Muldoon prepared to spew out more commands and invective, but the elevator doors closed between them. A moment later, Lehman was on his way to the balustrade.
Zimmer rounded the corner, gun poised in both hands, ready to shoot anything that moved.
There was nothing there. Nothing and no one. Not even a sign that anyone had ever been there.
Zimmer slowly released his breath. Had Gatwick been wrong? It seemed unlikely. But there was no one here. And no apparent means of egress…
Wait a minute. He took a step closer. There was a hatch in the floor.
He pulled the short hank of rope and lifted the lid. There was a ladder beneath, and as near as Zimmer could tell, the ladder went down at least two flights to the base of the staircase.
If the killer climbed down this ladder, he could easily join the crowd and make his escape. Or he could…
Zimmer whirled around.
The dark-skinned face leered at him, grinning in an exaggerated, grotesque manner, like a cat that has finally caught its elusive mouse.
“Surprise,” the man said, and a second later, the butt of a high-powered rifle slammed into Zimmer’s face.
Zimmer hit the floor immediately. The assailant had knocked a tooth out, bloodied his mouth, and dropped him to the ground, all with one unexpected blow.
So, Zimmer thought, his face to the concrete, it comes down to this. All that training. All that experience. So he could be taken out with one blow by a terrorist. He wasn’t a hero. He was a loser.
Zimmer felt a boot in his gut, then he felt it again, then again. Consciousness was wavering.
“I wish I had more time to play with you,” the man said in what sounded like a Russian accent. His face was alarmingly happy. “I enjoyed playing with your former leader. That went on for hours. But I do not have the time now. I must simply kill you and move on.”
He flipped the rifle around and pressed the business end to Zimmer’s neck. “Farewell, American pig. I will laugh as-”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence. All at once, he lurched forward, face first. His rifle flew across the stairwell.
Through blurred eyes, Zimmer saw his boss, Carl Lehman, standing behind, fists clenched. I must be hallucinating, he thought.
“Don’t bother getting up,” Lehman said. He drew his handgun and pointed it. “The SWAT team is on its way. You can’t escape. Don’t make this-”
Like a flash of lightning, the assassin leaped forward and wrapped himself around Lehman’s legs, knocking him sideways. Lehman fired, but the bullet went wide of its mark. He fired again just as his considerable bulk hit the concrete. The fall knocked the weapon out of his hands.
“Stupid old man,” the killer snarled. “Are you so feeble you don’t realize this is what I wanted all along? To kill another director of Homeland Security!” He crawled over Lehman, then brought a fist down hard on his face, flattening his nose. Blood spurted everywhere, including into the killer’s face. He hit Lehman again. The blows rained down, fast and hard, pummeling Lehman’s face. Lehman tried to resist, but he didn’t have the strength. He was a punching bag, a tired old punching bag being terminated, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
The assassin adjusted his aim to Lehman’s solar plexus. Lehman felt as if his lungs were exploding. He couldn’t catch a breath. He doubled over, trying to protect himself, but it was no use.
The next volley of blows went to the groin. Then the man rose and began kicking, shattering Lehman’s knee with a single blow. The pain was excruciating. And just when Lehman thought he couldn’t possibly bear any more, he felt the nose of his own handgun pressed against his neck.
“Your predecessor fought harder. He was much your superior. It took hours before he talked. In ten minutes, you would tell me everything you know. But I don’t have ten minutes.”
He pulled back the hammer. Lehman closed his eyes.
He heard the shattering report of a gun.
And then Lehman was shocked to find he could open his eyes. It took a moment for the thought to register: I’m still alive!
The assassin was crumpled on the concrete. Behind him, wobbling on his knees, was Agent Zimmer-holding the dead man’s assault rifle.
“On your knees,” Zimmer barked. The killer was wounded, but far from dead. “Hands behind your head.”
The killer did not immediately respond. He seemed confused-perhaps dazed by the fall.
Down the stairwell, Zimmer detected the sound of many heavy footsteps.
“Hear that?” Zimmer barked. “That’s the SWAT team coming to have their way with you. My advice is that you tell us everything we want to know, and then there’s a chance, just a chance that one day, far in the future, you might possibly-” He broke off. “No!”
The sniper’s hand had darted to his pants pocket, then a second later, to his mouth.
Zimmer rushed forward, but the killer rolled away before he could grab him. His body had become limp, as if someone had removed his spine. White foam spewed out of his mouth.
“Damn!” he shouted. “He’s taken poison. Medic!”
Zimmer was vaguely aware that the SWAT team emerged and filled the space behind Director Lehman. The crisis had passed.
What a fool he’d been. He was never meant to be a hero. And he’d screwed it up. But fortunately, Lehman gave him the chance he needed to recover himself and finish the job.
The danger was over. The bad guy had been caught. The president was safe. The Secret Service had redeemed itself. He had redeemed himself. And somehow, he’d managed to remain alive.
That was good enough. For today, anyway.
55
“… hat so long as we are a free nation, we have the right to retain and defend our freedom by any means that the people choose. We have heard the people; they have spoken. They have asked for this amendment. We do not, therefore, take anything away from the American public, but only give them what they want to protect what they already have. And to ensure that the heartrending outbursts of violence this nation has witnessed in recent days can never be repeated.”
Ben rushed into the Senate chamber just as Senator Grayson finished his oratory. As he had arranged via text messages from the vice-president’s assistant and the parliamentarian, Ben would be the next speaker, and the final speaker before the vote. The previous three speakers had all been in favor of the amendment, creating an oratorical roller-coaster ride that they planned to culminate with the words of the president’s chosen advocate-Senator Ben Kincaid of Oklahoma.
“Thank you, Senator Grayson.” The vice-president scanned his notes, as if there were any doubt in his mind about what was to happen next. “For our final speaker, the chair recognizes the senior senator from the state of Oklahoma.”
Ben rose from the desk he had only recently arrived at and slowly walked toward the center of the chamber. “Thank you, Mr. President. I thank you for your evenhanded orchestration of this pivotal debate, and for the rare privilege of being the last to address this august assemblage of the finest elected officials this country has to offer.”
And that concluded the sucking-up portion of his address. Not necessary, he knew, but it couldn’t hurt. It remained to be seen whether, when Ben finished, he would still have any friends in this august assemblage.
“I have listened with great interest to all the opinions that have been expressed regarding this amendment. Even during my absence, I stayed in contact with television and summary reports from my chief of staff. There seem to be common themes emerging. Whether pro or con, virtually every speaker has referenced the tragedy of April nineteenth, or the murder of Senators Hammond and DeMouy. This is not surprising. One of my good friends,
