by BJ Bourg
I was fast on the trigger, but I’d never seen anything quite like what I witnessed through my scope that day on the hot roof of the above-ground oil tank. In one swift motion, Abraham closed the distance between himself and Myers, grabbed the terrorist’s gun hand in mid-lift with his right hand, and executed some kind of jumping knee strike to his elbow, snapping it ninety-degrees in the wrong direction. The pistol fell harmlessly to the ground.
I couldn’t hear Myers scream, but the crowd—many of them still jumpy from last week’s attempted assassination—parted like the Red Sea and I could clearly see the painful expression on his face. I caught movement from the stage and saw Secret Service agents converge on the VP and form a human wall around her. They ushered her off the stage and into a dark SUV and then sped away from the scene.
Although injured, Myers was a warrior and there seemed to be lots of fight left in him. Gritting his teeth, he pulled a large knife from his boot with his left hand and swung it in Abraham’s direction. Without hesitating or even showing an ounce of fear, Abraham parried the strike and kicked the outside of Myers’ left knee, breaking it like a dry twig. Myers lurched out with the knife a second time, but Abraham grabbed his left hand and jumped into the air, flipping over Myers like an acrobatic monkey. When they both crashed to the ground, Myers’ neck and left arm were wrapped in Abraham’s powerful legs and he began squeezing the life right out of Myers. As though it weren’t bad enough, Abraham broke Myers’ left wrist to force him to drop the knife.
I watched as Myers’ face turned bright red and his eyes rolled back in his head. It was at that moment that Abraham released him and then promptly flipped him to his belly and handcuffed him. Several Secret Service agents had run up, as well as a few deputies, and they all stopped and stared at Abraham, their mouths agape.
“Damn!” Spider said in awe. “That boy’s good!”
I nodded and scanned the crowd to make sure there were no other threats. The ground agents and deputies were working to gain control of the crowd and we held our positions until they restored some semblance of order down there, which took about thirty minutes.
We continued providing over-watch protection as Myers was loaded into the back of an ambulance. The sheriff was on the ground working with the supervising agent. They sent a deputy and an agent into the back of the ambulance to keep an eye on Myers. Before the medics drove off, a marked patrol car—driven by Abraham Wilson—pulled in front as their escort and a dark SUV loaded with three Secret Service agents brought up the rear. They then sped out of the complex, heading for the nearest hospital, which was in Seasville.
It was only then that I relaxed and pulled out my cell phone, which had vibrated a dozen more times. I glanced at the missed calls and saw that it was an unknown number. The blood in my veins slowly turned to ice. The only unknown number that had called my phone was Bruce. There were four voicemails and I hurriedly accessed the first one with trembling hands.
“London, you need to get here as quickly as possible!” It was Dawn’s voice and it was low and desperate. “Patrick’s been killed and there’s someone out on the mountain stalking us. I think he’s some kind of sniper or mercenary. You’ve got to get out here quick.”
The phone abruptly hung up and my heart dropped. I quickly worked through to the next voicemail and played it.
“They shot my dad, London! You’ve got to get help! We’re pinned down in an old cabin on Abel Chism’s property. It’s located down State Highway—Shit!”
Glass exploded in the background, Dawn cursed involuntarily, and the line went dead.
CHAPTER 49
Three and a half hours later…
Somewhere over the Western Arkansas Wilderness
“We’re approaching the coordinates your friend sent you,” Ben said, rubbing the sweat from his bald head and wiping it on the front of his shirt. He was a secretive man and didn’t talk much, which suited my needs just fine at the moment. No one in the department knew where Ben came from, nor did they know his work history, but no one cared. He was the best helicopter pilot I’d ever known, and the same was true for the rest of the officers who’d flown with him. The few times I’d flown with him I’d been tempted to ask about the M1 Garand mounted to the ceiling of his chopper, but I didn’t think he’d want me prying, so I never did.
When Ben did speak to let me know where we were, his voice was loud in my earmuffs. It was the first sound I’d heard in about an hour. After listening to Dawn’s voice messages, I’d wasted no time in getting Ben to land his helicopter on top of the oil tank so he could take me to Arkansas. While the two SWAT members were disembarking, I’d received another call from Dawn. She’d sounded frazzled and was worried about her dad’s health. While looking out the window to search for the gunman, Evan had taken a bullet to the upper arm, destroying his humerus bone.
“He was losing so much blood that I was forced to put a tourniquet on it,” Dawn had said, keeping her voice low so Evan couldn’t hear her. “If we don’t get off this mountain soon, he’s going to lose it.”
I had pleaded with Dawn to stay put. “You need to treat this sniper like a tornado,” I’d said. “Get inside a small inner room or closet and stay put. Don’t go near windows and doors. If he can see you, he can kill you—from any distance.”
Although she assured me she would hunker down and wait for me to get there, I wasn’t convinced. She was a warrior and, if necessary, she would risk her own life to save someone else’s life—especially her dad’s. I knew she would abandon the cabin if she thought it was the only way to keep her dad alive.
As we flew in silence, heading west, I studied the treetops below through my scope, searching for any signs of life. The sun was past its midway point and was starting its downward slide, blinding us in the process. I didn’t see it at first, but once Ben said we were right on top of the coordinates Patrick had sent, I caught sight of a rooftop.
“There…” I pointed. “It’s the Chism cabin.”
Ben, whose six-foot frame appeared large in the pilot’s seat, dipped to the right and made a circle of the property. The helicopter vibrated and my ears popped as we made a pass over the homestead. There was a small clearing on the western slope of the mountain where a cabin was perched. A white truck was parked nearby and I recognized it from the surveillance video I’d recovered from Betty Jo’s.
My eyes were suddenly attracted to a flash of light from somewhere deep in the shadows above the cabin and off to the south. I turned my scope in that direction and dialed it back to its lowest setting, because it was hard to zero-in on any one spot from a helicopter. I saw the flash again and realized it was a gunshot.
“Someone’s shooting at us,” I said. “It’s got to be the sniper.”
Ben ducked sharply and headed for the opposite ridge to the east.
“What’re you doing?” I grabbed onto the doorframe to steady myself. “He can’t hit us from down there.”
“I’m not taking any chances,” Ben said. “Remember that drug dealer who took a shot at a moving car a couple of years ago? The punk had never fired a gun before and he hit that driver right in the head.”
I leaned far out of the chopper and stared behind us to get a fix on the sniper’s location. Anyone who could take out Patrick Stanger was scary good, and I’d have to be at my best to get Dawn out of there alive. As we neared the opposite ridge, I looked down through the trees and saw a large rock partway down the eastern face of the mountain. Beside the rock, there was a clump of color and substance that didn’t match the natural vegetation of the area. I scoped it as we flew by and realized it was dried blood and soppy brain matter. It was where Patrick had made his last stand.
“Put me down on the other side of that ridge, out of view of the sniper.”
Ben nodded and guided his metal bird toward a clump of trees just over the eastern ridge. Form my vantage point, it didn’t look like the helicopter could fit between the treetops, but legend had it Ben could land a helicopter
in a coffee can during a CAT 5 hurricane, and I was a believer.
I shouldered my drag bag on the descent and waited for him to get close enough to the ground for me to jump out.
“Here, take this SAT phone,” Ben said, tossing me a handset. “My number’s taped to the back of it. Call as soon as you need to be extracted.”
I nodded my thanks. “Where will you be?”
“I’ll bed down east of your position,” he said. “I’d like to keep you between me and that other sniper if I can help it.”
Without saying another word, I dropped to the skids and then jumped the final four feet to the ground. As Ben roared off, I made my way quickly to the peak of the ridge, searching for Patrick’s sign. The man was an excellent stalker and if I could find his route in, it would save me some time.
Keeping my head low and my movements measured, I searched for about ten minutes before I picked up the first hint of Patrick’s route through the wilderness—it was a thin sliver of burlap stuck to a tree branch. As I set off in that direction, I located subtle sign after subtle sign, following a trail that would be invisible to the untrained eye.
I made my way painstakingly down the side of the mountain, always aware of the killer sniper across the valley. I wouldn’t move from behind one piece of cover until I was sure there was more cover shielding me from the killer’s field of view. Every now and then I stopped to glass the location of his sniper hide, and it remained exactly as it was in the mental picture I’d taken. The slightest topographical change would indicate movement on his part, and I would have to stop advancing and locate his new position before moving on.
The sun had dipped well below the distant mountains and the deep shadows were wrapping me in their cool embrace when a large rock came into view. Based on the size—it was about four feet high and just as round—and shape, it appeared to be the same rock I’d observed from the air. When I saw the thick patch of greenery nearby and a camouflaged boot sticking out from underneath a bush, I knew I’d found Patrick.
I frowned as I surveyed the area. Patrick had set up in the best available spot. If I were to find a better spot, I’d have to move away from the rock and scour the mountainside, but that would expose me to the sniper’s fire.
As I pondered my options, an idea occurred to me. It was a morbid plan, but it might be the only way to outclass this assassin. Working through the scheme in my mind, I settled in behind the rock and waited for night to fall. As I lay there patiently, I dug out the phone from Ben and called the number Dawn had given me. She answered on the first ring.
“How are you?” I asked, my voice low and soft.
“My dad’s not doing so well. I’m thinking about making a break for it when it gets dark.”
“I’m here,” I said. “Give me some time to—”
“Are you really here?” Her voice choked up. “Where are you? I want to see you.”
“I’m four hundred yards out. Keep your head down for now and let me try to take this guy out before he does any more damage.”
“Do you have any idea who he is?”
I had an idea, but I wasn’t positive, so I ignored the question. “Look, if I don’t make it, I just want you to know that I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
I glanced over at Patrick’s lifeless body. He and I had a lot in common, including winning the Sniper’s Earth Annual Competition. While I had a lot of confidence in my own abilities, I was aware enough to know that there were other snipers out there skilled enough to take me out if they decided to do so, and this sniper seemed hell bent on doing just that—so much so that he tried shooting at a moving helicopter.
“Are you still there?” Dawn whispered.
“I am, but I have to go,” I said. “I have to get ready for tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning? What’s going to happen tomorrow morning?”
“One way or the other, it’ll all end tomorrow morning.”
CHAPTER 50
Detective Bureau, Payneville, Louisiana
Rachael Bowler had been standing beside Spider in the observatory of Interview Room One for the past four hours watching as Special Agent Theresa Winston interrogated Vice President Browning’s husband, Anthony Browning. London had produced a receipt from a break-in at Dawn’s house containing the man’s fingerprint, and it linked him to the plot to kill his wife.
Winston had performed masterfully throughout the interrogation and had slowly broken Anthony down. He was finally willing to admit his role in the assassination plot, but only if they would charge him with something less than Treason.
“Understand, it’s not my call,” Agent Winston said. “My job is to gather the facts and evidence and present them to the U.S. Attorney. So, for now, let’s just hear what you have to say and we’ll see how the ball bounces.”
Anthony Browning, whose bushy hair was a mess and his tailored suit tattered from when the Secret Service agents had taken him into custody, nodded weakly and sighed. “Look, you have to believe me when I say I love my wife more than life itself.”
“I believe you,” Winston said in a soothing manner. “Love is a hell of a motivator. It makes us do crazy things. Now, tell me why you planned to have your wife killed.”
“I never wanted to have Courtney killed…I swear it on my life. I just wanted those agents to pay for what they did.”
“Take me back to the beginning.”
“It all just began as a lover’s quarrel, really, and jealousy.” He paused to wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead. “I’d gotten word that Courtney was sleeping with two of the agents assigned to her security detail—Trace Mullins and Stuart Bagford. You…you know, it’s not very fitting for the Vice President of the United States to be engaging in that type of behavior. Besides, she’s my wife, so I confronted her about it. Things got heated and she told me if I didn’t like it, I could leave. You know, get a divorce.”
“When did this conversation take place?” Agent Winston asked.
Anthony paused for a moment. “I’m not real sure, but it was a while back.”
“Go on…tell me how you set out to make those agents pay for what they did to your wife.”
“I was having a beer with a few of my old buddies one night, and I was complaining about the affairs. They told me we should set those agents up—make it look like they wanted to assassinate Courtney. It was all just drunk talk at first, but we started to get fired up the more we talked about it. I was angry—I’ll admit it—and I did want those agents disciplined, but not in that way. It was the alcohol speaking that night. I really didn’t want my buddies to go through with anything.”
“These buddies of yours…what were their names and where’d you know them from?”
“Bruce Fields, Lenny Harper, and Turk Pham.” Anthony waved his hand dismissively. “They were just old college buddies. We’d get together every now and then for a few beers and then we wouldn’t see each other for a long while.”
“What kind of plan did Drunk Anthony devise with his friends?”
“I just said I wanted those agents to pay for sleeping with my wife. Bruce said it would be a just punishment to set them up for attempting to assassinate the very woman with whom they were having an affair. He didn’t say how he planned to do it, but Turk told me if I gave them my access codes and the contact information for Mullins and Bagford, he could make those agents do anything he wanted them to do.” Anthony shook his head. “Being drunk, I may have given them the information. I mean, I must have, but I don’t really remember, because I was drunk. I sure didn’t think they were serious.”
“He’s full of shit,” Rachael said to Spider. “He’s trying to minimize his involvement.”
Spider nodded beside her and asked if she’d heard from London.
“Last I heard, Ben had put him down in the mountains near the cabin.” Rachael glanced at her phone. “I sure wish he’d call.”
Rachael turned her atte
ntion back to the interrogation, where Anthony was expressing disgust at the killing of Mullins’ family and Bagford’s fiancé. “I’d heard from a mutual friend that Bruce and all had gone into the mercenary business, but I had no idea how ruthless they had become. When they did what they did to those poor women and children, I cut all ties with them.”
“I thought you paid them to do those horrible things to those poor women and children?”
“Me?” Anthony touched his chest with both hands. “God, no!”
Agent Winston produced a photocopy of the receipt London had recovered from Dawn’s house and slid it across the desk. “How do you explain this withdrawal receipt dated May twenty-third—three days before the attempt on your wife’s life—in the amount of thirty thousand dollars? If that’s not a payment for something, I don’t know what it is.”
“I…I don’t know anything about that much money leaving my account. Turk must’ve hacked into my bank. He’s very savvy with computers. He can hack into any system. He even once hacked into the—”
“Hold up,” Winston interrupted. “Hacking your bank account is one thing, but how’d your thumbprint get on the receipt?”
Rachael saw Anthony’s already pale face grow a shade lighter. “I…I don’t know how that got there. They must’ve lifted my print from someplace and planted it there.”
“I’ve got a better scenario,” Winston said, pushing her dark hair back and leaning across the desk. “You made that withdrawal to pay for the hit on your wife, which was how your print got on the receipt, and you ordered them to kill Mullins’ family to make it look like Mullins went crazy and did it himself—same as Bagford—but they screwed up and killed them too early. And then there was London Carter, who foiled the assassination attempt. Furthermore, this wasn’t about some bullshit affair, and you know it. While we’ve been sitting here, I’ve had agents back in Washington combing through surveillance footage. Your wife has never been in the same room alone with Mullins or Bagford, much less had sex with either of them. Do you really think an affair could go unnoticed at Number One Observatory Circle with its tight security?
