“Drop your weapon!” a voice ordered, and when Blaine didn’t, gunshots peppered Patty’s side of the car.
“All right!” Blaine let his pistol slide to the soft ground off the road.
“Now step out of the car with your hands in the air!” the voice continued. “Both of you!”
Blaine looked at Patty and nodded. He kept his hands in view while he kicked the door open the rest of the way in order to climb out. Patty followed him out the driver’s side, and saw his shoulders stiffen just before she saw the faces of their attackers in the spill of light.
They were Japanese, each and every one of them!
Chapter 27
“Where to?” the cabby wanted to know.
“The city,” replied Johnny Wareagle.
“Sure, but where in the city? Uptown? Midtown? Downtown?”
“Downtown,” said Wareagle, his massive frame scrunched in the backseat.
Johnny had reached Philadelphia unsure of what awaited him there. He got into the taxi because he knew it was the city itself where he was needed, where he would meet the foe who had visited him in his dreams. Beyond that, Johnny knew nothing. He was relying on the spirits to guide him — and on his ancestors to ensure that they did. He did not question the mysticism that so dominated his life. It had been a part of him for as long as he could remember, but not clarified until he had passed into his teenage years.
Johnny had grown up on a Sioux reservation in Oklahoma, where the old ways had been miraculously preserved. On the eve of his Hanbelachia, the tribal shaman took him aside.
“Do you understand what you are, Wanblee-Isnala?” the old man had asked him.
“I am a Sioux, greatest warrior tribe of the plains.”
“Not what we are, what you are. You don’t, do you?”
Johnny shook his head.
“You feel strange at times.”
Johnny searched for the right word. “Different.”
“From your peers, from your friends. It is time you knew why. There is different blood in your family. Every other generation of your grandfathers have been shaman for their tribes. I replaced your father’s grandfather, who died when you were an infant. He and the others were gifted in ways that have been lost over the years, lost but not forgotten. Know this, Wanblee-Isnala: You have great powers, but not in the same way as your grandfathers. Your fate is that of a warrior. You will face many enemies.” The shaman saw the young Johnny Wareagle’s face set in determination, his thoughts easy to read even for one not blessed with the gift. “Know this, though. Your Hanbelachia will not take place with the others of your year.”
Johnny had known not to challenge the words of the shaman, but he could not help posing the questions that rushed through his mind.
“When? Where?”
“You will know the time…and the place. Your ancestors will guide you, and the spirits will bring you their words. You have the gift of listening, Wanblee-Isnala. Only those who listen can hear.”
Johnny listened now from the back of the cab, but no words reached him. He knew everything he was and had been was constructed toward a rapidly approaching moment. The foe that would test him was in this city, and Johnny would follow the spirit’s words.
When? Where?
The old questions were raised once more. But the spirits did not answer questions. They simply provided guidance. The communication was one-sided, as it always had been.
“Traffic’s a mess,” the driver said, sighing.
“Yes.”
“Wish the fucking veep could have picked some other city to visit.”
“Veep,” repeated Johnny.
“Yeah, the vice president’s in town. Giving some kinda speech at Independence Hall. They closed off Walnut and Chestnut streets for his motorcade. Goddamn people are lined up everywhere. We got that to thank for this.”
A chill spread through Johnny, and he felt a smile come to his lips. The spirits often did not speak to him directly. Sometimes they passed their message through other parties.
“That is where you must take me.”
“Where?”
“Independence Hall.”
The driver suddenly swerved into the right lane. “Get you as close as I can.”
“Pit Crew Leader, this is Pit Crew One.”
Arnold Triesman raised the walkie-talkie to his lips. “Read you, Pit Crew One.”
“We are inbound on the expressway. Racer is secure and comfortable. Ten-minute ETA to city limits.”
“Roger that, Pit Crew One.”
Arnold Triesman began another circuit along Chestnut Street in the historical section of downtown Philadelphia. He was in charge of the Secret Service security detail for the vice president’s appearance here, and he wasn’t the least bit happy with the logistics. Ever since Kennedy and Dallas, motorcades scared the shit out of all men in his position. You couldn’t watch every corner of every rooftop; it just wasn’t possible. Add to that maybe a hundred thousand people crowded into the street and you were holding a ball that was slippery enough to slide right out of your fingers. One crazy was all it took, just one. The thought made Triesman’s flesh crawl.
Racer was the latest code name for the vice president, chosen for the man’s penchant for fast cars. As Pit Crew Leader, Triesman had a hundred men at his disposal; they were with the motorcade, scattered along the route, and perched strategically on rooftops. They couldn’t cover everything, but when a fifteen-year Secret Service vet was running things, you came as close as you could.
The service had cost Arnold Triesman one marriage and had kept him from considering another until his tour was up. Except he hadn’t been able to walk away when it finally was, and another two years had come and gone much the same way as the first thirteen had. Even if he wanted to get out, it was questionable whether the service would let him. As far as running security details in the most impossible of situations, Triesman had no peer. It wasn’t so bad, after all. Impressed the hell out of his sons six months back when he had finally relented and let them come along on a detail for the president. Kids even got to meet Top Guy himself and couldn’t sleep that night from the excitement. Triesman felt as if they were really his kids again for the first time since the divorce. It seemed ironic that the very thing that had broken the family up was now the only bond he had with his children. Damn strange, it was.
A helicopter soared overhead, drawing the stares of the thousands crowded together behind the blue sawhorse barricades along Chestnut Street. Triesman lifted the walkie-talkie to his lips again.
“Fly Boy, this is Pit Crew Leader. How’s the sky looking?”
“No movement on rooftops except for our boys, Pit Crew Leader.”
“Can you see Racer?”
“That’s a roger. Estimate city outskirts reached in five minutes. Fifteen to your position at the hall.”
“Stay frosty, Fly Boy.”
“Roger that, Pit Crew Leader.”
Triesman continued his walk. A number of his men were scattered throughout the crowd gathered on the motorcade route that ran the length of Chestnut Street. The heaviest complement was concentrated in the area of Independence Hall itself, both inside and out. The vice president would be making his speech inside the courtyard, near the statue of Commodore John Barry, founder of the U.S. Navy. The logistics from a security standpoint were tenuous at best. A nest of tall buildings forming the Penn Mutual complex overlooked the courtyard from across Walnut Street. The twin Public Ledger and Curtis Publishing buildings afforded an equally clear view across Sixth Street, which was adjacent. Triesman had men posted throughout all the buildings as well as sharpshooters on the roofs, but he still wasn’t happy. And he wouldn’t be until Racer was safely back in his limo after giving his speech. It would be Triesman standing by Racer’s side at the podium, and Triesman who would play pin cushion to bullets, if it came to that.