“That’s when they approached and threatened you.”
“When they approached and threatened me, and when they tried the softer sell on someone with even more power than that.”
“But to assume that you or the First Lady would go for it — much less be able to pull six-million-dollar strings over and over…”
“Y’ever been fishing, Rogo? Sometimes, you’re better off throwing in a few lines with different bait and seeing who nibbles. That’s the only reason they approached both of us. And though she’ll forever deny it — in fact, she probably doesn’t even think she did anything wrong anymore — but the First Lady’s the one who swam toward the hook,” Boyle explained. “And as for making their next six million happen, or the ten million after that, look at any White House in history. The most powerful people in the room aren’t the ones with the big titles. They’re the ones with the President’s ear. I’ve had that ear since I was twenty-three years old. The only one who’s had it longer is the person he’s married to. Whatever they came in next with — if she had a hand in it and thought it’d help them on security issues — believe me, it’d have gotten through.”
“I don’t get it, though. Once Blackbird got nuked, didn’t they at least need some kinda results before they could make another big request like that?”
“Whattya think I was?” Boyle asked.
Rogo turned to his left but didn’t say a word.
“Rogo, for the snake-oil scam to succeed, people only need to see the cure work once. That’s what The Three gave them — courtesy of two bullets in my chest.”
Sitting up in his seat, Rogo continued to study Boyle, who was staring at the open back doors of the ambulance that was less than a car’s length away.
“Twenty minutes before the shooting, the Secret Service Web site was sent a tip about a man named Nico Hadrian who was planning to assassinate President Manning when he stepped out of his limo at Daytona International Speedway. It was signed The Roman. From that moment on, anything he would’ve given them — especially when it was corroborated by the FBI and CIA — well, you know the paranoid world we live in. Forget drugs and arms sales. Information is the opiate of the military masses. And terrorist information about attacks on our own soil? That’s how you print your own money,” Boyle said. “Even better, by taking their stealthier approach with the First Lady, they wouldn’t’ve even had to split the cash four ways.”
As they pulled past the ambulance, they both looked to their left and peered into its open back doors. But before they could even see that there wasn’t a victim, a gurney, or a single medical supply inside, there was a metal thud against the back door. Then one from above. On both sides of the van, a half dozen plainclothes U.S. marshals swarmed from the tow truck and silver car, fanning out and pointing their guns against the side windows and front windshield. Outside Boyle’s door, a marshal with bushy caterpillar eyebrows tapped the barrel of his gun against the glass.
“Nice to see you again, Boyle. Now get the fuck out of that van.”
109
She’s hurting, Wes!” The Roman called out to the empty darkness as the rain ticked against his umbrella. “Ask her!”
“H-He’s not stupid,” Lisbeth whispered, down on her rear in the wet grass. With her back against the Celtic headstone for support, she pressed both hands against her eye, where The Roman had rammed his knee into her face. She could already feel it swelling shut.
Back by the tree, the First Lady stared coldly at The Roman. “Why did you bring me here?” she demanded.
“Lenore, this isn’t—”
“You said it was an emergency, but to bring me to Wes!”
“Lenore!”
The First Lady studied The Roman, her expression unchanging. “You were planning to shoot me, weren’t you?” she asked.
Lisbeth looked up at the question.
Turning to his right, The Roman squinted up the crooked stone path and, as his Service training kicked in, visually divided the graveyard into smaller, more manageable sections. A grid search, they called it. “Be smart, Lenore. If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve shot you in the car.”
“Unless he wanted to make it look like—puhhh,” Lisbeth said, violently spitting flecks of saliva at the ground as the train whistle screamed of its impending arrival, “… like Wes killed you, and he killed Wes. Th-Then he’s the hero and there’s no one left to point fingers.”
Shaking his head, The Roman stayed glued to the meatball shrubs. “She’s bleeding pretty bad, Wes!”
The First Lady turned toward Boyle’s grave, then back to The Roman, her pinkie flicking harder than ever at the strap of her umbrella as she said in a poisonous, low voice, “She’s right, isn’t she?”
“She’s just trying to rile you, Lenore.”
“No, she’s— You swore no one would ever be hurt!” the First Lady exploded. She spun back toward the front entrance of the cemetery.
There was a metallic click.
“Lenore,” The Roman warned as he raised his gun, “if you take one more step, I think we’re going to have a serious problem.”
She froze.
Turning back toward Lisbeth, The Roman took a deep breath through his nose. It was supposed to be cleaner than this. But if Wes insisted on hiding… Carefully aiming his gun, he announced to Lisbeth, “I need you to put your hand up, please.”
“What’re you talking about?” she asked, still sitting on the ground.
“Put your damn hand out,” The Roman growled. “Palm facing me,” he added, holding up his bandaged right palm to Lisbeth.
Even under the shadows of the umbrella, it was impossible to miss the tight white bandage with the perfectly round, blood-red circle at the center of it. Lisbeth knew what he was planning. Once her body was found with stigmata — like a signature — all the blame would shift to—
Lisbeth stopped seeing the rain. Her whole body started to shake.
“Put your hand up, Lisbeth — or I swear to God I’ll put it in your brain.”
Curling both arms toward her chest, she looked over at the First Lady, who again started to walk away.
“Lenore,” The Roman warned without turning. The First Lady stopped.
Lisbeth felt the wet ground soaking her rear end. Her hands still hadn’t moved.
“Fine,” The Roman said, aiming at Lisbeth’s head as he cocked the hammer. “Have it in your brai—”
Lisbeth raised her left hand in the air. The Roman squeezed the trigger. And the gun roared with a thunderclap that left a ringing silence in its wake.
A spurt of blood erupted from the back of Lisbeth’s hand, just below her knuckles. Before she even felt the pain and screamed, blood was running down her wrist. Already in shock, she kept staring at the dime-sized burned circle in her palm as if it weren’t her own. When she tried making a fist, the pain set in. Her hand went blurry, like it was fading away. She was about to pass out.
Without a word, The Roman aimed his gun at Lisbeth’s now-bobbing head.
“Don’t!” a familiar voice yelled from the back of the cemetery.
The Roman and the First Lady turned to the right, tracing the voice up the tree-lined path.
“Don’t touch her!” Wes shouted, his body a thin silhouette as he rushed out from the shrub. “I’m right here.”
Just like The Roman wanted.
110
Aided by the glow from the floodlit flagpole in the distance, I study the outline of The Roman from the top of the stone path. He stares right back at me, his gun still pointed at Lisbeth.