No movement.
No sounds.
I hand Charlene her earring, and she edges closer to me as she puts it back in. “Jevin, I don’t think—”
I hold up my hand: “Wait.” I hear footsteps, then a voice somewhere in the hallway or just beyond. It’s indistinct and I can’t make out the words.
Riah hears it too. “It’s the twins.” Her voice is low. “I can’t tell which one.”
So, not the Secret Service agents, and even though I can’t discern the muffled words from the other room, there doesn’t seem to be any fear in them, no urgency, no intimidation.
I don’t take that as a good sign.
They’re assassins. This is stupid. Get out of—
“I don’t like this, Jevin,” Charlene whispers.
Riah hasn’t moved. “I should go ahead. Talk to them.”
“Just a sec.” If the twins had done something to the Secret Service agents, I doubted they were going to take kindly to Riah’s arrival. They would surmise that someone had leaked their location, and I doubted they would have shared it with too many other people besides her.
I don’t like the idea of putting either of the women in danger, but I don’t like the idea of backing away either, not when we’re this close. Even without Riah’s help, the twins still pose a threat to the president.
Glancing around, I look for a weapon. A hall tree for hats and jackets and a small coat area with empty hangers sit to my right. A decorative bin holding half a dozen umbrellas rests beside it.
No, not an umbrella. That won’t do anything. Not if a couple Secret Service agents had been overpowered by these assassins.
All in. Remember? No turning back, no backing down. Just like your escapes. It’s what you were made to do.
I indicate for the women to stay where they are. “I’ll be right back.” I sense that they’re about to protest but move forward before they can.
Edging closer to the chapel, I press the door open a little more.
Two rows of wooden pews, ten in each row. A closed coffin sits in the gentle light at the front of the room. Paintings of serene meadows on the walls. Other than that the room is empty.
I take a few more steps to get a better view of what lies down the hallway—
That’s when I see the legs of someone on the floor in a room partway down the hall. Trousers. Men’s loafers. The person isn’t moving.
From where Charlene and Riah are waiting by the front door, I can’t imagine they can see the body and I don’t want them to.
He might still be alive.
Quietly returning to Riah and Charlene, I hush my voice. “Get to the car. Drive away. And call 911. I think someone’s hurt. I have to check; don’t argue with me. Go. Call 911. Get out of here.” I eye Riah. “Both of you.” I make it clear by my tone that there’s no room for debate. I’m not sure how she’s going to respond, but after a small moment she nods. I hand them my phone.
A voice inside of me tells me that I really should go with them.
No, Jevin.
That person might be alive.
Stop the twins.
All in.
No, I wasn’t about to leave the building and wait for who knows how long for cops or more agents to show up, only to find out later that I’d left someone dying on the floor when I could’ve saved him.
Besides, I really doubted that the Secret Service would’ve sent only one agent here. That meant there might be another victim.
Or someone else to help you. Someone’s who’s armed.
Finally, the women step silently toward the door.
I decide that an umbrella’s better than nothing and go for one after all. The end is tipped with metal, and I figure I can use it like a bayonet if I need to. It might not be lethal, but it would sure slow someone down.
Cautiously, I creep past the chapel again and make my way toward the hallway. As I get closer, I see more of the man’s legs. For the moment, no other sounds.
I tighten my grip on the shaft of the umbrella and realize I haven’t heard the front door opening. I glance back, see the women still in the foyer. Charlene is talking softly, urgently, on the phone. Dr. Colette is standing stoically beside her, watching me. I gesture again for them to go, and Charlene holds up a finger to indicate that they will in just a moment.
At last they ease out the door.
Good.
Okay.
Heart hammering, I round the corner.
The man on the floor has an earpiece attached to a white coiling cord that disappears into his suit coat. His head is twisted gruesomely to the side at an angle a head was never meant to turn. Eyes open. Staring.
Quickly, I scan the room. More elegant furniture. A prayer stool in the corner. A cross hanging from the wall. Heavy floor-length drapes pulled across unseen windows. No one else is present.
No sounds.
Two other doors are propped open. One leads to the crematorium. Through the other doorway, I can see a tiled floor. Old metal gurneys and countertops of chemicals and medical instruments.
The embalming room.
I make a decision: See if this guy is alive, then go. Get out of here.
Silently, I crouch and press two fingers against the agent’s neck. No pulse. Nothing.
But then I hear movement in the embalming room, someone walking across the tiled floor.
See if he has a gun. Move!
I’m no marksman, but I am a practiced shot. Mostly I’ve fired guns at Charlene while I’m blindfolded. That was for part of our show.
This was for real.
I feel for a shoulder holster on the dead man, find his gun, and as I’m removing it, I hear indistinct voices in the embalming room, and a man in jeans and a black sweater crosses the doorway, walking backward, dragging a woman across the floor. She’s not moving.
The other agent.
Then the person dragging her speaks. This time I hear him clearly: “Go get the man.”
I scurry to the wall, duck behind one of the chairs.
Stillness. Perception. Expectation. There’s no reason for him to suspect that anyone else is in the room.
He’ll focus on the task, why would he look your way?
Still, I hold the gun ready, umbrella tucked behind the curtain beside me.
The man enters the room. He’s athletic, walks with poise, confidence. Doesn’t look my way. Identical to the other man except he wears a green sweater.
This twin grabs the wrists of the dead Secret Service agent, tugs him toward the door to the embalming room, but as he turns the corner, the flap of the dead man’s jacket flips open, revealing the empty shoulder holster.
Countdown
In a beat while I still have the advantage, I respond.
Ditching the umbrella and swinging the handgun in front of me, I dash across the room, through the doorway, and shout, “Do not move!”
But only one man is here now, and it’s not the one who pulled the male agent’s corpse into the room. A wicked scar scribbles down this twin’s left cheek. He looks at me calmly, holds out his hands, palms up, to show that he’s unarmed. The dead woman whom I saw him dragging a moment ago lies at his feet.
“Who are you?” he asks.
There’s one other door leading out of this room. His brother must have fled the second he realized the agent’s gun was missing.
“Don’t move.” Then I call out the door, “I have the gun! I’m aiming it at your brother. Step out with your hands up.”
No response. No sound. The man in front of me appears unfazed. “Who told you to come here? Dr. Colette?”