Trap the Devil

by Ben Coes

  Patriotic music started blaring from the loudspeakers—“Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Dewey looked up at Dellenbaugh, who was waving to the crowd.

  Dewey saw Secret Service agents charging onto the stage from both sides.

  * * *

  Special Agent Joel Goggins, one of the FBI snipers, was on his stomach atop a concrete slab on the roof of FedEx Field, at the fifty-yard line. The rifle was on a bipod, its muzzle pointed down and in front of Dellenbaugh—aimed at the luxury suites Goggins guessed would be the choice of the snipers here to kill the president.

  Goggins swept the long barrel of the rifle slowly across the row of suites. Most of them were filled with people; only a few were dark and empty. One of those seemingly empty suites—at the far end of the stadium—made him stop. Through the rifle scope, he’d seen something.

  “Omega, this is S-one-three,” said Goggins into his commo.

  “Go, S-one-three.”

  Goggins adjusted the scope, zooming in as close as the high-powered scope would allow. He studied the empty suite but saw nothing. Without removing his eye from the scope, he pushed a small button on the side of the scope, which initiated the device’s thermal-imaging module. A soft, high-pitched electric purr came from the scope as the suite turned a blurry, apocalyptic orange hue. The scope automatically adjusted, and the image sharpened. Within the orange, a light green apparition was visible, indicating the presence of a human being.

  “I have a hard ID at two fifteen, a suite on the south face, directly in front of the president.”

  The person’s arm moved. Goggins recognized the man’s position. Like Goggins, he was on his stomach, poised over a rifle.

  Then he saw the barrel of a gun.

  “Take him—”

  Goggins didn’t wait for Daniels to complete his sentence. He yanked back on the rifle’s polymer trigger. The rifle made a low suppressed boom. He readjusted the scope and prepared to fire again, but the figure wasn’t moving.

  “Man down,” said Goggins.

  * * *

  Law put his finger to the trigger of the rifle just as the door jamb cracked from the fourth strike of the battering ram.

  Stay calm.

  Law studied Dellenbaugh in the scope, leveling the president’s head in the crosshairs. Then he fired.

  A low explosive boom echoed as the silenced bullet shot from the sniper rifle.

  * * *

  Dewey heard the woman’s scream in the same instant he heard the telltale thud of the rifle, somewhere in the distance. His eyes shot to Dellenbaugh, expecting him to drop, but he continued to speak.

  Dewey pivoted, searching the crowd. Several people were frantically waving their arms. A woman lay on the ground, her neck and chest a riot of blood—hit by the bullet intended for Dellenbaugh.

  Several people started screaming and yelling.

  * * *

  Nathaniel knew it would come to this. He knew it the moment Bruner ordered him to cut Flaherty’s brakes.

  He was atop one of the concrete abutments on the roof of the stadium. He scanned the suites, pretending to be searching for the killers.

  Then he heard Goggins over commo: “Man down.”

  Slowly, Nathaniel tilted the sniper rifle forward, glancing furtively to each side as he did so, making sure nobody was watching. He acquired Dellenbaugh in the scope, adjusting it, then tightening the bipod. He took several deep breaths, then moved his finger to the trigger.

  * * *

  Law knew immediately he’d missed.

  “Fuck,” he muttered.

  He tapped the butt of the rifle ever so slightly, moving its targeting protocol to the right.

  Behind him, the door was struck again by the battering ram. Suddenly, the door burst in.

  Law chambered another round as he found Dellenbaugh again in the scope. He had time for one more shot …

  A red laser danced across the concrete to Law’s left. Law registered the light in his left eye. He tried to ignore it.

  Law concentrated one last time on the target, pulling the trigger just as a metallic spit spit spit charged the air behind him. Law saw a blazing white light and felt a millisecond of pain, and that was all.

  * * *

  Bruner registered the woman behind the stage, taken down by Law.

  He felt light-headed and euphoric, and yet a horrible sense of sadness came over him. Bruner couldn’t have explained the feeling he had in that moment. Everything he’d worked for was now here, and soon it would be gone.

  Bruner’s eyes went from behind the stage to Dellenbaugh, and then he saw Andreas. He was behind the stage. Bruner’s heart skipped a beat as he marked him.

  He immediately realized he was about to die.

  In that moment, Bruner knew he would have only one chance to avenge his daughter’s death. Not two or three, just one. Andreas would kill him, Bruner understood. But he could still kill the president. He could still kill the one man standing between Largent becoming president and then the total annihilation of Islam from the face of the earth.

  Bruner looked up at Dellenbaugh and started clapping and cheering—then moved his right hand beneath his blazer for the gun.

  * * *

  Dewey turned back to the stage. The president’s speech was finished. Dellenbaugh was surrounded by his wife and daughters, waving at the crowd.

  Across the stage, at eye level, Dewey again found him.

  The stadium turned chaotic. Patriotic music blared. The Secret Service was now almost to the Dellenbaughs. It was a mob scene.

  But Dewey pushed the chaos aside as he watched the man.

  He was older, with neatly combed white hair, nattily attired in a double-breasted suit. It was the way his eyes shifted constantly. Dewey recognized the look, the sharpness, the utter lack of emotion, the objective. The man was scanning.

  Operational.

  Dewey raised the Colt M1911A1 from his side just as he saw the man’s right arm slip nonchalantly into his blazer.

  * * *

  Calibrisi stood at the edge of the rooftop concourse just as the low kick from the FBI marksman’s rifle boomed above the din.

  The assassin was below him, he knew. Close enough that he heard the shattering glass.

  Calibrisi looked across the stadium to where the FBI sniper was positioned. He could barely see him.

  He looked down to the field. From up here, Dellenbaugh was like an ant, discernible only because he was on the stage.

  Calibrisi looked around the roof concourse, counting the FBI snipers as they continued to scan the upper levels for gunmen.

  Across from where he stood, Calibrisi noticed that one of the FBI marksmen had his weapon pointed down at the field, toward the stage.

  Calibrisi tapped his ear three times.

  “Nick,” he said, “take me off-line.”

  He heard a click, then Daniels.

  “What?”

  “Is sniper ROE opened up for envelope-level targeting?”

  “Negative,” said Daniels. “Why?”

  Calibrisi pulled the gun from his coat pocket. He raised it, holding it in his right hand with his left hand underneath for stability. He propped his hands on the concrete barrier and trained the weapon on the sniper.

  “One of your gunmen has his weapon aimed at the president.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “That’s Nathaniel,” said Daniels. “Do you have a gun, Hector?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to redeploy,” said Daniels. “If he doesn’t move, kill him.”

  A moment later, Daniels came back over commo, speaking this time to the entire FBI field team.

  “This is Omega. I need Blair and Nathaniel in command center immediately. Run.”

  “Omega, this is Blair, be right there.”

  “Nathaniel, affirmative, Omega. On my way.”

  Calibrisi watched as the FBI gunman remained on his stomach, his rifle trained down at t
he stage.

  It was, Calibrisi knew, a nearly impossible shot, but there was no other option.

  He acquired the gunman along the small steel site atop the muzzle of the pistol. Then Calibrisi fired, three silenced blasts—thwack thwack thwack—but the shots missed. Calibrisi paused, adjusted, then fired again—thwack thwack thwack thwack—emptying the mag, but every bullet missed the man.

  Calibrisi popped out the mag and slammed in a new one and again started firing. Slugs spat from the gun like a drumbeat—thwack thwack thwack thwack thwack thwack—and then he saw a spray of red as one of the bullets ripped into the killer’s head.

  * * *

  Dewey stepped closer to the stage, his gun out and raised, tracking the man in front of Dellenbaugh. His hand emerged from his blazer. Dewey had him but paused, knowing it could be a cell phone.

  A Secret Service agent at the side of the stage suddenly saw Dewey. The agent pulled a gun from a holster at his waist and started a mad sprint across the stage.

  “Get down!”

  Dewey vaguely registered the agent’s voice. His mind was on the man in the second row. The man directly in front of Dellenbaugh.

  Dewey watched, transfixed, as his hand emerged from his coat. He was holding a gun, a short, squat, snub-nosed suppressor screwed into the muzzle.

  The Secret Service agent trained his weapon on Dewey and fired—just as Dellenbaugh grabbed his arm, stopping him from killing Dewey.

  Dellenbaugh saw Dewey’s eyes staring coldly across the stage. He turned to where Dewey was looking.

  The white-haired man swept the gun across his chest and trained it at President Dellenbaugh just as Dellenbaugh saw him.

  Dewey swung his gun above the stage, tracking the killer. The stage was crowded with people—Dellenbaugh, his daughters, his wife, Secret Service agents—whose legs blocked his view. Then he found him. His arm was now in the air. Amid the panicked shuffling of legs, Dewey tried to take aim, just as the tip of the killer’s suppressor swept toward Dellenbaugh. Legs suddenly crossed in front of his view again, but Dewey kept the pistol trained where the man was, putting his finger tighter on the trigger. A glimmer of light emerged, no bigger than a dime, and Dewey fired.

  A dull thwack as the bullet ripped from Dewey’s gun and slammed into the man’s forehead. Blood and brains shot across the crowded row of people behind the killer. He was thrown backward, tumbling amid screams and panic to the ground.

  Screams and chaos enveloped the area around the stage, even as the cheering continued from the tens of thousands of people who had no idea what was happening. Music blared from the loudspeakers. But panic gripped the hundreds of people closest to the stage. Screams filled Dewey’s ears. A block of SWAT-clad agents charged across the stage and leapt down in front of it, scrambling to the dead man. All around Dewey there was screaming and panic, people falling down as they rushed for the exits. Yet it was barely noticeable within the raucous tumult of the crowd.

  A swarm of agents rushed Dellenbaugh from the stage, which quickly turned into a scene out of a war zone as SWAT officers stormed onto the platform and created a human barrier between the president and the crowd.

  Dewey turned. He searched for the woman who’d been hit just a minute before. She was lying on the ground, alone except for another woman, a brave onlooker, trying to stop the flow of blood from her neck.

  Dewey pushed his way back. The woman had short black hair and glasses. A pancake of red covered her chest.

  Dewey knelt beside her. With two hands he ripped the woman’s sweatshirt at the neck, exposing the bullet wound. The bullet had hit her on the right side, at the base of her neck, and she was bleeding badly, dark red edging out of the bullet hole with every beat of the woman’s heart.

  Dewey removed his knife from his ankle sheath. He cut away the hood of the woman’s sweatshirt and pressed it hard against the bullet hole. She groaned in pain. Her eyes opened. She stared up weakly at Dewey.

  “What’s your name?” said Dewey as he pressed the hood against the wound, trying to stanch the blood.

  The woman’s eyes fluttered and shut. Dewey slapped her lightly on the cheek. When her eyes didn’t open, he slapped her again, harder this time. She opened her eyes.

  “What’s your name?” he said, leaning close.

  “Lydia,” she whispered.

  “Lydia? That’s a nice name. Do you have any kids, Lydia?”

  She nodded. “One.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “My daughter,” she whispered, her voice clotted with blood.

  “What’s her name?”

  Lydia started to drift off. Her eyes fluttered and shut.

  “What’s your daughter’s name, Lydia?” Dewey yelled.

  He slapped her harder this time, a vicious whack across her cheek. Her cheek flushed red—there would be a bruise—but her eyes opened.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Caroline.”

  “You need to hang on,” said Dewey, getting close to her face. “Caroline needs you. You’re not going to die. But you need to stay with me. Can you do that, Lydia?”

  She looked at Dewey.

  “Yes,” she said. “I promise.”

  96

  FBI HEADQUARTERS

  J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Bruner was laid out on a steel table in the basement-level morgue. His body was stiff. He still had his suit on. Even the holster beneath his left armpit remained on. The right side of his face was purple and black, covered in dried blood. The left side was gone, blown off by a bullet that hit his forehead and splintered Bruner’s brittle skull in a craggy line. His brain was exposed, a pasty gray mass of material also coated in a sheen of dried blood.

  Calibrisi, Daniels, Polk, and George Kratovil, the FBI director, stood together on one side of the table.

  A television on the wall was tuned to CBS, a live report on the attempted assassination of President J. P. Dellenbaugh. Scott Pelley was standing outside FedEx Field.

  “This is Scott Pelley, reporting live from FedEx Field in Landover, Maryland. This stadium, home to the Washington Redskins, is, today, the somber site of what was—according to several sources—a sophisticated, highly planned, multistage attack on the U.S. presidency. The president, arriving just after noon for what was supposed to be a triumphant announcement for reelection, was targeted for assassination. While details are just beginning to emerge, CBS News has learned that multiple gunmen were inside the stadium and only a combination of the FBI, CIA, and good old-fashioned luck allowed President J. P. Dellenbaugh to survive the attack. We go now live to the White House…”

  The door to the morgue opened and J. P. Dellenbaugh, accompanied by Amy and Adrian King, his chief of staff, stepped inside.

  Dellenbaugh had a blank, dazed expression on his face as he stared down at Bruner’s corpse.

  King turned off the TV.

  Dellenbaugh stared at Bruner’s destroyed head. He looked at it for nearly a minute. It was only when his wife stepped behind him and put her hand on his back that he finally looked up. Dellenbaugh looked at Calibrisi, then at Daniels. Dellenbaugh’s eyes were cold and angry, yet there was also sadness in them.

  Dellenbaugh wanted to thank them. It was why he came. But he couldn’t speak. He turned and left.

  It was Amy Dellenbaugh who broke the silence. She was crying.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice full with emotion, her eyes moving to each man. “Thank you so much. It’s what he wanted to say. Thank you for saving my husband’s life.”

  97

  POCAHONTAS COUNTY

  HOSTERMAN, WEST VIRGINIA

  Largent sat in the corner of an old, abandoned lean-to just a few hundred feet from the banks of the Greenbrier River.

  He wore a black Carhartt wool-lined bodysuit, old knee-high Gokey leather snake boots, and a long black oilskin duster.

  A pump-action Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun lay on the ground next to him
.

  Largent had been sitting inside the small shack for more than a day now. Other than going to the bathroom, or lying down to catch a few hours of sleep, he hadn’t moved.

  The moment it failed, Largent had run. He’d stolen a car from the Capitol parking lot, an old Honda Accord, and driven to Dulles Airport, where he abandoned the car and stole another. He might have been Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, but before that Largent was a Navy SEAL. He knew how to survive.

  Largent knew that in order to survive, he needed time to fade away, blend in, and disappear into the ether. It would get cold soon, but the small wooden shack would work for the winter. It would have to work. He didn’t have a choice. If he was caught, he’d be tried for treason in front of a military tribunal and sentenced to death. This way, he had a fighting chance. It would require living like an animal. He would have to kill or steal whatever he was going to eat, at least for the first year or two. Eventually, when memories faded, he could move south—Mexico, Central America, and one day South America.

  Largent heard a sound outside the cabin. He remained dead still, except for his right hand, which slowly reached for the 870.

  Arching his neck to the right, he glanced through a hole in the wood. Two deer were meandering near the banks of the river, searching for food.

  Largent started to stand, moving to kill one of the animals. The meat from even one would last through much of the winter if he rationed it correctly. Then he stopped. As much as he knew he could use the meat, the sound of the gun might alert someone to his presence.

  He sat down and watched as the deer moved away. After a few minutes, he shut his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep. Patience was what would enable him to survive. Patience and toughness.

  98

  OVAL OFFICE

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  President Dellenbaugh sat in a wooden rocking chair in the middle of the Oval Office. Both leather chesterfield couches were filled. Another rocking chair was to Dellenbaugh’s left. In it sat Calibrisi.

  Seated on the sofas were members of the National Security Council as well as certain key aides. The meeting was in its second hour. The subject was the conspiracy to take over the U.S. government—a complete and thorough debrief by the CIA, FBI, NSA, and Secret Service of the events surrounding Tim Lindsay’s death through Dellenbaugh’s speech at FedEx Field.