He dropped the binoculars and began to run. Four seconds was all he had. Joker began to silently count them off. One thousand and one. .
Carlos felt his heart race, like an engine out of control. He had the President dead centre in his telescopic sight and his finger tensed on the trigger as Lovell continued his countdown. It was an awesome feeling, knowing that Lovell’s bullet was already in the air, hurtling towards its target at more than two thousand feet per second. In his ear he heard Lovell count: “One thousand and. .”
To his horror, Carlos heard a key being inserted into the lock of the door to his room. It was followed by the whisper of the door against the carpet and Carlos knew that he had only seconds to react. A hotel employee would have knocked, it could only be the police or the Secret Service, and if he stayed at the window they’d shoot him in the back. The SEAL’s bullet was on the way and Schoelen’s would follow shortly. Carlos knew he couldn’t wait. He squeezed the trigger and the sound of the shot echoed around the hotel room. He sensed a gun being aimed at his back and knew that if he didn’t move he’d be dead. He dropped the rifle, grabbed the P228 from the table and rolled off the chair, firing twice at the doorway before he’d even looked to see who was there.
He continued to roll across the carpet, the gun coughing twice more, until he banged into the sofa. He brought up the gun, preparing to fire again. There was no need. There was only one person in the doorway, a tall, thin man in his late thirties who was sinking to his knees, blood streaming from his neck and chest. He was holding a Glock automatic, unfired. In his ear, Carlos heard: “One thousand and two. .”
Carlos scrambled to his feet and pulled the body of the dead agent into the room. It left a smear of glistening blood on the carpet. He dumped the body by the bed, kicked the door shut and raced back to the open window.
Cole Howard watched Joker sprint across the diamond, towards the mound. “What the fuck’s he up to?” asked Clutesi.
“Something to do with the airship,” said Howard. Both men heard a Secret Service agent report that he’d just killed a sniper in an office block overlooking the stadium. Clutesi’s jaw dropped. “It’s happening,” he said in disbelief.
The sky-box window exploded in a shower of glass. The guests began screaming as Secret Service agents rushed forward to protect the President. Clutesi’s eyes were wide and he looked at Howard for guidance. Bob Sanger could be heard shouting above the screams and weapons appeared as if by magic in the hands of the agents as they surrounded the President. They hustled him away from the window, several positioning themselves between his body and the outside.
A warm wind blew in through the shattered window, and down below Howard could see Joker continuing to run, his plaid jacket flapping behind him. To Howard it appeared as if the man was running in slow motion. Howard looked up and squinted at the airship hanging over the city. His mind flashed back to Andy Kim’s computer model. The long shot. “The airship,” he whispered. “There’s a sniper in the airship.”
On the mound, the ball left the Prime Minister’s hand.
Kelly cradled Mary’s head in her lap. Mary’s eyes were wide open but they didn’t seem to be focusing. Blood was bubbling from a fist-sized hole in her chest. Kelly felt a hand on her shoulder and she looked up at the two Secret Service agents.
“Leave her alone,” she spat. “Can’t you see she’s dead?”
Mary’s hand clutched at Kelly’s arm and the fingers gripped tight. Her mouth moved soundlessly, her eyes still unseeing. Kelly bent forward and put her ear close to Mary’s lips.
Joker continued to count in his head as he ran. Individual, disparate images filled his head: a Secret Service agent, his mouth wide open, staring up at the sky box, a finger against his earpiece; the catcher, reaching out with his gloved hand, smiling behind his mask; the Prime Minister, looking ill at ease, his hair untidy from the effort of pitching; the First Lady, a wide smile on her face. Two thousand yards. Four seconds. An almost impossible shot under normal circumstances, but according to Howard they were up against a sniper who could pull it off. He heard glass smash somewhere behind him, somewhere high. Joker’s heart felt as if it was bursting and his ankles were screaming in agony as they pounded into the ground. There was no time to shout a warning, no time to explain what was happening, There was only one thing he could do. One thousand and two. .
Cole Howard dashed over to Bob Sanger and grabbed his shoulder. “The Prime Minister’s a target, too. It’s a double hit!” he shouted. Howard’s spittle peppered the Secret Service agent’s face.
For a second, Sanger was too surprised to react, but then the words sank in and he reached for his radio. “Get Parliament off the mound!” he ordered. “Now.” The Secret Service agents had completely surrounded the President and were hustling him out of the sky box, their weapons held high.
Howard looked down at the diamond. The only man who was reacting was Joker.
As he hurtled towards the mound, Joker heard a call over the radio to get the Prime Minister out of the way, but knew that it would take seconds for his bodyguards to react. The ball thwacked into the catcher’s glove and the Prime Minister raised a hand, acknowledging the cheers of the crowds. One of the Secret Service agents had turned towards Joker, his mouth open, and his hand inside his jacket. Joker didn’t break his stride, he stuck out his arm and hit the man in the throat, hard enough to push him out of the way but not hard enough to kill him. The movement jolted his injured shoulder and Joker grunted. In his mind the count continued. One thousand and three. . The Prime Minister was about twelve feet away, his hand in the air and his back to Joker.
Several of the bodyguards began to move towards the Prime Minister, but they were all further away than Joker. Joker could taste blood on his lips and he could feel that the wound on his chest had reopened. He looked up at the blimp, calculating the angle, knowing that the bullet was well over halfway to its target and knowing that there was only one thing he could do. He leapt into the air, throwing himself at the Prime Minister’s back. Faces flashed by, two Secret Service agents groping for him with their hands outstretched, and Joker twisted in the air, screaming from the pain and because he wanted to block out the thinking part of his brain, the part which knew what was going to happen and which might try to flinch at the last second. Joker knew that the strongest part of the bullet-proof vest was the front and if he was to survive the impact he’d have to get his chest between the bullet and the Prime Minister. He screamed like an animal in pain, his arms out for balance, his chest up, waiting for the explosion. One thousand and four. .
Carlos swung his rifle, trying to pick up the sky box in the telescopic sight. The green playing surface flashed by, then a base, then the legs of running Secret Service agents. He trained the sight up and picked out the presidential sky box. The glass had shattered and he saw figures inside, but he couldn’t see the President. He was too late. He cursed and trained the rifle back on the mound. There was a figure lying there, but it wasn’t the Prime Minister. The man motionless on the ground was wearing a plaid jacket. Carlos took the scope away from his eye so that he could get an overall view of the diamond. The high magnification of the telescopic sight was fine for sniping, but its field of vision was far too narrow for general viewing.
Carlos blinked several times, trying to refocus his eyes. He saw the man in the plaid jacket spread-eagled on the mound, a Secret Service agent kneeling by his side. More agents were surrounding the First Lady, guns drawn, looking around to see where the shot had come from. The Prime Minister, surrounded by bodyguards, was being hustled to the tunnel. Carlos put the rifle back to his shoulder and aimed at the tunnel, hoping that he’d be able to get a clear shot. He found the group with his scope but he couldn’t pick out the Prime Minister. Carlos put down his rifle. “Mary, what’s happening?” he said into the microphone on his lapel. There was no reply. “Mary?” Still nothing.
“Sniper Three, is that you?” asked Lovell. “What’s happening?”
Cole Howard gasped as he saw Joker leap and throw himself at the Prime Minister. His first thought was that the Brit was trying to tackle the man and bring him down, but at the last moment he twisted, like a high jumper going over backwards. Howard saw his arms flail out, then his whole body convulsed as if he’d received an electric shock.
Howard looked over at Bob Sanger, who was still talking into his walkie-talkie. He turned to Don Clutesi, who was staring open-mouthed at the diamond, where the Prime Minister was being engulfed by bodyguards. One of the Secret Service agents, a gun in his hand, knelt over Joker and opened his shirt collar. Howard gripped Clutesi’s arm. “I’m going down,” Howard said urgently. “Tell Sanger to get a chopper to pick me up.”
“A chopper?” said Clutesi. “Why?”
“Just do it, Don,” said Howard. He ran to the door, throwing his binoculars to the ground.
Rich Lovell had the back of a head in his sights, but he had no way of knowing whether or not it was the Prime Minister. Carlos had told him to keep firing, but Lovell knew it was useless. His target was four seconds away,
