But why? Why would she do that? She’d already gotten away from me. Why didn’t she just leave the building?
I thought about Austin Crowley and Sydney Bronson, how rattled they’d been to hear that a bomber, assassin, and fugitive from justice had been a registered contestant. They’d promised to turn over their data from all entries into the tournament.
As I ran between the Capitol and the Supreme Court Building, heading north toward Independence Avenue, none of it made any clear sense. The circular thinking started again, upsetting me, and I ran faster, picking up the pace to a virtual sprint. Pumping my arms, lengthening my stride, I reached Independence and was going to run downhill all the way to Union Station before turning back toward home.
But then, right there at the corner of Constitution Avenue, just north of the Supreme Court Building and the Library of Congress, I was hit with a sense of foreboding so strong that I came to a full stop and stood there panting, sweat pouring off my brow and trickling down my back. I was overheated, but I shivered so hard my headlamp beam slashed back and forth, and my teeth chattered.
I looked down the hill and in my mind I saw the riderless black horse from President Catherine Grant’s funeral procession. It was so real, I could hear the stallion’s hooves clopping.
I’m not much for premonitions or gut instincts. For me, for the most part, it’s all about the facts and the way they fit together or don’t.
Standing there, however, sweating and shivering in the cold in the middle of the night and seeing that black horse so vividly in my mind, there was no denying the ominous sense I felt all around me. I couldn’t point to its source, and then, suddenly, I could.
Kristina Varjan. Senator Walker’s sniper. The gangbanger Romero. The strangled guy, Thomas. And Sergeant Moon’s killer.
What if they were all connected? What if every one of them was a professional assassin, including Thomas, the one Scotland Yard was keeping under wraps? What if they were cooperating? What if someone was directing them?
The sense of menace and apprehension kept building the more I thought about those questions, and finally I decided that a prudent man had to go forward on the assumption they were all trained professional killers.
Five professional killers, maybe more, and they were all within a hundred miles of Washington, DC. What they were here for was unclear, but the fact that one of them might have assassinated a U.S. senator came front and center in my thoughts.
This isn’t over.
I heard horse hooves in my memory and felt at a deep gut level that something bad was about to happen. Something very bad.
I pivoted and started sprinting back home.
I could feel the threat in my muscles and in my bones.
Chapter 47
At 4:30 A.M., Pablo Cruz encountered heavy security at the Washington, DC, arena that was the main venue for the World Youth Congress, which was opening that morning.
Cruz had shaved his head and the goatee and wore a blue work coverall embroidered with the DC arena’s logo. He carried a District of Columbia driver’s license and an arena employee ID card that identified him as Kent Leonard, a member of the setup and maintenance crew assigned to work the three-day event.
Cruz put thirty dollars, a cheap wristwatch, a key ring, reading glasses, sunglasses, a pack of gum, and three alcohol wipes in small foil packages in a tray and then turned to a U.S. Secret Service agent standing there. He gestured to his ears.
In a nasal, almost Donald Duck voice, he said, “I’m wearing bilateral hearing aids. Do I take them out?”
“If you don’t mind, sir. No cell phone?”
“They said no phones, and besides, I can’t hear for nothing on those things,” Cruz said before removing the hearing aids, placing them in the bin, and walking through a metal detector.
He’d used the IDs and worn similar hearing aids when entering the arena three times in the past two days, and he fully expected the venue’s security guards, DC Police, and members of the U.S. Secret Service to wave him through.
But after he’d cleared the metal detector, he was met by a Secret Service agent carrying a wand. Special Agent Crane, according to his ID, told Cruz to extend his arms and spread his legs.
Cruz acted as if he didn’t hear the order. Agent Lewis, Crane’s partner, went to the bin and got out his hearing aids.
The assassin put them on and this time followed Crane’s orders as the agent moved the detection wand over him. He ignored the cheeping noise when it passed the two hearing devices.
When he was done, Crane handed the wand to his partner, who had been typing on an iPad, and said, “I’m going to have to pat you down, Mr. Leonard.”
“Whatever,” Cruz said.
Agent Crane checked the assassin’s legs and pockets.
Lewis said, “He checks out.”
Crane nodded before patting both of Cruz’s arms. His expression changed.
“Please pull up your sleeves, sir,” he said.
Cruz calmly rolled back the sleeves of the jumpsuit, revealing the translucent spiderwebs wrapped around both forearms.
“What are those?”
“Braces for a repetitive-strain injury,” Cruz said in that quacking voice. “My cousin invented them. Did the same design for knees.”
“I could use one of those,” Agent Lewis said. “They on the market?”
“The website’s going up and the knee brace is coming out I think, like, next month? Spiderweb Braces,” Cruz said. “These are prototypes.”
“Work well?” the agent said, stepping back to let him pass.
Cruz smiled. “First day. I’ll let you know on my way out, even before I tell my cousin.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Leonard.”
“God willing, sir,” Cruz said, and he walked on.
Feeling like he’d already won a major battle and remembering the schematic maze he’d taped to the abandoned factory floor, Cruz worked his way through the perimeter corridors surrounding the arena and then used a key he’d stolen, copied, and returned to a janitor two days before to unlock an unmarked door.
He looked around, saw the hallways largely empty at that hour, and slipped into a utility stairwell. He clambered quickly down two flights of steel stairs, exited into a subbasement with narrower halls, and went through them confidently until he reached a T. He turned left and, to his relief, found the passage in front of him empty.
Cruz went straight to a door marked with an electrical warning symbol, unlocked it, and went through it into a small, very warm space with meters running on the wall, recording the energy the facility was consuming.
He removed his left hearing aid and tugged the ultrathin wire that linked the amplifier to the earbud. Four more inches of wire came out of the amp. He wound the cord around a connector that joined the largest electrical meter to the big power line feeding the facility. Then he opened one of the alcohol wipes and carefully cleaned the aid and everywhere he’d touched the meter.
He did the same to the doorknob in and out of the room before moving back toward the stairwell. Just shy of it, Cruz used his key to open a door on his right and went into a storage closet that held toilet paper, napkins, coffee cups, and the like.
Behind a stack of paper towels, he found the things he’d smuggled in two days before beneath his work clothes: the disassembled parts of his graphite derringers, a sandy-blond toupee, contact lenses, a set of clothes, and an ID.
Cruz stripped out of the jumpsuit, folded it, then assembled the weapons and attached one to the belly of each spiderweb. He put the contact lenses in; they made his eyes a dazzling blue. Then he donned black pants, black shoes, a black dress shirt, and a black V-neck sweater.