weathered wood. The door burst open. He cried out as pain exploded from his mid-chest and his momentum carried him stumbling into the interior of the barn. Dim light through a long row of windows was the only illumination. Surrounding him were stacks of hay bales extending to the back wall, and forming, in places, natural staircases ten to twenty-five feet high. He could hide behind the bales or …
Griff’s pursuer tripped against the doorjamb, giving him a few precious seconds of warning. His respirations filled the barn. Reacting more than reasoning, Griff carefully made his way up one of the tallest of the hay staircases. Halfway to the top his fortune took a turn.
A long-handled, four-pronged pitchfork was wedged in one of the bales.
Griff slid the tool out and used it as support to ascend to the top. The giant’s labored breathing seemed to obscure the sound of his movement.
“You stupid fool,” the man shouted into the darkness. “You think you can stop me?” He sent a short hail of bullets into the roof. “Nothing can stop me! I saw some blood by the door. You hurt bad? If you’re not, you will be. I’m going to shoot to maim you, not to kill you. Then I’m going to use the knife I used on your friend to gut you bit by bit until you tell me what I want to know, or until you die. It really doesn’t matter.”
From his hiding place, Griff listened to the man’s footsteps as they scraped unevenly across the barn’s wooden floor, drawing closer. He forced his breathing to slow as he visualized his adversary’s position.
It was time.
Griff peered over the edge as the giant cautiously approached. He could see now what devastating damage the stampeding bison had done to him. His parka was nearly torn off, exposing a fractured forearm, where jagged white bone jutted through his skin. It seemed quite possible that his leg was broken as well. The dramatic wounds would make him slow to react—or at least
Griff gripped the pitchfork and shifted his weight, preparing to climb over the top of the hay bales and slide down the other side.
He pushed off the highest bale, screaming as loudly as he could.
The man whirled and raised the submachine gun, ripping off a wild burst that totally missed the dark shadow flying down at him.
The pitchfork, with all Griff’s weight behind it, struck home across the center of the man’s chest, its lethal tines penetrating through skin, muscle, heart, and bone, before exiting through the back. The force drove him backward onto the straw-covered floor and pinned him there. Blood erupted from his mouth. He tried to say something, but succeeded only in spewing up more blood.
Seconds later, he was dead, the long handle of the pitchfork still pointing at the ceiling, quivering.
Griff took the knife and the submachine gun, which he fired successfully into a hay bale just to prove to himself that he could. Then he checked the professional killer for the ID he knew would not be there, and spent a few moments gazing down at his lifeless, battered and broken corpse.
“I only wish it had lasted longer,” he said viciously.
CHAPTER 54
Vice President Henry Tilden shifted from one foot to the other. He was standing in the middle of an orderly food line that snaked along two walls of the House Chamber. Ellis watched the man from halfway across the hall… Watched and waited.
More people than ever were coughing now, she noted. Some coughed just a little bit, as if they were trying to clear a bothersome tickle from their throats. Others, including the president’s wife and daughter, were suffering from a more persistent, wet hacking.
Ellis made eye contact with Gladstone, who was some fifty people in line behind Tilden. A slight nod from her and Gladstone abandoned his place. He walked past Tilden, and without offering an apology or explanation, cut in front of Supreme Court Justice Alfred Bauer. In the past, and at times during the current crisis, Ellis had witnessed the crusty Bauer lose his temper, usually without much provocation. Minor offenses such as loud talking, or even snoring, had been triggers enough to set off the already agitated, elderly judge. Ellis was counting on Bauer losing his cool one more time.
“You can’t cut the line, young man,” Ellis heard him say to Gladstone.
Gladstone, in response, turned to Bauer, and just as they had rehearsed said, “You can’t make me leave. You’re not the all-powerful justice, here.”
Gladstone then turned away from the man and resumed his waiting.
“I don’t tolerate that sort of disrespect, young man,” Bauer snapped.
“I frankly don’t care what you tolerate or don’t tolerate.”
Bauer took the bait and pushed Gladstone in the small of his back. Ellis’s aide stumbled forward. He waved his arms wildly in the air, pretending to lose his balance, and crashed into the man standing in front of him. Then he executed a quick side step to his right, and the man into whom he had fallen responded with an angry shove into Bauer’s chest. The justice countered with a wild, errant punch that missed his target, but grazed across a congresswoman’s jaw.
The ensuing melee exploded like a match on gasoline-soaked rags.
Having predicted every moment of the scenario, Ellis listened to the escalating shouting and startling profanities from men and women, many of them with impeccable pedigrees. She watched as more people joined in, pushing and shoving, and calling other combatants names.
Punches were now being thrown. Boxed dinners were flying like missiles. A congressman was repeatedly kicking a fallen reporter in the abdomen and head. Pent-up frustration and anger, in all likelihood fueled by WRX3883, burst forth like an oil well gusher. Secret Service agents quickly rushed in to quell the mayhem. Several of them became enmeshed in it. Others extracted Allaire’s wife and daughter before they could become victims of the increasing violence. Capitol Police and more agents came together to pry apart several small pockets of fighting. Noses were bleeding, now, as fists continued to fly. Congressmen and -women were on the floor along with other dignitaries, cowering or flailing with their hands and feet.
“I can’t take this anymore!” Ellis heard somebody scream.
“Stop hitting me! I didn’t do anything to you!” shouted another.
Ellis and Gladstone grabbed Tilden by the arms before any Secret Service agents could get to him.
“Come with us,” she yelled into his ear. “There’s a problem with President Allaire. Dr. Townsend wants us right away.”
Tilden nodded and allowed himself to be guided out of the House Chamber into the corridor that would lead across the Capitol to the Senate wing. As Ellis had predicted, the guards who had been posted at the doors had rushed in to help quell the fight. The screaming and racket muted once the exit doors closed behind them. Ellis was not the least surprised that her tactics were working perfectly. It was probable that no one had noticed them leaving.
“What’s going on?” Tilden asked.
There was confusion and panic in his voice and expression. Ellis wondered if he was reacting to the riot, or to the notion of becoming president. Probably both, she decided.
“Townsend is waiting for us by the Senate Chamber,” she said. “We’ve got to hurry.”
“Why there?” Tilden asked.
“You saw what’s going on here. Townsend couldn’t meet us on the rostrum, and she couldn’t risk getting together anywhere near the president. He’s become paranoid about being removed from office. His doctor used the word ‘dangerous’ to describe him. That’s her word, not mine.” Ellis held up a metal tube. “I’ve got the documents
