Catercorner from the Hilton was a Los Angeles landmark, the 818 building, called the ‘eight one eight’ by the natives. Its light red masonry facade had been refurbished ten years before, when Art was beginning his tour with the L.A. office, and the interior was restored as faithfully as modern civilization would allow to its early-1900s decor, save the large, glass-encased show windows on its street sides. The old architecture of the city was a check in the pro column when Art was considering a move from the Chicago office to the West Coast. It reminded him of the beautiful antiquity showcased in his native Alabama, though scholars of design would tell him that the two styles were products of totally different influences. Art didn’t look at the subject that deeply. His was a simple appreciation: The buildings looked nice to him.
Atop the 818 a single two-man counter-sniper team was visible, the spotter’s head a foot or so above the tiny circular silhouette of his partner’s. Art knew the routine: the spotter would scan a sector, his slice of the pie, with the naked eye, using his binoculars only to take a closer look at what was seen with unaided vision. It might have seemed strange not to use the magnification of the powerful Bushnells. Not so. The unaided eye was the perfect tool of the spotter, able to detect motion over a wide area, which was the basis of his training. See movement where it should not be. The rest, following an instantaneous decision, would be up to the rifleman.
The engines of the war wagons behind Art started, signaling that the president would be leaving soon. He stretched out his left arm to uncover his simple, black Casio digital. Ten-thirty. With any luck he might make it home by one after accompanying the motorcade to the airport. His Bureau Chevy Caprice was only a few feet away, nosed south on Figueroa. He spit the wad of gum into the gutter — the flavor never seemed to last too long, or be very satisfying — and started for his car.
James ‘Bud’ DiContino, the Deputy Adviser for National Security Affairs, commonly known as Deputy NSA, labored down the stairs of the Hilton with his stainless-steel-edged Anvil briefcase in his right hand. He could have given it to an aide to carry, but the contents were sensitive and ripe from the meeting between his boss, NSA Jeremy Paley, the president, and the visiting British foreign secretary. His late wife had given him the case after some subtle comments about how distinctive yet practical it was. At the moment it was neither, feeling simply like a ton of weight, and making him wish there had been room in the elevator.
He didn’t really mind, though. This job beat the prospective future of his last one. An Air Force colonel working on defensive penetration systems for the Stealth bomber program in a time of budget slashing did not feel totally secure in his position. The challenges were gone, for him, in the military. Thirty years had been enough. Now he was invigorated by public service. It was exciting and ever-changing, and, most prominently, worthwhile, even with the political BS that came with the territory.
Lugging twenty pounds of material in his shiny briefcase, however, was anything but exciting. Bud looked at his watch as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Ten thirty-one. His wife would slap him if she were there. His lifelong habit of unconsciously checking the time every few minutes had grated on her nerves to the point that he had been required to remove his watch whenever he was at home. ‘We have clocks, sweetie’ was her explanation. He missed her.
The heavy fire door moved against Bud’s weight, opening into the hallway off the south lobby. He turned left at the direction of a Secret Service agent and walked quickly to meet the presidential entourage, which had already reached the ground floor and headed out to the covered drive. Bud stopped upon reaching the expansive lobby. The desk was to his left, and to the front he could see through the glass walls, watching as the president, his chief of staff, and Jeremy bade farewell to Foreign Secretary Smith with double-grip handshakes. Again Bud checked the time. Ten thirty-three. He looked back up, waiting for the president and his two advisers to get into the first limousine. That would be his cue to exit and hop into the follow-up car.
The handshakes ended and the president, a tall, snowy- haired man, stepped back toward his limo with a toothy smile stretched across his deeply — he would say distinctively— lined face. Then Sam Buck, the president’s personal Secret Service bodyguard, reached for the chief executive. His hand had barely touched the president’s sleeve when all hell broke loose.
The sight reminded Art of his short stay in Vietnam, all played in slow motion through the windshield. He first saw one streak of fire come from a hidden part of the 818 building and dive down to an area at the south end of the Hilton, followed quickly by a thunderous crack and flash. A second streak followed from the same unseen point, shooting through the smoke trail left by its predecessor and exploding closer to Figueroa in what looked to be a much fierier blast.
Art’s cop instincts instantly took over his actions, throwing his body out of the driver’s door into the street. His Smith & Wesson 1076 was already in his right hand when he rolled to his feet, pointing in the direction of the 818. There was no cover where he stood. For some reason the door of the Chevy had closed, leaving him crouched a few feet away in the open.
Then came the gunfire. A shitload of it, he thought. Mostly from where the rockets—they had to be rockets—came from, steady bursts from familiar-sounding weapons — M-16s. Then the distinctive cracks of repeated rounds from the counter-sniper teams atop the hotel. The others must have been blocked out, but they had a target. Art crouched and ran to the east side of the street for cover against a building and moved swiftly along its wall toward Figueroa and Seventh, looking alternately up to see where the Service rifleman was firing and then back to his front. Automatic fire from the bad guys was kicking up dust and fragments as the .223 rounds impacted the street and sidewalk. For the first time Art could see the impact area in the covered drive, though most of the scene was obscured by smoke from a burning black limo. Dammit! He looked behind. Three LAPD officers were crouched almost on his ass, following his lead, and, in the background, Art saw the war wagons disappear east on Wilshire, obviously going around the block. It was the 818!
Across the street two Service agents, one with an Uzi, and the other with a pistol and clearly injured, emerged from the drive and ran to the intersection’s center, finding cover behind a disabled chase vehicle. They immediately began returning fire and, almost as quickly, the injured agent caught some rounds in the head, which exploded as he crumpled into a ball at the side of the bronze government sedan. The instinct to go to the aid of a fallen brother lawman was suppressed by the reality that they had to get to the source of the fire.
Art peeked around the corner. About halfway down the already bullet-scarred Seventh Street face and five stories up, the fire was coming in steady streams from two windows. One of the war wagons came tearing around the comer of Seventh and Flower, one block east, and skidded to a stop over the curb at the main entrance. Its doors and tailgate swung open, disgorging the black-clad Secret Service CAT team. Two of the agents on the Chevy’s street side, one lying on his back, returned fire almost straight up as their three comrades raced into the building. A burst of fire stitched up the sidewalk to the cover of the building’s corner, catching Art with some shards of concrete kicked up by the ricochets, most hitting his jacket. One caught him on the right jawline and a trickle of blood began to flow from the half-inch wound. He recoiled around the corner, cursing in pain. One of the cops covered the cut with a white handkerchief, which rapidly turned to red.