69
When King woke up, he was so thickheaded he was sure he'd been drugged. His head slowly cleared, and it was then he realized he could move his arms and his legs. He gingerly felt around him. There were no restraints. Ever so slowly he rose, at the same time preparing for an attack. He edged his foot down until it found the floor. Then he stood. There was something in his ear and something rubbing at the back of his neck, and he felt the bulge at his waist.
Then the lights came on, and he found himself staring at his image in a large mirror on the opposite wall. He was dressed in a dark suit and patterned tie, and on his feet were black rubber-soled dress shoes. And his probing hand had just pulled out a.357 from his shoulder holster. Even his hair was combed differently. Just like he'd styled it back in… Damn! Even his graying temples had been darkened. He tried to check the gun's magazine, but it had been sealed in such a way that it wouldn't come open. He could tell by the weapon's weight that the mag was loaded. Yet he was betting that the ammo in there was blanks. It was the exact model he had carried back in 1996. He put the gun back in his belt holster and looked in the mirror at a man who seemed
As he turned his head, he saw the curly cord of the ear receiver in his left ear. It was undeniable: he was Secret Service agent Sean Ignatius King once more. It was amazing that all of this had started with the murder of Howard Jennings in his office. The sheer coinci-He stared at his stunned reflection in the mirror. The trumped-up charges against Ramsey, it hadn't been Bruno at all. The last piece finally clicked into place. And now there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Actually the odds were he'd never have the chance to right it.
He suddenly heard it, off in the distance somewhere, the low murmurings of what seemed to be hundreds of muffled voices. The door at the other end of the room stood open. He hesitated and then walked through it. Passing down the hall, he felt a little like a rat in a maze. Actually the farther he went, the more he felt that way. It wasn't a comforting thought, but what choice did he have? At the end of the corridor something slid open, and through this portal bright light was revealed along with the amplified sounds of the murmuring voices. He squared his shoulders and walked through.
The Stonewall Jackson Room of the Fairmount Hotel looked far different from the way it had looked the last time King was there. Yet it still felt intimately familiar. The room was brightly lit, the velvet rope and stanchions exactly where they were eight years ago. The crowd-represented by hundreds of carefully painted cardboard characters inserted on metal stands and holding 'Elect Clyde Ritter' pennants and signs-stood behind the barrier. The din of their simulated voices emanated from hidden speakers. It was quite a production.
As he looked around, the memories came flooding back. He saw painted cardboard faces of his Secret Service colleagues positioned exactly where they stood all those years ago, badly positioned as it turned out. There were other faces he recognized. Some of the painted crowd held infants to be kissed, others pads and pens forautographs, still others nothing except broad smiles. On the back of the wall the large clock had been rehung. According to that timepiece, it was about 10:15. If this was what he thought it was, he had about seventeen minutes to go.
He glanced over at the elevator banks, and his gaze became a deep frown. How exactly was that going to play out? They couldn't do it the same because the surprise was no longer there. Yet they'd taken Joan for some reason. He felt his pulse quicken, and his hands started to shake a little. It was a long time since he'd been with the Service. In the intervening years he'd done nothing more strenuous than lift some heavy verbiage in thousands of boring, if creative, legal documents. And yet in sixteen more minutes he sensed he was going to have to perform just like the experienced agent he'd once been. Observing the lifeless figures arrayed behind the purple line, he wondered where among them would emerge the real, red-blooded assassin.
The lights dimmed and the sounds of the crowd ceased, and then footsteps approached. The man looked so different that if King hadn't been expecting to see him, he probably wouldn't have recognized him.
'Good morning, Agent King,' said Buick Man. 'I hope you're ready for your big day.'
70
When they had arrived, Parks and Michelle spoke with the officer who was heading up the local contingent of police that Parks had summoned. He had called in marshals and other law enforcement from the North Carolina area. 'They'll get there before we do,' Parks had told Michelle on the way down. She had said, 'Tell them to form a perimeter around the hotel: They can be right on the tree line and still remain hidden.'
Michelle and Parks knelt along the tree line behind the Fairmount Hotel. A police cruiser was blocking off the road leading to the hotel, but still out of sight of the place. Michelle spotted a sniper up a tree, his rifle with long- range scope aimed at the front door of the hotel.
'You sure you have enough people here?' she asked Parks.
He pointed toward other places in the darkness, indicating where other lawmen were positioned. Michelle couldn't see them but sensed their comforting presence.
'We have more than enough to do the job,' he said. 'The question is, can we find Sean and the others alive?' Parks laid down his shotgun and picked up his walkie-talkie. 'Okay, you've been in that hotel and know the layout. What's the best way for us to hit it?'
'The last time we were here, when we nabbed the convicts, Sean and I managed to make a gap in the security fence as we were leaving. It was easier than climbing over. We can go in that way. Thefront doors are chained shut, but a large window about thirty feet from the front has been busted. We can go in there and be in the lobby within seconds.'
'It's a big place. Any idea where they might be?'
'I have a guess, but it's a pretty educated one. The Stonewall Jackson Room. It's an interior room right off the lobby. There's one door going in and a set of elevators inside.'
'Why are you so sure they're in this Stonewall Jackson Room?'
'This is an old hotel, and there are lots of creaks and groans and rats and creepy things. But when I was in that room and the door was closed, I didn't hear anything. It was quiet, too quiet. But when the door was open, you could hear all the normal sounds.'
'I'm not getting your point.'
'I think the room's been soundproofed, Jefferson.'
He stared at her. 'I'm starting to see where you're going with this.'
'Are your men in position?' He nodded. Michelle checked her watch. 'It's almost midnight but there's a full moon. There's an open stretch of ground we have to cover before we reach the fence. If we can direct the main attack from inside, we might have a better chance of not losing anybody.'
'Sounds like a plan. But you lead the way. I don't know the lay of this land.' Parks spoke into his walkie-talkie and ordered his men to move their perimeter closer in.
Michelle started to sprint off but he grabbed her arm.
'Michelle, I was a pretty good athlete when I was younger, but I was no Olympian. And now my knees are shot, so could you just slow down enough so I can keep you in sight?'
She smiled. 'Not to worry, you're in good hands.'
They darted through the trees until they came to the open ground they had to cross to get to the fence. They paused there, and Michelle looked at the hard-breathing Parks.
'You ready?' He nodded and gave a thumbs-up.
She jumped out and ran for the fence. Behind her Parks did thesame. As she hustled along, Michelle focused at first on what was in front of her. And then her attention moved to what was behind. And what was there was suddenly chilling.
Those weren't the sounds of normal strides; they were the same disjointed lunges she'd heard outside her bedroom window at the inn-the ones made by the person who'd tried to kill her. She'd been wrong. It wasn't the
