“How are we going to do this?” he asked.
“We are not going to do anything,” she said. “You are going to do exactly as we agreed. Park the car a couple of blocks away from the building and wait.”
“Fine,” he said, annoyed. “How are you going to do this?”
“Reagan’s speech is scheduled for ten,” she said. She was speaking confidently, without hesitation, and it was obvious she had given the situation plenty of thought. Shane wondered whether she had gotten any sleep at all last night. “The building doesn’t open until nine, so—”
“How do you know that?” he interrupted.
“I went out last night after you fell asleep, remember? I did a quick drive-by of the Minuteman building after buying my outfit. Business hours are posted at the entrance. Anyway, my plan is to arrive the minute the building opens. I’ll let the manager know Special Agent James is on the case, so he doesn’t see me prowling around and call the cops. Then I’m going to catch an assassin.”
“Just like that,” Shane said skeptically.
“Just like that.”
“How do you know where he’ll be?”
“I don’t, specifically, but he had to have accessed the building last night. He would have needed time to set up. Once his preparations were complete, he probably napped in an empty office or something. But he’ll have to be in position on the roof before the office workers begin to arrive, if only to avoid the risk of detection. I should be able to surprise the guy and catch him flat-footed before President Reagan ever leaves the White House.”
Traffic was beginning to bog down, and Shane checked his watch again. “Unless there are two of them,” he said. “You can’t catch two guys by surprise.”
“You can if you do it right,” Tracie replied grimly, and he wondered whether she really believed what she was saying.
Ahead, a traffic light turned yellow. Shane slowed, thought about stopping and decided they could make it. He accelerated into the intersection behind an old Buick with a badly rusting rear bumper.
Ahead and to his right a flash of movement caught his eye, and Shane saw a child step out from behind a parked car. The kid walked into the street without looking, directly in front of the Buick, and Shane gasped in surprise.
The Buick’s driver slammed on his brakes a half-second later and Shane hit the breaks on the Granada. Both cars slewed forward, tires squealing, and Shane watched as the kid disappeared in front of the hulking mass of the Buick.
The cars shuddered to a halt, the Granada somehow stopping before impacting the Buick. Shane realized he was holding his breath and exhaled heavily. He felt a surge of relief as the kid appeared on the other side of the first car.
The kid, maybe eight years old, had darted away from the Buick and now stood in the middle of the street, head swiveling madly. He took advantage of a small break in the opposite direction traffic and sprinted across the street in front of a yellow taxicab and disappeared.
“Holy shit,” Shane said, his voice shaking.
He glanced over at Tracie just as she turned to look at him. Her eyes widened in shock at something over his shoulder and he whipped his head to the left just in time to see a blue pickup hurtling through the intersection’s cross street. The driver had locked up his brakes but the truck was moving much too fast to stop in time. He would T-bone them right in the driver’s side door.
Tracie lifted her left foot and slammed it down on his right, shoving the accelerator to the floor. The Granada lurched forward and smashed into the rear of the Buick, forcing it forward a few feet before the pickup truck struck the Granada in a shower of shattering glass and screeching metal.
The car spun on an invisible axis and Shane felt his head bounce off the window and his headache exploded anew. He was aware of Tracie screaming to his right, a short, sharp sound, and then everything stopped and the interior of the car was quiet but for a faraway-sounding hissing noise. Whether the sound was coming from the Granada or the pickup truck he couldn’t tell.
Shane heard cars screeching to a halt—he knew they were in the middle of the intersection and the fear of a second car striking them flashed through his mind.
He tried to clear the cobwebs and was vaguely aware of Tracie tugging on his arm. “Unbuckle your seatbelt,” she said, her voice intense. “We have to get out of here.”
Shane nodded and tried his door. It wouldn’t budge.
“Not your door, mine,” she insisted. “Yours has been smashed. It’ll probably never open again.”
She pulled on his arm more insistently. “Come on, we have to leave now.”
A man in a suit pulled open the door on Tracie’s side. “Are you folks all right?” he asked, his concern evident.
“We’re okay,” Tracie said, slipping out the door as Shane worked the buckle on his seatbelt and began sliding across the front seat behind her.
The driver of the pickup stumbled onto the sidewalk. It was a kid, late-teens it appeared, and he looked stunned but uninjured. “I just looked down to change the radio station,” he said, “and when I looked up you were right in front of me. I swear I only looked away for a second.”
“Are you okay?” Shane asked.
The kid nodded. “But my parents are going to kill me. This truck was a graduation present.”
“Come on,” Tracie repeated, her voice soft but firm. “We have to get out of here.”
The kid heard her and said, “No, you can’t leave. We have to exchange insurance information.”
She ignored him and started dragging Shane away from the wrecked vehicles. “The police will be here any second,” she whispered, “and we have to be gone when they arrive.”
“We can’t leave the scene of an accident,” Shane said, closing his eyes for a moment against the rejuvenated pain bounding around inside his skull.
“We have to,” Tracie insisted, speaking a little louder now that they were out of earshot of the teenaged driver of the pickup truck, who had staunchly refused to leave the area of his vehicle.
“We’re driving a stolen car, remember? I could eventually get this straightened out through CIA channels, but it would take hours, and we’re—” she glanced at her watch and swore softly, “—almost out of time. We might still make it, as long as we disappear before the cops arrive.”
They took three more steps and then Shane froze as a D.C. police cruiser eased to the curb, lights flashing, stopping almost directly in front of them.
***
Tracie grabbed Shane’s hand and began walking as casually as possible along the sidewalk, their path taking them past the police car. The patrol officer stepped out of his vehicle and she watched as his eyes bounced between the accident scene and them, then back to the accident scene.
They were almost past him when he swiveled his head and focused his gaze on Shane, his eyes narrowing. Tracie wondered what had gotten his attention.
Then Shane turned and looked at her and she wanted to curse out loud. A thin line of blood had leaked out from his hairline and begun zigzagging down the left side of his face. He must have cut his head in the accident. The injury was clearly not serious, but it had been enough to draw the cop’s attention immediately.
The officer lifted one arm to block their passage. “Where do you think you’re going?” he said, his natural cop suspicion evident in his voice.
Tracie took a look at the blood and said, “Oh, honey, you must have been cut by flying glass.” She drew a tissue out of her pocket and wiped the blood off Shane’s face.
She gestured toward the accident scene and added excitedly, “We were walking along the sidewalk when those two cars collided almost right next to us. Someone’s trapped inside that Ford. I think they need help!”
The kid who had been driving the pickup truck was still standing next to the vehicles, watching curiously.
The cop took two quick steps in the direction of the wreck and then turned back to them. He pointed a finger and said, “You’re not going an
ywhere. If you witnessed this accident, we’re going to need a statement from you.”
“Of course,” Tracie answered, and the cop hurried off toward the vehicles.
The moment he turned, Tracie pulled Shane in the opposite direction. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got about ten seconds before that cop realizes we’re full of shit. This is our last chance. Let’s make the most of it.”
They melted into the crowd, trying to disappear behind the growing throng of onlookers. A few seconds later, she could hear raised voices and hoped none of the pedestrians had been alert enough to track their movement and point them out to the officer.
Seconds passed and Tracie risked a look back and saw no one who seemed to be paying any attention to them.
“Are you all right?” she asked Shane.
He shrugged. “I didn’t even realize I’d been cut. Smashing my head against the window in the accident didn’t do much for my headache, but the cut itself is no big deal. The more important question is what the hell are we going to do now?”
Tracie checked her watch and shook her head, frustrated. “I wish I knew,” she said. “We’ll never be able to get there in time on foot.”
She looked up and down the street. “And there’s not a cab or a bus stop in sight. Goddammit.”
Then she slowed her pace and watched the scene unfolding in front of them, unable to believe their good fortune.
Less than thirty feet ahead, a dirty green Chevrolet Station wagon pulled to the edge of the street, almost close enough to another parked car to scrape paint. The driver leapt out of the Chevy and trotted into a neighborhood convenience store, leaving his car idling in the D.C. sunshine while purchasing his newspaper or coffee or whatever.
Tracie flashed a smile at Shane. “We’re back in business,” she said.
45
June 2, 1987
9:35 a.m.
Columbia Road, Washington, D.C.
The Minuteman Mutual Insurance building had clearly been constructed over a century ago and was a throwback to a more elegant time, with ornate granite columns soaring over the Columbia Road sidewalk, an architectural dinosaur somehow managing to avoid extinction into the late 1900s. It looked slightly out of place next to its more modern neighbors, like a dowdy grandmother dressed in decades-old finery. At just seven stories high, the building was stubby by today’s standards.
They had driven a couple of blocks west of the Minuteman building in an attempt to avoid the worst of the traffic snarls that inevitably accompanied a presidential appearance. The trip from the accident scene to the Minuteman building’s Columbia Road address had taken much longer than Tracie anticipated thanks to that congestion, and she drove the stolen station wagon as fast as she dared.
She circled the KGB assassin’s perch and pulled the car to a stop at a curbside spot a block-and-a-half away from the wooden platform that had been erected for Reagan’s speech. The president was to dedicate a brand-new twenty-story office building in celebration of the renewal of American entrepreneurial spirit.
The crowd seemed to be thickening as Tracie parked the car and she said, “I’ve really got to hustle. We lost too much damned time with that car accident. When I get out, you slide over and take the wheel. Wait for me, but be ready to take off at a moment’s notice. You’ll know if I’ve failed because all hell is going to break loose if I’m too late. People will be running everywhere, sirens will be blaring, and you’re going to see cops and agents in plain clothes come out of the woodwork.”
“You’re not going to fail,” he said.
She turned and fixed him with a hard look. “If that chaos happens, wait five minutes. If I’m not back in five minutes, I won’t be coming back. Find your way to a police station and tell the cops everything.”
Shane returned her stare. His face was pale, with dark puffy circles under his eyes. He looked like hell and Tracie knew he must be suffering, but he didn’t show it.
He nodded once. “Got it,” he said unconvincingly. “But what are you going to do about the letter?”
Tracie hesitated. She had been giving the issue some thought. “I’m keeping it with me,” she said. “It’s my responsibility to deliver it to the president, and by God that’s what I’m going to do. If things go south and I get killed, I doubt the sniper will have the time or the presence of mind to search my body before escaping, so the authorities will eventually find it, anyway.”
Shane said nothing, holding her in his steady gaze until she began to feel self-conscious.
“What?” she finally said.
“Nothing.” He swiveled his head and looked out the passenger window, then raised his hand and held it to his forehead for just a moment.
“Listen,” she said hesitantly. “I need to know you’re going to be here when this is all over.”
Her stomach felt queasy from the familiar adrenaline effect she always experienced just before going operational. She suspected the mission wasn’t the only thing causing those butterflies. She felt exactly the same as she had as a teenage girl before her first date. The feeling was wonderful and horrible at the same time.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “This car will be right in this spot when you get back. You don’t have to worry about that.”
She reached for his hand and he picked it up and squeezed it.
She squeezed back, hard. “I…I’ve never said this before, not to anyone other than my mom and dad,” she said. “I’m not sure I even know how to do it. Um, I think, I uh…”
“I know,” he said. “I love you, too. I have from the minute you introduced yourself by sticking a gun in my face.”
She hugged him fiercely, then stepped out of the car and began hurrying toward the Minuteman Insurance building.
***
June 2, 1987
9:45 a.m.
Columbia Road, Washington, D.C.
Shane squinted and watched her go. The sun streaming through the dirty passenger-side window ratcheted up the pain in his already pounding head, but it was worth it. Tracie looked fantastic in her new suit, and he tracked her with his eyes until she disappeared in the crowd.
He waited thirty seconds, then shut down the car and placed the key on the driver’s side floor. It would be out of sight of anyone passing by unless they stopped at the window and closely examined the interior.
He stepped out of the car and closed the door, leaving the vehicle unlocked. He couldn’t risk Tracie returning, needing to access the car and finding it locked, especially since he was supposed to be sitting here waiting to leave. Hopefully any potential car thieves would be reluctant to ply their trade with the police and Secret Service blanketing the area.
Shane stepped onto the sidewalk and trailed along behind Tracie. He had no real strategy in mind other than to follow and try to help her if he could. He knew he was being foolish, knew his presence on the scene would likely cause more problems for her than it would solve, but the thought of the beautiful young woman he had pulled from the burning wreckage of a plane just a few nights ago—the woman he had fallen deeply, hopelessly in love with—taking on a professional KGB assassin with no backup and only the vaguest sense of a plan herself was unthinkable.
Who was to say there was only one man perched up on that roof waiting to put a bullet through Ronald Reagan’s heart? Shane was no expert on covert operations, but he had read enough spy novels to know that military sniper units often consisted of two men: one to pull the trigger, and one to calculate wind direction, velocity, and distances, and to act as a spotter.
Maybe that wasn’t how the Russians were going to do it, but if it was, Shane doubted Tracie would ever get close enough to the shooter to take him down.
So he followed, struggling to keep up.
He was far enough behind Tracie that she couldn’t see him unless she backtracked or stopped and turned around for some reason. Neither action seemed likely because they were almost out of time. The president’s appearance was scheduled for ten o
’clock and it was now after nine forty-five.
Shane picked up his pace. He felt light-headed and shaky, the headache blasting like a jackhammer inside his head. The Minuteman Insurance building was still a little more than halfway down the block. He wanted to break into a run but didn’t dare. If the cops saw a young man sprinting toward the location where the president would be speaking in just a few minutes, he would likely be rewarded with a bullet in the back.
The ironic thing was that Shane didn’t even care all that much about getting shot. But he wouldn’t be any help to Tracie lying dead on the sidewalk, although the thought ran through his mind that if that scenario were to take place, the president’s appearance would certainly be cancelled and at least the leader of the free world would still be alive.
He had to trust Tracie, though. She was a pro and she knew what she was doing. He chanted it as a mantra as he walked.
He hustled along Columbia Road, moving as fast as he dared, feeling time slipping away. Finally he reached the wide marble steps leading to the Minuteman building’s front entrance and took them two at a time.
He looked for Tracie but she was nowhere to be seen. He dodged a cluster of men in suits and overcoats moving in the other direction, pushed open the door and stepped into the building.
46
June 2, 1987
9:50 a.m.
Minuteman Insurance building
There was no time to waste. Tracie marched quickly across the lobby—an authoritative woman walking with a purpose—and stopped at a small reception area two-thirds of the way across the floor. A young woman was in the middle of a conversation with the receptionist, a hefty older woman with silver-blue hair wearing an old but clean business suit.
Tracie stepped directly in front of the desk, cutting off the customer. The young woman sputtered, beginning to complain, and Tracie turned and flashed her FBI ID, first at the customer and then at the receptionist.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Madison James,” she said. “Please excuse the interruption, but I’m here on critical, time-sensitive government business.”
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 22
