Before the night was through, he’d be on an Amtrak heading for Florida.
After that, who knew?
Chapter 12
“Radio says you created quite a traffic jam on the way over,” said Zen, wheeling past the Secret Service agent to greet the President as she arrived at the game.
“Getting through Washington by street is always fun,” she told him, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. “If it wouldn’t have caused such a fuss, I would have come by helicopter.”
“Given the pitchers tonight, you may want to leave by one,” said Zen. “And soon.”
“Oh come on.”
Zen nodded at the President’s husband, who, though not as hardy a fan of the Nationals as Zen had become, was nonetheless a fellow sufferer.
“Who are your friends?” asked the President, gesturing to the small entourage Zen had left back by the entrance to the President’s suite.
“A very good friend of mine, Mark Stoner,” Zen told her. “He was a CIA officer—”
“Oh, that’s the man who tried to kill you,” said Todd. “And you saved his life.”
“He was sick.”
“I know the history well,” said Todd. She had sent Zen to the meeting where he had inadvertently become Stoner’s target. “Is he OK?”
“He’s still recovering. He has a long way to go. He’s with one of his doctors, and my bodyguard. Baseball seems to be helping bring him back.”
“I’d like to meet him.” The President glanced at the head of her security detail. “OK?”
“I think it would be fine,” said Zen.
The Secret Service agents were wary, but the head of the detail nodded. Zen wheeled back a bit.
“Hey Mark, Doc, come on. Simeon — you too.”
The men, along with two more Secret Service escorts, came into the suite box. Just then, the National Anthem began.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me a moment, gentlemen,” said the President. “I always sing with the anthem. I hope my voice won’t offend you.”
Stoner gazed around the box, taking it all in. The President and her entourage were behind a thick plate of bulletproof glass, looking out at the stadium. There were two rows of seats in front of the box; these belonged to the suite and were unoccupied, except for two Secret Service agents who surveyed the crowd. Zen had hinted they might be able to sit there during the game; the view was actually not as good as from his seats, he claimed, but there would be free waiter service.
Stoner’s gaze moved out beyond the windows. There was another police UAV above the stadium, flying over the area where the parking garage was. It circled the stadium, its wing dipping erratically.
It looked like the one from the night before. And yet, as he studied it, he noticed several differences. Its nose was bigger than the other one. It was flying differently — the other had orbited endlessly; this one weaved, as if looking for something specific.
Stoner took a step forward, then another.
The aircraft turned. It was coming for them.
He leapt forward. One of the Secret Service agents put a hand up to stop him. Stoner tossed him aside, then jumped up and grabbed his fingers into the wooden panel of the ceiling, using them to swing his feet up against the glass. It broke with a splatter and he sailed into the seats overlooking the ball field. He tried to roll onto his side as he flew but couldn’t quite make it; his elbow smacked hard against one of the seat backs.
It hurt. That was a new sensation.
Stoner rose, saw the aircraft, and leapt straight out at it, his bionically enhanced legs giving him the leverage of an Olympic pole vaulter.
He caught the wing of the aircraft with his right hand, pushing it as violently as he could before falling straight down into a black, black hole.
Chapter 13
Zen gasped as the air in front of the suite erupted in fire. Something burst in his face. He and his wheelchair flew backward against the wall. The next thing he knew he was on the ground in the dark. Something was on top of him. It was a piece of the ceiling. He pushed it off, then levered himself upright in time to see two Secret Service agents with drawn Uzis pulling the President from the suite.
“What the hell!” yelled Zen.
Someone grabbed him and jerked him up.
“What the hell is going on!” he yelled, taking a swing with his elbow.
He and the man who had picked him up fell down.
“Sir, we’re with the President,” yelled another man. “We’re taking you to safety. Just come!”
Someone else was yelling, “Go, go, go!”
Zen was picked up again. This time he didn’t fight.
Two and a half minutes later he was deposited in the back of a black SUV. President Todd was next to him.
“Are you OK, Jeff?” she asked.
“I–I guess so.”
“There was a bomb in a plane,” Todd told him. “They’re just getting the details now. I have to go back to the White House.”
“My friends—”
“They’re upstairs.”
“I want to stay with them.”
“Jeff, this is very serious.”
“I have to stay with them,” insisted Zen.
Todd rapped on the window separating her from the front.
“Let the senator out. He wants to be with his friends.”
“Ma’am—”
“Considering that one of them just saved my life,” she said, “it’s the least we can do.”
By the time Zen reached Stoner, he had been loaded onto a stretcher and was being taken out onto the field where a medevac helicopter was waiting. One of the attendants who had worked on him after he fell into the crowd looked at Zen and shook his head.
“Is he dead?” Zen asked.
“Which one?”
“The guy who fell from the box up there,” said Zen, pointing.
“No, sir. But I don’t think he’s going to make it.”
Zen turned his head as the helicopter lifted off with Stoner inside.
“He will,” Zen said. “I’ve seen him die before.”
