Church, Matt?'
'Yes,' I said. 'In another lifetime, Laura and I were married in that church.'
'Shit,' said Logan. 'I'm sorry, Matt.'
Jock said, 'What if we put our troops just around the big churches downtown? If the bomber smells a rat at one, maybe he'll just move on to the church in the next block. If we're wrong, we're going to lose a church any way you cut it.'
'What do you think, Matt?' Logan said.
'Sounds like a plan. I think we should be at Lakeside. We can put sniper teams around the square. If we approach him, all he has to do is punch a button or something, and all hell breaks loose. We've got to get him before he has a chance to react. Are your sniper credentials still good, Jock?'
'Unfortunately, yes,' he said. 'So much for retirement.'
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
I stood beside jock in the bell house atop the steeple of the Lakeside Methodist Church. A German made Heckler-Koch PSG-1 sniper rifle rested on a tripod placed on the edge of the half wall that surrounded the small space. The bells weren't used anymore, and loudspeakers placed around the room played a recording of somebody else's bells clanging the faithful to worship. The din made normal conversation impossible.
We had rearranged our forces to cover the big downtown churches. Orlando had once been called the City of Churches, and almost every corner along Rosalind and Magnolia avenues boasted a house of worship.
It all made sense. If Simmermon was going to blow up a church, why not take out his spiritual nemesis in the bargain? He and Tarlington had struggled against each other for the allegiance of the faithful. In Simmermon's crazed mind, Tarlington was the anti-Christ and had to be killed for the good of the faith.
So we had climbed the stairs to the steeple to do a job I had no stomach for. Yet, here I was, ready to kill a boy who had been taken in by a crazed charlatan.
I held a pair of high-powered Zeiss binoculars to my eyes, scanning the crowd below. Other sniper pairs, a shooter and a spotter, were scattered about the area. The first one to catch sight of the bomber was to take him out. I hoped none of the snipers would mistakenly take out an innocent person, but these guys were well trained, among the best in the world, and I thought we'd be okay.
The church was large, and had been built when Orlando was a much smaller city. Office buildings and retail outlets now crowded in on either side, but the large square in front of the church was intact. It was a gath ering place for the faithful and the hangers-on, a place to see and be seen on Sunday mornings.
The only entrance the church used for Sunday services was the front door. This was a tradition dating back many decades. It forced the members to mingle on their way to church. It also meant that the bomber would have to come across the square.
If Fats had given us the wrong information, a lot ofpeople were going to die in the next few minutes, including Jock and me. We had volunteered for the bell tower, since it was our decision to place our resources here. If we were wrong, another church would die this day, and if we were right and let the bomber get by, we would die with this church.
It was nearing the nine o'clock hour. The sun was hot, shining from an almost cloudless sky. The water of the nearby lake was flat, and the tall buildings surrounding it reflected off its surface. The crowd in the square was getting bigger as people stopped to chat with one another.
The radio receiver plugged into my ear buzzed with static. I mentally tuned it out, but then I heard Logan's voice. 'Matt, I saw somebody who could be our target,' he said. 'He's standing almost in the middle of the square. He's alone, wearing a beige suit. Can you see him?'
Logan was moving about the crowd, a roving spotter on the lookout for the bomber. We were all wired into a tactical radio network, so that when one of us spoke, all the members of our team could hear.
I scanned the crowd with the binoculars. Jock put his eye to the Hendsoldt scope fastened to the top of the rifle. He had it set for 100 meters, a distance that was a little longer than a football field.
I saw the figure Logan was talking about. I looked closely, and I knew Jock's scope gave him a closer look than I could get. I wasn't sure if this was our guy.
Jock removed his eye from the scope and said into my ear, 'Not him. This guy is in his thirties.'
'You sure?'
'Yes. I'm about to kill somebody's son. I've got to be sure.'
'Whoever he is, jock,' I said, 'he's not the son his parents knew. He's been brainwashed. He's a robot.'
Jock nodded, but I knew he didn't believe me. He was going to do what he had to do, but it didn't sit well with him.
I spoke into the mic. 'It's not him, Logan. Keep a sharp lookout.'
'Ten-four,' came the reply.
Jock was scanning die square with his eye to the scope. 'There,' he said. 'On the edge of the crowd, over by the lake. Take a look.'
I turned the binoculars to where Jock was pointing. This could be the guy. He was in a beige suit, blue tie, and he was about the right age. His coat was unbuttoned. If I gave jock the word, this was a dead man. What if I was wrong?
'Steady,' I said. 'Let's be sure.'
'He's moving,' said Jock.
The man was striding across the square, not looking to either side, headed for the front door of the sanctuary. A gust of wind came off the lake. For just a second, it lifted his coat. I saw the vest. 'Do it,' I said.
The rifle recoiled at the instant I heard the shot. I held the binoculars to my eyes, watching the boy in the beige suit. Time slowed to a crawl, like in a movie run in slow motion. The back of his head blew out from the force of the bullet entering his brain. Bone and tissue splattered the sunwashed bricks of the square. He dropped with no effort to catch himself. He was dead before he hit the ground. Jock had drilled him through the forehead with a 7.62-millimeter round.
The sound of the rifle caused panic in the square. People were looking around for the origin of the blast. Some dropped to their stomachs, others simply began running. Several people closest to our target were standing over the body, frozen, looks of horror straining their facial features. I saw Logan, moving at a dead run, cross the square. He reached the body, squatted beside it, pulled the coat back, looked up at us and pumped his arm in a victory gesture. His voice came over my earpiece. 'Got the bastard, Jock. You got the crazy bastard.'
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Longboat Key is a place to heal the soul. The summer brings a quiet time for the year-round islanders. The snowbirds are back in the north, the tourists are gone, and the key slows to a pace that could be considered glacial.
A month had gone by since the death of a young man on a sun-swept church square in the beautiful city of Orlando. The headlines told of a plot to assassinate the mayor of Orlando, who attended the church, and of a police sniper who killed the would-be assassin. There was nothing about bombers or crazed religious freaks or, for that matter, whores.
The Heaven Can't Wait Spas in several cities were quietly closed down, and the working girls told to leave town. The Reverend Robert William Simmermon was locked in a small cell in a mental institution, and would probably spend the rest of his life there.
Michelle Browne was cooperating with law enforcement, helping them piece together the empire and find the girls who wanted to go home. Most didn't. They liked being whores, and were looking for other highclass venues in which to ply their trade.
Michelle's goons, Charlie Calhoun and Martin Holcomb, were being held on assault and battery charges and
