“Hey, wait —”
The line went dead.
Sandford was left alone to ponder what the call could have meant. At first he thought it was the Russian government wanting to force his hand with some type of treaty. But now he realized whoever was behind his daughter’s kidnapping and staged death had a far more different agenda, an agenda that included a little saber rattling from the U.S. It was an agenda that Sandford openly braced without any qualms.
He turned his attention back to President Briggs’ speech. It was still droll and monotonous, not to mention self-serving. Sandford recognized there were far more important issues than this to tackle tonight. He could only sit and hope that maybe the events in the next few minutes might put him in a position to address them.
CHAPTER 23
Flynn pulled the door open to the catwalk and realized handling the situation with any degree of stealth wouldn’t be easy. The recessed lights circling the dome would create shadows on the floor below — and they blinded him above. The catwalk shook as he stepped onto it. He gently shut the door behind him and began walking around the circular structure.
If Flynn had one advantage, it was that of surprise. The Kuklovod’s shooter — whoever he was — likely wouldn’t expect anyone to scour the catwalk just as the President’s speech began. Nor would he be interested in engaging in a shootout seventy-five feet above the floor. A quiet tussle suited Flynn better anyway. When he was a CIA operative, his shooting skills were legendary. But this wasn’t a range — nor had he fired a handgun in several years.
Flynn held the gun close to his body as he crept around the catwalk, looking for any sign that someone might be hiding in the beams above. If indeed a shooter was lodged in the rafters, Flynn thought it a genius position from which to eliminate a target. Not only did the beams provide cover, but so did the shining lights, making it nearly impossible to see beyond the light itself.
Halfway around, Flynn saw nothing. He realized he might appear like most of his fans to the rest of the world. Just another tinfoil hat loon. Even if he was right about the Kuklovod orchestrating JFK’s death — which he knew he was — it would all be forgotten unless he could prove they were trying to kill another president today. Yet he remained vigilant to his self-imposed mission.
Just as he made it about three-fourths of the way around, he saw something. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to catch his eye. A glint off a black surface. Something was moving and it shouldn’t have been. That’s when he recognized the gun in the hand of the shooter, pointing at the President.
“Stop!” Flynn shouted. He wished that his voice would carry more in the cavernous facility. But no one heard him — except the shooter.
Flynn pointed his gun at the shooter who slowly raised his weapon, pulling it away from its target.
“And what are you going to do about it? Shoot me?” the shooter asked, shrouding his face from Flynn.
“If I have to, yes,” Flynn answered. “If you try me, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“No, I’m afraid you’re the one who has underestimated me, Mr. Flynn.”
The fact that the man holding a gun a few feet away knew his name unnerved Flynn.
“How do you know my name?”
“Never mind that. The real question is this: Do you think you can shoot me and not suffer any consequences? I’ve come too far to let a little detail like this get in the way of what I’m about to do.”
Flynn continued to hold his gun on the assassin. Who is this guy?
“I have no idea who you are — and you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really? I don’t? I wonder if Ms. Hart would appreciate you being so cavalier with her life.”
Flynn froze. He pondered for a moment if the shooter was bluffing.
“You don’t know where she is. She’s at her office, probably watching the President’s speech.”
“Oh, she’s watching the speech right now, but she’s not at the office. And you can bet she’s rooting for me to shoot the President — it’s the only way she gets to go home.”
Flynn attempted to reason with the man, anything to stall and possibly get a better look at his face.
“Just throw the gun over here so I won’t have to kill you. I’d have to blow your head off up here. It’d make such a difficult mess to clean up.”
The shooter stopped and stared at Flynn. “You think this is all a game, don’t you? Well, it’s not. Like I said before, you’ve underestimated me if you don’t think I’ve thought of everything.”
The shooter paused for a moment before continuing.
“So just remember if you pull that trigger, you’re also pulling the trigger on your little girlfriend’s life as well. If my friends don’t hear from me in thirty minutes, they’re going to kill her. Understand?”
That voice. Where do I know it from?
Flynn couldn’t discern if the shooter was bluffing or not. It wasn’t a chance he wished to take.
Yet as Flynn stood there, processing what the man just said, the assassin pulled out his gun and aimed it at President Briggs. The assassin’s face was in plain view.
Ivan!
“No!” Flynn yelled as he lunged toward the shooter.
It was too late. Ivan’s shot was true.
President Briggs crumpled to the floor in front of a stunned assembly.
CHAPTER 24
Sandford gawked at the screen, struggling to believe what he just witnessed. Even though he suspected it was a possibility — even though a nutty reporter went on the news the night before and said it could happen — Sandford couldn’t believe it. His friend — and President of the United States, Arthur Briggs — writhed in pain on the floor in a chaotic scene in front of the entire U.N. general assembly.
Some Secret Service agents helped him up and rushed him off the main floor. Others gazed skyward, searching for where the shot came from. In an effort to escape the horrific scene, delegates dashed through the doors and lobby. An overhead camera from a local helicopter captured the surreal scene of frantic delegates spilling out into the street.
The television commentator tried to make sense of what had just happened. She stammered over her words, doing well to remember that The National’s investigative reporter, James Flynn, had forewarned the nation about such a plot. Despite many reporters attending the speech, in case something did happen, no one was prepared for the blood sport, based on their bumbling reports. Seeing the leader of the free world gunned down made for compelling television — but it unnerved even the most composed anchors.
Sandford didn’t have a chance to hear any more of the reports before he was ordered to go with Secret Service agents as a precautionary measure. Protocol demanded that in the event of an attempted assassination on the President’s life, the Vice President would be taken to a safe place until further notice. Sandford didn’t like the idea of being cut off from the outside world, but it was something he could endure if he was going to find his way behind the desk in the Oval Office.
The phone in his pocket buzzed. He figured it was his wife, checking in with him and see how he was doing. He was wrong. It was a text message.
How do you feel now, Mr. President?
Sandford stared at the screen for a few moments before sliding it back into his pocket. He thought he would feel happy, being the acting President, if not the permanent one. But he felt sick to his stomach. Guilt overwhelmed him, as if he had a hand in his friend’s demise, possibly even his death. I should have said something.