Anticipating a question from Rocco, Forsythe cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “I know what you are about to ask, so here goes my best attempt, short and sweet. About 35 years ago, the former Soviet Union buried nukes the size of suitcases on our soil to discourage any US first strike. The locations of the weapons were a secret until yesterday, when an old KGB agent disclosed the location of just such a weapon buried in the rose garden of the Red Cross building.”
Looking from man to man, Forsythe could sense the professionalism amongst them. Not a man flinched — they just returned his steady gaze awaiting their orders.
Forsythe proceeded. “We presently have 55 agents positioned in a four-block area around the Red Cross building and 250 uniforms for crowd control. That should keep the curiosity seekers out of the area. Now, our team will focus on the Red Cross rose garden. It’s an area of only 50 feet by 100 feet, so nothing moves around it, or in it, that we won’t be aware of. What I require from you gentlemen is a double shooting position on the roof across the street with another at street level in the mall area. Finally, I want three of you in the Red Cross rose memorial hidden amongst the various shrubs. Rocco and myself will check the garden for any recent digging and then assume a position in the building itself.”
He looked from man-to-man. “I want to re-enforce the important issue we are dealing with here gentlemen. I have information he is heading this way, towards us. Only this morning in a remote Delaware State Park location our suspect killed an Atlantic City police officer in cold blood. To murder the officer he placed one bullet in his chest at close range while the officer was on the ground, probably pleading for his life. And less than two hours ago, our suspect shot a Maryland State Trooper on Highway 50, ten miles from our very location. Luckily our boy only received minor wounds and a damaged ego. But he is alive, and that’s the important issue, he is alive. Our suspect is a shooter, gentlemen, he won’t wait for you to set up and take your shot. Shoot first then ask questions people,” holding up his hands to once again stem the expected questions.
“I know this differs from our standard policy, but this is a different situation. The rules have changed in our favor for a change.”
The men let out a series of ooh-rahs in response, agreeing wholeheartedly with the change.
Forsythe continued. “Our latest intelligence has him driving a stolen police cruiser and heading to this very location. I think our boy is smart enough to have ditched the cruiser by now and commandeered another mode of transportation. What that is, we have no idea yet.”
Rocco started to hand out flyers with the suspect’s description.
Forsythe looked once again at his assembled agents, noting their youth and a vigor that he once possessed. He suddenly felt old.
To their left, the tourists were being ushered away from the Washington Monument by the DC police.
Satisfied that his warning was being heeded, Forsythe spread his arms wide like a preacher, signaling for the agents to gather around him.
“Now, no one knows about the weapons existence with the exception of you gentlemen and of course some of our superiors. Your fellow police and FBI brethren believe there is a dangerous gas leak, so let’s keep the chatter to a minimum on the radio.”
“If there are no questions, let’s lock and load gentlemen, and may God be on our side.”
A chorus of ooh-rah’s could be heard by the still curious tourists as the men piled into their assigned vehicles, speeding off in a cloud of dust. The dust cloud drifted over to where the tourists were being escorted back to their vehicles, causing some to cover their mouths in response.
Little did the tourists realize — but the dust was the least of their worries.
Peter adjusted the cars’ rear view mirror in order to look at the cut he had received courtesy of the lioness. He could see the blood had since clotted into a purple and red line. Good, he thought, deciding to keep the bandage off. It will be easier to blend in where I’m going.
Careful to maintain the speed limit, he had no desire to be pulled over for speeding at this juncture. After all, he was only 8 kilometers from his intended target.
At this particular moment, he was probably more intimately familiar with the Washington road system then most DC taxi drivers. When his classes in Syria ended for the day, Peter would study the areas of intended attack with the diligence of an engineer reviewing schematics. This enabled him to plan a variety of entrances and escapes, both to and from his target area, with him memorizing the various streets and highways around his target.
As he mentally checked off the exits leading to Pennsylvania Avenue, three Maryland State police cars sped past him in the far left hand lane, approaching what Peter could only guess to be in excess of 140 kilometers per hour. With their entering the Washington DC city limits, they were obviously in pursuit of him and the stolen police cruiser.
There was no way anyone could catch him now.
Wendy Wexler sat handcuffed to the steering wheel, wondering how the hell she had gotten herself into this unfortunate situation. Peter deliberately rolled up the windows, taking no chances of her screams being overheard. Not that it would be of any use with the area populated mostly by abandon buildings.
With the rising August temperature, Wendy desperately pulled at her metal restraints. If she could only break off a piece of the steering wheel, she could escape both the cruiser and the sweltering heat. After only 5 minutes, Wendy’s wrists were raw and bleeding from her struggle.
Looking for any sign of life in the neighborhood, not able to notice so much as a cat on the prowl due to Peter’s positioning of the car, Wendy shook her head in disbelief, cursing aloud. What if nobody finds me? Wendy had seen recent televised warning’s not to leave children or pets in cars during the areas heat wave. With an outside temperature expected to reach the mid 90’s, the local newscasters said that the temperature in some vehicles could reach 175 degrees in less than 30 minutes. At that temperature, a healthy individual would eventually succumb to a heat stroke in less than 2 hours.
Her mind raced with the thought of her poor father having to identify her body in the morgue. Wendy garnered all her strength in one tremendous effort, even propping her feet up against the dashboard for better leverage, before once again succumbing due to the pain in her bloodied wrists. Resting, she leaned against the wheel, causing the horn to sound loudly.
A smile creased her face at the sheer stupidity. How did I overlook the horn? Wendy slid the handcuffs up to the top of the steering wheel, enabling her elbows to depress the horn. She stopped every 15 seconds or so before starting again, establishing a pattern to seriously annoy someone in the area.
Two blocks from Wendy’s location, Army 1st Lieutenant Sumeka Kellor jogged with Tongo, her 2-year-old German Sheppard in tow. Having already completed the park side of her daily 2 ½ mile run, she now weaving her way back through her neighborhood in order to complete her self-plotted circuit. Since returning from an Army posting in Germany, she couldn’t help but notice how the criminal element had invaded what had once been a pleasant neighborhood, turning it into an area of rampant drug use and flagrant prostitution. With a well-endowed curvy figure and light cocoa skin, she was approached three times during her morning run by men mistaking her for a prostitute.