately stepped toward the platform.

  That motion saved him. A second shot sizzled just inche
s past his head to strike the top of the dugout behind him. Already in motion, he dropped instinctively, a habit instilled during firefights while embedded with operators in Afghanistan. A third shot whistled by in front of him—right where he would have been had he continued moving forward—and smacked into the cinder block interior wall of the dugout.

  Without thought, he rolled to his right, tumbling down the dugout steps as a fourth shot kicked up a dirt geyser where he had been half a second before.

  He pressed himself as flat as he could against the bottom step while screams filled the air outside. It took several seconds for his conscious brain to catch up with his subconscious and realize that he had been targeted, too—

  —and several seconds more to realize what that meant.

  3

  Lasher cursed as his second target vanished from view into the dugout.

  But he had no time to waste on anger. He’d fired four rounds, and amid the panicked, stampeding mob out there, highly trained agents would waste no time heading this way and blocking all escape routes.

  He had to exfil, fast.

  Staying low, he scrambled back through the open door of the balcony. Inside, he leaped to his feet, popped off the bipod, and tossed it, his ear protectors, and the rifle back into the box he’d left open on the sofa. He tugged the uniform jacket down in the back to cover his Glock. Holding the box shut, he left the apartment, walked quickly to the stairwell exit, then rushed down as fast as he could. His legs were burning and he was breathing hard when he emerged on the ground floor. He walked as steadily and coolly as he could toward the lobby entrance.