The Warren Omissions Page 10

  Lost in reminiscing about the past, Sandford’s ringing cell phone whisked him back to the present.

  “Ready to become President?” the voice on the other end asked after he picked up.

  “Who is this?” he demanded.

  The caller ignored his question. “When you take office, the first thing you need to do is authorize a new missile defense system and show Russia you mean business. If you do this, I’ll know where your allegiances lie—then you must meet our other demands.”

  “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 some
thing.

  A staffer shoved a piece of paper into his hand. It was a security brief regarding the missile silos being erected in Siberia. According to satellite photos, it appeared that five silos were already operational. Intelligence reports suspected another five would be operational by week’s end. It was enough to help Sandford remember why he never said anything. If Russia wanted to bang the drums of war, the U.S. better disrupt the beat. Briggs or no Briggs, the country needs me right now. And they need me more than ever.

  CHAPTER 25

  IVAN GLARED DOWN AT FLYNN. He was sure his shot accomplished the job, but he didn’t appreciate Flynn’s brazen attempt to distract him. By the time Flynn reached him, where he was wedged between a structural beam and the wall, the bullet had long left the chamber headed for President Briggs. Ivan quickly grabbed the barrel of his rifle and used it as a battering ram against Flynn’s head.

  With Flynn moaning on the ground, Ivan scuttled Flynn’s pistol a safe distance away from him.

  “Get up,” Ivan barked. “We’ve got to move now—unless you want me to leave you here with the weapon, after I wipe it down.”

  Flynn staggered to his feet, moving groggily.

  “Here, put this on,” Ivan said, tossing an FBI windbreaker in his direction. “Put this hat on, too. God, I love American merchandise.”

  Once Flynn regained his composure and put on the FBI disguise, Ivan would’ve sworn he was a real agent.

  Ivan, still wearing his catering uniform, led them through a ventilation shaft that allowed them to slip down to the third floor. With the chaos emptying the building, nobody even noticed them merge into the crowd and make their way out to the street.

  Once outside, Ivan felt Flynn resist his firm grasp as if he might try to make a dash to escape. Ivan tightened his grip and pulled Flynn’s ear closer to his mouth so he could hear him.

  “If you want to see your girlfriend alive again, you won’t do anything stupid. Understand?”

  Flynn nodded and relaxed, continuing to follow Ivan’s lead through the mass hysteria.

  After another hundred yards, they arrived at the curb, where a dummy news van awaited with its doors wide open. Ivan’s cousin, Andrei, was driving.

  “Hurry up and get in,” Andrei said. “We need to get moving before they quarantine the area.”

  Ivan shoved Flynn to the back of the van where another operative zip tied his hands and feet.

  “You’re not going anywhere for a while unless you know some magic tricks,” he said as he yanked on the tie to make sure Flynn had no chance at escape.

  Ivan slapped the inside of the van wall twice and off they went.

  He then edged next to Flynn and whispered in his ear.

  “That was a stupid thing you did back there,” he said. “You almost made me miss. Fortunately for you—and your girlfriend—I’m not easily rattled. You just better hope your President died from that shot. If he didn’t, I’m holding you personally responsible. You might have to die in his place.”

  Ivan watched Flynn’s hand shake.

  “You nervous?” Ivan said, gesturing toward Flynn’s hands.

  Flynn shook his head.

  “Well, you should be. My boss says if you prove to be useful, you can live. Once you start being unuseful—”

  Ivan made a throat slashing motion with his thumb.

  It only made Flynn tremble more.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get to see your girlfriend in a few minutes. Maybe she can kiss your forehead and make it feel all better.”

  Ivan laughed out loud before slamming his elbow against Flynn’s forehead and banging him into the side of the van. The vicious hit knocked Flynn out again.

  Staring at the reporter, Ivan almost felt sorry for him. If you would’ve just stuck with the story I gave you, you wouldn’t be in this mess.

  Ivan leaned against the van wall and reflected on the events of the previous hour. His back still ached, but his heart felt good. He had been training his whole life for something like this, hoping that he could be part of influencing change in the world. Good change.

  He glanced at Flynn, who started to edge back into consciousness. Ivan bashed his head against the van wall one more time, putting him out again. When he wakes up, he’ll have no idea where he is. He then took Flynn’s phone, turned it off, and tossed it out the window.

  Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at a warehouse used as a staging area for all of the Kuklovod’s operations. Ivan grabbed Flynn by the back of his jacket and led him to the door. He proudly showed his catch to the three other men, who offered a light-hearted applause as they congratulated him on a successful operation.

  “Is he dead yet?” Ivan asked to no one in particular.

  “Who?” one of the men asked.

  “The President, you idiot. Who else do you think I’m talking about?”

  “Not yet, but from the sound of it, he won’t be alive much longer. That was one heck of a shot, Ivan.”

  Ivan beamed with pride as he shoved Flynn toward one of the men.

  “Lock him up with the girl,” he said. “They may still be of some use to us yet.”

  One of the guards slammed Flynn’s head against the wall, knocking him out cold again. He dragged Flynn’s body across the floor before sliding him into the room with Natalie and locking the door.

  Ivan then sat down in front of the small television set placed on an empty desk near one of the barren walls. It wasn’t often that he got to watch his target die on national television. He grabbed a bottle of vodka out of the bottom drawer and took a long pull on it. It was almost time to celebrate.

  CHAPTER 26

  OSBORNE STORMED DOWN THE HALL toward the conference room. The stack of operational papers in his hand meant little to him now. If Barksdale’s ego wasn’t so big, we wouldn’t be in this mess right now. He entered the room and sat down in the closest empty seat, slamming his papers down in front of him. The agents already present buzzed about how the Secret Service let such a thing happen. It only made Osborne angrier. This was our nightmare to stop and we did nothing.

  Osborne seethed, unwilling to engage in any speculation with the others as to the whereabouts of the shooter or the chance of survival for the President. He joined the agency to serve his country, to protect the ones he loved. Yet an incident like this made Osborne question his competency, as well as that of the entire agency. He wondered how directors and agents let their egos mitigate their ability to make wise snap decisions. Perhaps he was making more of the situation than he should have, extrapolating an isolated incident with one bull-headed director across the entirety of the CIA. Nevertheless, the happenings in the past hour gnawed at him.

  Instead of casting blame, Osborne realized that he needed to focus on the task at hand: locating and capturing the shooter.

  When Barksdale breezed into the briefing, nobody was ready for what he was about to say.

  “Quiet everybody!” Barksdale hissed.

  He glared at each person around the table, spending more time looking at Osborne more than any other person. It made Osborne uneasy.

  “We have our first lead—and we are working with other law enforcement branches to find who we believe is our shooter,” Barksdale said, gesturing toward the screen. “This is who we think shot President Briggs.”

  Osborne’s jaw dropped, leaving him staring at the screen in disbelief.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Osborne blurted out.

  It was a picture of James Flynn.

  Barksdale looked up from his papers and shot a nasty look toward Osborne.

  “I wish I was, but all the evidence points to him at this point as being our shooter,” Barksdale said.

  “What evidence?”

  “This evidence,” Barksdale said, pointing to the flat screen on the wall where pictures were uploaded.

  The first picture was of an agent lying unconscious—or maybe even dead—in a stairwell.

  “This is Trey Madison, a Secret Servic
e agent immobilized by James Flynn.”

  Barksdale scrolled to the next set of images, one of Flynn walking with another man through the crowd to a van with an open door with another one of them getting into a waiting van with an open door.

  “You can’t tell if he’s leading that operation or if he’s a hostage,” Osborne said, defending Flynn.

  “He’ll have his chance to defend himself without you making up theories for him,” Barksdale said.

  Osborne looked at the papers in front of him. He felt the uneasy stare of Barksdale fall on him. Osborne looked up. Barksdale looked like he might eat Osborne on the spot.

  “Do you know how James Flynn knew there was going to be an attempt on the President’s life today? It’s because he was going to make it! Wake up, Osborne!”

  Osborne shifted nervously in his chair, uneasy with the operational plan being put in place—and even more so of Barksdale’s determination to pin the assassination attempt on Flynn. The public would find delicious irony in such a story if Barksdale rushed to leak this to the press. But Osborne hated it.

  He knew Flynn was innocent—now he had to prove it before he could save him.

  CHAPTER 27

  HOLED UP WITH A CADRE of Secret Service agents and White House staffers, Sandford wondered if this was really happening. People intended to kill the President with surprising regularity, yet the Secret Service and the FBI thwarted most attempts. And the public rarely heard about them. Sandford couldn’t believe someone actually succeeded—almost.