Deadly Justice(Darrell Case) Deadly Justice

Darrell Case


Proverbs 11:30
Leaning Tree Christian Publishers
Farmersburg. 47850



There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter ─ Ernest Hemingway



Deadly Justice
Copyright © 2015 by Darrell Case
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the author.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1508592341
Learn more information at: www.authordarrellcase.com


Dedicated with gratitude to All law enforcement officers. These brave men and women lay their lives on the line to protect us from evil each and every day.


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to Clark County Jail Commander John Hammond and his staff for their technical support. To Dave Murphy and Mary Ellen Roberson for editing the manuscript. Justin Davis for the design and appearing on the cover as Jeff Coolly. To Kristy Totten for her portrayal of Alison Stevens. To the ones who prayed for the completion of this book. To my wife for her patience and insight as I utilized her as a sounding board. To my readers who provide honest reviews. To Christ Who leads and guides Christian authors. May we always listen to Him as we write our narrative.


*****

Deadly Justice
Prologue
The full moonshine revealed the man's face. He stepped back until darkness sheltered him. He breathed deep. The afternoon rain had produced a thick fog, and he loved the smell of the damp earth. The mist played havoc with his eyes. Here and there, ghosts floated through the gloomy night. The lights in the bar dimmed. She passed the window, her body obscured by the Miller Lite sign. He sneered. Tonight he would extinguish her light. He had chosen this tavern because of the sign. There were other bars with Miller Lite signs in their windows. This was the only one in Washington D.C. that he knew had a barmaid named Miller. This night Shannon Miller would be his. For the next two hours, he would toy with her, giving her a chance to repent. Whether she did or not made no difference. He fingered the knife in his pocket. The blade was sharp and tonight she would feel it. Her time would run out an hour before sunrise. As with the others, he would weigh down her body with a cement block. Barely alive, she would struggle against death as they all had. The water would fill her lungs. The last thing she would see on this earth would be his eyes, the eyes of her murderer. How long would it take before her family, her friends reported her missing? A day, possibly two? Surely no longer. Then the search would begin. He would watch the news reports, recording them all on his DVR. In a week or two, some tourist or jogger would spot a floater in the Potomac. All evidence washed away, she would be just another woman executed by the D.C. Killer. He would add her disc to his collection. He whiled away the time thinking about his first kill. She had lounged in her bath, thinking she was alone. When he entered the bathroom, she smiled. The expression on his face made her smile falter. He came at her, grasping her by the shoulders. He pushed her down, holding her struggling body under. Her eyes wide with terror, she tried to plead with her murderer, to ask her husband “Why?” He sank her body in the Potomac, the first victim of the D.C. Killer. The door opened. Shannon Miller stood in the breach, surveying the parking lot. Nervous, she started to go back inside, then changed her mind. She peered toward him, her eyes straining to penetrate the mist and gloom. He was a shadow, invisible to her. Seeing no threat, she stepped out, locked the door and hurried across the deserted lot to her car, a red Toyota with more rust than red. The tap-tap of her high heels pulsated on the cracked asphalt. The beat of her shoes matched the throb of his heart. He could hear her heavy, fearful breathing. He smiled. The moon scurried behind the clouds as if hiding its face in horror. He was an avenger, a messenger of God. His mission was to rid the nation's capital of immoral women. Fearing him, prostitutes now walked the streets in pairs. Even in their terror, they still pursued their wicked trade. At times he saw them huddled in groups of three or four. They reminded him of children in a thunderstorm. Like a spirit, he crept in her direction. The only light was cast by the Miller Lite sign and a distant street lamp. The light in the parking lot had burned out weeks ago, throwing it into darkness. He stalked her as a lion does its prey. He moved slowly, silently, low to the ground, keeping the car between them. His dark running suit blended with the night. He was the Dark Angel, the Angel of Death. In another life, he had passed over Egypt, killing the firstborn of those condemned by God. Her eyes darted in every direction, still she didn't see him. He was invisible.
Her hands shook as she tried to get the key in the door. The 11 o'clock news reported that another one had been found. If he stuck with his pattern, the D.C. Killer would strike again tonight. By morning a woman would be dead. She prayed it wouldn’t be her. She fumbled, dropping the key ring. She stooped to pick it up, her head turning in every direction, her ears alert to every sound. Now, without seeing him, she sensed him. She lowered her eyes, trying again, successfully this time. She turned the key. There was a click. She sighed, unaware that she had been holding her breath. The dome light flashed as she opened the door. He was on her in an instant. Their bodies slammed against the door. The light blinked out. He held her in an iron grip with one hand over her mouth and the blade poking into her left breast. “Move and I'll kill you,” he growled. She moaned. Tears obscured her vision, coursing down her cheeks, smearing her mascara and dripping off her chin. Her body trembled. “Please don't hurt me.” The words cracked through her parched lips. He grinned. His face twisted into a sinister smile. “Tonight I’m going to save you.” For the next two hours, she suffered tortures no woman should endure. Her body cried out in protest though her voice, stopped by duct tape covering her mouth, could not. By 4 AM his work was done. She had paid for her sins with her blood. He took the tape off her mouth, wrists and ankles. Lovingly he replaced her clothes. She was pure now. Now she was a child of God. The rope was standard sold in any hardware store. The concrete block came from behind the bar. Dawn was an hour away. He rowed to the middle of the river. Giving her a kiss, he pushed her body into the water. She awoke, struggling against death. She sank down, her eyes wide with terror. The water enveloped her. The concrete block pulled her out of his sight. He waited two minutes, counting off the seconds, then rowed rapidly to shore. No time. He stashed the old rowboat under the aged willow tree where he had found it two days before. The blood soaked running suit went into a dumpster, the gloves into another. He knew the schedule. By 10 AM, they’d be on their way to the landfill. Good luck finding them. At the townhouse, he showered, shaved and changed into a dark blue suit, white shirt and red tie. It was going to be a great day, one of the most important days of his life. He felt invigorated. Shannon Miller's strength ran through his veins. This day he would announce his candidacy, his past hidden, his secret unrevealed. He laughed. The voters were about to elect a serial killer as their leader. By the end of this year, the D.C. Killer would be President of the United States of America. The limo pulled to the curb. Jimmy Falan jumped out and was halfway up the sidewalk when Jerald Robbins opened the passenger door. “Good morning, Senator, or should I say Mr. President?” “Not yet Jimmy. It won't be long. Then you'll be the chauffeur to the most powerful man in the world.” “Yes sir.” Jimmy grinned.



Chapter 1
Flinging down the sheaf of papers, Judge Arthur Anthony scrambled to his feet. The massive oak podium shook under the hammer blows of his gavel. “Shut up!” he bellowed, his face blood red and his jowls shaking. “Billy, clear the court room.” Someday his raging would end in a massive coronary. At 85, he still retained his throne in Hartman County, Texas. He ruled his courtroom like a kingdom. His word was law. “Want me to leave the press?” the bailiff asked after the last spectator filed out. The jury sat in stunned silence. Not one of them dared utter a sound. They had just found the defendant innocent and Judge Anthony had overruled their verdict. The judge sighed. “Billy, what did I say?” Wincing, Billy Harrow repeated the judge's order. “Then,” Anthony said, his voice rising to a crescendo, “get them out!” “Yes sir,” Billy said, herding the media through the double doors “Hey,” a male reporter from Dallas 10 said, “you can't do this. We have freedom of the press.” “Get out of my courtroom or you'll have freedom to go to jail.” Reluctantly, they left. Billy closed the doors and locked them. “Jury too?” he asked, nearly cringing. “Yes, take them out for all the good they did.” Without a word, the nine men and three women filed out of the courtroom. The judge leaned over, his hands gripping the edge of the bench. He glared down at the defendant. The man's orange jumpsuit stood out like a road construction cone. “Let's be honest, Mr. Card,” His Honor said, clearing his throat. Richard Card grinned at Anthony. “By giving you the death sentence, I have prolonged your miserable life by several years.” The judge's voice was unexpectedly calm.
“Our good sheriff could have and should have blown you away when he arrested you. How I wish he had. It would have saved us the trouble of a trial. And a great deal of money.” Card kept grinning. “Money I could have used to buy a new desk. You think I need a new desk, Billy?” “Yes Your Honor,” Billy said, his eyes glued on the defendant. With a wave of his hand, the judge motioned to Phil Graham. Graham's eyes hadn't left Card since he entered the courtroom. His arm encircled his wife, Betty. Tears streamed down both their cheeks. “This heart-broken father would gladly tear you apart with his bare hands if I allowed him the opportunity. I'm almost inclined to let him.” Gene Drummy hopped from one foot to the other, waving his hands frantically in the air like a child in need of a bathroom break. “Your Honor, I must object,” he said, his tone barely masking his indignation. Drummy had taken the case pro bono, believing it would enhance his career. Gray-haired and heavy-set, Judge Anthony looked like someone's grandfather. Many had fallen under the illusion that he was a pushover. They made that mistake only once. The judge's eyes bored into the Fort Worth attorney like drill bits. “Shut up, Mr. Drummy. You've had your say, now I'm going to have mine.” “But Your Honor,” Drummy said as if speaking to a child, “this is highly...” “One more word out of you sir and I'll hold you in contempt.” Drummy's mouth pursed like a fish out of water. “Do I make myself clear? Just nod your head if you understand.” The attorney did so. “Good. Now Mr. Card, where were we?” Richard Card smiled, showing a mouth full of rotten teeth. “You was a-tellin' me I'm gonna live,” Card said, almost laughing.
“No, you ungrateful pond scum, you're going to die. But not for a very long time. Not until this scavenger of a lawyer has drained every cent your poor parents can borrow and scrounged whatever he can from some other misguided souls.” Drummy reddened, clamping his jaws so tightly his lips became a thin white line. Prosecutor Lucas Mann chuckled. The only other sound in the deadly still courtroom was Mrs. Graham’s weeping. “Then you, sir,” the judge said, “will be strapped to a gurney and given what you so richly deserve. I only hope I live to see the last breath leave your stinking body.” The judge sat down, his weight causing his massive leather chair to groan. “If I had my way, we would march you out onto the lawn of this fine courthouse, throw a rope over the limb of one of our magnificent oaks and loop it over your sorry neck. Each one of us would then stretch your neck until your corpse was as cold as that little girl you raped and murdered.” “Really judge.” Drummy spoke without thinking. “Billy, show Mr. Drummy what the inside of our holding cell looks like.” “What about Card, Your Honor?” the bailiff asked. “We only got the one.” The judge smiled. “I wouldn't want to infringe on Mr. Card's right to counsel. Mr. Drummy won't mind spending some more time advising his client.” “You can't put me in there with him, please,” Drummy said, his hands trembling. Card grinned at the attorney. “This is gonna be fun,” he said, leaning his face in an inch from the lawyer's. The stench of his breath almost curled Drummy’s hair. His face drained of color. Taking each man by the arm, Billy guided them through the side door. After escorting them to the holding cell, the bailiff returned to the courtroom. “Billy, keep an eye on them. We wouldn't want anything to happen to our illustrious big city lawyer.” The two men smiled at each other. Phil Graham led his wife to the door. The bailiff unlocked it for them. The media people milled around in the hallway. To the grieving couple they resembled a pack of hungry wolves. Billy opened the side door a crack and peeked into the cell. The attorney was pressed into the corner clutching the bars, his entire body shaking. Card's hands were running over the man's back. His mouth an inch from the lawyer's ear, he whispered rapidly, his words running together. A moan escaped from the attorney's trembling lips. The front of his pants was wet. Billy almost laughed out loud. Teach him to come into our town and defend a predator. As Card's hands moved lower, Billy opened the door. Hartman County Courthouse looked like a cross between a southern mansion and a Roman fortress. The odd architectural compromise was the result of a dispute between city and county officials in 1899. The vast lawn sported black oaks almost a century old. To soften the harsh appearance of the structure, the garden club had planted flowerbeds at each point of the compass. On the broad concrete steps, Drummy prepared for the media onslaught after his brief incarceration. He held his briefcase in front of him to conceal the wet spot. Still fuming, the lawyer planned his revenge against Anthony and Bailiff Harrow. The old man would wish he had never messed with him. Drummy's salt and pepper hair, Armani suit and Rolex watch gave him the air of a distinguished gentleman. Nothing about his appearance hinted of his connection to the Mexican mafia. As soon as he left this hick town, he would call Miguel. For now, he would answer whatever questions were thrown at him. “Will Judge Anthony's actions be the basis of your appeal?” a cute blonde from the local CBS affiliate asked, sticking her microphone in Drummy's face. Drummy liked blondes. His girlfriend and his wife were blonde. “No,” the lawyer said, feigning patience. “Unfortunate as they were, Judge Anthony's words will only spur us forward.
Our motion will be based on Mr. Card's innocence, not the ramblings of a senile old man.” Several more questions were shouted at the attorney. Before he could formulate a reply, a series of pops echoed from the other side of the courthouse. Veteran reporters dropped to the concrete. Those never caught in a crossfire turned their heads, looking for the source. A police officer bolted out of the glass courthouse doors. “Everybody down!” he shouted. Cameras still rolling, the rest of the reporters dropped to the steps. The officer ran to a patrol car idling at the curb. Wrenching open the door, he jumped into the passenger seat. The driver accelerated, laying rubber. Seconds later the car disappeared around the corner. A hush covered the crowd. The only sound was the reporters’ heavy breathing. “There a Mr. Drummy here?” a deputy asked from the top step. “I'm Gene Drummy,” the lawyer said, getting to his feet. “Better come with me. I think your client is dead.” Brushing himself off, Drummy said, “If he's dead, he's no longer my client.” He picked up his briefcase and vanished into the rising crowd. The deputy threw an obscene gesture at the retreating attorney. A boisterous CNN news hound was the first on his feet. “How many shots were fired?" Others began to shout questions. "Do you have the shooter in custody?” “Was Richard Card killed instantly?” “Was anyone else injured?” The deputy gave them a withering stare. “Leave! All of you get out.” “The public has a right to know.” A veteran reporter with the Dallas Morning News elbowed his way to the front. “Let me speak to whoever is in charge.” The deputy smiled at him. “That would be Judge Arthur Anthony. Anyone still on county property in two minutes will be arrested for obstruction of justice.”
“What are you going to do, arrest all of us?” a reporter said, laughing. A line of deputies joined the first. “Yes,” the man said, resting his hand on the butt of his service pistol. After much grumbling, they left to piece together a story.



Chapter 2
From his chambers, Judge Anthony watched the crowd of reporters disperse. A huge grin split his face. It quickly became apparent something was seriously wrong. Surrounded by five officers, Card had been hit six times, with no other shots fired by police or the assassin and no one else injured. The last bullet entered Card's right eye and exited the back of his skull, leaving a hole the size of a baseball. The Hartman County Sheriff's Department assigned Detective Marty Rodgers to the case. He questioned Phil Graham and his wife first. After leaving the courtroom, Mrs. Graham had collapsed. She was still being treated by paramedics at the time of the shooting. Next on his list was His Honor. “This is an outrage,” Anthony roared,” I'm a judge!” “Yes sir, I'm aware of your position. I still need to ask your whereabouts.” “Billy, tell this imbecile where I was when some enlightened individual saved the great state of Texas a million dollars.” “He was in his chambers, detective,” Harrow said, pressing his fingers together to keep his hands from trembling “Doesn't the window in your chambers overlook the sidewalk where Card was killed?” “And the front steps also,” Anthony said. “Did you shoot Richard Card, sir?” Rogers asked His Honor. He kept his eyes down while writing in his dime store notebook. Anthony threw up his hands. “You got me, detective, I confess,” the judge said, pointing his index finger at Rogers, “and here’s the murder weapon. I used this finger to shoot Richard Card. Bang!” He winked at the detective. “May I have a look at your chambers, sir?” The judge glared at the police officer. “Billy, I'm going home. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night Your Honor,” Billy said to the judge's back. Anthony pulled opened the double doors. Rogers repeated his question. Anthony whirled on the detective, his face beet red. “No you may not, sir. What you can do is leave my courtroom. If you want to check my office, you’d better get a warrant. Billy, see our detective to the door.” Anthony walked out. Billy shifted uncomfortably. “I'll have to ask you to leave.” “It's all right, Billy,” Rogers said, “I'll be back with a search warrant.” Drummy burned in his anger for two days. It was bad enough they’d humiliated him by putting him in the cell with Card. They’d snickered as they watched him plead, whimpering and sniveling like a frightened child. Yesterday a video of him in the holding cell appeared on YouTube, then a few minutes later on Twitter. Hundreds shared the video on Facebook and it soon grew to thousands of hits. The attorney stopped answering his phone and told his secretary to do the same. Finally, he fled the office and retreated to his bungalow on the Gulf. He met Miguel Gomez on the beach at midnight. He had used the contract killer's services twice before, once for a pesky ex-wife and another for a lawyer who threatened to expose his mob connections. Both died in tragic accidents. This time Drummy wanted to make a statement. Anthony had humiliated him before the entire world. He couldn’t even walk down the street without passersby smirking at his back. Teenagers tittered, adults grinned. Judge Anthony lived alone on the ranch that was his father's and his father's before him. His son lived in Dallas, his daughter in Houston. His wife had been dead for 10 years. The Rocking A was no longer a working ranch. The cattle were long gone and the judge's mare was now the only resident of the barn. On Friday night, Anthony arrived home at five. After a few drinks to mellow out, he popped a frozen dinner in the microwave. He had no interest in cooking. Supper usually consisted of 90-second meals bought from Walmart or a couple of cans of stew. Anthony finished eating and retired to the back porch to watch the sun go down. With few sunsets left, he wanted to take advantage of each one. He felt badly that he hadn’t taken the mare out for a walk. She'd been cooped up in the corral all week He pictured the assassin's bullet taking out Card. The judge laughed. He made a gun out of his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at a fencepost. “Pow! Got you scumbag!” Anthony laughed again. “Sure would be easier if we just took ‘em all out. Then I could retire.” He hadn’t been sure how or when they were going to kill Card. The confirmation came from Washington last week. He had waited all through the trial. When the jury found the predator not guilty he came close to doing it himself. Even Billy didn't know that the folds of the judge's robes concealed his daddy's old Colt six-shooter. Drummy's humiliation was just icing on the cake. The look on the lawyer’s face when Card ran his hands over his back was priceless. The judge chuckled. The chuckles became laughter. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. “Teach that big city lawyer to come down here and try to run over us country folk,” he said to the empty sky. "Glad Billy knew how to put that video on the internet.” The sheriff had followed Drummy out of town in his personal vehicle. By the time the lawyer hit the city limits his Jaguar was doing 80. The sheriff called Anthony to ask if he should stop him for speeding. The judge just chuckled and said let him go, they had something better planned. And indeed they did. Two days later the lawyer's ordeal in the holding cell was all over the internet. The judge sat in his office with Billy, drinking bourbon and watching the hits climb on YouTube. By the time they finished the bottle the views had topped 10,000.
Prompted by the judge’s loud snoring, a man moved out of the faint shadows of the barn. Anthony awoke with a start. Something was wrong. He couldn't move. Stroke, I've had a stroke. It was the very thing he feared living alone. Terror almost made him faint. He opened his eyes. He couldn't see, then realized the sun had set. His eyes adjusted to the dark. He looked down at the coils of duct tape binding his wrists to the arms of the chair. He tried to raise his arms but couldn't move them even a fraction of an inch. His legs were taped the same way. Frantically he searched the dark. A ghostly figure stood at the edge of the porch. “What do you want? Money? I've got some hid in the barn.” Untrue, but at least it would buy him some time. The man─for indeed it was a man, not a figment of his imagination─remained silent. “Come on, untie me. I'll get it for you.” This man was going to kill him. He could sense it. Hot tears dripped down his cheeks. His voice became whiny. He hated to beg but this was his life. He would do whatever he could to stay alive. “Please, please don't kill me.” He began to sob. Gene Drummy stepped out of the shadows and stood in front of the weeping judge. “Mr. Drummy. How good to see you,” the judge said, smiling through his tears. “Please untie me. Some fiend has bound me to this chair. Please hurry before they come back.” “How about that, Miguel. He called you a fiend.” “I've been called worse,” a large hulky man said, stepping out of the shadows. “Are you an evil person, Miguel?” Drummy said scornfully, his face an inch from Anthony's. “I can be, my friend,” Miguel said. Through weeping eyes, the judge saw that the Mexican carried a rope. With his eyes fastened on the heavy-set old man, Miguel looped it into a hangman's noose. “Please, please,” Anthony begged, his heart hammering. Miguel lowered the noose over the judge's head until it circled his neck. Anthony’s eyes bugged out. The Fort Worth attorney
took the rope and tightened it. The judge’s pleas became garbled as the hemp choked off his breath. On Saturday morning, early risers were greeted by the body of Judge Arthur Anthony gently swaying from a limb of the largest oak on the courthouse lawn. Hanging from another oak nearby, its massive limbs stretching out like a skeleton’s arms, was Billy Harrow.



Chapter 3
At Cook County Jail in Chicago, a young correctional officer selected a set of trip gear. The officer in charge gave him a release form for prisoner 18394. He signed the log and went in search of his prisoner. As he rode the elevator to the fifth floor, he thought about the fight he’d had with his wife. When they married two years ago, they promised for richer or poorer. Yet she had hoped for more than a cockroach infested apartment with one bedroom and a tiny bathroom and kitchen. He tried to tell her it was only temporary. She wanted a home in the suburbs and spent her days searching real estate ads. Not for the first time, he came to work leaving her in tears. The officer walked down the corridor, checking the numbers on the cells. He stopped at 516. “All right, Jack, time to go,” he said, opening the cuff port in the steel cell door. Jack Van Rudolf pushed himself up from the bunk and stepped to the front of the cell. “And what might your name be, my young friend?” “Hopkins, and I'm not your friend.” “Oh,” Jack said, grinning. “Is that right? And why is that?” “Because you're a criminal and I'm an honest man.” “The luck of the draw, my young friend. Luck of the draw.” “I told you, I'm not your friend. Now turn around and put your hands through the opening,” he said in a tired voice. Still grinning, Jack complied. The officer fastened the cuffs on the prisoner's wrists. He signaled to the sergeant in the glass enclosed control room. With a distinct hum, the door to Van Rudolf's cell slid open. Shuffling into the hallway, Jack whispered to the officer, his eyes darting to the glass enclosure behind them. “You take these off and turn your back when we get outside and I'll make you a very rich man.”
The correctional officer didn't answer until they moved through the sally port. “Yeah, right, I’m supposed to trust you.” “My freedom is worth a substantial amount to me,” Van Rudolf said, smiling. “Several million dollars will do me no good if I'm locked up.” Hopkins stopped. Jerking the prisoner to a halt, he leaned over as if he were checking Jack's restraints. “I gotta have some money up front.” “Of course. How much would you like?” "I ain't greedy. A hundred thousand up front and another hundred thousand after you escape." "Done. I can arrange the transfer if you’ll permit me to use a phone." The CO glanced around. Seeing they were alone, he shoved Jack into a nearby office. The officer started to hand the phone to him, but yanked it back. "You better not be lying to me or I'll execute you myself,” he said, fingering the handcuff key in his pocket. "If you get busted I keep the hundred thousand and I didn't have anything to do with your escape." "I assure you I have no intention of returning to this miserable place." The officer put the key in the lock to remove the handcuffs. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. "That’s our prisoner," a voice said from the doorway. A paunchy man of average height stepped into the office. The correctional officer's face drained of color. Hopkins quickly relocked the handcuffs, his hands trembling. "Yup, this is the famous bank robber, Jack Van Rudolf," he said, swallowing hard. "You the marshal?" Harsh disappointment flooded through him as his dreams of riches flitted away like a laughing child mocking him. "Sorry," Van Rudolf whispered. "Deputy Marshal Samuels," the man said. Taking Van Rudolf by the arm, he guided the prisoner through the door.
"We'll send your trip gear back after we deposit Mr. Van Rudolf in federal prison." The deputy marshal stopped short. Looking the young correctional officer in the eye, he said, “You better learn to keep your nose clean, son, or you ain’t gonna live long." Turning, he led Jack down the hall and out a side door. They crossed the parking lot to a black Crown Victoria. Opening the back door, he said, "Get in and watch your head. We wouldn't want you to be damaged when we fry you." “By all means. My intelligence has always been my greatest asset," Jack said, smiling. "Get in, you animal," the marshal snarled. Jamming his boot in Van Rudolf's side, he shoved the prisoner through the door. Jack fell on his side, chortling at the whole situation. While the driver, a thin man in his mid 30s wearing a dark blue suit, kept silent, his surliness spoke volumes. He didn't like prisoners. He did enjoy the chase, capture and kill. Transport usually rubbed him the wrong way. His partner felt the same. Taking a criminal for a ride was a waste of time. However, in this case it would be profitable. He pulled the car into the late morning traffic, maneuvering the side streets while remaining silent, his eyes on the road. Jack took in the sights and sounds of the city. The smells assailed his nose. They stopped for a light. On their left was a bakery. He inhaled the fragrance of fresh bread. Ah, freedom. Well not yet, but it was just a matter of time. As they entered the Dan Ryan Expressway, Jack leaned forward. "Gentlemen, may I make a proposal?" Both men stared straight ahead without answering. They turned onto 80, then south on Interstate 57. The city disappeared, houses become sparse. They sped through farm country. Rows of corn and soybeans glinted in the warm sun. It was one of those days when you could almost see the crops growing. The cool from the air conditioner didn't reach the back seat. Not so with the sun. Sweat soaked Jack's shirt. He never doubted that the marshals believed they were taking him to the federal prison in Terre Haute, Indiana. Jack,
though, did not plan to reach that destination. He had no clue his captors had the same thought. As they raced through the countryside, Van Rudolf tried again. "Am I to believe a hundred thousand dollars wouldn't make a difference in your lives?" The marshals acted as though they didn't hear him. At Kankakee, they turned onto 115. A few miles later, the driver made a left onto State Road 2000 south. Jack was becoming worried. His usually upbeat demeanor was slipping. Sweat trickled down his back, now more out of fear than the heat. These men were searching for a place to either turn him loose or pummel him. "Men of virtue. I like that. All right, gentlemen, two hundred thousand." Jack tried unsuccessfully to keep the tremor out of his voice. The deputies looked at each other. "You sure this is his district?" "Yeah, we just passed the north edge of it." "He'll be the first one to respond?" "I talked to him this morning. He's ready for us. He'll be the first officer on the scene." "All right. Let's do it then.” The two marshals high-fived each other. The one driving nodded. The car rolled to a stop at the side of the deserted road. Samuels exited the car and opened the back door. "Not the location I would have preferred. However, I won’t dispute it," Jack said, sliding across the seat to the open door. “Sweet freedom." He breathed in the fresh country air and held out his hands to the deputy. "Get going, maggot." "Would you be kind enough to take these off, please?" "Take them off yourself," the marshal said, flipping Jack the key. Jack started to bend over. "Not here, down there," the man said. He pointed to the bottom of the slope. "But..." "Get moving before I change my mind." Jack shrugged his shoulders and started walking down the hill, working the key into the cuffs as he went. He opened
them and dropped them to the ground. He turned to thank his liberators. Samuels had walked to the back of the car, opened the trunk and pulled out a scoped .223 Winchester. "Hey Jack!" he called, smiling widely. Jack Van Rudolf's face went pale. Terror flowed through him. He began to run for his life. His feet felt as if someone had tied hundred pound weights to them. He stumbled to his hands and knees, then jumped to his feet, fear lurching him forward. His breath came in short, sharp bursts. The cocky veneer was gone. He started to sob, tears streaking his cheeks. Taking aim, the marshal slowly squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot echoed and reverberated across the fields. The bullet kicked up dirt two feet to the right of the fleeing bank robber. Jack ran faster. He couldn't outrun a bullet. Possibly, just maybe the marshal was a bad shot. Bullets whizzed around Jack like a crazed swarm of killer bees. One tore a hole in his shirt and nicked his arm. He felt the searing pain. Adrenalin pulsed through his body. He mustered a final burst of speed even as fright tore at his heart. They were playing with him and it was an executioner’s game. Death was coming. Could he outrun it? A hundred yards out, moving at a good clip, maybe just maybe. Freedom beckoned. The trees were 50 yards away. No more shots. Maybe, just maybe he could make it. Freedom was there under the cool trees. He could feel it. A smile spread across his lips. "Finish it," the driver said. His own car sat two miles away in a deserted parking lot. By the time the first officer arrived, he would be gone. He implored Samuels to take the shot. What did he care? The man would still be dead and he alone would collect the fee. Taking careful aim, the marshal fired. The bullet slammed into Jack Van Rudolf's body, slicing his spinal cord in two. Barely conscious, he crawled, pulling himself along with his fingers digging into the soft ground. For years he had
evaded death. Now its dark specter hung over him ready to envelop his soul. The shooter waited a full minute, watching the fugitive suffer. Jack screamed in pain and fear. Tears sprang from his eyes, making small pools of mud in the dirt. The notorious bank robber was about to be cut down like a mongrel dog. "Please no," he begged, panic gripping his heart. "Please God don't kill me." "Do it," the assassin growled. Samuels jammed the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and fired one last time. The bullet entered the base of Jack's skull and tore off the top of his head. The officer held up his hand, palm out. He waited until 30 seconds passed. Jack's body had somersaulted and come to rest on its back. The empty eyes stared up at the cloudless summer sky. Seeing no signs of life, the shooter nodded to the Shadow. Outside the car now, he took off down the road in a jog. The marshal waited until he disappeared over a small rise, then keyed the mike. "Shots fired, officer needs assistance." He gave the location. Casually, Marshal Samuels strolled across the field. He approached the body and poked it with his rifle. Satisfied that Van Rudolf was dead, he pried the handcuff key from his bloodless hand. He would see that hand in his dreams tonight, but that was okay. Minutes later sirens coming down 115 howled in the distance. Samuels grinned. Their mission successfully completed, he waited for the state trooper assigned to this district.



Chapter 4

The radio creaked in Alison Steven's ear. The remnants of last night's rain dripped from the trees, soaking her jacket. Moisture on the brush and weeds penetrated her pants and boots. Other agents around her suffered the same fate. Her boots sunk into the muck as she leaned against a tree. Her feet slid a few inches. Fatigued, she repositioned herself and nodded off. Thirty-six hours with no rest and little food. As if to affirm that fact, her belly growled. "Everybody on your toes. Here comes the drop," FBI Agent in Charge Rome Jorgenson barked into her earpiece. She jerked awake. A green late model green Mercedes rolled to a stop at one end of Atlanta Road's iron Idle Creek Bridge. Alex Freeman exited the vehicle carrying a brown leather briefcase. The father of the kidnapped boy appeared to have aged 10 years in the last few days. Per the kidnapper’s instructions, Alex wore nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. From her vantage point, Alison could see the sheen of sweat covering his body, even though he shivered in the 90-degree heat, trembling like one struck with palsy. "Don't do anything stupid," Alison whispered to the desperate father. "Just follow directions." Freeman walked to the opposite end of the bridge. Once there he dropped the briefcase into the dry creek bed. He stood for a few seconds, his eyes searching the surrounding forest. He may have been looking for the FBI or the kidnapper. Ten well-concealed agents surrounded the spot. Freeman had to know they were watching his every move. The heartbroken father returned to the car and laid his head on the steering wheel. His mouth seemed to be moving. Due to his near nakedness, Alison knew he was not communicating with law enforcement. She wondered if he was praying for his six-year-old son. "Better put your faith in the FBI rather than a god who let him be kidnapped in the first place," she murmured.

A self-made multi-millionaire, Alex Freeman had worked his way through college by sweeping floors at the very company he now owned. Small and localized 20 years ago, the software corporation was now an international giant. The two million in the briefcase wouldn't make a dent in Freeman's bank account. When Alex's son Bobby was kidnapped, he called his old college chum, now President Jerald Robbins. The President had the clout Freeman needed. Within an hour, 40 federal agents converged on the small Pennsylvania village of Becky's Grove. The New York office brought in a team of 10 agents; D.C. and seven surrounding states supplied the other 30. The suspect or suspects had chosen a location in the middle of a state forest for the money drop. It was a law enforcement nightmare. A dozen escape routes made it next to impossible to cover. Deep tangled underbrush hid a hundred game trails. Someone familiar with the area could appear and disappear at will. Relying on local law enforcement to aid in setting their perimeter, the Feds thought they were sufficiently covered. Of course, they were wrong. After having worked a bank robbery in Texas, Alison was dispatched as a backup agent. Within three hours of the heist, the suspects’ identity and whereabouts were known. Alison and her team had the motel room surrounded and were closing in when the call came. The arrest was completed when the two suspects, one in the shower and the other asleep, gave up without a fight. She left the others to fill out the reports and boarded the Lear for Pennsylvania. She arrived at the hotel late for the meeting. Rushing through the lobby and entering the meeting room, she flashed her ID at the agent at the door. Agent in Charge Rome Jorgenson eyed her with contempt. "Good of you to join us Agent Stevens." Saying nothing, Alison settled into a chair in the back row.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I won't mince words. This is an important case," he continued. "Anyone and I mean anyone, no matter how well you have performed in the past, anyone who drops the ball on this one had better apply for a job at the local car lot. Do I make myself clear?" His gaze landed on Alison. There was collection of nods and murmured “Yes sirs.” As a raw recruit at Quantico, Rome Jorgenson was one of Alison's first instructors. An old-school toughened veteran, Jorgenson never minced words. One day after class, he called Alison into his office. “Stevens,” he said, dropping into the chair behind the desk. Alison remained standing. He didn't offer her a seat. “Some women come here and build a career on their appearance. Men fall all over themselves to please them. That includes their superiors. They climb the ranks like they’re going up a ladder. You're not one of them. With that face, you could easily be mistaken for a man, and since you don't have the looks, you’ll have to make it with skill. Be glad I'm not in charge because I'd ship you back to Indiana. I don't like you. I think you're too weak to be a good agent.” Jorgenson reached for a stack of papers in front of him. Pulling out a test, he began writing. He didn't look up to see Alison's face fall or the glint of tears in her eyes. Her heart sank. He had just dashed her dreams without so much as a hint of compassion. “Dismissed,” he snapped, grabbing another paper to grade, his red pen flying. Alison was aware she was not particularly attractive. Her cheeks were too thin, her nose too pointy, her lips too large. She stumbled out of his office. In the hallway, every male she passed seemed to be sneering at her. Back in her room, she threw herself on the bed and sobbed, muffling her cries with a blanket. Her roommate was out on a date, leaving her alone with her misery. After two days of wallowing in self-pity, Alison rallied. Taking Jorgenson’s words to heart, she spent every moment
studying for exams. When she wasn't studying she worked out. She concentrated on becoming the best, physically and mentally. She would prove him wrong. Her hatred of Jorgenson fueled her determination. The hard work paid off, propelling her to the top of the class. Her good standing in the program did not impress Rome Jorgenson. He resented her every move. He made breaking her one of his priorities. If it was the last thing he did on this earth he would rid the agency of one Alison Stevens. When he failed, he became resentful. Eventually, Jorgenson's attitude toward female recruits caused him to lose his teaching position and be returned to the field. Alison never forgave Rome for his cruel remarks. They were branded with hatred in her soul. The roar of an engine cut Alison's thoughts short. A brown and green ATV exploded from under the bridge. The vehicle skidded to a halt beside the briefcase. Head to toe in camouflage, the masked rider snatched up the leather case. His eyes wild with fright, Freeman bolted out of the Mercedes. “Where's my son!” he shouted, running to the middle of the bridge. Gripping the rail, his knuckles turning white, he leaned over and glared at the kidnapper, his face a mixture of agony and rage. “You have the money. You said you would tell me where my son is,” Bobby's father sobbed, gulping in air. “Please, I want my son.” Even from her vantage point 100 yards away, Alison could see his tears. The ski mask shifted on the man's face. His lips curved upward in a smile. His cackling laughter mocked the desperate man. Frantically, Freeman swung his head from side to side, looking for the agents. “Please, I'll give you another million.” His voice broke and he began to moan. For a moment Alison thought he was going to leap off the bridge onto the suspect’s back. “Just give me my son back.”
Alison's ear bud crackled. “Easy now, everybody, we don't want to lose him.” Jorgenson's orders were simple. Stay out of sight. Let the GPS tracker concealed in one of the stacks of money do its job. The helicopter would follow at a safe distance. Once they had the location, they could draw the net around the captor and child. SWAT would take the lead with the agents as backup. Behavioral was convinced the kidnapper was working alone. That was good and bad. If they were right, there was only one unsub to deal with. If there was only one, he alone knew the site of the vault where little Bobby Freeman was buried. Also, if the kidnapper was working alone he would need a live hostage when the FBI showed up at his hideout. With only one more hour of oxygen, it was urgent they find the child quickly. If he survived, Bobby Freeman would be traumatized. It would take years of therapy for him to return to a normal life, if ever. Alison tried to put her feelings for the frightened child aside. Between the situations in Texas and here, Alison had gone 36 hours without rest. Drained, she just wanted this operation to be over. The lack of sleep and the wet slope were a recipe for disaster. A cramp started tightening her calf. She tried to ignore it. As a child, this type of cramp caused her to jump out of bed crying in pain. Her mother would massage her leg until it stopped. This cramp started as a twitch and quickly grew into a knot. She gasped in pain, stretching out as best she could without giving away her location. Hidden behind a wild rose bush, Alison rubbed her leg. She moved gingerly, sitting down on the wet ground. She extended the leg and flexed the calf. Moisture seeped through the seat of her pants. The spasm finally subsiding, she soundlessly repositioned to a crouch. Her eyes never left the confrontation 100 yards away. An inch of rain the night before had left the ground soft. Her feet slipped. She felt herself going. Mindful of Jorgenson's warning, Alison dug her heels into the sod. Her right foot flew out from under her, then her left. She came down hard, landing on her rear. She skidded down the steep slope, gaining momentum. Panicked, she grabbed at the rose bush, driving thorns into the palm of her right hand. Ignoring the pain, she tried to hold on. She lost her grip and continued to slide down the incline. She grasped wildly at saplings, roots, anything to slow her descent. Nothing worked, the incline was too sharp. Mercifully, Alison’s ear bud flew out halfway down, sparing her from hearing Jorgenson's screaming curses. Their cover blown, the other agents converged on the suspect. Alison dropped into the dry creek bed three feet in front of the hooded figure. All options gone, she drew her weapon, pointing it at the man's head. Thankfully her Glock had stayed in its holster. “Freeze, FBI!” she shouted, her voice shaky and hoarse. Others were yelling the same. Racing through the creek bed, they surrounded the ATV. Quiet seconds before, the area now became a scene of chaos. Ten agents surrounded the ATV, with more coming fast. There seemed to be no way out for the unsub. “Hands in the air! Don't you move!” Jorgenson shouted. Whether the man heard or not was never clear. Perhaps the sight of the horde of federal agents in full body armor spooked him into action. The kidnapper twisted the steering bar and swung the ATV around. He gunned it, almost running over Jorgenson. Rome jumped out of the way, firing his pistol into the air. Other agents with guns pointed at the man charged after him. Alison chased the vehicle, coming within inches. She reached out to grab the kidnapper's jacket. Ten yards down the creek bed, the man made a fatal mistake. He attempted to climb the opposite bank. The wheels dug into the bed, showering Alison with wet sand. It quickly became apparent he wouldn’t make it up the steep bank. Shooting straight up, the machine hung in the air with all four wheels off the ground. For what seemed like an eternity, the vehicle hung suspended above the earth, then careened back down, its rear wheels striking the edge of the bank. The machine tumbled end over end. The kidnapper clung to it, flopping up and down like a rag doll. It tumbled past Alison, grazing her shoulder. The kidnapper's head hit a large boulder, abruptly ending his screams. Agents circled the suspect with their weapons trained on him. Jorgenson knelt beside the hooded figure, feeling for a pulse. Finding none, he pulled up the ski mask, revealing the man's face. Mickey Sanders, a penny-ante thief, had died of a broken neck. Alex Freeman leaped into the dry creek bed, twisting his left ankle so hard it broke. Sobbing, he crawled to the dead kidnapper. Grabbing Mickey’s body by the jacket, he shook him. The kidnapper's head bobbled back and forth. “Where's my son?” Freeman cried, his tears landing on the abductor's chest. His lifeless eyes seemed to mock those around him waiting for an answer that would never come. It was clear Mickey would never answer to anyone other than God. Painfully, Bobby Freeman's father rose to his feet. Jorgenson laid his hand on the man's shoulder. He turned a tear-stained face to the agent. Balling his fist, he struck the agent at the point of his chin. Jorgenson's head snapped back. He staggered backward and landed in a sitting position. “You said you would protect my baby. You said it would be all right,” Freeman moaned. “You killed my son. You killed my Bobby.” Two agents grabbed and restrained him. They led the sobbing father away. Another agent radioed for an ambulance for Freeman and the coroner for the dead man. Alison stood awkwardly at the side of the wrecked ATV. Jorgenson got to his feet and faced her. “Stevens, you killed our only link to that child,” he said in a low growl. “You might as well have held a gun to the kid's head and pulled the trigger.” The bruise on his chin made Rome's scarlet face even more intimidating. “I want you on the next plane to Washington. You will never work with me again. You're through with my team. If I have my way, with the agency.”
Alison rubbed her bleeding hand on her pant leg. She winced at the pain. Several thorns were still embedded in her palm. Not attempting to pick them out, she swallowed the lump in her throat. The rest of the team backed off, leaving the two facing each other. “Rome, I slipped. If you haven't noticed, it rained last night.” Instinct told Alison she should keep quiet. Nothing she could say would help. From the first time she sat in his classroom she could feel his disdain for her. It was rooted in his past, not hers. Impulse broke her silence. “If you're such a brilliant supervisor you should have allowed for the soil conditions and put me in a better position.” “So you're going to try to lay your incompetence at my door?” Rome shot back, balling his hands into fists. “I'm saying the position you assigned to me was on too much of an incline.” Rome held up his hand like a traffic cop. In a voice low and menacing, he said, “I make it a policy never to hit a woman, much less a fellow agent. But I swear Alison, if you say another word I'll make an exception.”



Chapter 5
Her fellow agent Derrick Strong drove Alison back to the Holiday Inn. She liked the big man. Someone in his past gave him the nickname ‘Abe’, not for his physique but for his honesty. “Don't take it personally, Alison,” Derrick said, weaving through the rush hour traffic. “Jorgenson's been looking for revenge ever since they kicked him out of Quantico.” “What's his problem?” Stripped of her body armor, she wore a black t-shirt and jeans. “One of the female recruits accused him of sexual harassment. No witnesses, no evidence, but he was given a choice. Take another assignment or be fired.” “So that should work in my favor with the Review Board, right?” Alison said, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Don't bet on it, Rome still has a lot of friends in the bureau. Besides, you look like his mother.” “You're kidding.” “No. I saw a picture of her. You two could be sisters.” “If I look like his mother, shouldn’t that be a good thing?” “No. She abandoned him and his father when Rome was ten. He's never forgiven her.” “Wonderful. So he takes it out on me.” “Looks that way.” At the hotel Derrick flanked Alison like a protective big brother. Ambling through the lobby dressed in camouflage with “FBI” in large white letters on his back, he looked as out of place as a bull at a picnic. His size made the agent an intimidating figure. In reality he was a gentle man, and Alison was sure she saw tears in his eyes. She wondered if they were for her or the lost child. In her room on the sixth floor, he placed a beefy hand on her shoulder. “Alison, stop beating yourself up. What happened to you could happen to any one of us,” Derrick said, giving her shoulder a light squeeze. Alison knew better. Derrick spent 60 to 70 hours a week in the field. His investigations were flawless. Alison's cell phone rang. She answered without looking at the screen. The chop-chop of a helicopter’s rotor greeted her. “Stevens,” Jorgenson shouted over the roar, “just thought you'd want to know we found Bobby Freeman.” He paused long enough for her to breathe a sigh of relief. What came next cut her like a knife. “He's dead. Shot execution style behind the ear.” Alison felt faint. The child was dead. Behavioral had been wrong. There were at least two kidnappers. Alison nearly dropped the phone. Her fingers trembled, indeed her whole body shook. Still connected, the helicopter buzzed in her ear like an angry bee. “It's your fault, Stevens, you killed him!” Jorgenson shouted, then was gone before she could reply. His last words reverberated in the quiet room. They echoed Alison's own thoughts. Little Bobby Freeman was dead. Alison rushed to the bathroom and slammed the door. She hung over the toilet and vomited. She grabbed a thick bath towel off the rack and buried her face in it. Stifling her sobs, she let the tears flow. She hadn't cried like this since her parents were murdered. In spite of her efforts, Derrick heard her wailing. She fought to control her emotions. A few minutes later, Derrick tapped gently on the bathroom door. “Alison, are you all right?” She splashed cold water on her face and opened the door. “Sure, no problem,” she said, walking past him, her face set like stone. She picked up her suitcase. “Let's go.” Her hands trembled as she gripped the handle tightly, avoiding his gaze. Derrick looked at Alison's red-rimmed eyes and said nothing. Dutifully he followed her out of the hotel. They drove in silence. Finally, as they neared the hangar where the Lear waited, Derrick cleared his throat. He liked
her. She was a good agent. She didn't deserve what was about to happen to her. “I'm sorry, Alison. Jorgenson called back while you were in the bathroom. He said the President is demanding an investigation.” Alison nodded, not trusting her voice. “You're suspended until you meet with the Review Board.” On the plane, Alison watched the clouds evaporate. It seemed as if her dreams were like them, vapor with no substance. Alone in the cabin, she gave in to her grief. A child was dead, a family torn apart. It was her fault. As the jet sped through the sky, her heart sank. Here was yet another death attributable to her. She turned her face to the window and let the tears flow. Somewhere below, the Freemans clutched each other as their world crumbled around them. Alison shifted nervously in the leather chair. Except for the director's secretary, she was alone in the waiting room. She picked up the same magazine for the third time. It was the only one without a photo of little Bobby Freeman on the cover. She flipped through the pages without seeing them. Even though this issue predated Bobby’s death, images of other smiling children seemed to accuse her. With her eyes closed, Alison saw the news clip that was broadcast on every TV station in America, the UK and the Middle East. Six-year-old Bobby Freeman laughed and smiled into the camera. Over his head a blue and white banner declared, “Happy Birthday Bobby!” Balloons and children seemed to fill every square inch of the spacious room. The camera focused on Bobby opening a brightly colored box with holes in its sides. As the little boy tore off the wrapping, the camera zoomed in. Out sprang a golden-haired puppy. The dog stood on its hind legs and slathered its new owner's face with its tongue. Laughing, Bobby picked up the pup and cuddled it. The tape continued showing scenes of the boy and puppy playing in a fenced yard and the child asleep with the puppy resting its chin on Bobby's chest and Bobby’s arms locked around it. Cut to the funeral. Weeping, Bobby's mother clings to his casket. Then his father and mother hold each other as the pallbearers carry the casket through the cemetery. Behind them the puppy, grown into a beautiful golden wavy-haired cocker spaniel, follows. Tears moistened Alison's eyes. She wiped them away quickly, hoping no one noticed. The intercom buzzed, bringing Alison out of her reverie. She sat bolt upright, waiting. The secretary, a prim old-maid type, spoke into the phone. She turned her sour apple expression on Alison. “The director will see you now, Miss.” The non-use of Alison's proper title grated on her. Before the secretary could replace the phone, Alison was on her feet striding toward the huge oak double doors. Sour Apples came out from behind her desk on the double. “Wait! Wait! I must announce you.” “You just did,” Alison, said shoving the doors midstride. In spite of their weight, the doors flew open. Whirling around, Alison caught both doors and shut them in the face of the startled secretary. Tony Steel enjoyed his position as head of the FBI. The power to direct investigations and intimidate others was something to which he aspired. Unfortunately, his only qualification for the rank was his friendship with Jerald Robbins. Being from south Texas, Tony had decorated his office in a southwestern theme. Pictures of cowboys on horseback adorned the walls. Nestled in a large display case, a Winchester 30-30, Sharps 50 cal. buffalo rifle and a Colt sixshooter gave the room a museum-like air. The Colt was said to have belonged to Jesse James. Alison fairly bounced on the thick carpet. I'll bet the carpet isn't the only thing that's padded, she thought.
Even in the cavernous office, Steel's desk looked to be the size of an aircraft carrier’s deck. Behind it, a full glass wall looked out over the capital. “Take the bully by the horns,” was one of Alison's father's favorite expressions. This morning she intended to do just that. She walked toward him. “Chief, I want you to know...” Steel held up his hand, palm out. “Ms. Stevens.” The director drew a deep breath. “Your actions in the Freeman kidnapping jeopardized the entire operation.” “And caused the death of a six-year-old child,” Alison said with tears in her voice. She was determined not to cry no matter what the outcome of her meeting with Steel. “Actually, no.” Alison's mouth dropped open. Feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders, she collapsed into a nearby chair. “The coroner determined the time of death was two hours before the incident at Idle Creek Bridge.” “So it wasn't my fault Bobby Freeman was murdered?” “Technically, no. However, you must still appear before the Review Board. Depending on their recommendation, you could be demoted or terminated. The President is demanding that you be dismissed.” Alison went cold. If Robbins wanted her out of the agency she was gone no matter what the outcome of the hearing. “Mr. Steel, you have my file. My record is untarnished. I've never had a problem in the field.” “Yes, Ms. Stevens, and that is the reason you're being given the opportunity to go before the Review Board.” Alison started to speak. Again Steel held up his hand. Alison noticed it was pink and non-calloused with tiny specks of blood on two fingers. “Rome Jorgenson also requested your discharge.” Alison was so angry her body trembled. She bit her lip to keep quiet. “We were aware there were two kidnappers. The other suspect slipped away and may never be found.”
That was incorrect. Behavioral had determined that Mickey Sanders was working alone. The FBI was covering itself. “Jorgenson was losing Sanders.” The lie sailed out of her mouth before she could stop it. Steel's face turned to stone. A lie to match their lie. “Agent Jorgenson had agents covering every inch of the forest, paper-thin tracking devices hidden in the money and two helicopters standing by three miles away. We could have tracked the suspects to the United Kingdom.” Steel sighed. “But of course you knew this.” Alison didn't respond. “Go home, Alison. You're suspended until after the hearing. You'll be notified when to appear before the Review Board.” Alison stumbled out of Steel's office. She felt as if her legs would barely support her. In the outer office, Sour Apples gave her a nasty look. Numbly, she walked down the hallway to the elevator. All those years of clawing and fighting the system. Alison had worked day and night to prove she was just as good as any male agent. All the sacrifices. She took any assignment. She put off her dreams of a family. She had no friends outside of the agency. Her family was the FBI. If she lost her position with the agency she would have nothing. The emptiness in her soul threatened to consume her.



Chapter 6
When she moved to Washington nine years earlier, Alison purchased a townhouse in Georgetown. Here at last was her own home. She was so enamored with it she would sometimes arise at night and wander through the rooms. She marveled at the woodwork, carpeting and chandeliers. Ownership gave her a sense of wealth. It quickly became clear she was in over her head. The mortgage payments ate up her earnings and then some. For a while she supplemented the shortfall by dipping into her meager savings. With no money for furnishings, she slept on a mattress on the floor. That was for the few nights she was home. During the first six months, she spent less than two weeks in actual residence there. The rest of the time she was on assignments in distant locations. Overwhelmed, she put the house on the market. Here was another area of her life where she failed. A week later, she sold the home to an attorney. The man had a wife and two kids. The boy and girl raced through the place, picking out their rooms. She reluctantly turned the key over to the excited couple and left the house as something inside her died. Now she lived at least a few weeks a year in a small onebedroom apartment. To someone who grew up on a farm in Indiana, the city seemed to crowd in, its noise and traffic plunging into her small space. Alison filled the bathtub almost to the brim, then realized it was overfull. A Spanish family lived below her and their kids’ bedroom was directly under her bathroom. After draining the tub halfway, she eased into the hot water. Lying back, she closed her eyes and let her mind drift back to her childhood. She loved growing up on the farm. When she was six, her father gave her the task of feeding an orphaned calf. She named him Brucie. Alison adored the animal and cried when it was sold. Her father took pity on his daughter’s sobbing pleas and returned the buyer’s money. Brucie grew to up to be fat and content. He followed her through the pasture like a dog. She always carried lumps of sugar as a treat for him. He died in his stall the night before Alison's 16th birthday. Her father farmed the land as had his father and grandfather. In spite of the backbreaking labor, Frank Stevens always made time for his wife and daughter. During planting or harvest season, that might have only been when they brought him dinner in the field or if Alison rode with him to the grain elevator. When she was 12, she discovered why the large full moon was called a harvest moon. One night she and her father and mother worked the fields until midnight. With only the headlight of the tractor and the moonlight to guide them, they brought in the last of the corn. Frank would regale her with stories of his childhood as they shucked the corn by hand. Nights when they would leave the barn in the rain, Alison would lie in bed listening to it drumming on the tin roof. There was a sense of romance about the farm. It seemed light years now since she had boarded the Greyhound bus for Washington D.C. The small farm outside the village of Elm Grove, Indiana seemed a lifetime away. Alison shuttered as the image of the bloodied bodies of her parents passed before her eyes. The day after her father hired Joe Brimmer, he declared a holiday. For 27 years, Frank Stevens single-handedly worked the farm with only the help of his wife and daughter. Now finally, he was able to afford a small wage for a hired hand. Frank took 18-year-old Alison and her mother for a meal at The Crossing Cafe. Mildred Hardesty owned the only restaurant in Elm Grove. The elderly woman made each of her guests feel special. That night she pulled out all the stops. Knowing Frank wouldn't stand for her giving them a free meal, she baked a German chocolate cake for the occasion. Little did the family know Brimmer was an ex-con released from Michigan City State Prison only two weeks
before. Joe had served 25 years for committing murder during a liquor store robbery. Things seemed to go well for a while. Joe was a hard worker with full knowledge of running a farm. For the first time in years, Frank had time to relax. One afternoon he brought out maps and laid them on the kitchen table. The family began planning their first vacation in 15 years. They discussed renting a cabin in the Smokey Mountains or taking a trip to New York City. Their new hired hand assured them he could handle things while they were away. Alison went to sleep that night excited about seeing a new area of the country. Joe seemed happy to sleep on the screened-in porch. If the weatherman predicted rain, he would move to the barn loft. As school ended, Alison began working at the Dairy Queen in Sullivan. Her shift ran from 2 to 10 PM. She saved half her pay for vacation and half for college. Frank planned their trip south for the last two weeks of July. In June he began to notice that things had disappeared. At first it was small items like vegetables from the garden, oil from the shop, a screwdriver or wrench. Then larger objects like sacks of cattle feed and hay from the field. Frank agonized for a week about confronting Brimmer. Then a brand new tractor tire disappeared. Frank debated with himself for several days more before facing down Joe. He waited until a Saturday evening after supper. They were enjoying thick slices of pie. “You accusing me of stealing? After I worked my tail off for you and your lousy family?” Joe shouted, jumping up so fast the chair overturned and hit the old linoleum floor with a bang. “I think you'd better leave. Get your stuff and get out,” Frank said. He turned away, intending to open the back door for Joe. “You old hog,” Joe yelled, grabbing a butcher knife from the sink. He swung it at Frank. The razor sharp instrument
sliced through Frank's neck, nearly severing his head. Hysterical after witnessing the murder of her husband, Becky Stevens came at Brimmer with a frying pan. Joe turned to face the screaming woman. He easily knocked the skillet away and drove the knife into her left breast. Becky fell, the blade protruding from her back and pinning her to the floor. Calmly, Joe poured himself another cup of coffee. He finished his pie while watching the couple bleed out. After Frank and Becky breathed their last, Joe began ransacking the house. He put anything of even questionable value in a feed sack he got from the barn. Coming in late from work, Alison entered through the back door. Joe was in the middle of tearing her parents’ closet apart when her screams alerted him. Hearing the killer stomping down the stairs, Alison panicked. Whoever murdered her parents wouldn't hesitate to kill her. She rummaged frantically for a weapon, then remembered her father's 12-gauge shotgun. Frank had put it under the cabinet last month when a red fox was stalking the hen house. She fell to her knees and reached into the dark recess. For one horrifying moment, she feared the killer had already taken it. Then her fingers closed over the cold steel barrel. The pounding feet were crossing the living room. Brimmer threw open the door and charged into the kitchen. At the sight of Alison holding the shotgun he tried to stop short, but slipped in the pool of blood and fell on Frank’s body. Through blinding tears and rage, Alison brought the heavy weapon to her shoulder and cocked both hammers. To Brimmer, the double clicks sounded like the locks on his coffin. Looking death in the face, Joe began to whimper and beg for his life. He tried to get to his feet, but they flew out from under him and he sprawled in the blood again. “Please don't shoot. It wasn't me that killed 'em,” Joe Brimmer bawled, tears rolling down his puffy red cheeks. “I tried to stop 'em, honest I did. Almost got killed myself.”
“Who did it?” Alison demanded, lowering the shotgun. “Are they still in the house?” Tears streamed down her cheeks in rivulets. She would mourn her family later. Right now she was going to deal with the murderer. For a few seconds Alison's stare left Brimmer. Her eyes darted from the windows to the doors, her ears tuned to any strange noise. Grasping the back of one of the kitchen chairs, Joe regained his footing. He paused, seeming to ponder the teenage girl's question. “Come on, Joe, you had to see them,” Alison said, hoisting the gun to her shoulder again. A grin spread across Brimmer's face. “Yeah, he's still in the house,” he said. Realization shocked Alison's mind like a bucket of ice water. Her parents’ murderer was standing three feet in front of her, grinning like a demon. Joe's hands shot out and grabbed the barrel of the shotgun. For the next few seconds, Alison and her would-be murderer were locked in a deadly tug of war. The loser of this game would end up in the ground. Releasing the barrels, Brimmer made a grab for Alison. Failing, he again seized the gun. Fighting for purchase, Alison forced her finger into the trigger guard. After what seemed like an eternity, she felt the sharp edge of the trigger touch the pad of her finger. Feeling an odd sense of glee at the fear in Joe's eyes, she squeezed both triggers. The hammers clicked on empty chambers. With superhuman strength, Alison jerked the gun from Joe's grip. Whirling around, she sprinted for the living room. Close behind, Brimmer made a flying tackle and grabbed her by the ankles. The shotgun flew out of her hands, clattering and skittering across the floor. She spotted the box of shells under her father's easy chair. Joe jumped over her and snatched up the shotgun. With both hands wrapped around the barrels, he swung the stock at Alison's head. She caught the butt in mid swing. Using Joe's momentum against him, she shoved him back, wrenching the gun from his hands. Joe fell and crashed into the coffee table, shattering the antique china teacups Becky had cherished.
Snatching the box of shells, Alison ripped it apart. She broke the gun open. Breathing hard, she shoved loads into the chambers. Some shells fell to the floor and bounced around her feet. Avoiding them, she raced for the kitchen like a running back headed for the goal line. On his feet, Joe stumbled over the shells. Righting himself, he came after her. She ran for her life, knowing one mistake and she’d be dead. She hit the kitchen door in a dead run. Brimmer came right behind her, charging through the door before it had a chance to swing closed. It banged shut behind them, closing them into the fighting arena. He was inches behind her. Alison could hear his heavy wheezing. She could almost feel his breath. His outstretched hand touched her back. She smelled his sour sweat. She had one chance, only one. If she failed Joe would kill her. But before he took her life he would make her wish she was dead. She felt his fingers raking down the back of her shirt. They caught for a second, then fell away. In one motion, Alison spun, throwing herself to the floor. Her body hit the back door, tearing it off its hinges. On her back, she slid through the opening. Brimmer's momentum propelled him forward. Too late to stop. No place to run. Nowhere to hide. His chest pressed against the end of the double barrel shotgun. She fired, pulling both triggers. He gasped, his eyes glittering with fear. His face went gray. He met death head on. The combined blast sent Alison halfway across the porch. Both loads of buckshot hit Joe in the lungs, sending the organs or what was left of them through his backbone. He was dead before he flew into the table, upending it. Her legs barely able to hold her, Alison stumbled back into the house. In the living room she reloaded the shotgun. There was no need. Joe was just as dead as her mother and father. Her hand shaking, she dropped the phone three times before finally managing to dial 911. Sheriff Andy Moon arrived in 10 minutes. He found Alison on the kitchen floor, cradling her parents and sobbing and muttering incoherently.
He calmed Alison down long enough for her to tell him what happened. The investigation was swift. Andy had known her since childhood. He took one look at the crime scene, listened to Alison's story and declared the case closed. The prosecutor agreed and went so far as to thank her for ridding the state of a dangerous criminal. On the other hand, Joe Brimmer's family screamed conspiracy to anyone who would listen. They claimed Alison killed her parents so she could get the farm. When Joe discovered what she’d done, she murdered him too and pinned the blame on their dead relative. When asked during a press conference about Joe's record, his mother became so enraged she suffered a massive heart attack. She dropped dead, her head bouncing off the concrete steps of the courthouse. After she died, the family dropped the wrongful death suit. Joe's twin brother Jim was an inmate in the state prison in Michigan City, Indiana, on death row for the rape and murder of an elderly school teacher. Alison leased the farm to a neighbor and devoted herself to one goal: bringing the Joe Brimmers of the world to justice, stopping them before they could destroy other families. Her hatred of criminals was the driving force through her college years and the academy. She scratched and clawed her way through the ranks. Each time she encountered a jerk like Jorgenson she thought of Brimmer. With renewed hatred, she forged ahead. Now she questioned her motive. For all her efforts, prison populations were at an all-time high. The crime rate was steadily climbing and criminals were becoming more brutal. It seemed the harder she worked the more violent the world became. She laid her head back on the air pillow, letting the warm water soak her through. She was so tired. Maybe she should just give up, go back to Indiana. Was it really worth all the fight and struggle? As long as men like Jorgenson called the shots, she would never be more than a field agent.



Chapter 7
“We must maintain control over this situation,” President Jerald Robbins said to his chief counsel, Barney Gibbons. He's going to wear a hole in the carpet, Barney thought as he watched his boss pace around the Oval Office. “Security is utmost in this operation,” Robbins continued. “Yes sir, I understand,” Gibbons said for the fifth time. “As if we ever had control,” he muttered under his breath. “What was that? Did you say something?” “I was just thinking out loud,” Barney answered, sweat forming around his collar. His position dictated that he counsel the President on the legality of his actions. Robbins would heed that counsel not today, not ever. The only one Robbins listened to was himself. Barney thought of resigning. He could use the 'spend more time with the family' excuse. Fat chance. Jerry would never accept his resignation. “That last hit in Texas was a disaster,” Robbins said, stopping to stare out the window at the White House lawn. “Why didn't someone tell that idiot that Card was to be executed on his way to prison, not on the courthouse steps in front of the whole town?” “He was informed of the…er, proper disposal required,” Barney said, gripping the arms of the chair to keep his hands from trembling. He hated this business. Why hadn't he stayed in private practice? “Are you telling me this man deliberately disobeyed a direct order?” Robbins asked, turning to face his chief counsel. Barney couldn't look his boss in the eye. He found his briefcase, placed it on his lap, and began rummaging through its contents. The President faced Barney, still shuffling through documents and memos. “What are you looking for, Gibbons? Answer me!” Robbins demanded, stepping to within a foot of
the attorney. “Wasn’t he ordered to shoot Card on the way to Huntsville? Yes or no?” Barney ran his right hand over the zippered flap inside the briefcase. Robbins snatched it off Gibbons’ lap and tossed it to the floor. Several confidential memos skittered across the Seal of the United States. Gibbons stood up to answer the scarlet-faced Robbins. Some of the papers had swirled in a pile around his feet. Barney sighed. Even when they were children, Jerry Robbins was a bully. “Yes, Mr. President, he knew. There is a deserted stretch of highway. They were to stop at a specific location.” “And?” “Card was to be brought out of the car on the pretense of relieving himself, stretching his legs, or some such excuse.” Barney ran a finger around his collar. His tie seemed to be choking him. “Our man, where was he to be?” “Waiting behind an outcropping of rock. One shot to the head. The deputy was to wait thirty minutes to give him time to escape.” “And he disregarded the command?” “Yes sir,” Barney said. He gripped the arms of the chair tighter until his fingers ached. “Perhaps it's time we eliminate this operative and replace him with someone who obeys orders,” Robbins said. Sweat broke out on Barney's forehead. The room felt like an oven. He struggled to breathe. Finally, he drew in a deep breath. He attempted to calm himself and said, “I don't believe that would be wise, Mr. President.” His mouth felt like a dry creek bed. His heart quaked. “Why not? Let me remind you we have eliminated twenty murderers from our nation's streets and it’s only the fifth of May,” Robbins countered. “Our plan is right on track.” Your plan, Jerry, your plan, Gibbons thought. Murdering people was never my idea. I accepted the appointment as chief counsel hoping you would take my advice.
He could never voice those thoughts or he would be the next target. “By the time I run for re-election, well over five hundred will have been executed. The streets will be safer and our victory will be assured for another four years.” The intercom buzzed. Robbins punched a button. “Ms. Chandler, didn't I tell you no interruptions?” “Sorry, Mr. President. The attorney general has arrived,” Rose Chandler said. “Oh very well, send him in.” U.S. Attorney General Keaton Wallace stepped into the Oval Office, closed the door and dropped into the nearest chair. A plump man in his late 50s, Keaton continually fought his weight problem and nursed a heart condition. “Have a seat, Keaton,” Robbins said, grinning. “We were just discussing eliminating our friend from the CIA.” The attorney general's face grew pale. Terror gripped his ailing heart. “You must be joking, please tell me you're joking,” he said, looking from one man to the other. “Mr. President, we can't do that.” Robbins laughed. “You're behind the times, Keaton. I'm president of the United States of America. I can do anything I please.” Sitting down at his desk, he rested his forearms on the surface and smiled at the two men. “Remember three years ago when we had that pesky little problem in the Middle East? He bragged about the nukes his county was prepared to manufacture?” Keaton pulled out a handkerchief and began mopping his forehead. “Of course I was one of the few senators who voted to declare war. He boasted he would rule the world in five years. If he hadn't died of a coronary he..." The President's voice trailed off. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "Are you telling me our friend...?” “What we are saying…” Keaton glanced at Barney.
“What I'm saying,” Keaton lowered his voice. “What I'm saying, Mr. President, is we could all end up dead, and the best experts in the world wouldn't be able to find any evidence of foul play.” Robbins tried to smile. The muscles of his face seemed frozen. "Gentlemen, you forget I'm surrounded by Secret Service agents twenty-four seven.” “Our problem is the Middle East incident,” Barney said, rubbing the sweat off his palms onto his trousers. “There were soldiers in the same room with him at all times. They even went with him when he used the bathroom." "He's called the Shadow for a reason,” Keaton said, glancing out the window at the dying sun. “One minute he's there, the next he's gone. When you look for him, all you see is shadows. He blends in.” “He could be part of the maintenance staff, a driver, anything,” Barney said, swabbing more sweat from his brow. "He could even be an agent assigned to you." Robbins was silent for several moments, which was rare for him. Finally Gibbons ventured, “He actually did us a favor.” “Just what do you mean?” The President was on his feet, glaring at his chief counsel. “Well,” Gibbons swallowed. He almost lost his nerve. “The best deterrent to crime is the death penalty, right?” Robbins sat back down. Elbows on the desk, he rested his chin on his hands. “Go on,” he said, his eyes intent on Gibbons. Keaton barely breathed. Robbins had already proved his wrath could be deadly. When they were teenagers, he had seen him beat a younger boy to death for calling him an idiot. The case was never solved. Only he and Gibbons held the key. “In order for persuasive measures to be effective, word of their use must spread.” “What Barney is saying, Mr. President,” Wallace said, clearing his throat, “is that by taking out Card in the presence of the media our friend provided us with a warning to criminals. Just think how the public will view this administration if the crime rate falls say, twenty percent, during your term.” “I'm shooting for more like thirty to forty percent,” Robbins said, his voice low and harsh. It reminded Keaton of the snarl of an angry dog. “However,” Gibbons said, his knuckles turning white, “we must be careful. If even one reporter catches wind of our little scheme, the least we would be looking at would be the end of our political careers.” “Not to mention several years in a federal prison,” Keaton said as he fumbled with a small vial. He shook out a tiny pill and shoved it under his tongue. “Mr. Gibbons, this operation is not a scheme. It is a well thought out plan to rid our country of the most violent offenders,” Robbins said, his eyes boring a hole through the attorney. “All we are doing is executing convicted murderers several years ahead of schedule. In so doing we are saving the taxpayers millions.” “With all due respect, Mr. President, if our plan is exposed the public will not care how much we save them, they will want someone's head on a platter,” Wallace said. “Then we will just have to make sure our plan remains secret.” A cold finality settled over Robbins. Both men knew the subject was closed. Jerald Robbins' ruthlessness was well known among his inner circle. It was said he could talk the Pope into committing suicide and convince him it was his own idea. Robbins stood and spread the Harrisburg Morning News on his desk. “Gentlemen, this is our next target.” The headline screamed:
‘Child molester sentenced’
Both men rose and stepped to the desk. Together they read the article. Keaton was astounded. Gibbons blurted out, “But Jerry, he was only sentenced to ten years.”
“Mr. President,” Robbins said, correcting his chief counsel. “Mr. President,” Gibbons repeated. Wallace was at a loss for words. His mind couldn't accept the possibility of what this group of idealists had become. Many nights they had sat in their dorm room at Yale, discussing how they could better the world. Always the most vocal, Robbins spoke of being President. The thought of murdering human beings never crossed Keaton’s mind. Yet now he knew this was always Robbins’ plan. “And what will Mr. Peter Rule be thinking as he sits in his prison cell?” Robbins said, tapping his finger on the photo of the young teacher in handcuffs. “He will be thinking how he beat the system. Time cut in half for good behavior. Drug treatment and anger management classes, even if he doesn't need them. Counting the time he spent in jail awaiting trial, Mr. Peter Rule will be back on the street in three and a half years.” “But... but to kill him?” Gibbons said. “Barney's right. Beat him up a little bit,” Keaton said, spreading his hands. “However, to impose the death penalty on him...” Pounding his fist down on Peter Rule's picture, Robbins shouted, “We're not going to let this happen!” Glancing at his wristwatch, he said, “It is now 7:06 PM. I want the execution scheduled to take place within the next forty-eight hours.” The President straightened up and threw the paper into the wastebasket. “Now that we've taken care of that little matter, I have a state dinner to attend,” he said, smiling. Both men left the oval office feeling as if the executioner’s ax hung over their heads. In the limo ride back to his office, Keaton sent a coded message using a disposable cell phone. After sending the message, he had the driver pull to the curb. He rolled down his window and tossed the phone into a trash can. As the black Cadillac merged back into traffic, a man in ragged clothing fished out the phone. Putting it into his pocket, he ambled down the sidewalk.



Chapter 8
In his jail cell in Harrisburg, Peter Rule tried to concentrate on the words. He leafed through the pages of the paperback again. This book wasn't his. He longed to run his hands over the rich leather cover of his own Bible, to read the passages he’d underlined during his morning studies. Using the Bible the correctional officer had given him, he searched for answers. If not answers, at least comfort. He gave up. Laying the book on the bunk, he peered through the small barred window. How could this have happened? He believed in law and justice almost as much as he believed in letting God rule his life. When Police Officer Tome Harper had come to Peter’s door, he welcomed him in. He thought it odd when Tome declined. Tome's face was twisted into a miserable expression. As members of the same church, Peter and his wife prayed for Harper every day. Many times Tome had testified to having God's protection in dangerous situations. “I have to bring you in,” Tome had said. He forced the words through unwilling lips. “What are you arresting me for, boring your son in class?” Harper didn't smile. Peter was shaky. A chill rippled through him. “Peter, I have to warn you that anything you say could be used against you if this comes to trial. Also, I'd advise you to get a lawyer.” “What's this all about, Tome?” “Do you know Amber Santiago?” “Yes, of course. She's one of my brightest students. At least she was.” “Did you know she's pregnant?” “No. No I didn't,” Peter said, shaking his head. “That is so sad.” Amber attended another church across town, a liberal church with a gay pastor. “Who is the father?” Peter asked.
“She says you are,” Tome said, looking down. Most days he loved being a cop, helping people in trouble, keeping the peace. Today he hated it. Peter's face turned white and his mouth dropped. He was nauseous. “Why, why, I never...” “Peter, don't say anything. If you do, I’ll have to put it in my report and the prosecutor will use it at the trial.” “Tome, you know me, we've been friends for years,” Peter said, trembling all over. “You know I would never touch one of my students.” “That's why I asked them to let me bring you in.” “Can I call Barb?” he asked, his voice quivering. “She and Toby are shopping for shoes.” “Sure.” Peter stumbled to the phone. The conversation was brief and tearful. Putting the phone down, Peter turned to his friend. Numbly he asked, “Do I have to wear handcuffs?” Tome laid his hand on Peter's shoulder. “Not ‘til we get to the jail.” Lying on the cell bunk that first night, he thought, this will be a good lesson to teach my government class. I'll be out by morning. Reality didn't hit him until the next day. The days in that cell turned to weeks, the weeks to months. Without his even being convicted, the school board fired him. Come on Amber, tell the truth, he pleaded in his mind. Barb visited him faithfully every Saturday. “It’ll be all right. The whole church is praying for you,” she told him, her eyes caressing him through the glass. He believed her. Surely God would not allow him to go to prison for something he didn't do. The trial was a farce. If he saw it on a comedy channel it would have been a riot. Amber was the prosecution's only witness. On the stand, with tears rolling down her cheeks and several balled up tissues in her hand, she claimed that she’d had an abortion. At the end of her testimony the judge asked
Peter’s court-appointed lawyer if he had any questions. The attorney looked at His Honor with a half-smile. "No, no questions." “Are you crazy?” Peter whispered furiously. “This is our chance. Grill her. She's lying about me and the abortion.” “The poor girl has been through enough,” the lawyer whispered, but loudly enough for the jury to hear. “Aren't you even going to ask her about the clinic?” Peter pleaded, his stomach churning. “I gave you the names of the students who’ll testify she’s lying.” The public defender merely frowned at him. “You may step down, young lady,” the judge said with a sad smile. Amber nodded, her eyes downcast. As she passed Peter, she stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth. “Call your next witness.” “The defense calls Mr. Peter Rule.” His lawyer had tried to dissuade him, but Peter was determined to have his say. Looking intently into the faces of the jury, he told his side of the story. Their expressions caused his heart to plummet. Hiding one hand behind the other, a woman juror flipped an unlady-like gesture at him. Peter’s voice faltered. He tried to recover but failed miserably. Deliberations took less than an hour, including a bathroom and coffee break. Peter stood unsteadily, his body quaking as he waited to hear the verdict. Looking directly at him, the female foreperson said firmly, "Guilty." His knees buckled and he plunked down on the wooden chair so hard he hurt his tailbone. Seated in the gallery, Amber smiled wickedly, and glancing back Peter caught it. As though someone had switched on a light, he suddenly understood. This was her revenge for the stern lecture he had given her about remaining pure for the Lord.



Chapter 9
Sean Waller eased back, letting the soft folds of the recliner envelope him. It was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself. He could easily afford at least a high-end McMansion, yet he lived in a small bungalow. As the President's personal hit man, he had no desire to draw attention to himself. The sweet strains of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony washed over him. He twirled his glass as he sipped the chilled wine and replayed the symphony’s last movement. For years he had outsmarted bodyguards, military and government officials. Time after time, he had escaped death by inches. He enjoyed the killing. However, playing cat and mouse games was dangerous. The odds were against him. Eventually, his time would run out. For the moment, at least, he feared no reprisal. Law enforcement was actually on his side. They assisted him in his missions. The added bonus was that he was making more these days for a single hit than he had in five years with the CIA. Another year and he could retire in the Bahamas or on the Riviera. A few more hits and he would hang it up before his luck ran out. The world of the assassin was becoming hazardous. Tiny cameras could be hidden anywhere. A mark might be wearing a spy pen. A piece of jewelry could be a transmitter. Each day new technologies drew the noose tighter around his neck. Still, he loved squeezing the trigger, the surprised look on the target’s face as the bullet entered, that second they stared death in the face. No matter what their station in life, dictator or housewife, they never thought it would happen to them. He laughed and the sound of his amusement flowed with the music. Card was a moron. Waller wished he’d attached a camera to the scope that day. Maybe he could have but no, not then. He’d just have to rely on his memory. He could still see
Card mouthing off to the deputy on his left. That first bullet sure wiped the smirk off the punk murderer's face. It tore off Card’s right ear. He shrieked and tried to raise his hand to it, but the deputy grabbed him by the wrist and jerked his arm back down. Bullet number two broke his left arm two inches above the elbow. Card's mouth gaped in a silent scream as tears flowed down his face. The deputy let go of him and backed out of the line of fire. Exploding in pain, Card gyrated in a crazy man’s dance. His right hand cupped his ear, his left arm dangled like wet spaghetti. The third shot mangled the bone in his right arm. The fourth and fifth blew out his knees. Waller waited 10 seconds, then fired straight through Card’s head. He sent the child killer to hell where he belonged. Sean enjoyed the relaxed manner in which he made his kills. In his past assignments, the standing order was to make the death appear to be by natural cause or suicide and exit the scene undetected. Make them suffer was the new directive. So, taking his time, he’d shoot off ears, noses, fingers, all within seconds. When the killing shot came, they were ready for it. Some of them begged for death to end the pain. Sean was death. If there was time, he would delay a moment or two, long enough for them to suffer, to know death was coming. He picked up the Dallas paper and reread the article. He smiled. He’d been dubbed The Killer Cop by the media. Some said he was short, some tall, fat, skinny, muscular. How would they know? All they saw was the concrete steps of the Hartman County Courthouse. Next time he wouldn't be a cop. He might just be one of them. He laughed. The sound echoed throughout the small house. Later, after a vigorous run and a long hot shower, he powered up the computer. He clicked the AOL icon, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Welcome, you've got mail.” He moved the mouse to ‘Redman Writer.’
“Manuscript is ready to download.” Quickly he read the coded message. “Package under trash can at 5th and Jefferson, 9 PM.” He activated the scrubber and deleted the email. He opened his Cancun bank’s website and checked his account. Another EFT deposit of $50,000. He smiled. He’d accumulated just over $900,000. Maybe he should raise his fee. Yet fifty thousand for a hit wasn’t bad, not bad at all. If Robbins continued ordering hits, by the time he left office Sean would be a multi-millionaire. He spent the afternoon editing a manuscript by a new mystery writer from Pennsylvania. He was becoming quite good at it, if he said so himself. At 8:55 he pulled into the lot of Milton's Coffee Shop. Maneuvering through the shadows, he slipped unseen into the alley. From the shadows he watched the attorney general approach the trash can. Keaton Wallace slipped a plasticcoated packet under the container. He straightened up, looked both ways and hurried down the deserted street. As he neared the alley, he peered nervously into its murky depths. Seeing nothing, he rushed down the passageway. He passed within two feet of Sean, who thought of reaching out and touching him on the back. Sean grinned. With Keaton’s heart condition, he’d probably die on the spot. He waited for five minutes after the attorney general was gone. Stepping to the can, he lifted it and in one swift motion retrieved the packet and stuck it under his coat. Any passerby would think he’d just tossed some unwanted item. He walked casually back to the coffee shop. Hanging back in the darkness, he watched a young couple walk across the parking lot. The man opened the passenger door of an old Toyota. The woman settled into the seat, smiling up at him. He smiled back. The Shadow felt a twinge in his heart. There would no wife or children for him. Back at home, he entered his windowless study and switched on the desk lamp. He opened the envelope. Spreading the contents on the reading table, he studied Peter Rule's photo. Early in his career, he’d learned never to be fooled by a handsome or beautiful face. The person who appeared to be the most demure could be the most treacherous. After memorizing some information from the news clips, he ran everything through the shredder. Gathering up handfuls of the shredded paper, he ran them through again. After repeating the operation three times, he was satisfied. He put the scraps into a plastic grocery bag and set it aside. He would drop it in a dumpster on his way out of D.C. In the bedroom, he opened the walk-in closet. Pushing the clothes aside, he inserted a key into a lock hidden in the paneling. The wall slid open, revealing a small room. He entered and opened a dresser drawer. He took out two wigs, a blonde one that any woman would be proud to own and another that resembled road kill. A small alcove yielded a green silk dress with matching heels and purse. The purse contained makeup specifically formulated for his skin tone. He opened a bag and pulled out a dirty t-shirt, grimy jeans with both knees out and sandals. From another compartment, he grabbed a small bottle of cheap wine and slipped it into his pocket. Three blocks from his home, he approached a garage. He had rented it three years ago under the name Kemper. The nondescript Taurus parked inside was not a vehicle Hollywood would choose for a secret agent. Once while watching a James Bond movie, he had chuckled to himself. The man introduced himself by his real name at cocktail parties, cozied up to beautiful women, eased in and out of dangerous situations with barely a hair out of place. In the real world, Bond would be dead within 24 hours. By contrast, Sean lived a solitary life, revealing his true self only when absolutely necessary. On assignments he would sometimes change his appearance several times in a single hour. As far as his neighbors knew, he edited manuscripts for several successful authors. He protected the writers’ privacy, never exposing their identity. He received a percentage of the
sales of every novel he edited. At the behest of the authors, he traveled frequently in order to hand deliver the manuscripts. After consulting with an author, he would return home to work on the revisions. His neighbors would be dumbstruck if they ever found out he was an assassin. A hundred feet from the garage, he stood in the shadows, his breathing shallow, his eyes sweeping the area. Scanning the building and its surroundings, he looked for any signs of disturbance. A mouse peeked through a small crack in the bottom of the door. It hesitated, then darted across the walk and disappeared in a flowerbed. “Bad move,” Sean murmured. The little creature hadn’t seen the cat crouching in the geraniums. It thought all was safe until the last second of its life. So much like the ones he killed; they never knew death was coming. After several minutes, he approached the garage. As the cat dined, he stopped to listen once more. Satisfied, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. For several more moments he stood in the dark, listening for any foreign sound. Two years ago, he discovered that a street person had broken into the garage. The man hadn't taken anything, he was just looking for a place to get in out of the rain. He had jimmied the lock on the door. Sean searched the garage and found a box of ragged, smelly clothing under the workbench. Using his resources, he traced the man to the rail yard. Disguised in a dirty wig, faded jeans and a shirt with the sleeves ripped out, Sean hid in the dark corner of a sidetracked boxcar. He made up his mind to spend the entire night there if necessary. As it turned out, the hobo climbed into the rail car less than an hour later. As Waller emerged from the shadows, the old man ran at him screaming, “Get out of my house!” The knife sliced open the hobo's throat, severing his vocal cords. Silently he crumpled to the littered floor. Watching him die, the Shadow grinned at the surprised expression on the old bum’s face. He walked away from the rail yard, leaving no trace he’d ever been there.
He maintained the late model Taurus in good condition, changing the oil regularly and doing all the minor repairs himself. He kept the car out of sight as much as possible. Every time he returned from a run, he filled the tank. To and from jobs he obeyed the rules of the road, driving a few miles under the limit so as not to attract attention. He schooled himself not to panic when he saw patrol cars coming up behind him with lights flashing and sirens blaring. If stopped, he could produce a false license and registration. Just once when disguised as an elderly man, he was stopped for a nonworking taillight. The officer almost apologized for pulling him over. He told the Shadow to have the light repaired and let him go. Sean left the city and headed south. He liked night driving. There were fewer vehicles on the road, less chance of being detected. Adrenalin pounded through his veins. He could almost smell the fear he would elicit from his next victim.




Chapter 10
Thirty miles outside of Harrisburg, he began looking for a convenience store with an exterior restroom. Leaving the interstate, he found one in a quiet neighborhood, a little store called Dad's Place. He parked in the shadows beside the store and walked to the corner. Glancing through the front window, he saw the clerk asleep with his head resting on his arms. It was a good thing for the kid that he was dozing. If he had been awake, Sean would have killed him and taken the money from the till. Just another robbery gone bad. He entered the restroom and changed into the grungy disguise with the road kill wig. On his way out, he checked again. The clerk still slept. He parked the Taurus on a back street three blocks from the police station and set the arming device. He had engineered it himself. Anyone touching the car would receive a powerful electric shock. He designed it to stun, not kill. They wouldn't try it again. Within a minute, a patrol car pulled up beside the Taurus. The two cops didn't acknowledge him as he climbed into the back seat and quietly closed the door. The police car made a U-turn and tooled through the deserted streets. After being admitted to an underground garage, they stopped in a spot by the elevator. Without a word, the two officers led the Shadow to a bare, harshly lit restroom. After checking inside, one of the officers handed him an orange jumpsuit. Sean placed his clothes under the plastic bag in the waste can. He changed into the orange jumpsuit and exited the restroom. The Shadow put his hands behind his back and the officer snapped on a set of handcuffs. They rode the elevator to the third floor. Escorting him past Booking, the officer guided the assassin through the sully port, down the hallway and past the sleeping prisoners. With a gentle tug on the cuffs, he stopped before a cell.
“Open 303,” he said quietly into the radio. Inside, Peter Rule woke from a restless sleep. “New roommate. Be nice to him, Rule.” The door slid closed. The Shadow backed up to the cuff port and the officer removed the handcuffs. He rubbed his wrists. Peter glanced at the new arrival and decided he was harmless, that is until he saw the man's eyes. What he saw there sent chills racing up his spine. The killer smiled. “Let's not waste time, Mr. Rule. I have a mission to complete and you're going to help me.” “Mission. What mission?” Peter said, glaring at the hippie type intruder. “Who are you?” “Who I am is not important. My mission is to force you to confess.” “You're crazy!” Peter shouted, jumping down from his bunk. His feet hit the floor with a slap. “I'm not going to confess to something I didn't do.” “Oh yes, my friend, you are if you want your wife and son to live.” With a shout, Peter rushed the man. Sean easily deflected the blow, sending Peter into the bars. Stunned, Peter awkwardly regained his footing. He shook his head, trying to focus his thoughts. “Let's not be hasty, Mr. Rule.” Reaching into the pocket of his jumpsuit, the Shadow pulled out a cell phone. Punching in a number, he held it out to the former teacher. Grudgingly, Peter took the instrument. The Shadow gestured for him to hold the phone to his ear. Fearing it might explode, Peter slowly brought it up to his right ear. In a deserted office, the police officer who brought in the assassin turned on a compact digital recorder. Carefully he held it up to a phone. Barbara and Chad Rule's voices screamed through the speaker. In horror, Peter almost dropped the cell phone. Barb's voice rose over Chad's. “No, no, no! Please leave us alone.” Then Chad's, "Leave us alone!” “Barb! Chad!” Peter cried. The phone clicked to silence. “Who are you?” Peter asked, his heart breaking. “Why are you doing this?” “I'm death, my friend, and unless you want me to visit your wife and son you’ll do as I say.” The Shadow grinned. “As for why I'm doing this? Because I'm being paid very, very well.” Taking the disposable phone from Peter's limp fingers, he handed him a sheet of paper and a pen. “My associate is holding them in an out-of-the-way location. They will be released unharmed if you cooperate.” Peter looked blankly at the man. “How do I know you'll let them go?” “You have my word.” He grinned, showing blackened teeth. “I won’t do it until I know they’re safe,” Peter said, throwing down the pen. The Shadow picked it up and handed it back to Peter. “Do it or I will kill your family,” he demanded, his voice sharp as a knife. Jolted into action, his hands trembling, Peter sat down at the small table with his hand poised above the sheet of paper. As the man dictated, he wrote.
"Barb, Chad, I know what I did was wrong. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. I love you so much. I'm sorry to put you through so much pain. This is the only way to make it right."
Your loving husband and father, Peter.
Standing, Peter faced the Shadow. His entire body shaking, he handed the man his confession.
Suddenly he felt a pinprick in his forearm. He cried out in surprise. Carefully removing the ring from Peter’s left hand, his murderer dropped it into a small box. Then, putting the box in his pocket, he smiled. “Oh, it doesn't kill, just paralyzes you. You’ll be awake but unfortunately there will be no last words, other than your confession that is.” He pushed Peter down on the lower bunk and ripped off the former teacher's pants. Peter's eyes filled with terror. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Twisting one leg, the assassin knotted it around Peter's neck. He grinned. “By the way, in case you were wondering, your confession also doubles as a suicide note.” As a Christian, Peter was always prepared for death, but never like this. He envisioned his last moments as lying on his bed surrounded by his loving family, with his last breath winning one more relative or friend to the Lord, not dying in a dirty jail cell at the hands of an assassin. “That's the strange thing,” the Shadow said, grinning, “you can't move or speak, yet you see and feel everything.” Climbing to the top bunk, he threaded the other leg through the steel mesh of the fresh air vent. He jumped off the bunk, landing lightly on the floor. Still holding the loose end of the pant leg, he gave it a powerful yank. Jerked to an upright position, Peter felt darkness closing in. A strange buzzing filled his head. “You might be interested to know who wanted you dead,” Sean said, looking into Peter's dying eyes. As the world turned black, he heard the Shadow say, “Jerald Robbins, the President of the United States. This is an operation of his. A program called Death Watch.” Ten feet away, Jed Jensen lay in his bunk and listened, his ear pressed against the heat vent. A few minutes later, he peeked out from under the cover. The long-haired man in the orange jumpsuit stopped at his cell. Jed quieted his trembling body and snorted as if asleep. Satisfied, the officer and Peter's executioner continued down the hallway. A lifelong drunk,
Jed wondered how he could use what he had overheard without putting himself in danger. In their home on Elm Street, Barb and Chad Rule slept soundly, never dreaming that Peter was gone.



Chapter 11
When on assignment or in D.C., Alison worked out for a full hour every day, rain or shine, in snow but not ice. She would jog three miles, then do 100 sit-ups and 50 pushups. She ran this morning, enjoying the slap of her feet on the concrete and the late spring sun on her back. A gentle south breeze blew around her, drying the sweat and cooling her heated body. The scent of flowers tickled her nose. It was good to be alive. She heard the singing from a block away. Coming up to the small brick church, she slowed, then stopped. The song of peace carried her back to her childhood.
"What can wash away my sin,
Nothing but the blood of Jesus."
For the last few months of their lives, Alison's mother and father had attended the small white clapboard church a mile from their home. When Alison was small, her parents sent her to church but didn’t attend themselves. She remembered Mrs. McMillan once speaking to her Sunday School class about the Christ of Christmas. Every Sunday the elderly lady led the class in a rendition of old hymns. Alison wondered if she was still alive. From the open windows of the church came a new song: "Jesus saves, Jesus saves," “Maybe for you, but not for me,” Alison said under her breath. Suddenly she felt very dirty, not physically but spiritually. She sensed a stain upon her soul that could not be removed. After Alison’s parents were murdered, Mrs. McMillan took her into her home. She lived alone, her husband having passed away years before. The elderly woman was glad for the companionship. The last time Alison saw her was from the window of the Greyhound bus that would carry her to college. In her freshman year they wrote faithfully back and forth. Then Alison slowed her letters to once every two weeks, then once a month. She blamed her busy schedule. In truth, Mrs. McMillan’s faith seemed so antiquated, the farm country folks so unsophisticated. She simply became tired of her old Sunday School teacher begging her to receive Christ. Finally, she stopped writing altogether. Mrs. McMillan stubbornly held on for the next three months. She wrote at least once a week, telling Alison of news in her church and the neighborhood. Receiving no reply, the time between letters from the elderly woman increased. Alison felt guilty for disappointing Mrs. McMillan. She soothed her conscious with the fact that she should not be spending her fixed income on stationery and stamps. In the middle of her junior year, the letters stopped altogether. Sometimes she still thought of the old woman being alone in the evenings with no one to comfort her. Alison walked up the steps to the church. She listened intently. Yes, she remembered her mother humming that tune as she worked in the kitchen.
"Blessed Assurance
Jesus is mine
Oh what a foretaste
Of glory divine
Air of salvation
Purchased of God
Borne of his spirit
Washed in his blood
This ..."
“May I help you?” The voice was gentle, kind, not harsh and demanding. Caught up in her musing, Alison started. She turned to face the gray-haired man smiling at her. He appeared to be in his late 60s. He wore a white shirt with the long sleeves rolled up halfway to the elbow. His blue tie hung loosely around a well-proportioned neck. Sweat glistened on his forehead. The compassion in his eyes reminded her of Pastor Rick back home in Indiana. “I'm Pastor Milton. I'm sorry for startling you.” He extended a work-worn hand. “I saw you standing here and wanted to invite you to worship with us.” “No, no. I'm sorry to have disturbed you,” Alison said. She hesitated, then took his hand and was rewarded with a firm, warm handshake. “I just heard the singing. It reminded me of home.” Being a student of human nature, Milton didn't pressure her about her past. “We'll be opening God's word in just a few moments. You're certainly welcome to join us.” “I... I can't. I'm not dressed properly,” Alison said, painfully aware of her jogging shorts and t-top. Why did she feel so nervous around this man? She had faced weapons of every variety with barely a twitch. “God isn't interested in your clothing, young lady. He's concerned about you.” Still smiling, he reached for the door handle. “Please come inside. The folks will be so glad to meet you.” “No, no, I couldn't. Thanks anyway,” Alison said, stumbling down the steps. Turning, she hurried along the sidewalk. “Come back anytime. You're always welcome,” the pastor called after her. Watching her jog down the sidewalk, Milton prayed for her. The haunted look in Alison's eyes
bothered him. He had seen the same look in the eyes of children in Vietnam. “Oh Lord, please put someone in her way to bring her to yourself.” Back in her apartment, Alison called information for Central Indiana. “What city, please?” “Elm Grove for a McMillan?” “I'm sorry. I have no listing for a McMillan.”



Chapter 12
Monday morning Alison awoke in the dark from a restless sleep. In her dream, she was back at the Dairy Queen flipping burgers. She was suited up in full body armor. The laughter of her high school co-workers rang in her ears. Suddenly, a man in a ski mask entered. In his hands he carried an AK-47. Grasping her Glock, she aimed over the heads of the screaming customers. With him in her sights, she squeezed off a shot. Cold liquid ran through her fingers. She looked down and discovered she was holding an ice cream cone. The killer took off his mask. Joe Brimmer calmly shot a small boy in the head. Dying, the child looked at her with pitiful eyes. Methodically, he began murdering more customers─men, women and children. Calmly he walked up to each individual and shot them execution style. Screaming in horror, the people ran for the doors only to find them locked. Frenzied, Alison searched for a weapon, anything she could find to stop the slaughter happening before her eyes. Whatever she touched turned to mush. Finally, when everyone else was dead, Brimmer faced Alison. He looked her in the eye, raised the gun and fired. She watched in fascination and horror as the bullet exited the barrel. In slow motion, it came through the air toward her head. As it entered the bridge of her nose, she felt a sharp pain. Amazingly, she was still alive. Grinning, Joe walked up to her, aimed at her heart and fired. She woke up screaming. Cold, clammy sweat moistened her body and the bed. Her head ached as if she actually had been shot. She glanced at the clock. Two thirty. No more sleeping tonight. In the bathroom, she swallowed two Tylenol. Stripping off her damp pajamas, she turned on the shower. As the warm water streamed over her, the dream came back full force. She raised her face to the spray, letting her tears mingle with the water. Despair besieged her. She couldn't save her parents, she couldn't save Bobby Green. She couldn't even save the child in her dream. It was hopeless. She moaned. Her cries became hacking sobs. She slid slowly down the wall, sitting in a heap on the shower floor. She sobbed out the misery of her life. When the water turned cold, she clambered to her feet, shut it off and got out and dried herself. She dressed, entered the kitchen, made coffee and waited for the sunrise. At the table, she drafted her Board of Review appeal. She read and rewrote it. Finally, she threw it on the floor in despair. Her whole life was on that page. Yet it sounded so pathetic. If the Review Board fired her, where could she go? What would she do? The only other employment she’d had was working in food service during college. Her 10 years of experience in law enforcement should count for something. Maybe she could apply for a teaching position at Georgetown University. “NO!” She shouted the word aloud. She wouldn't go down without a fight. If they terminated her, she would start her own investigation agency. She swallowed two more pills and dressed in her best power suit: gray slacks, white blouse, black jacket and low- heeled black shoes. She pulled her hair into a tight bun at the back of her neck. Standing before the full length mirror in the bedroom, she examined herself critically. She looked every bit what the public would expect a female FBI agent to look like. Opening her makeup case, she tried to smooth the lines on her face and cover the shadows under her eyes. Finally, she gave up. At the Hoover Building, she showed her ID and took the elevator to the fifth floor. Outside the conference room, she paced the floor and watched the clock. She felt like a suspect about to be interrogated. Finally, a slight, balding man poked his head out of the door. “We're ready for you, Ms. Stevens,” he said with a false smile. Feeling the heat, she walked briskly into the room. Her hands twitched. She had faced firefights with less anxiety.
The 11 people surrounding the large table stared at her as if she were a specimen marked for extermination. The man indicated a chair set against one wall. She sat in it and noticed that each person at the conference table was facing her. With the eyes of a veteran FBI agent, she sized up each one of them. Not one knew what it meant to take down a dangerous criminal, to anticipate hot lead entering your body, to fight for your life and the life of a victim. To have your partner’s back. They were all paper pushers caught up in the bureaucratic arena of politics. They would base their findings on generalized conclusions they had drawn from incidents such as Ruby Ridge or Waco, not on the facts of this case. The balding man took his position at the head of the table and cleared his throat. Alison felt as if she were facing a firing squad. All eyes were fixed on her. These people thrived on weakness. Alison set her chin, squared her shoulders and sat up straight. Picking up the folder in front of him, the man wasted no time on preliminaries." Ms. Stevens, it is the recommendation of this board that you be terminated." The blow, though not unexpected, hit her like a full body slam. A steely calm settled over her, the kind of quiet she experienced just before a treacherous raid. Jumping to her feet, she began to circle the table. Two of the women's eyes followed her, expressions of fright on their pale faces. They stared at the bulge under her jacket. "Ms. Stevens, please remain seated," the man said, his voice high pitched. She ignored him. "Do any of you know what it is like to enter a warehouse or a bank or an outhouse, unaware of what or who is waiting there for you?" "Ms. Stevens, I hardly think..." "Have you ever made a split second decision which means life or death to yourself or your fellow agents?" They remained silent. “Have you ever been on a high-speed chase knowing at any second a child could run out into your path?” She stopped pacing and glared at the balding man, who was now standing. He opened his mouth, but Alison's quiet
but arresting voice silenced him. "Have you ever looked into the eyes of a dead child and wondered what you could have done to prevent that child from dying at the hands of a madman?" "Ms. ..." "Well I have, and tonight when you go home to your nice safe house and sleep in your nice warm bed, ladies and gentlemen, you'll be secure not because God is watching out for you, but because an FBI agent like me is." "Ms. Stevens, that is quite enough," Baldy said, his face flushed, his teeth clenched. Alison circled back to her chair. She dropped into it, drained. Strangely, she felt relieved. Laugher bubbled up in her. She suppressed it. The bald man's face was on fire. He struggled to regain control of the hearing. "What we do as an administrative staff is just as important as what you do in the field," he sniffed. Alison glared at him, her face set in stone. He held her eyes for a few seconds, then looked down, shuffling through the file before him. Her life was over, but at least she went down fighting. "However," he said, "the director overruled our recommendation, which is his right." Alison let out her breath, unaware she had been holding it. She didn't smile. To smile would make them think they had won. However, she did relax a little. "I must caution you, Ms. Stevens, if you appear before this committee again, even the director will not be able to save you." Before he could dismiss her, Alison jumped to her feet and left the room. She heard the murmurs of disapproval behind her. In contempt for them and their bureaucratic bunk, she slammed the door. In his office, FBI Director Tony Steel made his case for Alison to the attorney general. "She is a strictly by-the-book type," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Follows orders to the letter."
"So what happened in the Freeman kidnapping?" Keaton Wallace asked. "A slip, pure and simple. I told Rome Jorgensen to ride her hard." Steel smiled. "Of course, Rome didn't need any encouragement. He hasn't liked Stevens since she bested him at the academy. “There’s another issue that may allow us to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak,” Steel continued. "Congress is becoming concerned. There have been too many deaths. And now that school teacher in Pennsylvania." “They can't blame us. We tried to warn Jerry, but you know how he is,” Keaton said as he fished in his pocket. “We've got to appear as if we are performing a complete investigation,” Steel said, laying Alison's file on the desk. He began cleaning his fingernails with a gold file, a habit he’d developed in childhood. When tensions were high his fingers bled. Lately they bled a lot. “Can we control her?” Keaton asked. “As I said, she follows orders,” Steel said, wondering how long it would be before Keaton snapped. He didn't relish the idea of giving the order to take out the Attorney General of the United States. “And if she doesn’t? If she loses control?” The director of the FBI smiled. “Then our friend will have another assignment and I’ll be short one agent.” The intercom buzzed. “Ms. Stevens to see you, sir.” “Send her in.” Alison came into the director's office, her nerves already on edge. At the sight of Keaton, she hesitated, then walked across the room and stood in front of Tony's desk. “Have a seat, Alison,” Steel said, waving toward the empty guest chair. Gingerly, Alison lowered herself into the plush chair. “I believe you know Attorney General Keaton.” Alison nodded at Keaton. Tony walked around his desk and sat on the edge facing Alison with his left foot dangling.
“Ms. Stevens, the agency has decided to give you another chance.” Steel smiled with his mouth. His eyes, however, were hard and cold. “Actually, I decided.” She wanted to protest in her defense, yet she knew it wouldn't do any good. Steel was well aware of all of Alison’s commendations. Her investigative skills were above reproach. She kept quiet and waited. “There is a case,” Steel said, rubbing his chin. “How shall I say this?” He grinned at Wallace. “Well, to put it bluntly, we aren't concerned with how soon or even if it is solved.” Alison raised an eyebrow but remained silent and listened. One of the first things she had learned as a recruit was the importance of the swift completion of an investigation. The longer a case continued, the less chance of an arrest and conviction. Steel picked up one of the files lying on his desk, thumbed through it and handed it to Alison. “In the past five months there have been twenty murders in eighteen states. The latest one was in Texas,” Steel said. He waited for Alison to speak. She opened the file and remained quiet, hearing more than they thought she did. Something was going on. Instinct told her to bide her time. Let them talk; the more a suspect spoke the more was revealed. She decided to play dumb. Wallace was pleased. She really is slow to catch on, he said to himself. “Richard Card, child killer,” Steel said pointedly. “Right, the baby Graham murder,” Alison said, leafing through the folder and scanning its contents. Wallace spoke up. “As you probably know, almost every one of these victims was a convicted murderer. Personally, I believe the killer is performing a great service to our country.” Alison eyed the overweight bureaucrat.
“Unfortunately, Congress doesn't agree with that opinion,” Steel said.
“So you think one person is committing all these murders?” Alison said, looking from man to man. Wallace's face drained of color. Steel stammered, “Yes, well, that is, we're not sure.” This case was all wrong. Alison's instincts were screaming at her to leave it alone. But if she wanted to remain with the FBI she had no choice. “How many agents will I have at my disposal?” Steel laughed. “Agent Stevens, this is a low key investigation,” he said. “Keep in mind the board wanted to fire you. Mess this up and I’ll let them.” Alison rose to her feet and threw the file on the director's desk. “Be that as it may, sir, I can't conduct a multi-state investigation without manpower.” “Let her have thirty agents, if she can find anyone to work with her,” Wallace said, smiling. Steel looked at the attorney general. Something passed between them. “All right,” Steel said. “However, I must approve your choices. And Alison, you answer only to me. Is that understood?” “Yes sir.” Leaving Steel's office, she began putting together her list of team members.



Chapter 13
After a long bath, Alison dressed in jeans and a blue pullover. She opened the freezer and took a chicken dinner from the stack of frozen meals. While it heated, she read through the folder Steel had given her with information about the murders. That afternoon she had searched the internet, gleaning as many news accounts about each killing as she could find. Then she started contacting agents she’d worked with in the past. Some were reluctant to join her, others readily agreed. Slowly, she built a competent investigative team. She peeled the plastic off the mashed potatoes and stirred in some butter and salt. She placed the tray back in the microwave. Waiting in the living room for the few minutes it would take to finish, she picked up the remote and flipped through the channels until she came to the CBS evening news. “Now to our top story. Six-year-old Bobby Freeman was laid to rest today. The FBI is still probing his death. Agent Alison Stevens is...” Stabbing at the power button, Alison threw the remote at the TV. It struck the screen and glanced off. The phone rang. She let the machine answer it. “This is Alison Stevens. Start talking.” A raspy voice came through the device. “Agent Stevens, this is Alfred Greer. I'm the attorney representing the Freeman family. On their behalf, our firm is filing suit in the death of Bobby Freeman. The complaint names you as defendant. Please have your attorney contact me at 207-555-6347.” Alison snatched up the hand set. “You have no reason to bring suit against me, counselor,” she said. She could barely keep her voice steady. Sweat broke out on her forehead. “We have every reason, Agent Stevens. It was your bungling that caused the death of a six-year-old boy.” “Not so, counselor. Your client's son was killed two hours be…”
“We have an expert who will testify that Bobby Freeman died at the precise moment the kidnapper did, the very moment.” “When you're rich you can buy anything you want, including perjury. Who's your expert? Some has-been or a wannabe?” “Oh, I'm sure you are familiar with him. His name is Rome, Rome Jorgensen. You have a good evening, Agent Stevens.” Alison stared at the buzzing phone, then dropped it back in the cradle as if it were a rattlesnake. She knew Rome hated her, but to testify against a fellow agent. At that moment, she hated Rome Jorgensen as much as she did Joe Brimmer. The microwave buzzed. Alison let it go. The thought of food nauseated her. She tried the TV again, flipping through the channels. Seinfeld, Andy Griffith, Little House on the Prairie. No good. She shut it off. She went to work cleaning the apartment. She threw away month-old magazines, scrubbed counter tops, washed out the tub, and vacuumed the bathroom, bedroom and living room carpets. That was her therapy when things were going wrong. Keeping her hands busy and her mind free gave her leave to mull over the case. At the end of two hours the apartment was sparkling, but she was just as restless. She glanced at the clock. Ten to eight. If she went to bed now, she’d be up at 3 AM. She took the shriveled dinner out of the microwave and threw it in the trash. The walls of the apartment closed in on her. Maybe a walk would clear her head. Alison started walking west, not knowing where she was going. It didn’t matter, just away. With her eyes downcast, she didn’t see the thugs until it was too late. “Hey, sweet thing.” Alison's eyes shot up. A blonde boy of 19 or 20 leaned against an old white Cadillac parked at the curb. Alison knew the type. They ruled this neighborhood, controlled the flow of drugs and ran protection rackets. The law couldn't stop them from menacing respectable citizens.
Not tonight. Tonight they picked the wrong person to mess with. Three younger delinquents, possibly 16 or 17, pushed themselves off the car. A dark-haired boy stepped behind her, another one blocked the sidewalk in front of her. The leader joined the one in front. They were all thin with eyes glazed from heavy drug use. “Let it go, boys,” Alison said calmly, moving around so her back was against a coffee shop wall. They closed in on her in a semi-circle. Reaching behind her, Alison whipped out her Glock. “Oooh,” the leader mocked, holding up his hands. “Don't shoot, lady. I'm all scared and trembling.” He shook his hands in the air to show how frightened he was. The rest of the pack snickered. In a sudden move, the blonde boy lunged forward, grabbing at her. Alison drop-kicked him in the groin. He cried out as he went down, holding himself as he sprawled on the cracked sidewalk. “Get her,” he managed to choke out. A Latino boy with pierced lips, eyebrows and ears moved up, arms wide. The other two held back, moving apart to distract her. The pierced boy rushed her. Alison stepped aside, slamming the pistol into his gut. At the same time another charged. She dispatched him with a chop to the back of the neck. He smacked head-on into Pierced Face and the two of them tumbled down in a heap. The last one standing grabbed Alison from behind. His arm across her neck cut into her windpipe. She struggled to stay calm. Blonde Boy had gotten to his feet. “Hold her for me, Roy.” Then he told Alison, “Give me the gun.” Blackness flickered before Alison's eyes. She stomped the instep of the boy holding her. Breaking his hold, she clamped onto his right arm and, squatting, hurled him over her shoulder into Blonde Boy. They reeled backward and smashed into the Caddy, cracking the right passenger window. All four boys bounded to their feet. Alison trained her Glock on them, waving it low and slowly from one to the other. She was reluctant to fire on the juveniles. She aimed at the blonde's kneecap. “You tell them to back off or you'll never walk straight again.” She jacked a round into the chamber. The three looked to their leader for instruction. Alison saw fear glinting in his hard eyes. His pride fought for dominance. He couldn't back down, he would lose respect. He started forward. Alison fingered the trigger. One step. Two steps. At the third, she would fire. Not at him, into the Caddy. His eyes never left her face. “Hold it right there!” a big booming voice commanded. Five pairs of eyes turned in its direction. A huge black D.C. cop in shooter stance aimed his pistol at the group. “Put down the weapon, ma'am,” he said, not taking his eyes off them. “FBI, Officer. These men are under arrest for assaulting a federal agent." “She ain't no FBI,” the blonde said, relaxing. "She my girlfriend. We just had a little fight.” “Looks like a big fight to me,” the officer said. "Slowly ma'am, let's see some ID." As her left hand reached into her back pocket, he rested his aim on her. Alison brought out her wallet. She flipped it open and the gold badge glittered in the lamplight. The cop shifted his attention to the boys. “Looks like you boys made a bad choice of female to pick on." He keyed the mike on his shoulder. "Officer needs assistance, corner of Fifth and Cherry.” Blonde Boy took a run at her. Exhausted but still hyperalert, Alison grabbed him by the neck and pulled his head down, hiking her knee hard into his stomach. Bent in half, he rammed headlong into the brick wall. Crumpling to the sidewalk, he lay still. The rest of the boys cowered against the Cadillac. Sirens sounded in the background, approaching fast. “Agent…” “Stevens,” Alison replied, trying to slow down her breathing. “Agent Stevens, remind me to never make you mad,” the officer said, chuckling. Two police cars screeched to a halt at each end of the Caddy. The boys were read their rights, handcuffed and driven away. After assuring the officers she would swear out a complaint, Alison turned toward home. “Let me give you a lift, Agent Stevens,” the black officer said. Once Alison was seated in the patrol car, she said, “I haven't had a chance to thank you.” She extended her hand. The man took it and said, “Name's O'Sean Davis. No thanks necessary, glad I could help. Though I think you would have been just fine even if I hadn’t shown up.” They shook hands. “You ever need anything, Officer Davis, you be sure and let me know.” “Same here, Agent Stevens.” They pulled up to Alison's apartment building. “Them boys been a pain on that corner for the last year. Maybe a little time in lockup will straighten them out,” Davis said. “At least they'll be able to walk.” “I wouldn't have hurt them. Just made them think I would.” O'Sean grinned.



Chapter 14
Jackson 'Jack' Alexander was a man of high standards. As governor of Alabama, he led the state with integrity and justice. He demanded his team treat those under them with equality. If he discovered any member of his staff was dishonest, he demanded their resignation. In the third year of his administration he was informed of a sizable fiscal discrepancy in the office of the Secretary of State. It led back to Madam Secretary and Alexander took immediate action, insisting she resign or face prosecution. He kept it quiet and, after securing her promise to repay the funds, allowed her to leave with her dignity. When he announced his candidacy for President there was both jubilation and sadness. The citizens of Alabama where excited to have him as President, yet upset to lose him as their governor. At the convention, he won almost all the states, coming in shy by only a few votes. Against his better judgment, a committee of delegates convinced him to team up with Jerald Robbins and run for Vice President. During the campaign, unless it was to his benefit Robbins all but ignored him. By the middle of October, according to the polls they were running 15 points behind. Jackson resigned himself to returning to his small law practice. Then amazingly, Senator Ross, the opposing candidate, committed suicide. Ross’s running mate stepped into the presidential slot and failed miserably. The Republicans squeezed through with a two percent margin, although to hear Robbins tell it one would think they won by a landslide. Jackson's wife, Candace, should have been happy. Yet something kept nagging at her soul. Committed Christians, she and Jackson spent time in prayer together every morning. When away from her, he would call each morning at precisely 6:45 D.C. time. Even if he was rushed or if heads of state were waiting, they would pray together, assuring each other of their love. In their day-to-day operations, Jackson tried to become close to the President. Robbins resisted, sending him off on useless trips as a pawn in the game of politics. This morning he prepared his presentation to Congress on the situation in Libya. He waited outside the Oval Office for 20 minutes until Robbins had time to review it with him. He felt like a snake oil salesman in the waiting room of a doctor's office. He had barely sat down before the President started his tirade. “I tell you, Jackie.” Jackson gritted his teeth. He hated being called Jackie. It made him feel like a child in the principal's office. “We ought to send some bombers over there and wipe them out. Every last one of them. Start all over again.” “Congress would never stand for that, Mr. President, let alone the rest of the world.” Under his breath he added, “Nor would I.” “That's the problem,” Robbins griped. “This country is run by a bunch of wimps.” Ten minutes later Jackson left the Oval Office with no clear directive for dealing with the crisis. “Guess I'm on my own again,” he sighed with resignation. Back at her apartment, Alison had fallen into bed. After an hour of tossing and turning, she got up. Picking up the new John Grisham novel, she tried to concentrate. Ten minutes later she put it down. She turned on the television. Letterman was uninteresting. She turned the volume down low. Her eyes became heavy; they felt like they had sand in them. A bell rang. A school bus? Prison alarm? She fought her way back from sleep. The phone, it was her phone. She looked at her watch. Three AM. She snatched up the cell phone. “Stevens.” “Alison, it’s Steel.” “Yes sir,” she said, instantly alert. “There's been another killing. Stabbing death.”
“Where?” “Michigan City, Indiana. Death row. Strong's on his way. There's a plane waiting for him at Dallas.” “A prison stabbing is not uncommon, sir.” “The man had just won a stay of execution from the governor. Then last week the court commuted him to life.” “So why was he still on death row?” “He was to be transported to another state prison later today. And Alison,” Tony said in a clipped tone. “Sir?” “You report only to me. Don't blow this one.” “Yes sir,” she said, but he was already gone. Something was wrong. The whole case was wrong. All her instincts were screaming. Deep in thought, she dressed and packed an overnight bag. She was waiting when Derrick knocked on her door. The gray walls of Indiana State Prison stood as a fortress before Alison. “FBI, huh?” the correctional officer at the front gate said, studying her ID. “Ain't never seen one of these before. I'm going to have to call the captain.” He studied it some more. In the driver’s seat of the rented black SUV, Alison steamed, physically and mentally. The air conditioner had quit working outside of Gary. Even with both front windows down, the inside of the vehicle was like an oven. “Well, get him down here,” she demanded. The young officer eyed her indifferently, then sauntered off to the guard shack. Five minutes later, a heavy-set man in a blue uniform and white hat drove up. Except for the blue license plate, the Jeep had no marking to identify it as a prison vehicle. “You Stevens?” he asked, not bothering to glance at the ID she held up. “The same,” Alison said, biting back further response. “Where's your partner?” he asked, looking over her shoulder into the back seat as if he expected to see Derrick stretched out asleep. “Superintendent said there would be two of you.” “He’s interviewing the prisoner's family," Alison said impatiently. "Look, captain, can we get on with this?” “Sure, I'll take you to the superintendent.” “Is the prisoner’s body still in the cell?” The captain gave her the once-over. “Are you daft, lady? In this heat he'd be stinkin'.” In Indianapolis, the elderly black woman pulled the ragged curtain aside from the glass door panel. “What you want?” she said, eyeing the big man on her front step. “FBI ma'am,” Derrick said, holding his ID up to the glass. “I don’ talk to cops,” she said, starting to let down the curtain. “I really need to speak with you, ma'am.” “What fer? The poleese done told me my son is dead. That's what you people been wantin' all along. Now you just let him rest in peace.” The curtain dropped. “We believe your son was murdered.” Silence. Chains rattled, locks clicked. A few seconds later, the door opened. The frail woman looked up at the huge man. “I knew they'd get him,” she said. “Who, ma'am?” “Them that's been killing people all over the country.” Tears sprang into her eyes. “They done killed that man in Chicago last week. That man that's been robbin' banks. And that boy down in Texas. Oh, I knows you don' believes me, but it’s true.” “Yes, ma'am,” Derrick said, writing in his notebook. “Do you have any proof there was a conspiracy against your son?” “You think if I did I'd be sittin' here in this run down shack talkin’ to you?” She shook her head. “No sirree, I'd be right there at the warden's office demanding an investigation.” “Well, if you have nothing to go on, how do you know he wasn't murdered by another offender?”
“I knows it right here,” she said, tapping her left breast, “in a mother's heart.” “I'll tell Superintendent Dishon you're here,” the secretary said, picking up the phone. A prim spinster type, Alison thought she would look more at home with a pair of knitting needles. She reminded Alison of Ruth Johnson from the church back home. She smiled at Alison. “Mr. Dishon will see you now.” Dishon's office must have been the envy of every corrections superintendent in Indiana. The walls were paneled in rich dark oak and lined with prints of Van Gogh’s works. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases on two walls held books by famous authors. Behind a massive desk, a pudgy man in his 40s rose to his feet. He self-consciously smoothed his thinning salt and pepper hair with his left hand as he held out his right to Alison. “Agent Stevens, I'm Richard Dishon, superintendent of this excellent facility.” The hand he extended was soft and plump. Alison took it, thinking it was like shaking hands with the Pillsbury Doughboy. Dishon's eyes, however, told a different story. I'll bet he's hard as nails, she thought. “Please have a seat,” he said, indicating one of two chairs made from wooden slats. Alison did a double take. They looked out of place. She tested the chair. It was surprisingly comfortable. “We have a furniture factory at the state prison in Putnamville. Just one of many items made by Pen Products.” “Yes, very nice,” Alison said absently as she consulted her notes. “Now, Mr. Dishon, about the death of Allan Roe. I understand you were working late last night?” “Rich, please.” “What?” “Call me Rich and I'll call you Alison. Have you eaten? Perhaps you'll join me for a late lunch.” Alison raised her eyebrows. “I didn't know FBI agents were so beautiful.” He winked at her. Alison fought down her rising temper.
“Mr. Dishon, I'm conducting a murder investigation. I'm not here to socialize.” “Very well,” he said, his face reddening and showing some of the hardness Alison knew was there. “To answer your question, yes, I was working late last night.” “So you were in your office when Allan Roe was murdered?” “No.” “No?” “I don't believe he was murdered.” “Then how do you explain his death?” “It happens all the time. Drugs are smuggled in from the outside, one offender stabs another. These aren't choir boys we're dealing with, Agent Stevens.” “I'm well aware of prisoners’ dispositions, Mr. Dishon.” Dishon appeared to have run out of steam. He held up his hands. “Look, Agent Stevens, we do the best we can with what resources we have, and frankly sometimes it's not enough.” “I understand. Now perhaps I could see Roe's cell?” Alison said as she rose to her feet. “Of course,” Dishon said, pressing a button on his phone. “Yes, sir?” “Send Captain Prasser in, please.” Seconds later, the door opened and a tall, slim man wearing captain’s bars stepped into the office. “Captain Prasser, please take Agent Stevens anywhere she wishes,” Dishon said. Built when Lincoln was president, Michigan City quickly became the toughest prison in the state. In the beginning prisoners were executed by the hangman's rope, then sparky came into play, and finally lethal injection was adopted. Death row was unusually quiet. Occasionally one of the men would call to another or request a magazine or ask a question of a passing guard. A numbing pall of oppression and doom hung over the block.
After examining the cell, Alison called to the captain. “Is there an interview room?" “Sure, the attorney's room. Why?” “I want to speak to the prisoner in the cell next to Roe’s.” “You best do that from the walkway,” the captain smirked. “These men are dangerous.” “Just bring the prisoner, Captain,” Alison said, sighing. “All right, but don't say I didn't warn you.” Five minutes later an officer escorted a thin, wiry man into the glass enclosed room. Writing in her notebook, Alison didn't look up. “Have a seat,” she ordered. The man stared at her name tag. Contemptuously, he snorted up the contents of his nose and tossed a file on the table in front of her. “Captain said to give you that.” Alison’s eyes froze on the label. Her right hand felt for the Glock. They had taken it from her when she entered the prison. The man leaned on the desk, his face inches from hers. “That's right, lady, I’m Jim Brimmer,” he growled. “Joe was my brother.” He dove over the table at her. Alison shoved her chair back and chopped the man across the back of his neck. Brimmer fell on the table, momentarily stunned. “Officer! Officer! Get in here!” Alison shouted, jumping up from her chair. Reviving, Jim Brimmer rolled off the table onto the floor. She glanced out into the hallway and saw Captain Prasser and two officers gawking with smirks on their faces. “Well hey, you ain't no pushover, are you?” Brimmer said, grinning. He was the spitting hideous image of his brother. Alison fought the surrealism that was crowding her head with images of that night at the farm in Elm Grove. Brimmer popped up off the floor and barreled at her again. She yanked him by the shirt, swinging him around. His fists flailed at her. She blocked him, kicking his feet out from under him. He landed hard in a sitting position. She jerked him up and slammed him into a chair. She glared incredulously at the men standing outside the door. They had made no move to assist her. Keeping an eye on Brimmer, Alison went to a chair on the opposite side of the table and perched warily on the edge of the seat. “Tell me about Roe.” “What makes you think I know anything about Roe?” “He was in the cell next to you.” “Yeah. So?” “Come on, Brimmer, he was your friend.” “Yeah, my friend. We had tea every day at two.” “Somebody killed him. They could just as easily take you out.” A flicker of fear glinted in Jim Brimmer's eyes. Death Row inmates always held to the hope of a new trial or a stay. He glanced behind him at the captain. “Iff'n I say anything you gotta promise you'll help me.” “I'll do what I can,” Alison said, silently hating the man. “No, that ain't good enough. You gotta get me outta here.” “If you have information, I’ll transfer you to a federal prison as a protected witness.” He leaned across the table so close to Alison she nearly retched from the putrid smell of his breath. “They thought I was asleep. They came in his cell about midnight.” “Who’s they?” Brimmer leaned closer. “Them that wants us dead.” “Who? Give me a name, Brimmer.” The door burst open. Brimmer stiffened. He jumped to his feet and turned. “Look out!” the captain shouted at Alison. An earpiercing gunshot erupted. Jim Brimmer was propelled to the floor with explosive force. Blood spurted from the jagged hole in his back. Lurching forward in a defensive stance, Alison overturned the table and crouched behind it for cover. There were no more shots. Leaping up, she sprinted around the table.
Alison knelt beside Jim Brimmer and felt for a pulse. His heartbeat was fading, the light in his eyes dying. “That was close,” the captain said, his expression half grinning, half repulsed as he looked down at the body. “He almost got you.” He carefully shoved his pistol back into its holster. She rose, facing him. “You idiot!” Alison seethed, her eyes spitting fire. “You murdered him in cold blood!” “Hey, lady, I just saved your life. He was going for you.” “I don’t know what you saw. He was sitting there about to tell me who killed Roe. I think it was you.” The captain grinned at her. “Prove it.” The scowl on her face deepened. “I will, and when I do I'm going to put you in the toughest federal prison with the nastiest, meanest cellmate I can find. Let's see how long you last." Prasser paled. “Get out of my prison!” he screamed. Alison flipped open her cell phone, only to find the no service light blinking. “Won't work inside these walls,” Prasser said, smiling. Alison pushed past him and stormed to the officer's desk. Snatching up the phone, she punched in Steel's private number. Ten rings later he answered. “He killed my only witness!” Alison shouted into the phone. “Calm down Stevens,” Steel said sternly. “What are you talking about? Who killed your witness?” From the hallway, Captain Prasser grinned at her. A couple of officers and some medical personnel were removing Jim Brimmer's body. “Stop! Seal that room. It’s a crime scene,” she shouted. They looked at the captain. He waved them on. Her anger almost made the phone melt. Biting back bitter words, Alison filled Steel in. Tony swallowed hard, trying to digest this latest disaster, but he was nearing his wit’s end. Things were getting out of control.
Only five months into Robbins’ term and now prison guards were taking matters into their own hands. Of course, Brimmer's name was on the list. However, the Shadow was to handle the execution or at least arrange it, and preferably not with some clodhopper in a blue uniform. “I'll look into it, Stevens,” Steel said, knowing he wouldn't. Alison fumed. She wanted to wrap the phone cord around Prasser's neck and pull until his eyes popped out. She had some choice words for Steel as well. She swallowed them and they went down like acid. “Alison, you conduct the investigation you were assigned to, understand?” Steel barked. “I'll call the prison superintendent.” Silence. Alison's temper rose another five degrees. “Agent Stevens, did you hear me?” “Yes, sir,” Alison said, biting off the words. “All right then. Call me when you have more news.”



Chapter 15
Tony Steel was agitated to say the least. He ran his left hand through his hair while he held the phone away from his ear with his right. “Yes sir, yes sir. But Mr. President...” The phone buzzed in his ear. He held it at arm's length, staring at the instrument as though it were a snake. At this moment he would feel safer handling a rattler. How had things gotten so out of control? Card gunned down within earshot of the media. Now some trigger-happy prison guard guns down an inmate right in front of a federal officer. When Robbins as just a senator proposed the idea two years ago, Steel's first reaction was that it would never work. “There are too many variables,” he had told Robbins. “Even if you could get the judges to go along with it, there are still cops, sheriffs, wardens, guards. It's just too risky.” “Tony, Tony, all we have to do is set up a coordinator in each state and let them do the recruiting. So if it ever goes south, they won’t be able to trace it back to us.” Tony just stared at him. This was really happening. For months to follow they worked secretly on the recruitment list, quietly interviewing candidates they believed would come astride, feeling each one out but not disclosing the plan fully before being sure they had a commitment. “We will give them authorization to kill,” Robbins said one day when they had finally narrowed the list down to 50. They were sitting in Robbins’ study at his home in the Hamptons. “No, no, no, you have it all wrong,” Steel said. “You need to pick one man to be the chief coordinator, to carry out the executions." He was drowning in his own words but he couldn’t stop. “The CIA had a man called the Shadow.” “Who is the guy? Could we trust him?” Robbins leaned back in his chair, twirling his glass of wine. Outside on the
sprawling patio, noises from the party wound down to a dull roar. “No one knows his name.” “Even the CIA?” “Not even the CIA.” “What's he called again?” “The Shadow. I’ve heard him called Ombra too. Italian for shadow.” “That's it? Just the Shadow?” “He operates as a hired gun,” Steel said. Maybe, just maybe now Jerry would realize how nuts this plan was and put an end to it. Now, a year later, their initial strategy was pushing the limits of sanity and Robbins was like The Joker making lists. Tony felt like he was on a fast flight. If he stayed on, he was going to get hurt. If he jumped off, he was going to get hurt. Either way the result wouldn’t be good. He shivered remembering the night he had first met the assassin in the old rundown theater on Broad Street. True to his name, the man stayed in the shadows. But somehow Tony could feel the cynical smile creeping over him. “You want me to become the senator's executioner?” "The President's," Tony corrected in a low, hoarse voice. "The President, right," the man chuckled. "Of course, he has to be elected first." "Fifty thousand per hit. Twenty-five up front and twenty- five when it’s done." Robbins had instructed him to offer the hit man as much as seventy- five. For his trouble, Steel figured he would keep the difference for himself and Robbins would never be the wiser. “That’s acceptable.” “How do I contact you?” “Got a notebook?” “Yeah, somewhere." Steel dug in his pockets. For a few seconds his eyes diverted from the gloom that obscured the man’s face. “Ah, here it is.” He looked up. Ombra was gone.
Back in Robbins’ office with the door locked, Steel waited to give his report. “No calls, no interruptions,” Robbins snapped into the intercom. “But, Senator, the Budget Committee meets in five minutes.” “No calls, no interruptions!” His voice almost trembling, Tony gave his report. Robbins smiled. Steel would be haunted by that wicked grin. The next day a throw-away phone programmed with one number was delivered to his office. Tony secreted it in the bottom drawer. Less than a month later, Robbins called him back to his office. Propping his feet on the desk, he said, “Tony, I want you to get in touch with our friend the Shadow, Ombra, whatever you call him.” “But we're not in office yet.” Robbins' feet came down with a thump. “Nor will we be unless something happens to Senator Josh Ross.” For a moment Steel couldn’t speak. Finally he croaked, “You can't be serious.” “Do you want to be head of the FBI?” “Of course, but...” Robbins leaned across his desk, his eyes boring into Steel. “Do it.” “But...” “Do it.” “But...” Even though they were alone, Tony lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Kill a United States senator?” “Think of it as an act of public service.” A line had been crossed. He could never go back. The price he paid would cost him throughout eternity. Silently he turned and walked out of Robbins’ office. A shiver pricked his spine. Again the old theater. Again the shadowy figure. But something was palpably different this time. Steel knew he was in the very presence of evil. They were alone but not alone. Shadows undulating everywhere made him worry for a moment that he was hallucinating.
He spoke the name of the man to be eliminated and waited for a shocked reply. There was none, just the man's cold voice. “Half a million for a senator.” “Five hundred thousand? We can't conceal that.” That was a lie. Robbins had instructed him to pay whatever the assassin wanted for this job. Tony hoped the man would refuse. “Come on, Steel, in a presidential campaign five hundred grand is small potatoes.” Sweat ran down Tony's back. He felt death standing next to him. “How will you do it?” “You don't want to know.” The man snickered coldly, all business. “Let's just say the good senator should get up early enough to enjoy the next few sunrises. Wire the money and watch the news.” With that he melted away into the night. Back in his car, Steel's hands shook so uncontrollably he could barely grip the key. He felt urine leaking down his leg. From now on, someone else would deal with this man. He had come to close to death tonight. He swore he’d smelled blood in that tumbled down old place. One week later to the day, Senator Josh Ross was dead after taking a nose dive off the Hayes Adams. They found a two-word suicide note: “I'm sorry.” The stunning news screamed from the headlines of every major newspaper in the country. CNN, NBC, CNBC and Fox all brought in experts to ruminate about Ross's behavior over the past month. A picture surfaced of Ross changing his granddaughter's diaper. Experts analyzed it and commentators speculated that the senator may have been molesting the child. Ross's family was so incensed by the suggestion they threatened to sue. Faltering by the hour, the Democrats stumbled over themselves trying to secure Ross’s replacement. They were losing the election by the hour. Robbins spent the last days of the campaign giving interviews. His face was all over the nightly news. When asked about Ross’s suicide he would squeeze out a tear or two.
Steel stayed in bed, sick in his gut. They had murdered a United States senator. God help them if the public ever found out. God help them, period. Two weeks later the Democrats lost the election. They had pushed the vice presidential candidate into the presidential slot. The man had no stomach for the office. His lack of qualifications and enthusiasm were a turn-off for voters and his polling numbers dropped like a stone. He tried to pull the party together, but the half-baked effort floundered in a mortifying public display as it went down to Robbins’ team. At the Inauguration, Tony hunkered on the platform as far back as he could without falling off. His blood froze as Robbins smiled and waved to the cheering crowd. His eyes kept a wary tab on the Secret Service agents milling around. Were they there merely to protect the President or were they also waiting for the right time to collar Robbins and him? He thought about making a break for it. Cold as ice, Robbins mouthed over his shoulder, “Smile, Steel. We won.” Tony forced a smile. He felt bile rising in his throat. Alone in his hotel room later with his wife, Jenny, he could hold back no longer. His stomach churning, he locked himself in the bathroom. First, the tears came, then the heave- ho, expelling everything he had forced down that day and then some. “Tony? Honey, are you all right?” Steel couldn’t answer. He turned on the faucet and used his cupped hand to bring water to his mouth. He was not all right. Robbins was about to be in the business of wholesale murder. As a co-conspirator, Tony could spend the rest of his life behind bars. He splashed cold water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. I've come a long way, he thought sardonically. From Harvard to homicide. He dried his face, checked to see if his shirt and tie had survived, straightened the tie and ran a comb through his hair. He had to speak to Robbins tonight. The directorship of the FBI no longer held any appeal for him.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Jenny asked as he came out of the bathroom. He didn't answer. Clutching the door handle, he turned to look at her. She was a vision of loveliness with her flawless complexion and natural blonde hair framing her heart- shaped face. The flowing black evening gown she wore contrasted stunningly with her pale, delicate skin. He was going to lose this beautiful woman. Why had he ever agreed to this crazy scheme? He did speak to Robbins that night at the Inaugural Ball. He might as well have tried to reason with a drunk. Indeed the President-Elect was drunk, with power. Cutting him off in mid-sentence, Robbins had thrust a sheet of paper into Steel’s hand and said, “Tony, tomorrow I want you to give this list to our friend.” Steel stared at it, feeling as though he held his own death warrant. Instead of standing up to this madman, he had become his accomplice, however unwillingly. He was the fox about to step into the bear trap. Hoping to distance himself from the conspiracy, the next morning he tried to pawn the list off on Keaton Wallace. Back in Dishon's office, Alison paced. "Mr. Dishon, these actions by your captain are reprehensible," she said, leaning with her palms flat down on the front edge of the warden's desk. She stared the prison official in the eye. “And, I believe criminal.” “Alison, may I call you Alison?” Dishon said with a weak smile. “We're all friends here. What Captain Prasser did was for your safety. James Brimmer's brother murdered your father and mother. You should have never been alone in that office with him. Being a conscientious officer, Prasser watches out for all our visitors.” “You and I both know better than that.” Alison’s tone was crisp and pointed. “Not five minutes before Prasser shot him in the back, Brimmer attacked me. I handled the situation without the good captain's help while he and his compadres stood in the hall watching. He murdered Brimmer because he was about to tell me who killed Roe.”
“I can't believe that,” Dishon said, folding his arms over his chest. “Really? Here’s what I believe, Mr. Dishon. You and the good captain conspired to murder Roe last night and Brimmer today. I don’t know why, but I’m going to find out. And once I prove it, I’m coming back to personally arrest you.” Dishon's face turned dark red. He appeared to be having trouble breathing. He wiggled in his chair as he lifted his hand to smooth what was left of his hair. “You have just worn out your welcome, Ms. Stevens,” he sputtered. “Goodbye.”



Chapter 16
Robbins cursed loud and long. Tony scrunched down in his chair, silently enduring the barrage. “Steel, if this thing unravels I'll hold you personally responsible!” Robbins brayed, slamming his fist on the desk. “How could you let this happen?” A pain socked Steel in the stomach. He felt numb. “It just happened, Mr. President.” Robbins dropped into his desk chair. “Who are Prasser’s and Dishon's contacts?” Tony flipped through several pages of his notebook. “There’s just one. A federal prosecutor in Indianapolis by the name of Dickerson,” he said, keeping his finger on the entry. He looked up at the most powerful man in the United States. “Kill him.” “Are you crazy?” Steel jumped to his feet. “Jerry, this man is a federal prosecutor. He's one of the good guys.” “You call me Jerry one more time and you're fired.” “Mr. President,” Steel said, thoroughly chastised. “He's a liability.” “I won't do it.” “Yes you will. You know as well as I do we've gone too far to turn back.” Tony's stomach churned and burned. He lowered his eyes. Robbins was right, there was no turning back. Dejected, he walked out of the Oval Office. Back in his office, Tony took the disposable cell phone out of the safe. He had wondered when it arrived whose name would be on it. Now he knew. After Rule's death, Keaton Wallace had refused to deal with the Shadow. Tony then tried to enlist Chief Counsel Gibbons as the go-between, but the man laughed in his face and threw the list back at him. Steel was the lone wolf. He received a new phone with each contract. They always arrived in the same type of brown envelope. After contacting the assassin, Steel destroyed them. A week or so later he would receive another one in the same manner. He missed the buttons three times. When he finally connected, a rough voice answered, "Yeah?" He hung up quickly, then tried again but got no answer. Two minutes later a text appeared giving him an email address. He sent the coded message: “File's done.” Those two words resonated in Steel’s mind like a gunshot. His hands paused over the keyboard, willing the email to return. There was no way to pull it back. They were about to murder a federal prosecutor. He found the number for the Indiana State Police on the internet. He picked up his cell phone. No, don’t use it. Surely they would have caller ID. He sneaked out the back way to the parking garage. Two minutes later he exited in a nondescript blue van used for undercover work. He pulled into a Walgreen's parking lot. For several minutes he watched the traffic. A black LTD with government plates cruised by. He slumped down in the seat. After waiting another few minutes, he opened the door and looked around. Trying to appear nonchalant, he walked to a pay phone on the south wall of the store. An elderly woman hurried to it a step ahead of him. “Ma'am, I really need to use this phone,” he said, sweat breaking out on his forehead. “I'll only be a minute,” she said, smiling. “My daughter just had a little boy. And I don't have a cell phone.” She turned from him. “Hello Margaret. Yes, 10:03 this morning. Both doing fine.” Her voice trailed off as Steel turned to see the black LTD drive by again. He couldn't be sure it was the same one. It disappeared in traffic. “It's all yours,” the elderly lady said, smiling. He held the receiver to his ear. Pop! Pop! Pop! Someone screamed. The Walgreen’s front door burst open and a man with a stocking over his head ran past. Tony stuck out his foot and the man sprawled hard on his face on the concrete. A snub-nosed .38 flew out of his hand. He scrambled after it on all fours. Halfway across the lot, the elderly woman screamed. On the pavement lay baby lotion, oil and a big tub of baby wipes. Stepping to the man, Steel rendered him unconscious with a precise blow to the neck. In the background sirens sounded. He walked quickly to the van, hurrying past the elderly woman and hoping she didn't remember him. Open-mouthed, she watched him drive away seconds before two police cars arrived on the scene. Three blocks away, Steel stopped at a drive-up phone. The voice that answered was youthful and polite sounding. “State Police.” His inflection was clear and precise. “There is a contract out on federal Prosecutor Robert Dickerson's life,” Steel said, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice. “He’s in Indianapolis.” “What is your name, sir?” “Do you understand? There is a contract out on federal Prosecutor Robert Dickerson's life.” “Yes sir, I understand. May I have your name?” Steel replaced the receiver gently and drove back to his office. Twenty-four hours later the Shadow arrived in Indianapolis dressed as a female jogger. He parked the Taurus on a side street and approached the Federal Building. He hadn’t questioned Robbins' choice of victim. After all, the man was just another mark. The money was just as good. It didn't matter to him if the hit happened in a death row cell block or in downtown Indianapolis. He intended to follow Dickerson and do what he most enjoyed: bring down the target on a crowded street. The cops surprised him, two in front of Dickerson and two behind. He smiled and fingered the Glock in his waistband. The silencer dug into his thigh. So someone tipped them off. Only three people knew Dickerson was the mark.
Steel, Robbins and him. It didn't matter. He loved a challenge. He would take care of business. When I find out which one it was I’ll use him for target practice. The thought brought another smile. He would let it go until he had enough to disappear permanently. Maybe he would kill the President in the Oval Office, or Steel in the lobby of the Hoover building. Maybe he would take them both out just to make sure he got the right one. He jogged alongside the police officers and their man. Two of them lightly touched their holsters as he passed. He raised his hand in a salute. They didn't wave back. He kept going. They relaxed. He got into the Taurus and opened a map of the city. Unless he was in court, Dickerson played a round of golf on Tuesday mornings. He was a long-standing member of the Country Club of Indianapolis. Most of the city's judges and affluent lawyers belonged. More lawsuits were rumored to have been settled on that golf course than in the courtrooms. As they had left the courthouse, Dickerson implored the officers not to accompany him to the club. In his most persuasive lawyer’s voice, he addressed them collectively as they walked along. “Gentlemen, my career is on an upswing,” he said. “How would it look if I played golf with four state troopers hanging around me? People would think I'm afraid of my own shadow.” “We have our orders, sir,” the sergeant said. “There's been a threat on your life.” “If I took seriously every crazy who said he was going to kill me, I'd never leave my home.” “We believe this threat to be credible.” “Let me propose a compromise, Officer. You and your men change into civilian clothes, drive me in an unmarked car and you can watch me from the parking lot.” Reluctantly, the officers agreed. Decked out to look like a mannish lady groundskeeper, Ombra worked the back nine. He kept his head low while raking a sand trap. Sunglasses concealed his eyes. The blonde wig, dirtied up and scroungy now, hung over his forehead, neck and ears. He wore padding to appear heavier. As Dickerson teed off at the eighth hole, the Shadow stepped into the wooded perimeter of the fairway. As if on cue, Dickerson sliced the ball into the rough. He cursed loudly. The officers in the parking lot laughed. “You should have played with him, Jim,” one of them said to his partner. “I may not be too good, but I could have hit that shot better blindfolded,” Jim said, his eyes sweeping the area. Other than the golfers, the only subject he saw was a homely looking female groundskeeper. He wasn't worried. They had cleared all the workers. Yet something nagged at the back of his mind. Quickly, the Shadow retrieved the errant ball from behind a pine tree. He put it in his pocket and pulled out another that was identical, placing it six inches from the fairway. “Hey, what are you doing?” Dickerson shouted. He strode toward the rough, stepping to within two feet of where Ombra stood. “I'm sorry,” the assassin said, his chin in his chest. “I thought you might need some help finding your ball. There it is, right there.” He pointed at it. “I can find my own ball, thank you,” Dickerson snipped. “You just keep your grubby hands off.” “Yes sir. Sorry,” the Shadow said as he turned away. “Hurry it up!” Dickerson’s golf partner Judge Clayborn yelled. “I've got a murder trial starting this afternoon.” While Dickerson's head was turned, the Shadow melted into the landscape, hidden first by the trees, then the shrubs and finally the deep underbrush. Sneakily, Dickerson picked up the ball to move it farther onto the fairway. The explosion rocked him. It tore off his right arm at the shoulder. He stared down blankly at the empty socket before toppling. Clayborn was flat on the ground, covering his head with his hands. At the sound of the blast, the four state troopers took off in its direction. Service weapons drawn, they were stopped short at the sixth hole by a lone security guard. The excited man trained his pistol on them. “On the ground, now!” he hollered, the chrome Smith and Wesson .38 wobbling in his hand. “Call the cops, Armey. Get out here now! We got us a situation!” The security guard’s voice quavered as he ranted into the mike on his shoulder. “We are the police, you idiot,” the sergeant said, flashing his badge. The other three officers followed suit. “Oh. Sorry,” the security guard said, holstering his weapon. The troopers took off running to Dickerson's aid. The prosecutor wouldn’t need it. Sulking in the background, the security officer turned his head to the mike. “Never mind, the cops are here.” He didn't think it necessary to tell Armey any more. A mile away, the Shadow stood at the rear of a telephone truck with his back to the road. Both back doors were open. He had stolen it early that morning from the company’s garage. According to the form he found on the seat, it was scheduled for a brake job later in the day. He hopped in and pulled one of the doors closed. Hunching in the compartment, he changed into the brown phone company uniform. It fit quite well. He patted the blonde wig flat, tightly rolled up the green groundskeeper’s clothes, grabbed the sunglasses and stuffed everything into a plastic grocery bag. He tucked the bag in among the tools. A common mistake made by thieves and murderers was to discard evidence near the scenes of their crimes. Tomorrow the whole enchilada would be disintegrated in a trash can half full of acid in his garage. As the sirens came closer, he hurried over and busied himself at a junction box that stood in the weeds several feet from the edge of the road. He leaned in close to it and hid his face behind the open door. Out of the corner of his eye he
watched three police cars and an ambulance race by. The vehicles’ occupants looked straight ahead, never even glancing at him or the truck. He was relieved but not surprised. After they disappeared, he casually walked back and drove away. The fake beard accessorizing the Shadow’s brown uniform twitched under his smirk. He beat them again. His mind’s eye pictured an army of cops searching the clubhouse, golf course and woods for the woman groundskeeper. He started to pull into traffic when a black SUV streaked by. The large man driving took quick note of him and turned his eyes back to the road. The woman in the passenger seat eyed him intensely. Alison had tried to make eye contact with the telephone man, but he quickly turned his head. Strange. Why would he look away like that? She thought of the Boston bomber. Then they were gone and the man was in the rear view mirror. “So the Feds are here already,” the Shadow said under his breath. “This should make things interesting.” He merged carefully and continued on.



Chapter 17
Alison ducked under the yellow plastic tape. CSI had finished and the coroner was removing Dickerson’s body. A large puddle of blood soaked the ground and stained the grass. Alison reached down a tentative hand and touched a blood- covered blade of grass. Holding up her fingers before her face, she rubbed them together. The thought struck her: A man died here. A human being, a husband, a father, a neighbor, a friend. Someone's little boy grown to a man. Dead. “Where is he now? Where did that come from?” She wasn't aware she had spoken out loud until Derrick said, “Huh?” “Sorry, just talking to myself.” Derrick nodded. “Alison, this was a professional hit,” he said, looking at the scorched area surrounding the blast site. “As soon as he picked up the ball, the weight shifted inside it. The explosion was meant for Dickerson and no one else.” “Yeah, Clayborn could have been standing next to him and it wouldn't have messed up his hair,” Alison said as she got to her feet. “I think we have to look at this differently than as just a revenge killing,” Derrick said. “Whoever did this kills people for a living.” Alison stood thinking, her eyes sweeping over the lush green expanse. “Let's go to his office and see what we can find. By the way, did you see that phone guy?” “Yeah. Didn't seem suspicious but we'll check to see if these folks were having problems with their phone or internet.” Back at the SUV, he got into the passenger side, not unusual for him. “You drive. I need to think,” he said, pulling out his notebook. “I can't concentrate in traffic.” Alison slid behind the wheel.

Alison had remarked many times that Derrick's brilliant mind was wasted as a field agent. She was just as convinced that their superiors felt threatened by his ability to solve cases, and quickly. He was quiet for the next few miles as they drove along 1-465. He would close his eyes, open them and write in the notebook, then close them again. “Mrs. Roe believes her son’s murder is part of a nationwide conspiracy,” he said as Alison accelerated into the passing lane. “Well, it’s finally happened,” Alison said, smiling. “What?” Derrick straightened up in his seat. “The brilliant mind of Derrick Strong has snapped.” Alison laughed. “Show me a mother who thinks her son's not a saint after he's dead.” “Card in Texas started this case, didn't he?” “Yes, so?” “He was killed while surrounded by cops. Van Rudolf in Chicago was handcuffed and on his way to prison. Roe and then Brimmer in Michigan City yesterday,” Derrick said, tapping the notebook with his pen. “And there may be others we're not aware of.” “Wait a minute. You're not saying Captain Idiot is part of a conspiracy?” “No. Brimmer was murdered to keep him quiet.” “You'll get no argument from me there,” Alison said, keeping her eyes on the road. “I think the captain or one of his men killed Roe.” “Let's see what Dickerson was working on when he was murdered,” Derrick said, slipping the notebook into the inner pocket of his jacket. The federal prosecutor's office was in chaos. Assistant prosecutors, paralegals and secretaries rushed from room to room, nearly colliding in the hallway. Some kept quiet, others whispered to each other, their faces tight with anxiety. Alison and Derrick stepped into Dickerson's reception area. His secretary sat on a beige davenport, shaking with big heaving sobs as though a family member had died.
Derrick and Alison simultaneously held up their badges. “Agents Strong and Stevens, ma’am. We’re sorry for your loss. Can you think of anyone who would want to kill your boss?” Derrick asked uncomfortably. He disliked having to question crying women. “Maybe a case he prosecuted?” “No,” she sobbed. "He was the kindest, gentlest man I ever met.” “Sorry, but that’s not what we heard from the state police,” Alison said. “They said he could be hard and demanding.” She raised her eyebrows slightly and fixed her face in a quizzical expression as she waited for the woman to react. The secretary stopped in mid sob. Her lips became a rigid line. She looked at Alison with something beyond sadness. Her voice was suddenly steady. “Those hypocrites gave him a rough time, always demanding he cover their mistakes.” “Perhaps if we could have a look at his office.” The secretary buried her face in a lace hankie and gestured toward the door of Dickerson's office. For the next two hours Alison and Derrick examined Dickerson's files, computer, datebook, bookshelves, mail─ every inch of his office. “I'm stumped,” she finally admitted. “Plenty of possible suspects but no leads.” “Yeah,” Derrick agreed. “Well, he let his associates try the cases. If they lost he’d distance himself from the case. But if the trial was going their way, if he thought he was going get a conviction, he’d come in for the closing arguments.” “Yeah, a real sweetheart of a guy.” Alison dropped Dickerson's planner back into the bottom desk drawer. It landed with a hollow thump. She removed everything from the drawer for the second time. “Derrick, give me your pocket knife.” “What have you got?” he asked, handing over his Barlow. Sliding the blade into the outer edge of the thin wood lining, Alison pulled it up to reveal a false bottom containing a small leather- bound notebook. She scanned the pages. A series of numbers and letters filled each one.
“It's in code,” she said, disappointed. She ran her fingers over the rest of the drawers, pulling each one open and knocking on the bottoms. “Nothing. Guess we’ll have to break the code on our own,” Alison said. She handed the book to Derrick. “That may take a while,” he said, flipping through the pages. Alison replaced the false bottom and carefully put everything back just as she found it. As Derrick handed the book back to Alison there was a noise at the door. She slipped the book inside her blouse. Indianapolis Special Agent in Charge Mark Rice stepped in. “Find anything?” he asked, his eyes penetrating both agents. He was an agency man all the way. He and Steel were long-time friends. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Alison said, glancing at Derrick. “It doesn't look like it was anything he was working on,” Derrick said. “Well, if you find anything, anything at all, let me know,” Rice said, leaving the room. Back in the SUV, Derrick said, “What was that all about?” “It sounds crazy, because I don’t really know the guy, but I don't trust him,” Alison said, resting her hands on the steering wheel. “Oh, now, be reasonable Alison,” Derrick said. "He has more time in the field than both of us put together." “You felt it too,” Alison said, looking at him intently. “You backed me up without hesitation.” “Only because I’ve fallen under the influence of your womanly wiles,” Derrick said, grinning. “Stop it.” Alison smiled at him. She inserted the key and started the engine. Pulling onto the busy street, Alison and Derrick didn't notice the Ford Taurus following them. The Shadow fingered Alison's hideaway gun. “Never leave your spare in the vehicle,” he said, chuckling. “Like taking candy from a baby.”
It had been simple for him to obtain the access code to the rental vehicle and then find the gun velcroed underneath the dash. At the hotel, he became a maid in a uniform identical to those worn by the housekeeping staff. It was imperative that on this assignment he not be seen taking another’s life. The coded text message on the throw-away phone had been clear. They were getting too close. Tonight an FBI agent would die. From a distance, he appeared to be an overweight, homely maid with bad hair. Up close, the real picture was chilling. The first and sometimes last thing people noticed was his eyes, cold as steel without a spark of life. In Alison's room, he removed the bottle of aspirin from her suitcase. He knew her habits. Returning from target practice, she would take two aspirin and lie down for an hour. He replaced the pills with downers. Not tonight, my dear, the man said to himself. Any sleeping you do after tonight will be in a jail cell. After checking the hallway, he slipped out of the room. At Derrick's door, he paused to listen. The sound of the shower whispered through the door. Derrick had begged off Alison's invitation to join her in the dining room, opting for a shower, a quick nap and room service. He was to be in Derrick's room before six. He waited in a vacant room. Through the peephole, he watched Alison walk to the elevator. She seemed a little unsteady on her feet. Wearing surgical gloves, he screwed the sound suppresser onto the muzzle of her hideaway pistol. Cautiously opening the door to Strong's room, he stepped in. After a quick check of the hallway, he closed it. He could hear the shower still running. A telegram lay unopened on the bedside table. The man grinned. Steel was right on time. The telegram was to arrive at five. He knew what it said. Suspect is Alison Stevens. Detain for questioning. Alison was eating alone. That wasn't unusual. Derrick rarely dined with her, though she always asked him to. So she would use this time to go over a case file.
Taking a bite of baked potato, she studied her notebook. The words swam before her eyes. She tried to focus, but her eyes refused to cooperate. I'm more tired than I thought, she said to herself. It didn't make sense. Even if she believed there was a network of operatives, why take out a federal prosecutor? Was there something in his background the FBI hadn’t been aware of? Surely not. By the time the FBI finished their background check they would know how many times a day he visited the bathroom. No, it had to be something else, maybe some recent incident in his personal life. She and Derrick were scheduled to interview the wife later tonight. Hopefully they would gain some insight into the state of their marriage. Then tomorrow they would interview Judge Clayborn. There had to be something more to explain Dickerson’s secretary’s overwrought reaction to her boss's death. The tears were real, but Alison didn’t think they were those of a distraught lover. Yet her instincts told her the secretary was more than just a loyal employee and friend. Alison saw panic in that woman's eyes. Could she be in fear for her own life? Alison's phone buzzed. She looked at the display. Steel, the last person she wanted to speak to right now. Reluctantly, she hit the button and brought the phone to her ear. “Stevens,” she said with exaggerated formality. “What's this I hear about you concealing evidence in the Dickerson investigation?” Good evening to you too, Alison thought. “Well?” Steel always took an agent’s or suspect's hesitation as an admission of guilt. He was recording the conversation. Alison feigned innocence. “All the evidence we have recovered so far is well documented, sir.” “That's not my understanding. The report I received said something went missing from the inventory of the prosecutor's office.”
“Nothing's missing. Every item is documented.” It was a lie and not a good one. Alison's ethics dictated that she always be honest, except during an interrogation. “If I find you’re hiding anything and I mean anything, I will terminate you myself.” “We’re meeting with his widow tonight. I’ll email you my report. You'll have it by morning.” “Watch it, Stevens, you’re on shaky ground. That report better be thorough and complete.” He hung up.



Chapter 18
“Derrick,” she said softy. He was the only one who knew she had the notebook. “Pardon?” Alison looked up at the waiter’s confused face. “Nothing. Sorry, I was just thinking out loud,” she said selfconsciously. “I understand, ma'am. Would you care for dessert?” From his office in Washington, Steel made a call. After giving the man her order, Alison leaned back in her chair. It couldn't be anybody else. She couldn’t guess why he would betray her. As soon as she was finished she would confront him. Refreshed after his nap, Derrick was in the shower when the door to his room quietly opened. He exited the bathroom and came face to face with the maid. With only a towel wrapped around his middle, his cheeks flared. The only woman who had ever seen him unclothed was his wife, and he intended to keep it that way. “Would you mind cleaning the room some other time, please?” The woman shook her head as if she didn't understand. She looked to be of Middle Eastern descent. Derrick asked again with the same result. The woman turned to the supply cart sitting just inside the door. Derrick sighed. He would have to call the front desk. Surely they had someone who spoke the maid's language. Reaching for the phone, he glanced at her. His heart leaped into his throat. She was holding Alison's backup weapon, fitted with a silencer. Derrick's own Glock lay on the chest 10 feet away. He glanced at it longingly. There was no way he could make it. But maybe he could buy some time. Slowly he inched his way in the direction of the chest. He held out his hand to the woman. This was the unsub. A hired killer. Cold chills raced up his spine. He decided to play along. It was his only hope.
“I have money in my wallet. You can have it all. Many dollars,” he said. His hands went clammy as the only response was a stony stare. “You don't want to do this. I'm a federal officer. I work for the FBI.” She didn't seem to understand. Derrick knew better. He studied her mannerisms, the vacant look in the eyes, the measured movement of the hands. This was no hotel maid. This was the assassin, the one they were seeking. He lunged for his pistol. There was a ‘POOF,’ like the amplified sound of a can of soda being popped open. The hollow point entered his heart, exploding it. He crumpled to the floor, dying. Derrick's last thoughts were of his wife, his children and Alison. The assassin quickly deposited the gun in Alison’s room, then returned the cart to the maintenance area beside the stairwell. He changed clothes in the utility closet, hanging the maid’s uniform on a hook behind the door. He shoved the latex gloves he’d been wearing into his pocket. Downstairs, he entered the dining room. The maître d’ seated him three tables away from Alison. Facing her, he peered over the top of the menu. She was writing in a small spiral-bound notebook. He wished he could see what. He dared not draw attention to himself. Raising the menu, he concealed all but his eyes and forehead. The thrill of the game made his heart beat faster. Just being this close to a non-mark violated one of his principal policies. He ordered a club sandwich and a soda. He had eaten half of it when Alison abruptly stood up and left the dining room. She stumbled, almost falling into a vacant table. He grinned. The narcotic was taking effect. He motioned to the waiter and paid the tab and tip in cash. He leisurely crossed the lobby and walked out the front door. In the parking lot, he started up the Taurus. He rolled down the window and waited. Five minutes later, he heard the first siren. He shoved the car in gear and slowly exited the lot. On the interstate, he punched it but was careful to stay five miles under the speed limit.
He had taken out government officials in other countries. This was the first time he had killed an FBI agent. At double the pay, he would gladly assassinate every one of them. He laughed. A few more hits like this and he could buy several small islands, maybe even Hawaii. On the fifth floor, Alison stopped at Derrick's door. She hesitated. She had been friends with Derrick and his wife for years. Sally worried about Alison's eating habits and was always giving her recipes. Of course, Alison never bothered to try them. On the few occasions Alison had visited their home, she’d played games with the kids and run around outside with them. Derrick was always kind to her. Sally treated her like a sister. No. He might disapprove of her actions, but Derrick would never turn against her. Feeling woozy, she tapped lightly at first. No answer. She rapped harder. Possibly he went for a walk, unusual but not unheard of. Most nights he stayed in his room going over his notes from the day. She glanced at her watch, five to eight. Derrick called home at eight every night without fail, even on stakeout. He wanted to catch the kids before they went to bed. Even if he had gone for a walk, he would have returned by now. She knocked harder, almost hammering. Nothing. She tried the handle. It turned easily in her hand. Calling his name, she pushed open the door. Her heart shot into her throat, almost choking her. Derrick lay in a pool of blood at the end of the bed. She reached for her weapon and then remembered. Not wanting to frighten other diners, she had left it in her room. From the size of the blood pool, she knew he was dead. Still, she pressed two fingers against the side of his neck, hoping against hope. Her hand shaking, she touched his rapidly cooling body with her fingertips. Stinging tears blurred her vision. Her head pounded and she felt disoriented. She was back in her parent's kitchen, standing over their bloody, mutilated bodies and screaming to the heavens. It was as if the years in between had melted away. She felt the same fear she felt that awful night. Shaking her head to try and clear it, she reached for her cell phone. Her fingers were stiff, unyielding. Her panic intensified as she plucked at it. Finally she managed to hold it up to her face. The numbers blurred before her eyes. She punched 911. “Nine one one, what is your emergency?” “This is Alison Stevens. I'm an FBI agent,” she said, her speech slurred. “My partner has been shot. I need an ambulance and backup. Now... I need help now!” Alison shouted into the phone. Her hand was shaking so violently she almost dropped it. Tears streamed down her face. “Say again?” Choking down hysteria, Alison repeated herself. The 911 operator thought the woman was drunk and was about to gently unload her when she noticed other reports of a woman screaming coming in from the hotel. “What is your location ma’am?” the operator asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. She’d been trained to keep calm in all emergencies, even those involving law enforcement personnel. That didn't mean it was easy. “The Plaza Hotel. Hurry.” Alison jammed the phone back into its holder. “Please stay on the line with me, ma’am. Ma’am? Agent Stevens? “All units in the vicinity. Respond to report of a shooting at the Plaza Hotel. FBI agent possibly involved.” “Unit 419. We're three blocks away.” The officer flipped on the light bar and siren. He stomped the accelerator until the cruiser hit 70. “Unit 510 coming off Maple onto Third. Will assist 419.” Alison backed out of the room so as not to contaminate the crime scene. Derrick was dead and his killer was close. She elbowed the door open, wishing she hadn't touched the outer knob. Lurching to her room, she grabbed her Glock. She wiped her tears on her sleeve. Her vision so blurred she was nearly sightless, Alison inched along with her back to the wall, squinting as she tried to assess the hall and stairwell. Gripping the gun tightly in front of her, she jiggled each doorknob with her free hand as she passed. She thumbed the hotel’s number on the phone keypad. It rang once. “The Plaza. How may I assist you?” “This is FBI agent Alison Stevens in room 363. My partner has been shot. Lock the hotel down now.” “Is this a joke?” the desk clerk asked with a half-smile. The woman on the other end sounded drunk. “Close it down now or I'll arrest you as an accomplice to the murder of a federal agent.” At that instant two uniformed police officers burst through the hotel entrance with guns drawn. Still holding the phone, it took the flustered clerk a few seconds to comprehend. “Third floor, take the stairs!” he shouted at them. He waved his hand toward a door to the right of the lobby. The officers ran through it as if they were on a drug bust. The clerk shouted to the doorman, “Lock the doors!” At the end of the hallway, Alison crossed over and continued checking doors. Nothing. She didn’t even hear any sounds. She approached the utility closet. Locked. Whoever killed Derrick was gone. Why hadn't she persuaded him to accompany her to dinner? Derrick had wanted to take a shower and a short nap. She was ravenously hungry, as she always was after returning from the firing range. While she was lounging in the dining room, her partner was being murdered. She wiped away tears. She had failed him just as she had failed her mother and father. She returned to Derrick's room and knelt by his side. Her head was light and woozy. She almost passed out. “Oh Derrick, why didn't you come with me just this one time?” She moaned. Whether she had spoken aloud or not she couldn't tell. “Hold it right there. Lay the gun on the floor and stand up.” Alison put the Glock on the floor and rose slowly on wobbly legs. She whimpered as one foot slid in the viscous fluid beneath her.
“I'm FBI. This is my partner, Derrick Strong. He's been shot.” The words came out haltingly. “Let me show you my ID,” she stammered, reaching for the back pocket of her jeans. Her fingers numb, she pulled out her badge wallet, praying the cop wasn’t trigger-happy. She tried several times, finally succeeding in flipping it open. The officer relaxed, lowering his pistol and stepping closer to check the ID. Thinking he’d be satisfied with it, Alison reached down to pick up her piece. “Leave it,” he ordered. Alison straightened up, looking confused. The officer took a pen from his pocket and picked up the Glock by its trigger guard. “Step back, ma’am,” he said, placing Alison's pistol on the chest next to Derrick's. Two officers appeared in the doorway with guns drawn. “She's FBI,” the first officer told them. They holstered their guns and quickly sealed off the floor. Two paramedics arrived. Working swiftly, they hooked Derrick up to oxygen and performed CPR. They bundled him up, hauled him onto a gurney and whisked him away. Weak and disoriented, Alison braced herself on the door frame with her right hand. Her tears would not stop streaming, nor would her hands stop trembling. The room swam before her. “Ma’am, this is a crime scene. Please move aside.” A man stood before her with a large case in his gloved hand. On his jacket were the letters CSI. Her phone vibrated as she stumbled into the hallway. Pulling it from her belt, she looked at the display and groaned. Steel. With Alison out of earshot, the first officer said to his companions, “She's either drunk or high. Isolate her. We got two agents on the way.” One of his comrades stepped into the hallway to keep an eye on her. Hitting the button, Alison said in a teary voice, “Stevens.” Tony cursed furiously at her in a tirade that seemed endless. His words struck like body blows. Nausea made her stomach knot. If he didn't shut up she was going to upchuck right there in the hallway. Finally, he was quiet for a brief moment. What he said next chilled Alison's soul. “This is a federal investigation, Stevens. You are not to touch anything or attempt to participate. Two agents are on their way. I've spoken to the police chief. His officers will be securing the scene.” “I can do that… sir,” Alison said. Her mouth was dry and the words came slowly. Steel took a breath. His lips curved in a sinister smile. The barbiturates were working. “Agent Stevens, you are hereby relieved of duty. You will surrender your shield to Agent Thompson.” “But I... I want to assist in the investigation,” Alison wailed through a loud sob, the tears in her throat almost choking her. She could almost hear him gritting his teeth over the phone. “I'll not have my chief suspect interfering.”



Chapter 19
At that moment, two men in dark suits exited the elevator. Alison could only blink as they hurried toward her. “Agent Stevens, I'm Agent Dale Thompson and this is Agent Hale Foley. We are placing you under arrest for the murder of Derrick Strong.” Foley shoved her face into the wall and pulled her hands behind her back. The world swirled around her. If he hadn’t been leaning against her she would have collapsed. All eyes were on her as they rushed her onto the elevator and through the lobby. In the back seat of the SUV, she broke down sobbing. Sitting beside her, Foley stared at Alison with what she thought was compassion. In the driver’s seat, Thompson cracked a half smile. The telegram from Derrick’s room was tucked safely in his pocket. The next three hours were a nightmare. Always before, Alison had enjoyed interrogating suspects. Now it was she who was caught in the snare. Thompson and Foley were relentless. They hammered her for hours with no break. They revisited the same details again and again until she felt her head would burst. “I told you. I just found his body. I did not kill him,” she protested emphatically. The tears were gone now, leaving crusty deposits around her eyes and salty streaks down her face. “He was my friend.” “Is that why you had a violent argument with him just an hour before he was murdered?” Thompson said, glaring at her. “I told you before, we have a witness.” “Your witness is mistaken or lying. When we returned to the hotel Derrick went up to his room to take a nap and I went for a drive.” “Right, and just happened to come upon a quarry,” Foley said, sneering. “Let me guess, that's how the powder residue ended up on your clothes.”
“You don't have to guess. I told you twenty times. I went for a ride. I came across this abandoned gravel pit and fired thirty rounds into it,” Alison said wearily. “And no one saw you. And no one heard you,” Thompson chided. Foley rolled his eyes. “It was way out in the country. I...” Thompson slammed the telegram down in front of her. Alison's head swam. She nearly fainted as the words registered. Steel had named her as the suspect. He had set her up and framed her. There was a knock. Closest to the door, Foley opened it. A uniformed officer handed him a piece of paper. He scrutinized it. Nodding to Thompson, he waved it in Alison's face. “Did you really think you could get away with murder? This is the ballistics report. The bullet that killed Strong came from your gun.” “Stand up Stevens,” Foley commanded, producing a pair of handcuffs. “I'm being set up. Can't you see that?" Alison cried, her whole body shaking. “Someone took my gun, killed Derrick and then put it back." “Yeah, right. You and every other murderer,” Thompson said, hauling her to her feet. “At least we're getting one dirty agent off the street.” Snapping the cuffs on her, Foley said, “Alison Stevens, you are under arrest for the murder of FBI agent Derrick Strong. You have the right to an attorney and to have that attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney one will be provided to you. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?” Alison's head spun. Blackness flickered before her eyes. “Answer the question, scumbag,” Thompson snarled. She forced herself to focus. “Yes,” she murmured. Alison awoke to the second greatest horror of her life. For the past 10 years, she had concentrated on putting criminals in the very place she now found herself. Her back hurt, her head throbbed. Despair filled her soul. How could this be happening to her? Yesterday she was an FBI agent, today an inmate in the Marion County Jail facing life in prison. Or death. During interrogations that she conducted, she had laughed at suspects who claimed to be innocent. The bureau’s policy allowed her to stretch the truth in an attempt to elicit a confession. She became quite proficient at lying. Nevertheless, when she did so even in the interest of justice, she felt like a hypocrite. Regardless, when there was no evidence or too little to warrant an arrest, she’d keep pushing until she either got a confession or the suspect screamed for a lawyer. Let the jury decide. Innocent or guilty, she just kept putting them away. Always by the book. At least that's what she told herself. A screeching sound caused her head to snap toward the cell door. The cuff port opened and a black hand stuffed a newspaper through the hole. It fell to the floor front page up. Her day was about to get worse. The headline screamed:
FBI Agent Kills Fellow Officer
Her photo beside Derrick's stared up at her. The article beneath could have been written by Foley or Thompson. It painted her as a cold-blooded killer. Alison's eyes widened and her breath came in short, quick bursts. The article implied, and not subtly, that she was the mastermind responsible for at least 12 murders. Scenes of the night before came back to her in bits and pieces. While searching her D.C. apartment, the Feds had found a sniper rifle and bomb-making materials, including the same compound that had been packed into Dickerson’s exploding golf ball. The rifle was determined to be the same one that killed Card. Throwing down the paper, she vomited in the toilet. Dear God, they wanted her dead. Steel set her up and whoever killed Derrick planted evidence in her apartment. For the next hour, she took leave of her senses. Her mind’s eye could envision nothing but her languishing on death row until she was strapped down to a gurney, the needle sliding into her vein, dead. Would she even last that long or would they send in an assassin to kill her? If she died, where would she go? Hell opened up to her like a wide, dark chasm. Derrick's wife, their children, did they believe she murdered him? The cuff port opened again. The same black hand set a tray on the lip. Oatmeal. She hated oatmeal. It reminded her of home in Indiana. Growing up, her mother would serve it three or four times a week. Alison would heap butter and sugar on the gooey stuff to try to make it edible. This morning there was no sugar and definitely no butter. It didn't matter. She had no appetite. She left the tray untouched. Twenty minutes later, it disappeared. After pacing the cell for an hour, Alison began to calm down. Steel could take away her badge but he could not take away her instincts. She was still an FBI agent. They trained her. The agency gave her the tools to solve any case, regardless of its difficulty. The only difference was that this time she had to prove her own innocence. At this moment she knew only that someone had drugged her, killed Derrick and planted evidence in her apartment to frame her as the assassin. Who? The only name that came to mind was Rome Jorgensen. At nine o'clock four correctional officers came for her. They manacled her wrists and ankles. Then, in lockstep, they hurried her down the hallway to the elevator. Every high-risk prisoner wore a bulletproof vest any time they were exposed to the public. Not her. What seemed like 100 reporters crowded around the back exit. Even with the officers surrounding her, they thrust their mikes and cameras in her face. CNN, Fox News, NBC, CBS. Alphabet soup served cold. Dozens of questions were hurled at her. She kept her mouth shut and looked straight
ahead. She expected at any moment to be blown into eternity by hot lead piercing her head or chest. The arraignment was swift. They ushered her in handcuffs through the back door of the courthouse. The officers escorting her were firm and impersonal. She was just another criminal to appear before the judge. She breathed a sigh of relief when they entered the quiet courtroom. Her respite was short-lived. The full impact of her fight for freedom hit her the moment the judge entered. The clerk read the charges. “How do you plead?” the judge asked, peering down at her dispassionately. She wanted to scream. That would only add to her trouble. The fight for her life and freedom had begun. She would not let them beat her. “How do you plead?” the judge repeated, his eyes boring through her and his tone impatient. From his attitude Alison inferred she might as well plead guilty. She answered in as a firm and clear a voice as she could muster. “Not guilty, Your Honor.” “Do you have the resources to hire an attorney?” “No, Your Honor.” “Very well. Mr. Crenshaw, you will take this case.” “Yes, Your Honor.” A sluggish, grizzled older man with a bored expression stepped out of the gallery and stood next to Alison. As a young man fresh out of law school, Benny Crenshaw was primed to be a fierce fighter for the innocent. He soon learned there were few who were not responsible for the crimes of which they were accused. Now at 62, the only thing that interested him was retirement. Yet retirement took money, of which as a public defender Benny had very little. Alison turned to speak to him, but his resigned demeanor took the wind right out of her sails. She had no doubt this was one lawyer who would happily settle for a quick fix. “The plea is not guilty, Your Honor,” Crenshaw echoed as he had a thousand times before. “So ordered. Bail is set at one million dollars.”Alison reeled. The door to one path of freedom had just slammed in her face. Later in the conference room, Crenshaw sat down heavily. The chair groaned under his weight. He smiled wearily at Alison. Still in handcuffs, she didn't return it. “They treating you all right?” It was a standard question, one that he asked of all his clients. Deep down he cared, or at least liked to think he did. “And if they're not? Would you do anything about it?” Alison said, angrily snapping off each word. Crenshaw took a deep breath. “Look Ms. Stevens, Alison. You're facing some serious charges here. Not to mention giving the FBI a black eye,” he said. Removing his glasses, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The judge and the prosecutor both received a call from Tony Steel this morning. He’s demanding they seek the death penalty.” Alison felt faint. The room spun. It wasn't like she hadn't expected this. She steeled herself. If she was going to make it through this, she had to be stronger than them. “They may have evidence, bogus as it is. What about motive? And what about the investigation I was on?” “That investigation is concluded. Motive? Well, they believe you’re a hired gun.” “That's absurd.” “Absurd or not, it will be very difficult to mount an effective defense with the FBI targeting you. I don't have to tell you they have some pretty powerful artillery.” “So are you telling me to plead guilty?” “What I'm saying is, if you plead guilty...” “No, I'll...” “I think I can get them to take the death penalty off the table.” “I would rather die than spend the rest of my life surrounded by murderers, thieves and thugs.” “And also if you name the members of your network.” “There is no network.”
“All right then, we'll take it to trial and see what we can do.” Crenshaw placed his large hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet. Walking toward the door, he called for the CO. “Thank you, I feel so much better now.” It wasn’t in Alison’s character to be sarcastic, but uttering that remark somehow made her feel like she’d taken back a little of her power. Crenshaw kept walking, pretending not to have heard. Back in her cell, Alison planned her escape.



Chapter 20
In his Oval Office, Jerald Robbins sat watching the CBS morning news. A sinister smile played across his lips as he thought about how well this was all working. For all of Keaton Wallace’s and Steel’s dire warnings, it was clear now that he controlled the fate of anyone. Gibbons was out of the loop because any time Robbins had tried to get him on board he would paint pictures of the three of them rotting away in the worst federal prison. It was Robbins’ call whether a person lived or died. The CIA had named the assassin the Shadow because he could slip in and out undetected. Robbins knew the real reason for his moniker. He was the shadow of death and the President, he Jerald Robbins, was god. His word was law. Derrick and Alison had gotten too close to the truth. Now one was dead and the other would be tried for his murder in a court that he, Jerald Robbins, controlled. Steel had balked when Robbins ordered him to kill one of his agents. Robbins had convinced him it was necessary. Keaton only found out about it after the deed was done. Robbins laughed. He thought the attorney general was going to have a heart attack. He had to take three nitros to calm down. Mad with power, Robbins was excited to advance the mission. Wallace and Steel raised objections. “We... we can't keep this up,” Keaton cried out, his face draining of color. “Sure we can.” Robbins’ cockiness made Tony bristle. “Here’s five more names to add to the list,” Robbins said, pushing a sheet of paper across the desk. “What Keaton means is that Alison Stevens was charged with these crimes and she’s in jail. If people start dying again... Well, you get the idea,” Steel said.
Robbins grinned. “Gentlemen, we all know Alison Stevens has a raging hatred for criminals and that she couldn't be in two places at one time.” Tony had to think for a moment before he grasped Robbins’ meaning. “Mr. President, that’s too extreme. If we start accusing Alison of having an accomplice it could be the thread that unravels the whole network.” “Nonsense. She's already in jail. If we can't find her partner in crime, well, he just may take her out to keep her quiet.” Keaton was amazed at how much Robbins was enjoying this. It was though he was producing, directing and starring in his own movie. He reached for another nitro pill. Steel blanched. In the end, they reluctantly went along, knowing they were no match for Robbins’ maniacal fixation. Alison's fate was sealed. Now Robbins sat at his desk contemplating his course of action. Patience was not his forte. These five miscreants must die. He didn't want them breathing God's clean air one more minute. Steel's cell phone rang. He looked at the display and sighed. “Yes, Mr. President?” “Get her.” “Mr. President, I...” “I want Alison Stevens dead.” “How?” “Move her to a federal prison for safe keeping. Set up an ambush along the way.” There was a pause before Steel answered. “Transportation of prisoners is conducted by the marshal's service. Samuels is the one who took out Jack Van Rudolf. I'm pretty sure he would be willing to do this too, for a price.” “Good. Then have him eliminated too.” What?! Steel's mind screamed. His breath caught in his throat and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. “Steel, did you hear me?”
“But... But, he's on our side. He's one of our own. Wasn’t it enough that Strong was…” “He's a loose end!” Robbins shouted over him. “Tie it up, Steel.” The phone clicked and there was silence. In a haze, Tony stood behind his desk and stared through the glass wall at the Capitol Building and the White House beyond. The heavy, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach with which he’d grown so familiar was back. Jerald Robbins had to be stopped. He stewed for the next half hour, then made the call. He saw no way out. Would the killing stop? Ever? In her cell, Alison tried to formulate a strategy. There was only one option. She must escape. If she was free, she could find out who was behind the murders. If she didn't disappear, they would kill her. They had placed her in isolation. Was that to keep her safe or make her an easier target? The cuff port opened. Her eyes darted in its direction as she prepared to flatten herself against the wall. A black hand thrust through the opening. “You want water or Kool Aid?” a voice asked. Lunch, that's all it was. Her belly was in knots. She didn't feel like eating, but knew she had to or she’d have no strength. “Water,” she said dully. Lunch consisted of a soggy sandwich, peas that looked like they’d been stepped on, dry mashed potatoes and some kind of grainy cake. After forcing down the sparse meal, she lay on the hard bunk and closed her eyes to mull over her plan. She tried to tune out the din emanating from the blocks outside her cell. Her mind whirled. She forced it back into focus. It wouldn’t be pretty. She had no desire to hurt a fellow officer, but with her training, she could render an opponent unconscious quite easily and fast. The best time would be late at night when there would be only a skeleton staff. She would feign sickness. But if they called for medical she might have to go up against two or three. She could easily overpower the nurse. But while she engaged the others, the officer would be calling for help. She would have to disable the officer, then the nurse. Then there were the security cameras. They covered every conceivable space except for the showers and toilets. She drifted off to sleep for two hours. Upon waking, she did sit-ups, pushups and ran in place until her legs began to cramp. For the next three days, she ate, napped and exercised. Her mind stayed occupied working on a feasible plan of escape. There was a way, she just had to find it. Each time they took her to the showers she scrutinized the surroundings. At the academy, she had learned how to survive a hostage situation. She knew to bide her time and look for any and all possible means of escape. Alison's chance came three days later, although not in any way she had anticipated. The order came directly from the attorney general. She was to be moved to a secure facility, the federal prison at Terre Haute. As is the practice with all prisoners, Alison was not informed of the transfer beforehand. Law enforcement personnel take every precaution, aware that if word of their being moved was to get out, some prisoners would have comrades or family members aid in an escape attempt.



Chapter 21
Samuels was in the back yard grilling hamburgers when the disposable phone rang. Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he looked around. He glanced at the house and saw his wife pass by the kitchen window. His son, nowhere to be seen, was possibly riding his bike or playing XBox. Down the street, a lawn mower droned. He held the phone on the far side of his head to hide it. “Yeah?” “Got a job for you,” the low, gravelly voice said. “Ah, I'm not sure. Last time my boss raked me over the coals.” There was no sound from the other end. Sweat broke out on the back of Samuels's neck. He was a witness and had just made himself a liability. After a few seconds he said, “What I gotta do?” “Just drive the car and forget.” “Forget what?” “Forget to tighten the handcuffs.” “That’s it?” “One more thing.” “Yeah?” “Let the prisoner escape. We'll take it from there.” “Who’s the derogate?” “Alison Stevens” Samuels grinned. “Heard you set her up.” Again there was silence on the other end. The hamburgers were burning, but Samuels was too busy kicking himself to care. His eyes darted in all directions. He'd said too much. If the assassin was anywhere around, he was well hidden. Samuels tried to laugh. It came out as a croak. He cleared his throat. “Look, I know to keep my mouth shut.” He worked to keep the quiver out of his voice.
“You better. I'd hate for your wife wind to up a widow and your little boy without his daddy. You’ll get your instructions later. Enjoy your barbeque.” The phone clicked to silence. Samuels looked wildly around him. Nothing, not even a vehicle on the street. Sweat stung his eyes. The day was warm, yet his palms were cold and clammy. He shoved the phone back in his pocket and tried to concentrate on the burgers. They were burned beyond redemption. He heard soft footsteps in the grass. He whirled around. Startled, his wife stopped so short she almost dropped the bowl of potato salad. Astonished and terrified, she found herself looking down the barrel of hubby’s Glock. The gaping black hole seemed to obliterate the sunlight. His hand shaking, Samuels lowered the pistol and holstered it. He looked at her sheepishly. “Sorry,” he said. He wanted to explain but to do so would only endanger them both. He opened the grill and waved the smoke away. “I think these are gone. Could you bring some more?” “Of course, dear,” she said, trying to recover and not daring to question. She wondered if she even knew her husband anymore. Samuels arrived at the jail at eight in the morning, anxious to get the assignment over with. He had promised to take his son camping on the White River. He was due for a few days off and intended to make full use of the time with him. Their last camping trip ended in disaster when a windstorm tore the tent from its moorings and blew it into the trees, tearing it up beyond use. Samuels wanted to redeem himself in his son’s eyes. Alison had just finished breakfast, if you could call it that. Half-cooked, congealed oatmeal with nothing on it and weak, lukewarm coffee. She choked it down. The time was now or never and an empty stomach would be to her detriment. This afternoon when they took her for a shower she would overpower the officer, make her way to the laundry area and hide in the commercial size dryer. If someone accidentally turned it on she would kick her way out. The flimsy lock wasn’t made to hold back a desperate human. With any luck she could hide in a laundry cart until the search moved on. Then she would don civilian clothes. Foolishly, this jail stored street clothes in an unsecured area. If Alison made it that far she was almost guaranteed freedom. The key word was almost. She was taking nothing for granted.



Chapter 22
Alison was surprised, and not pleasantly, to see Samuels. He hurriedly advised her of the transport order and kept the departure preparations moving briskly. Alison barely had a chance to think, let alone question or protest. Fully aware they would make an attempt on her life, she had expected it to be by someone inside the jail. If Samuels was the assassin, or if she was being set up as sniper quarry, her strategy would have to change. With her hands in front, Samuels clamped the handcuffs loosely on Alison's wrists. He put his hand on her shoulder and guided her down the hallway. His touch made her cringe. This was the man who killed Van Rudolf. He kept her near the far wall as they passed the catcalls and whistles. She stood silently as he signed the necessary forms. Being walked out of the jail by Samuels was like being led to the death chamber by a benign executioner. Alison knew full well that unless she kept her wits about her she had probably less than an hour to live. They approached Samuels’ black Crown Victoria. He opened the passenger door, backed up and gestured to her to get in. This was a clear violation. Prisoners were to sit in back so they couldn't overpower the driver. Bewildered, Alison hesitated. He leaned in close to her and whispered, “I'm here to help you escape.” She stared at him incredulously. He grinned at her. His eyes told a different story. He was here to make sure she never testified. She smiled back at him. “Thank you,” she said, keeping up the pretense. She had never put stock in conspiracy theories, yet she was sure Steel was in on this. How far up the ladder did it go? She had pried open a lid and the snake inside was about to strike. In 20 minutes they were moving fast along interstate 70. Samuels engaged the lights but no siren. The order was to drop her at the edge of the woods on County Road 1250.
He was glad he wouldn't have to do the killing. He thought shooting Jack would be enjoyable. It wasn't. On several nights afterward he had woken in a cold sweat from a recurring dream. Each time in the dream he would see Jack's dead body come to life. He kept pumping bullets into the corpse, to no avail. When the rifle clicked empty, he used it as a club. He swung the gun, its polished stock connecting with the rotting carcass. The bank robber’s head flew off. It hit the ground and grinned up at the marshal. Samuels would wake up in a cold sweat, feeling skeletal hands closing around his neck. Each time after waking from the dream, he would ease out of bed so as not to disturb his wife, step into the bathroom and examine his neck in the mirror. Were those fading red marks or was it his imagination? On one of those nights he went downstairs and made a cup of instant coffee. Staring through the kitchen window into the hazy pre-dawn light, his heart skipped a beat. Was that Jack staring back at him? He relaxed. It was just his own refection. This was the end, his last assignment. If they wanted more killing done they would have to find someone else. He was through with it. Samuels exited the interstate and drove down SR 231, then turned left onto County Road 1250 N. “I'll let you out up ahead,” he said. There was that smile again. Alison tensed. She leaned forward and dropped her cuffed hands between her knees. Slowly, praying he wouldn’t notice any wriggling, she worked her right wrist out of the cuff. “I don't feel well,” she moaned, laying her head on her knees. “I think I'm going to throw up.” She let out a dry retching sound. “Ah, man, not all over my car.” He steered to the edge of the gravel road. The last thing he needed was for his son to ride in a car smelling of vomit.
Putting it in park, he turned to look at her. She came up fast, smashing him full force square in the face. His head snapped back and bounced off the window. Momentarily stunned, he shook his head. His eyes focused. He looked down the barrel of his own pistol. “Out of the car now!” Alison shouted. Her voice exploded in the enclosed space. “Easy, don't do anything stupid,” Samuels said, raising his hands. “Just let me take you up the road and I'll let you out. There's a forest up there that comes right up to the road.” She saw the truth written on his face. “Into the sights of the assassin? I don't think so.” “Look, you'll never get away out in the open like this. Let me help you,” Samuels said, sweat beading on his forehead. What would they do if he didn't deliver on this? He didn't want to find out. The first bullet shattered the windshield. Alison ducked down, using the dash for cover. Shards of glass showered her back and head, imbedding in her hair. The shooter was hidden at the right front of the car. Samuels threw open his door and tumbled onto the ground. He rolled over and over until he was clear. Jumping to his feet, he shouted, “Get her! Get her! Don't let her get away.” With lightning speed, Alison slid across the seat to the driver’s side. She quickly found the motorized button that moved the seat back and pressed it. Even moving it back gave her little room to maneuver. She pulled the key from the ignition. Using the key on the ring, she unlocked the cuffs and shook them off. Federal officers kept backup firearms in the trunk. She pressed the icon on the fob. The trunk sprang open and several bullets pinged off its surface. With the driver's side door as cover, Alison sprawled to the ground. Bullets peppered the car, blowing out the right front and rear tires. Trying to escape the line of fire, Samuels had leaped into the roadside ditch. Alison dismissed him as a non-threat. Bent over to avoid being seen through the windows, she worked her way to the back of the car. Random bullets blew rock dust in her face. Staying low, she reached into the trunk. Just as she suspected, Samuels had a small arsenal. There were two rifles and a shotgun. She shoved a magazine into the Remington and returned fire. She swiveled her head, looking for the best way to run. The ground rose to the north and dipped low to the south. A burned out farmhouse sat a quarter mile to the east. Too far, too much open ground. There was movement to her left. His head and right arm exposed, Samuels aimed his pistol at her. She rolled over on her back and raised the Remington. She squeezed the trigger, firing over his head. He ducked and fired. The bullet struck the car three inches above her head. Gas spurted out onto the gravel. The rapidly expanding pool spread toward her. She would have to get away from it. She had seconds to decide where to go. Alison brought the rifle lower, aiming at Samuels head. She hesitated, reluctant to shoot a law enforcement officer, even one as corrupt as Samuels. She suddenly realized the firing from the south had stopped. The assassin was on the move. He was coming after her or moving into a better position. Samuels stood up and stepped into the road. “Couldn't you just die quietly? Why did you have to complicate things?” The Glock bucked in his hand. Alison threw herself to the side. She felt the wind from the bullet as it whined past her ear. He was going to kill her. She had no choice. It was kill or be killed. She aimed at his heart. A shot rang out. Samuels fell to his knees and looked at her stupidly. He tried to raise the gun. Another shot echoed. A hole appeared in the marshal's forehead. His body rocked backward and came to rest with the heels of his shoes touching the back of his head, or what was left of it. They had killed Samuels, their own man. What would their enforcer do to her? She put it out of her mind.
Samuels’ Glock had skittered across the road close enough for Alison to reach out her arm and grab it. She crawled out of the way of the pool of gas, flattened out on the ground and waited. She lay still and noiseless on her belly. If the shooter thought she was dead, he might expose himself. One minute, two minutes. She started to panic. A dead marshal, an escaped prisoner. Her prints were all over these weapons. No way would anyone believe it was a set-up. They meant for Samuels to die, either by her hand or the assassin’s. They’d make it look like a shoot-out between her and the marshal. Arrange the scene before the cops showed up. She wouldn't believe it if it hadn't happened to her. Three minutes. Alison shifted and started to rise. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Instantly she assumed a death pose. A figure in full camouflage, his face painted green, emerged from the weeds to the left. Why hadn’t she seen him cross the road? She had no answer. She watched his feet. He wore heavy combat boots made for jungle fighting. Seventy, 60, 50 feet. He stopped. Something caused him to pause. Could he see her breathing? She held her breath, willing her body not to move. She looked up. The rifle in his hand swung loose, its muzzle pointing toward the ground. It was now or never. If she hesitated, she would die. She gripped the Glock. Tensing in anticipation of a barrage of gunfire, Alison leaped to her feet. Bringing up the pistol, she fired, hitting him square in the chest. He fell on his back, his body armor taking the impact. Instinctively his finger tightened on the trigger. Bits of gravel peppered the side of the car and flew into Alison's face, momentarily blinding her. Blood oozed from a dozen cuts on her face, forearms and hands. Steeling herself, she fired multiple rounds at him. All but one bullet passed harmlessly over him. As he started to get up, it struck him, piercing the palm of his right hand.
On her feet, Alison shoved another clip into the Glock. Sirens blared in the distance. Shifting the rifle to his left hand, the assassin regained his footing. Alison's time had run out. Reaching into the trunk, she grabbed a rifle and a box of ammunition. She ducked behind the car, and then sprinted for cover in the ditch. Expecting a bullet in the back, fear forced an adrenaline rush through her body, propelling her feet like rockets. The pounding of her heart matched the beating of her feet. She was a fugitive, a criminal on the run from one murder charge, now two. They would consider her armed and dangerous. If they found her, she would die. Breathing hard, she slashed her way across a stream, up a small hill and into a cornfield. The corn was only waist high. From the air, she would be exposed like a black bug on a white rug. She had to find cover. Within minutes, they would call in air support. Bursting out of the field, she raced across a meadow. The sirens were converging on the road behind her. She had to get out of sight. But where? There wasn’t a house or building to be seen. His hand was on fire. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage. He had to abort the mission. Let the cops do their job. When she was back in custody, he would sneak into the jail and kill her. And he would make her suffer for the pain she caused him. Wiping the blood from the stock of the rifle, he laid it in the weeds. Not looking back, he drifted away. His getaway plan was flawless. The challenge now was to disguise his injured hand, but he’d find a way. By the time he reached the Taurus he had stripped off his body armor and the rest of his battle gear. Now he was a one-armed Kirby vacuum cleaner salesman. He had just made his first sale when the cop car pulled up to the farmhouse. The housewife was horrified. A federal officer murdered only a few miles away and a killer on the loose? She quickly canceled her order and locked the door behind them. On the way to their cars the deputy cautioned him to be careful and to inform them if he saw anything out of the ordinary. He assured him he would. Back in the car, he broke into laughter. If that farmer’s wife only knew she’d had a killer standing not three feet away right there in her living room.



Chapter 23
Racing through the woods bordering the cornfield, Alison almost fell through the rotted boards. She felt them give under her feet. Kneeling down, she peeked through the cracks. Sunlight filtered into the depths. Here was her salvation. At one time this well had supplied homesteading pioneers with clear, clean water. Now the house, barn and outbuildings were gone, leaving only this hole in the ground as evidence of their existence. Briars masked the well’s opening. If Alison hadn’t stepped on the boards she would have missed it. She could hear the commotion on the far side of the woods and the chop-chop beat of the helicopter in the distance. Upon closer exclamation, she saw that the well was only a few feet deep, six at most. Someone had filled the hole almost to the top with dirt, or the dirt may have sifted down into it over the years. She wondered how many snakes were slithering around the bottom. She hated them, but she had no choice. They would be on her in seconds. After moving the boards to one side, she held onto the edge of the hole and lowered herself into it. A briar thorn scraped painfully across the back on her neck, digging out a long furrow. Instant tears blurred her vision. She jerked loose, leaving the jagged hook in her flesh. She braced for the drop. With a jarring thud, she landed on the hard earth. A black snake raised its head and hissed at her. She lay still, knowing it was harmless but wanting to kill it anyway. To her relief, the snake retreated and slithered into a cavity between the bricks. Standing on tiptoe, Alison carefully replaced the boards. Backing up, she pressed tightly into the wall. The pulsing sound of the chopper’s rotor beat against her ears. It flew overhead, circled and came back to hover over the well. Dust swirled in its wake, wiping her hand and footprints from the dirt. It seemed to Alison like an hour before it moved on, but in reality it was only seconds. She heard voices coming close. Two men in uniform stood over the boards, blocking out the sun. She huddled in the shadows, praying they wouldn't look down. Her prayer was not answered. The boards creaked. A deputy dropped to his knees and peered through the crack. “Can't see a thing,” he said to the officer standing beside him. Alison crossed her arms in front of her, trying to hide all flesh. The trooper took the Maglite off his belt and shined it into the hole. For a split-second the light flashed on her back. He waved it around the hole, examining every nook, then got to his feet. “There ain’t nothing down there.” “I'll bet she stole a car off some old farmer,” his partner said. “Yeah, we're wastin' our time chasin' around these woods.” Alison crouched in the darkness listening as their footsteps and voices grow fainter. For the next hour and a half, she laid low in the well as the search above continued. She held her breath as footsteps came and went. As the sunlight faded so did the sounds of the search teams. Hungry, thirsty and wanting to drop, Alison carefully hoisted herself up out of the hole. She lay on the cool earth listening, hearing only crickets and the call of a night bird. A breeze puffed against her cheek. There was a splat. She rolled. The next bullet struck the spot she had occupied a second before. How could he know she was there? Had someone from law enforcement called him? She jumped to her feet and took off like a jackrabbit, zig- zagging through the thorny undergrowth. She expected a bullet to end her life at any moment. She wanted to scream at God, if he even existed. Why was He tormenting her? A torrent of bullets ricocheted off the trees and ground all around her. She was so terrified her mind shut down, clicked off like a light bulb. The only thing driving her was primal instinct. Then a bolt out of the blue snapped it back on:
Night vision. He was wearing night vision goggles. No way could she escape this killer. She sure was going to try. She came to a barbed wire fence, dropped and rolled under it. She scrambled to her feet and sprinted around a huge, hulking bull. It snorted, pawed the ground, lowered its horns and charged her as she leapt out of its way. Suddenly, the bull dropped to its knees and rolled on its side. Blood pumped from a hole in its neck. The bull jerked a few times and was still. Praying he couldn’t see her and that she’d blend in with it, Alison threw herself behind the bull’s carcass. Three quick slugs punctured its belly. Then there was silence. A cow trotted over and sniffed the dead bull. Another followed. Within seconds, 18 dark shapes were milling around Alison. Using the herd for cover, she crawled through the dew soaked grass. He was coming, she could feel him. Her hand smashed a cow pie. She grimaced, wiped it on the grass, and kept crawling. She’s rather be kicked by a cow than murdered by an animal. He had her in his sights. He was a good shot with his left hand, not as good with his right. He rested the rifle on his right hand. The pain was fierce. Each time he fired it shot up his arm like a flaming ramrod. It made him furious. His impulse was to howl like a demon. He gritted his teeth to squelch it. Now he would hunt her down just for pleasure. Money no longer mattered. When he got her she would die a slow, ugly death, suffering in ways she could never imagine. By the time he finished with her she’d be begging him to kill her. He began shooting the cattle. Soon there would be no place she could hide. A cow fell, its head striking Alison between the shoulders like a bowling ball. She rolled out from under the animal. Another collapsed at her feet. Running for it might spell her end, but if she stayed here she’d be inviting him to kill her. Staying low to the ground, she bolted. Her heart hammered. A dark shape loomed before her. A steel sided barn. Darting around it, she vanished from his sight. Seconds later, she reappeared above the roofline, racing toward the ridgeline. He cursed. The rifle clicked. Reaching around to his right side, he grabbed for another magazine. In his haste, he dropped it. He shifted the gun to his right hand and winced. Sweeping the ground with his left, he scooped up the magazine and jammed it in. She was almost to the ridge. He let her run. Let her think freedom was within her grasp. Alison's legs pumped; her feet pounded the ground. Nothing beyond escaping him mattered. Cold sweat dampened her skin. Mentally she felt the bullet pierce her back and tear out her heart. He took his time aligning the sight with her bouncing back. The scope allowed him to come within five feet of her. He squeezed the trigger. Nothing could save her now. She was his. A huge shape materialized in front of him. It filled his field of vision, blocking his view. He fired reflexively but missed. The bullet whizzed by within inches of Alison’s head. A second bull rammed him in the midsection. He went down hard on his rear, the rifle flying out of his hands and landing butt first several feet away. The next thing he saw was a freight train of a bull that was almost on top of him. Its bellow split the night. He rolled, grunting heavily as his injured hand was crushed under his weight. The bull charged past and spun around. It faced him, blowing, its nostrils flaring like a bellows. It pawed the ground, preparing for another run. He dove for the rifle and rolled out of the way as it charged him. Grasping the gun, he brought it up pistol style in his left hand. The slug hit the bull between the horns. It dropped without a sound. He turned his attention back to his quarry. He lined up the crosshairs to the back of Alison's head. Too late. She dropped over the crest.



Chapter 24
Alison's breath came in gulping, ragged gasps. She stopped and bent over with her hands gripping her knees. Shaking from exhaustion and fear, the FBI agent in her marshaled her thoughts. He would not give up until she was dead. There was only one solution. She would have to kill him. For now, though, she had to hide, stay out of his sight until she had the advantage. Lights glowed in the distance. To the west lightning flashed in long, jagged streaks. Thunder popped like distant cannon fire. The air smelled damp. Possibly the rain would wash away her tracks. She started across the dew drenched fields. The flimsy orange jumpsuit and shower shoes she’d donned a million years ago hung on her in various stages of filthy deconstruction. As grungy as Alison felt, she was glad the dirt and mud had darkened the traffic cone colored fabric. Within a mile, she came within sight of a blacktop road. She crouched down as headlights blazed across the field, almost framing her. The glow became a sea of light. She raised her head. Hope filled her heart. Semis were lined up like battleships at port. Trucks chugged in and out of the truck stop. The roar of their engines filled the night with music to Alison’s ears. She crouched lower, praying the field of weeds hid her. She waited until a car passed, then hurried across the highway. The smell of greasy burgers made her belly lurch. She was famished, yet the thought of food made her ill. At the shadowy edge of the property, she spotted a rusted hydrant. She forced the handle. The creaking sounded like train cars coupling. The water gushed out brown at first, then gradually started to turn clear. Alison quenched her thirst, drinking slowly from her cupped hand as the water cascaded into puddles on the ground around her. She crouched under the stream, shivering in the freezing flow. She washed her face and arms, soaking the tattered jumpsuit and shoes. She was oblivious to any discomfort. Refreshed, she searched for a means of escape. Then she saw them, two car transports loaded with GMC cars and SUVs. Staying in the shadows, Alison gingerly climbed over the steel crossbeam of the first trailer’s bottom tier. Balancing awkwardly, she tried the rear door of a black Jimmy. The door opened and the dome light flashed on. She scrambled in, closing the door gently. She stretched out on the floor, exhaling heavily. Rain began to bounce softly off the carrier’s framework. Alison breathed in the fresh smell of the SUV. She fought the urge to get up on her knees and peek out. If he was around and saw her, it was all over. She lay perfectly still but longed impatiently for movement. Five minutes. Still she waited. She shifted onto her back. The thought struck her that the driver might be sleeping in the cab. She rose up, ready to flee. She had to stay mobile. The assassin could be searching the truck stop for her right now. Alison heard a thumping. She cringed, then lay back down as she recognized the sound. The driver was checking the carrier's tires. He was using a small club to test their soundness before hitting the road. A tall, thin man's head bobbed past the SUV's window. As he turned away, she dared to glance. He was alone. He looked to be around 40 and reminded Alison of a drawing of Ichabod Crane that she had seen as a child. Satisfied with his tire check, the driver headed toward the front of the truck. A few minutes later, they rolled out of the truck stop. Where the semi was going Alison didn't know or care. With every turn of the wheels, the distance between her and her predator increased. She lay her head down on the carpet and closed her eyes. The gentle swaying of the SUV soon rocked her to sleep. Alison snapped awake with the sun in her eyes. The SUV rumbled and shook as the rear wheels of the carrier hit the curb. The loud bang startled her. Someone cursed.
Looking up, she saw a huge sign:
Silverman's Chevrolet
She was trapped. If they discovered her, she would be returned to jail and her nightmare would start all over again. That is if she lived to get to the jail. Risking all, she scrambled over the back seat into the cargo area, landing on a pile of carpeting meant for extra covering for this vehicle or another. Quickly, she burrowed under it. She lay still, her heart pounding. A head appeared at the window. A man wearing a blue uniform climbed onto the carrier’s skeleton. He opened the door to the SUV, climbed in and started the engine. Looking over his shoulder, he backed the vehicle off the carrier. Alison's head bounced as the Jimmy was driven across the lot and skidded to a stop. The man killed the engine, jumped out and slammed the door. “Joe, customer’s comin' for this one in a little while. Give it a quick wash, would ya?” he said as he walked away. “Sure thing. Soon as I finish this one. Gotta get more soap,” a man in an identical uniform answered. Alison dared to peek out the back window. A short, gray- haired man was striding with his back to her in the direction of a large white building. Alison scrambled into the back seat. She pulled the door handle and gently pushed open the door. She saw that the SUV was parked right at the edge of a wooded area. Crawling out onto the hot asphalt, she lay for several seconds, watching and listening for any cries of alarm. Hearing nothing but the chirping of birds, she leaped to her feet and darted into the underbrush. Joe was back. Standing at the rear of the Jimmy, he absently picked up the hose and squeezed the trigger. The stream of water hit the open rear door’s panel and splattered into the SUV’s interior, soaking it. Yanking the hose away, Joe shouted, “Who left that door open?” No one answered. He threw down the hose in disgust and peeled a wad of paper towels off the roll. Muttering to himself, he opened all the doors and began mopping up. The customer would have to wait. Sean sat in the Taurus drumming his fingers, his mind whirling like a hamster on a wheel. He watched the vehicles entering and leaving the truck stop. He was aggravated, a rare feeling for him. Just before the rain came, he had tracked her to this place. Then the trail went cold. He knew she had either hidden in an unlocked trailer or convinced a driver to give her a ride. But which way? He dared not ask in the restaurant. It was best to let law enforcement find her. Yet he didn't want to admit failure. He wasn't concerned about his employer. He had covered his tracks well enough. His hand was another matter. It was red, swollen and throbbed harshly with every beat of his heart. It needed immediate attention. The bullet had passed through, causing little permanent damage. However, if infection set in he would have to seek help beyond his first aid kit. Hospitals were out, but there was a retired doctor he knew of who worked with the criminal element. Sean would let the police handle Alison Stevens for now. After they captured her he would step back in. He went into the truck stop and bought a throwaway phone. He made the call as he headed south. Steel wasn't happy. Keaton was livid. He shouted at Steel, “What do you mean he lost her?” He popped a nitro and tried to calm down. His chest hurt. If the pills didn't work he was going to wind up in the emergency room again. “Just that. He tracked her to a truck stop and lost her,” Steel said as he sawed at his thumbnail with the gold file. Specks of blood sprouted from his fingertip. “She either hitched a ride with some driver or hid in one of the trucks.” Keaton mused for a moment, his expression an odd mixture of anger and puzzlement. “Are we sure Dickerson had a journal?”
“Yes. He kept it in his desk in a drawer with a false bottom.” Steel sighed. “And before you ask, we believe Stevens found and hid the journal before she was arrested.” “This is great, just great,” Keaton muttered. “The one person who can tie us to all these murders and you let her get away.” “We'll get her. It's just a matter of time. I have agents conducting searches at every truck stop within five hundred miles. I also have an agent stationed at the entrance of every one of them to question incoming drivers.” “So in the meantime we just sit and twiddle our thumbs and wait for her to surface?” “Her photo has been distributed to every law enforcement agency in the United States. As far as the media is concerned, she’s a dangerous criminal.” “And suppose some little country bumpkin cop believes her and wants to make a name for himself?” Keaton rose to his feet. “I'll tell you, Tony, if this thing blows up in our faces I'm not going down alone.” The attorney general stalked out. Steel stared after him. “Be careful, Keaton,” he said under his breath. “I am not going to prison.” Steel stepped to the antique cabinet, unlocked and opened the door. He reached in and switched on the small black box. Keaton's voice came through crisply, his words clear and precise. A twist of the knob and Steel was listening to Jerald Robbins talking to his secretary in the Oval Office. The tiny bug was the size of a fruit fly and virtually undetectable. Tony had hidden the backup recorder in the workshop of his home. Standing at the window overlooking the Capitol, Steel made a decision. Alison was not the only one to be eliminated.




Chapter 25
Over the next three days, Alison crossed five states. Like a small animal pursued by a hungry predator, she found no rest. Her assignment now was to lay low and keep moving. She traveled at night, hopping freights or hiding in the backs of semis. One time she huddled in the bed of a farm truck for a hundred miles or more. Her only nourishment came from restaurant dumpsters. One night she found a bag of discarded clothing behind a thrift store. She dug around in it and pulled out a pair of loafers with the soles slightly split. Amazingly, the shoes and clothes fit perfectly. She ditched her prison duds at the bottom of a dumpster. Landing in the tiny town of Lerds, Nebraska, she took refuge in an open, empty bay of a tractor repair shop. She found some rags and spread them on the floor in a space between a workbench and the wall. She slumped down as exhaustion overcame her. She closed her eyes, intending to awake before dawn and continue her run. “Well, what do we have here?” The voice startled her. She jerked awake, her heart racing. Sunlight streamed through the huge open exterior doorway. Smiling down at her was a gray- haired man of about 60. He appeared more stocky than heavy-set. He wore a blue uniform with the words John’s Repair embroidered over one pocket. Over the other was the name John. “Young lady, you look like you been rode hard and put away wet.” He chuckled and reached down with his right hand to help her up. Alison grasped the rough, calloused fingers. She stood and swayed, feeling faint. “Whoa there,” John said, wrapping a big hand around her upper arm to steady her. He led her over to an upended five- gallon bucket. "You best set here until you get your sea legs." Grateful, Alison eased down onto the bucket. Her eyes moistened in response to this sudden kindliness. She squeezed back the tears and smiled up at him. She noticed the cane. His left leg appeared to be shorter than his right, giving him a lopsided appearance. He held out his right hand. “Name’s John, as if you couldn't figure that out from the shirt.” He smiled and pointed to the stitching over his left pocket. Alison shook his hand and was rewarded with a firm, friendly grip. “Betty Sue,” she fudged, not sure how far she could trust this man. “Am I in trouble?” “Naw. I take in strays every once in a while,” he said, turning away. “I was about to brew a pot of coffee. You want some?” “Coffee sounds good.” When it was done, John handed her a cup. He upended another bucket and groaned as he leaned on his cane to lower himself down on it. “Arthritis fights me every morning. Knees are the worst. Someday I'm gonna have to give up crawling over these big monsters.” He waved his cup at a huge John Deere in the adjacent bay. “They ain’t as easy to work on as they were forty years ago.” Alison thought of the John Deere slogan and had to stifle a laugh. Nothing except me, she thought. She kept silent while she sipped the dark liquid, relishing the warmth spreading through her body. “So, Betty Sue, I know everyone in this burg but I sure ain’t seen you before. How’d you end up in our little corner of the world?” Alison hesitated, unwilling to sully herself and this kind soul with another untruth. It hadn’t taken long in his presence to know that John was a good man, a simple man who expected straightforwardness from anyone with whom he came into contact. After a moment, he said, “Well Betty Jean or Betty Sue or whatever your name is, I see there’s a ring on your left hand.” Looking down at it pensively, Alison fingered her mother's wedding band.
“Now, don't you be embarrassed. You ain’t the first one that took off on an abusive husband.” Alison was uncomfortable with his assumption, but kept her eyes down and nodded slightly. John reached over and opened the top drawer of an old, battered desk. He rummaged around, pulled out an object and held it out. Alison's heart thumped when she saw the fivepoint star. Engraved on the surface was the word Marshal. Slowly, she reached behind her back. Then she remembered she had left the Glock under a pile of tractor parts. “This what you’re lookin' for?” John picked up the pistol from behind a box. “Awful big gun for such a little lady.” He laid it on the desk beside the badge. Alison felt trapped. She knew she could take the elderly man, but didn't want to hurt him. She remained silent, waiting. “You sure you need this hog leg to protect yourself?” “He's awful mean. He tried to kill me,” Alison offered in her best little girl voice. “He's been chasin' me for a while.” John's eyes hardened. The friendliness disappeared and his demeanor became firm and authoritative. He picked up the gun and handed it to Alison butt first. “Now don't you go aiming that thing at anybody you don't fix to shoot.” Relieved, Alison took the Glock and laid it on the floor beside her bucket. Getting to his feet with a grimace, John said, “Don't you take no offense, but I think I can make a man out of you.” Alison's questioning look made him laugh. His cane tapping on the concrete, John hobbled over to a row of lockers on the far wall. He opened one, closed it, then opened another. He removed a bundle of clothes and closed the locker. He hobbled back and handed Alison a shirt and a pair of pants. Stitched above the shirt pocket was the name Jim. “I think these will fit you. They may be a little loose.” Standing up, Alison said, “I don't understand.” “I been lookin' to hire a helper and yer it.” He grinned at her.
“But... I'm sorry but I don't know anything about mechanics.” “Well then, you'll be like most of the guys that's worked for me. If you want the job, that is.” “I'm very grateful.” “Good, Bathroom’s in the back. Why don't you put these on and we'll see how you look.”




Chapter 26
His hand itched. He knew from experience that this meant it was healing. Flexing his fingers still sent pain shooting up his arm, although not as sharply as it did last night. Tomorrow he would resume the hunt. The President had ordered him to find her pronto. Until now he had ignored him. What could Robbins do? Send an assassin after him? Have him arrested? Robbins was all mouth. He wouldn’t dare try anything. Every conversation was on tape, every email saved on a flash drive and all of it was securely hidden in two separate locations. Well aware he was expendable, Sean had begun saving every last bit of incriminating evidence right after his first CIA assignment. After his visit to the retired doctor, he had checked in with Steel. Tony’s field agents had been busy. “She hid in a car carrier headed west,” Steel told him. “She was spotted in East St. Louis but we lost her. She's too smart to go to the farm in Indiana.” Sean grinned. He liked hunting prey with brains, and Alison had already shown him that she had some. In Manhattan, Kansas, he stopped at a rundown motel. The place needed a paint job; the carpets were soiled and bare in spots. Places like this asked no questions. He gave them a fake name and tag number anyway. They never bothered to check. He paid with cash, leaving no paper trail. If necessary he would kill the clerk before checking out. Instinct told him she wasn't far. He would make her pay. His mind traveled back to the jungles of Colombia. His assignment there was to eliminate a drug lord. They let him choose the method. The kingpin was inside his villa with bodyguards surrounding it. Throughout the night, Sean picked off the guards one by one. At dawn he sent a bullet crashing through the last one’s head. The drug lord who had terrorized the country panicked. With no one to protect him, he sneaked out a back door and fled blindly into the jungle. Sean let him get away, giving his prey an hour’s head start. At 11:46, he found Kingpin near a small pool. Fixing his crosshairs on the man’s ball cap, Sean sliced off the bill. The man ran screeching among the trees with the assassin following at a distance. A half hour later, Sean spotted him huddled under the washed out root of a Cherimoya tree. Having a clear view of the man and the ears of a bat, Sean thought to take a short nap. Waking refreshed, he strolled over and shot Kingpin in the foot. The blast and the screams that followed bounced off the canopy, sending the birds into a wild cacophony. Sean let he crippled man hobble away, tears of pain and terror carving rivulets down his dirt-caked cheeks. Over the next few hours, Sean shadowed and shot him several more times, careful to make each wound non-fatal. In the end, the once powerful drug lord’s life was oozing from a dozen wounds. Wracked with pain and exhausted, he lay curled in a pathetic, whimpering ball. He begged for his life, promising his unseen assassin his entire fortune. The thrill of the hunt gone, Sean sent the killing shot into Kingpin’s brain. Then he cut off his ring finger, complete with ring, as proof that he was dead. When Alison stepped out of the restroom in the mechanic’s get-up, John looked her over with a critical eye. At the desk, he opened and closed drawers. “Now where could those things be? I had them just last week. Ah, here.” He handed Alison a pair of glasses. “Put these on. I don't use them much except for small print.” “He’ll be coming after me,” Alison said, perching the glasses on her nose. They gave her an owlish appearance. “Maybe I should just move on.” “Now you just hold on. How long’s he been chasin' you?”
“A while,” she said, carefully mincing her words. If John fell into the hands of the assassin, he would squeeze him for information before murdering him. “John, he'll kill you just for helping me.” “It's been tried before. Ever hear of the walking dead?” “In Vietnam?” “Yup. The life expectancy of our squad was twentyseven days. I made it forty-five. Got shot up and laid in the hospital for three months while they patched me up.” I'm sorry,” Alison said. She thought of her parents being killed by Joe Brimmer. “Yeah. But that was the best thing ever happened to me. Knocked some sense into my head.” John leaned heavily on his cane as he pushed himself off the bucket. “We best get something to eat. I got a full day ahead of me,” he said, handing her a ball cap.”Iff’n you kin pass the Margie test, ain’t nobody gonna know who you are.” Alison pushed her hair under the cap. She stared at her appearance in an old, foggy mirror on the wall. She looked like a 19-year-old boy. “Margie test?” Hobbling toward the door, he looked back. “You comin'? I reckon you're hungry.” Alison followed obediently, wondering what she’d gotten herself into. Margie turned out to be the owner of the High End restaurant. Situated in a renovated livery stable, the name was a reference to its location at the upper end of the small town. John ordered two Hungry Man specials. With one eye on the other patrons and the other on her food, Alison cleaned the plate in record time. The over-easy eggs, bacon and pancakes tasted heavenly. Margie came over with the coffee pot and set another Hungry Man down in front of Alison. Not daring to speak, Alison looked at her questioningly. “On the house, sonny. You look like you haven't eaten in a while.” Alison smiled and nodded at the elderly woman. Margie stopped John on his way back from the restroom. “That's the most girly boy you ever brought in here.”
“Reckon yer right, but as long as he's got a mind to work it'll work out,” John said, smiling. “Yup, some of them wiry ones kin outwork the big boys any day of the week.” Walking alongside John on the way back to the shop, Alison felt safe for the first time in weeks.



Chapter 27
Jerald Robbins paced the Oval Office. For all intents and purposes, the D.C. Killer was dead, at least that's what the public and the news media believed. Little did they know that this slayer of women was heavily guarded and more closely monitored than he would be in a maximum security prison. He was totally impervious to detection, much less requital. He had thought commanding others would be enough, that enlisting them as his murderous proxies would satisfy his blood lust. He could order the execution of anyone he desired. It wasn't enough. He longed to exert that power himself, to cause the life force to leave the victim's body himself, to be the jury of one over the time and the way his victim’s term on earth would end. He retrieved the news clippings from a secret compartment in his desk and read the latest about the D.C. Killer. Last week’s article in The Washington Post named all his victims, at least the ones they knew about. Reading the articles left him flat. It could not cure what ailed him. He ached to hold the gun, the knife, the rope, to feel their flesh, to watch the light in their eyes die. He felt trapped. He must find a way to escape prying eyes and gratify his fetish. In the meantime, he would order another elimination, but not of a criminal. It was time to make a statement. But who? Who could he take out to shock the populace and make the media snap to alert? He pushed the question to the back of his mind. Right now he was to meet with Benjamin Netanyahu to try to persuade him to sign a peace deal between Israel and the Palestinians. Peace, peace, who cares about peace? Just let them kill each other. He strode through the White House─the most powerful man in the United States, a serial killer flanked by his protectors, his guards. All eyes turned to him as he entered the meeting room. He ruled the world. He held life in his hands.
Self confident. In perfect control. He smiled at the attendees. “Let's get started, shall we, gentlemen?” The gathering lasted two hours. They progressed no more than if they had stayed in their separate corners. In the midst of the meeting, it came to him: He would order the hit on his attorney general. Next on the day’s agenda was a budget meeting with Senate leaders. These men had never been his friends when he was one of them. Now that he was President they bowed and scraped and almost kissed his shoes. The Republicans as always were standoffish. How he hated these people. All, that is, except Senator Gyration. The Senate's Budget Committee’s chairman was an elder statesman named Donald Gyration. A wizened old veteran from North Carolina, Gyration never took no for an answer. “You know, Jerry, if you wouldn't take such a hard line we could make progress on this little matter.” A thousand times Robbins had insisted Gyration call him Jerald or Mr. President. Mentally gritting his teeth, he smiled. His hands itched to strangle the old fool. “Why, Senator, that's what I was hoping you would say.” Gyration's face hardened as he leaned in closer to the President. “Oppose me on this, Jerry, and I will cut you off at the knees,” he said in a low growl. Robbins’ smile broadened. He had found his target. The attorney general was safe for now. “I look forward to it, Donald.” Donald Gyration went to sleep that night secure in the belief that his constituents loved him. Two months ago, they re-elected him for the ninth time. He had trounced his opponent and won by a landslide. As long as he kept the money coming, they would keep him in office. One more term and he would retire to live the life of a fat cat. He burped and rolled over on his back. He had drunk too much wine at dinner. The housekeeper had gone home. His wife was vacationing in Aruba with her sister. He could sleep in tomorrow. He had a meeting at 10 with the Armed Services Committee, nothing pressing. He was snoring softly when the dark figure stepped into the room. Moving swiftly, the man brought his fist down on Donald's bloated stomach. Rudely awakened, the elderly senator snorted and let out a loud “Oomph!” He clutched at his bruised middle as he struggled to sit up. His assailant was sitting right next to him. Fear sweeping over him, the senator croaked, “Who are you? What do you want?” His hands trembled and went clammy. “You, you old fool. You've lived too long.” “Who...Who are you?” Knowing the camera in the corner wouldn't pick him up, Robbins lifted his ski mask. Gyration gasped. “Jer… Mr. President?” “A little late, but you finally got it right, Donny,” Robbins said, holding the small .22 two inches from the senator's pale face. “Wha… Pl..p… please…no.” “Ye... yes, you old gasbag.” Robbins popped Donny behind the left ear. The old man fell back on his pillow, dead. Outside the kitchen door, Robbins tossed the pistol under a Mr. Lincoln rose bush. The symbolism amused him greatly. He laughed giddily, devilishly, almost danced as he scurried away. A silent witness to the killing, the tiny camera in the bedside clock had recorded all the action. It sent the video feed to the hard drive of the senator's computer in his office study. Two blocks away, Robbins crawled back through the men's room window at Merreio’s restaurant. Posted outside the locked door, Secret Service Agent Jeff Coolly said, “What in the world’s taking him so long?” “Are you going to tell him he's been in the bathroom too long?” fellow agent Ken Rustier queried provocatively.
“We've already turned three guys away and the last one used the ladies room,” Coolly said. “I...” Rustier began. At that moment the door opened and Robbins stepped out, rubbing his hands together. “Well, I feel so much better now. Gentlemen, shall we continue our run?” “Yes sir, Mr. President,” Ken said. Staring at a spot of blood on Robbins’s dark running suit, Jeff Coolly remained silent. Rustier spoke into his mouthpiece, alerting the agents outside that they were on their way. The always prompt and reliable Gyration's absence the next morning caused his office staff concern. His house and cell phones had both gone unanswered. At 10 AM, 911 dispatched an officer to Gyration’s residence. Receiving no answer at the front door, he went around to the back. Sunlight glinted off something under a rose bush. The small pistol lay partially hidden under its branches. The officer slipped his pen through the trigger guard and lifted it. The pungent odor of gun powder made his nose tingle. He put the gun back where he found it, drew his service pistol and keyed his mike. “This is 507. I need backup at 3523 Court.” “Roger, 507. Any unit in the vicinity, 507 needs assistance.” Within a minute, another cruiser with its light bar flashing pulled up to the curb. The two officers circled the house, checking doors and windows. The back door was unlocked. A quick sweep of the downstairs showed nothing damaged or seemingly out of place. The cops moved cautiously up the stairs. The discovery of the senator's cold body sent their adrenaline pumping. They exited the house, called it in and taped off the area. Fifteen minutes later the street was clogged with police vehicles. Ten minutes after that, CSI and the media were on the scene.Watching CNN’s live report from the Oval Office, Robbins smirked. “Teach you to mess with the D.C. Killer, you old idiot.” Jeff Coolly stepped back into the hallway and gently closed the door. He was guarding the President alone this morning. There were, of course, other agents in the White House and on the grounds. Coolly’s assignment was to stay glued to Robbins. He had opened the door to inform him that the attorney general was waiting to see him, but all Robbins ever heard was the reporter gushing about the senator’s murder. On his first day as an agent, Jeff had signed a strict confidentiality agreement. “Think of yourself as a priest,” his instructor at the academy had said. “However, unlike a priest, if you reveal anything the person you are protecting says, you’ll be incarcerated in a federal prison.” Last night when his shift was over, Jeff went to the White House laundry room. Robbins’ jogging suit lay on a pile of sheets ready for the next day's wash. He picked up the pants, secreted them under his shirt and left the building undetected. On the way home, he stopped in the alley behind Merreio’s. He shined his flashlight on the wall under the men’s room window and examined it closely. There were scuff marks on it that looked fresh and could have been made by running shoes. Jeff took out his cell phone and shot several pictures from different angles. Then he scraped some of the residue into an envelope. At his home, he prepared a Fed Ex package to overnight to a lab.



Chapter 28
For the rest of the day, Alison worked with John, bringing him tools or parts. Sometimes her task was to hold a wrench while he tried to break loose a stubborn nut. She was washing a tractor for pick-up when she heard a voice behind her. “She ain't looked that good since I first bought her.” Alison whirled around and just missed spraying the middleaged farmer. The man jumped back from the stream of water. “Sorry, sonny, didn't mean to scare you.” His weathered face crinkled in a smile. John stepped out of the repair bay to greet him. “Hi, Henry, I see you met my new employee. Jimmy, meet Henry Hankins, the best Christian around these parts.” Shaking hands with Alison, Henry said, “Now there you go exaggerating again.” “Henry is our local pastor and a good friend,” John said. “Now on that he's telling the truth,” Henry agreed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” Alison said, trying to deepen her voice. “Now, this one's got some manners, John,” Henry said, grinning. “Let me get you the bill,” John said, opening the walk-in door. “Hey! I thought you said the next time was free?” “Yeah, but this ain’t the next time,” John teased. “That's what you said the last time,” Henry said, chuckling. “Did I? Well next time is free.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Henry said, patting John on the shoulder. “And that's what you'll say the next time.” “Smart man,” John said, smiling broadly. He and Henry disappeared into the building. Alison gave the tractor a final inspection. She rewashed one wheel with stubborn dirt clinging to the rim. Henry came outside. With a nod to Alison, he grasped the tractor’s handholds, ready to climb onto the machine. He turned to look at her. “You know, young man, I would be remiss if I didn't invite you to worship with us Sunday.” “I'm not much into religion,” Alison said, modulating her voice. “Well then, you got something in common with Jesus. He didn't much like religion either.” At the door, John stood watching as he wiped his hands on a shop cloth. Henry fired up the huge tractor, gave them a quick wave and drove off down the highway. “Henry's a good guy. You ever get in trouble and I ain"t around, you go to him.” Alison watched the green tractor disappear over a rise in the highway. Could she trust these men or would they betray her? “Come on, let’s knock off for the day,” John said wearily. “Used to work on Saturday. Now five days is about all I can handle.” Dutifully, Alison helped him close the two big doors to the building. “Now, I live right over there.” He indicated a modest clapboard house on the far side of the parking lot, facing the shop. “Right behind is my guest house. It’s a converted garage, but pretty decent.” They walked to the back of John’s house and across the yard to the smaller building. John opened the door. Alison was surprised. Though not spacious, the oneroom interior was comfortably appointed. Just inside the door to the left, an overstuffed love seat in a Fleur de Lis print faced a flat-screen TV hung on the wall across from it. A compact refrigerator and microwave were tucked into the room’s far right corner. At the opposite end was a day bed covered with a navy blue comforter. The window above it overlooked the back yard and John’s house. “Ain't no bathroom, but there's one just off my kitchen and I leave the back door unlocked at night.”
“John, you don't have to do this. You don't know what you're getting yourself into.” “I'm not worried. I been in bad scrapes before. Come on, Alison, let’s get some supper and you can tell me about it.” She stared at him in awe. Without another word, he turned and walked toward his house. After a few minutes Alison followed. She paused at the back door. John was busy at the stove. “You knew who I was when you found me this morning, didn't you?” “Your picture’s all over the TV. That’s why I dressed you like a man. Iff'n you could pass the Margie test I knew you'd be safe out in public.” “How do you know I'm not guilty?” “God told me.” Over a second helping of cornbread and beans, Alison related the events of the last several days. When she finished, John was quiet. Pushing himself up from the table, he placed their empty bowls in the sink and took a pie from the refrigerator. He cut two thick slices and put them in the microwave. “Margie baked it,” he chuckled. “Iff’n I did it would probably have a wrench in the middle. Nothing like warm apple pie. You want ice cream on yours?” “John, didn't you hear what I’ve been saying? I'm a fugitive. If they find out you helped me they'll kill you.” The microwave dinged. John set the pie on the table and brought out the ice cream. “God's been telling me the last few days that you’re innocent.” For the next hour, Alison told John everything that led up to her being marked as a fugitive and having to run from an assassin. “And that's how I ended up in Lerds,” she concluded. John sat silently with his hands clasped across his chest and his eyes downcast. Alison waited anxiously for him to speak. Finally, he looked up. She saw the glint of tears in the corners of his eyes.
“You may not believe this, but God has been speaking to me about all this for a while. I’ve been listening to news from all over the country and I believe you’re right. There is a conspiracy.” John pushed himself up again and hobbled over to get the coffee pot. As he refilled their cups, he said, “Okay, so let's say there is a plot to kill these people all over the country. Who’s powerful enough to put a system like that together and operate it?” He looked at her expectantly. She answered with the only name she thought likely. “Maybe Tony Steel.” John lowered himself into the chair. “I'm sure he has a part in it, but who does he answer to?” “The Presi… Wait a minute. You're suggesting Jerald Robbins is behind all these killings?” “You haven't been keeping up on the news the last few days?” “No. I've been a little busy.” “You know a senator by the name of Donald Gyration?” “Sure. He's the most powerful man in the Senate. Some believe he has more influence than the President.” “Two days ago, Donald Gyration was murdered in his bed by an unknown assailant,” John said. Alison stared at him, speechless. Finding her voice, she started to speak, but John continued. “He was shot with a .22 caliber pistol.” “A .22?” “That gun was registered to a Mrs. Mandy Wise. You remember who she is? Or should I say was?” “Of course. She was the second woman murdered by the D.C. Killer.” John nodded. “And when did the killin' stop?” “The last one was in February of last year.” “And when did Robbins declare his candidacy for President?” Alison jumped to her feet and began pacing around the kitchen. “Come on John, this is crazy. You're saying Jerald Robbins has some connection to the D.C. Killer?”
“No.” Alison stopped. She turned to look at the elderly veteran. “I'm saying he is the D.C. killer.” Alison dropped back into her chair. “The night Donald Gyration was murdered, Robbins was out of sight for half an hour,” John said. “The President can't disappear even for ten minutes. He has Secret Service agent with him at all times.” “Except when he's using the bathroom.” “So that's what, five, ten minutes?” “Try thirty-five.” “Thirty-five?” “Thirty-five minutes in the restroom at Merreio’s restaurant, two blocks from Donald Gyration's home,” John said, looking Alison in the eye. “How do you know this?” “I can't tell you,” he said. Looking down to see his ice cream melting, he cut off a bite of pie with his spoon. “Can't, or won’t?” “Alison, I can't say anymore without breaking a confidence.” “John, you can't just leave me hanging. You have to tell me where you got your information. And don't tell me God spoke to you while you were fixing a tractor.” The elderly man laughed. “Oh, He does speak to me, all the time. We have some very interesting conversations.” Alison threw up her hands. John grinned. “No,” he said. “The Lord didn't tell me. I'm not a prophet.” “So you're not going to tell me your source.” “Can't. But tell you what I will do. I'll make a call and see if he'll be willing to meet with you.” “And soon. I don't have much time.” “I'll call first thing tomorrow morning.” “Thank you.” “Alison, do you believe God loves you?” She thought for a moment. “No. I've seen too many tragedies to believe in a loving God. Maybe a hateful one.”
“Sometimes it takes darkness for us to see the true light of God.” John reached down and grasped his pant leg. He pulled it up, revealing a metal rod rising out of his shoe. “The doctors were able to save the left one, but not the right. They said I'd never walk again.” “I'm so sorry,” Alison murmured. John lowered the pant leg. “So was I for a long time. Used alcohol to salve my wounds. Mental, that is. Drove my wife away.” He rubbed his knee absently. “I blamed God for all kinds of things. Getting shot up was just one of them.” Laboring to his feet, John gathered up the rest of the dishes and rinsed them in the sink. He turned and looked earnestly at Alison. “Sometimes God uses tragedies to bring us to Himself, or to strengthen our lives if we already know Him.” “Dad and Mom used to go to church every Sunday,” Alison said softly. She went on to haltingly tell him of her parents’ murders. “I won't pretend to know what you went through. But our pastor, Henry, and his wife Beverly lost their seven children in a fire fifteen years ago.” “He seems so happy, so at peace,” Alison said sadly. “How old were the children?” “A few months to nine years old. Fire started in the kitchen in an old wood stove. He tried to save them. Got burnt pretty bad. If you look at the back of his hands you can still see the scars.” “If that happened to me I would hate God.” “Henry has the assurance he'll see his children again, Alison. He found his joy in the Lord, and you can too.” “I'm going to bed,” Alison said, rising abruptly from her chair. “Thanks for supper.” She was out the back door before he could say another word.



Chapter 29
The text message came at 5:45 AM Friday. He packed and was gone in 15 minutes. Dawn was just breaking as he crossed the Kansas-Nebraska state line. With any luck, he would conclude this business and be back in Washington in two days. He didn't mind the killing. It was the nightmares that kept interrupting his sleep that he couldn’t stand. The faces of his victims would float before his eyes, their screams jarring him awake. At noon he stopped at a diner in a wide spot in the road. A talkative sort, the waitress tried to engage him in conversation. She finally gave up and retreated to the kitchen. He heard her bragging about her child making the honor roll. He thought about it again. What would it be like to have a family? A wife, a child or two. To return to a loving home every night after work? He made a decision. Five more hits and he was done. Five more bodies and his career as an assassin would end. From the time he was a small child he had wanted to be an artist. To paint pictures of sunsets, old barns, forests─ peaceful scenes so much in contrast to the mayhem that was his only claim to achievement. He doubted he could even hold a brush now. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. The stiffness was still there, but the pain had diminished to a dull ache. He finished off the plate of eggs and bacon and ordered another. The chatty waitress brought it to him and refilled his cup. “You travelin’ far?” she asked, smiling sweetly. “Some,” he said, heaping cream and sugar into the cup. “We don't get many tourists in here. Mostly locals. Where you from?” “Back aways.” “I got a friend from Texas comes to see me once in a while.”
Looking her in the eyes, he said flatly, “I'm not from Texas.” The waitress shivered. Something in his eyes and tone of voice made her skin crawl. She scurried back to the safety of the kitchen and didn’t come out until she knew he was gone. He paid the bill with cash and walked out to his car. He saw her at the front window, staring at him from behind the curtain. She would always remember him. He thought about taking her out, but didn't want to chance it. A dead body now, here, could be his downfall. Maybe on the way back. He had a target. He must complete the mission. He spent the day traveling the back roads, enjoying the beauty of the endless golden wheat fields passing by. Combines marched across the prairies like hungry locusts. Semis filled to overflowing stirred up dust clouds that briefly blotted out the sun. Late in the afternoon, he stopped at a McDonald's for a Big Mac, two orders of fries and a large drink to go. His disguise was in place. He looked like any of a hundred other farm hands roaming this part of the state. A few miles down the road, he pulled into a makeshift rest stop alongside the road. The lone picnic table overlooked a large farm in the valley below. He was struck by the beauty spread out before him. The greens, blues and yellows blended in perfect, breathtaking harmony. Living art, he thought. He ate slowly and thought about his life. What had he accomplished in his years on this earth? Killed a few people? Okay, more than a few. But hardly anyone even knew his name. If anyone did know of him it was only as the Shadow. His thoughts drifted back to his childhood. What had he wanted to be back then? The world was fresh and new to him. He loved to draw. One day his fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Kirk, praised his work and said he should become an artist. That night in a dream he saw himself painting a beautiful landscape. Of course, nothing ever came of it. When he told his father he was going to paint pictures of beautiful scenery, he laughed at him. Below him on the farm, trucks and machines hurried to bring in the crops. The clear, cloudless sky wouldn't stay that way forever. Feeling inspired, he got a pencil from the car and tried to sketch the bucolic scene on the back of the McDonald’s bag. It came out awful, nothing but indefinable scribble. A fifth grader could have done better. It was lousy. His dream was like worthless scraps of paper blown away in the wind. He could never go back. He was just someone to hire when things became too hot to handle. He always came through. He would this time, too. Alison Stevens was as good as dead. He crumpled up the McDonald’s bag and threw it in the trash can. “Don't litter,” he muttered. “Keep America beautiful.” With one last look at the peaceful landscape, he started up the Taurus. Alison lay awake, her mind whirling in confusion. Almost daily, she relived her own tragedy. Suddenly she faced her greatest fear. She had forgotten her mother's face. She frantically searched her memory. She couldn't find it, couldn't picture it. Tears flooded her eyes and ran down her chin. Years of pain, heartache and anger came flowing out in big hulking sobs. In the house, John sensed in his spirit that God was doing some healing. He slipped out of bed and knelt in prayer. Many nights God woke him up when there was a special need. When the Melons’ boy was sick, he spent the whole night in prayer. The doctor said the child wouldn't make it. His lungs were too small and undeveloped. He tried to prepare the young couple for the death of their two-month-old. “You’re healthy, Mrs. Melon. You can have another child.” While they were still consulting with the doctor, Nathan Melon's cell phone rang. Answering, he heard the familiar voice of their Sunday School teacher. “Don't you believe it,
Nathan,” John said, speaking rapidly into the grieving father's ear. “Your little boy’s gonna be all right. I feel it in my spirit.” And he was. In spite of what the doctors and nurses had warned, the little boy made it through that night and a thousand more. A shadow passed the open window. Alison stirred, having fallen into a restless sleep. Hearing soft footsteps, she came fully awake. The Glock was under the bed. She grasped it, checking the clip. She thought of jacking one into the chamber. Too much noise. She rolled out of bed and stayed low. Some moments later, she got up and stood on the bed, carefully raising her head to peek over the sill. Fully dressed, John passed 10 feet from the building. He seemed to be mumbling to himself. Alison listened closely. Words began to form. “Oh Lord, help her. She's had so much heartache. Bring her to yourself and show her how much you love her.” In the moonlight, she watched him raise a bandana to his face and wipe his eyes. Then he walked back toward his house, his words fading with him. He was praying for her, walking the yard and praying for her. Someone she had met less than 24 hours ago was consciously, audibly praying for her. It occurred to Alison that one of the last things she remembered about her mother was hearing her pray. She was still lying awake an hour later when she heard another noise. Glancing out the window, she saw that John’s house was dark. Her head jerked toward her doorway. A silhouette filled it. It wasn’t John’s. Her breath quickened. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it. He had found her. Her hand groped under the bed. For a few seconds she panicked, then her hand closed on the cold steel. Shoving the pistol in the waistband of her jeans, she rolled out of bed. Her body hit the floor with a thump. He crouched, bringing up his weapon. She jerked to the side. There was noise like the popping of a cork.
A sharp pain hit her. It felt as if her ear had been yanked loose from her head. Jumping up, she darted to the window. In one motion, she grasped the sill. Pulling herself up and out, she somersaulted onto the ground. Dew soaked her clothes. A bullet cut through the space she had occupied a split second before. Alison brought up the Glock and fired. He dropped. Whether he was hit or not she wasn't sure, nor did she dare stop to find out. She jumped to her feet and sprinted in the direction of the shop. There was a puff. A bullet tugged at the shoulder of her shirt. She felt a twinge, a small pain. She was hit but not badly. Having only one clip, she didn't return fire. There was another flash and a twang off the metal sheeting of the shop. She threw herself to the ground and squeezed off a shot. A loud boom cut through the night. Hiding behind a pile of tires, Alison raised her head. John stood just outside the back door of the house. He fired again, the shotgun belching flames. The man turned and fired. Hit in the shoulder, John went down on one knee. “Noooooo,” Alison cried. “Please God, no.” She squeezed off two shots, more to distract than to wound him. John shifted the shotgun to his left hand and fired again. The birdshot peppered the assassin's legs. Crying out in pain, Sean went down, landing with his back against the guest house wall. He fired again. Running in John’s direction, Alison saw his body jerk several times. The shotgun clattered to the ground. Racing to his side, she knelt by the fallen man. With bullets whishing all around her, Alison fired three shots in rapid succession, then clicked on an empty chamber. Hobbling away, the killer ran out of the yard, around the shop and into the night. John was badly hurt. Blood pumped from a dozen holes in his chest, arm and stomach, the worst one over his heart. Alison saw in an instant he couldn't live. With tears blinding her, she cradled the elderly man's head in her lap.
Because they were far removed from the residential district, no lights came on. “John, oh John, I shouldn't have come here,” she moaned. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Everyone I touch dies.” “Now...don't you be...talkin’ like that.” John licked his lips, spreading blood over them. “God sent...you...to me. He loves you. He...wants you to...” John's voice failed. He stiffened, then became limp. With a long, shuttering sigh, his soul left his body. Alison gently laid the old man on the ground and stood to her feet. She looked down at John. How many more bodies would there be before this was over? A determination was born in her heart. No longer would she run. No longer would she be hunted. There was a good chance he would kill her. She would find him, face him down. Only one would come out alive. The hunted now became the hunter. She began following the blood trail on foot. She lost it a quarter of a mile down the road. Hurrying back to the shed, she found the keys to John's ATV. Jumping onto the vehicle, she started the engine and sped off, following the highway south. He was hit but not too badly. The birdshot hurt worse than it incapacitated him. The clotting closed the wounds. He would take care of them later. It infuriated him. Each time he faced her in a firefight, she won. Next time he would have the upper hand. In a motel room 25 miles away, he dug out the shot. Cursing, he poured on alcohol and peroxide. After soaking in a tub of hot water, he bandaged his legs with gauze. He forced himself to lie down. Tomorrow he would try again. Keep up the pressure, never let her know when or where he was coming from. It had been a mistake to think she was an easy target, that she was running scared. She had been ready for him. Tomorrow he would get in the first shot, and it would be her last. He closed his eyes and slept.



Chapter 30
Henry Hankins was on his knees when he heard a noise at the door. He came to the office each morning to meet with the Lord before going to work. His farm bordered the church property, so it was just a short walk. One hundred fifty years ago his great-great-grandfather donated this land for the church building and became its first pastor. Henry was the fifth member of the family to pastor the small congregation. Now, at 46, he felt a closeness to his people not shared by pastors of large churches. Each one of his parishioners was a friend and neighbor. The burdens of their hearts quickly became his. This morning he prayed for the Youngs. Married only three years, they were already talking about divorce. The sound came again. Getting to his feet, Henry opened the door to his study. John's new employee, Jimmy, stood on the step with his back to the pastor. “Jimmy? What's wrong?” The boy turned around. His face was wet with tears. “Come in, come in,” Henry said, standing back from the door so he could pass. “John’s dead,” Jimmy said with finality. His voice had lost it gruffness. In truth, it had a feminine quality. With a sweep of his hand, Jimmy took off his cap. Henry instantly recognized the face he had seen on the news over the last three days. “My name isn't Jimmy. It’s Alison Stevens.” Unable to speak, Henry waved her to a chair. Devastated and numb with grief, he dropped into his desk chair. He had worked with John for years, leading him to Christ and helping him overcome his dependence on alcohol. He had seen John transform from a sniveling drunk to a confident Christian, a faithful leader in the church. Now John was dead, possibly at the hands of the woman who sat before him. Yet he felt no fear, only concern for this fugitive.
For the second time in 24 hours, Alison relayed the account of the last few months. Henry sat with his hands folded across his chest. He listened without interrupting. The phone rang. Alison started to rise. He held up his finger. She settled back down. “Grace Baptist. Yes, Hal, I just heard about it. Do they know where she might be?” Alison could hear the excited voice on the other end of the line. “They think she might be around here somewhere?” The other voice said something Alison couldn't understand. “Yes, I'll be careful. You too. Let me know if you hear anything. Thanks for calling.” “The State Police have issued an alert. They believe you're still in this part of Nebraska. And if they know, you can bet the man who's hunting you knows too.” “I don't want to put you in danger.” “Alison, if what you’ve told me is true, we're all in danger. Besides that, John believed in you enough to put his life on the line.” “I shouldn't have come. I have to meet this killer on his own terms.” “No,” Henry said, his voice firm. “Alison, the man is a trained assassin. He will not stop until he kills you.” “That’s just a chance I'll have to take.” She jumped to her feet and headed for the door. “So you're going to throw John's life away?” Henry shouted in his most commanding preacher's voice. “He died trying to protect you. Doesn't that mean anything?” Alison turned. Her voice choking with tears, she said, “Of course it does.” “Then let me help you.” “He'll kill you and anybody else who gets in his way." "I'm a little tougher than I look. Besides I have some back-up, the kind you need.” Alison sat back down. “Now, if you're willing to listen, I have a plan,” Henry said. Rising, he walked to the window overlooking the pasture and cornfields. A fine white mist rose up and dissipated in the
growing light. “The sun will be up in about twenty-five minutes.” “He'll be coming.” “That's what I'm counting on. Alison, last night John called me. There is a man in my congregation you need to meet. He's the reason John knew and I know you’re telling the truth.” In his motel room, Sean Waller woke knowing this was the day. By tonight, he would be headed back to Washington. Alison Stevens would be dead and he would have another trophy for his collection. After a quick shower, he disinfected and re-bandaged his legs. Good thing the old man wasn't using buckshot. Birdshot hurt, but he could still function. He walked next door to Budget and rented a Nissan. Back in the room, he loaded his duffel bag. Inside was enough firepower to take out a small army. He had underestimated her last night. Not today. Today he would go after her full bore. The text he received came from Robbins. The man was losing perspective, Sean thought. He had always dealt with Steel or Keaton, never directly with the President. He had seen this before. Officers in the midst of combat coming apart, unable or unwilling to lead. It usually resulted in their death, the death of their men, or both. The President had just signed his own death warrant. Sean stayed alive by remaining obscure. There must be no trail leading from the contractor to the assassin. Investigations came to dead ends. Phones were used once or at most twice, then thrown away. Papers, photos and bank records were shredded. For years he had operated with virtual anonymity, and that’s how it had to stay. When he was through with Alison, he would cut all ties, all traces of his existence. He would take out Robbins, Steel and Keaton, then fake his own death and disappear. This would be the third time Sean vanished. Each time he surfaced with a new name and identity. This would be his last and best. He would make history as the President’s assassin who was never captured, despite a worldwide search.
Over the years, he had become aware of an underground network. For a price, you could fabricate a completely new life, be reborn with an entire history created just for you. A new face was just the beginning. There were artists who fashioned new fingerprints out of silicone and others who performed expert hair transplants. Some could even change skin color. His own mother wouldn't recognize him. For the next 20 miles, he fantasized about killing the President. This would be no Oswald plan. It must be precise. Perhaps a bullet made of ice to the heart, something they couldn’t trace. He would have only seconds to perform the task. It had to be a long distance shot. If he missed? He couldn't miss. He must be alone, or kill any witnesses. He would throw away the rifle and don a disguise that would change his appearance dramatically and instantaneously. It was imperative that he never again be seen in the U.S. as Sean Waller. As far as the attorney general was concerned, Sean could substitute sugar pills for his nitro. When Keaton heard about the President, he would keel over with a heart attack. He would take out Steel with a car bomb. Blame it on the Muslims. He grinned. Maybe he could recapture what he had lost. He could take painting lessons, possibly become a famous artist. He toyed with a few names. He needed something, French sounding maybe, an unusual name that would shake up the art world. With each turn of the wheels, he came closer to his target.



Chapter 31
In the third pew at the National Cathedral, Jerald Robbins stifled a yawn. The pastor droned on and on, praising Donald Gyration's accomplishments, patriotism, unshakeable family values. What a crock. That old man was nothing but a windbag. He, Jerald Robbins, President of these United States of America, had executed the perfect murder. He replayed the kill in his mind. The look on Gyration's face when he died was priceless, and that Mr. Lincoln rose bush! He almost laughed out loud. Coolly saw the smirk on the President's face. In his career as an MP and with the D.C. police and Secret Service, he had seen that same expression. Suspects who thought they had gotten away with their crime were full of themselves and acted cocky. Yet this was no street thug. If he accused Robbins of murder, his evidence had better be convincing, not just some jogging pants he stole from the White House and a few scuff marks on a wall. His eyes swung in every direction. He would protect this criminal until he could bring him to justice. Sobbing wafted from the front of the church. The pastor began winding down. “Let us pray. Almighty God, how we thank you for Senator Donald Gyration's life. For the things he accomplished, his love for this country, his family and friends. We thank you for his service. We pray for his soul. Amen.” The wailing reached a crescendo, soaring over the strains of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. Robbins ground his teeth. He wished a crisis would happen just so he could get out of there. Churches made him feel uncomfortable, dirty, as though God was watching him. He stood up and his handlers immediately moved in to surround him. He greeted the widow and her children. With a sad smile, he assured them of his support. “We will find the person responsible for your husband's murder. He was a great man. We will all miss him.”
As she grasped his hand in both of hers, Miriam Gyration said, “Thank you, Mr. President.” She glanced down at his ring. Her husband had one exactly like it. In her grief, it didn't register. She turned to greet attendees filing past. The rest of the mourners waited as Robbins and his team left the church. On nearby rooftops, police snipers came to full alert. The President was on the move. One hundred five officers covered the street. There was no credible threat against the President. However, the FBI had not ruled out a terrorist hit as the cause of Gyration's death. If they murdered a United States senator, the President might be their next target. With Coolly on his left and Steve Masters on his right, Robbins was rushed down the steps and into the limo. Thanks to its eight-inch thick armor plating, “The Beast,” as the vehicle was affectionately called, could take a direct hit and still function. Masters was a senior agent with 20 years under his belt. Jeff had been assigned to Robbins from the day he announced his candidacy for President. Twice Coolly had almost told Steve of his suspicions, then thought better of it. If Masters didn't believe him, and there was every chance he wouldn't, Jeff would be in a world of hurt. With sirens bouncing off the buildings, they ferried the leader of the free world back to the White House. Alone in the Oval Office, Robbins took off the ring he had pulled from Gyration's dead finger as a trophy of his kill. Holding it up to the light, he read the inscription stenciled inside.
With all my love, Miriam.
It was foolish of him to wear it to the memorial service. Hopefully Gyration's wife hadn’t recognized it. If she had, he would arrange a little accident for her. “Alison, if you’re willing I would like to call another man into this situation,” Henry said as Alison shifted in the visitor’s chair. She had to discourage him and be on her way.
“I appreciate your concern, Pastor, but an untrained individual is no match for this man. He would be dead before he knew the assassin was within a hundred yards of him.” Henry smiled. “Why don't you reserve judgment until you meet him? I think you'll be surprised.” “Call him. I'll give him five minutes, then I've got to go. If I stay here any longer he'll catch me.” Henry picked up the phone. Ten minutes later a black Mercedes drove into the church parking lot. A heavily muscled man in his late 50s exited the car. He wore khaki pants and a blue pullover. He walked with the confidence of a man sure of his surroundings. Alison noticed a bulge on the right side of his waist. She studied his face as he came closer. She realized she had seen his photo many times in bulletins, presentations, and on the wall at the Hoover building. Grieg Coolly was a legend among FBI agents. More than one assassin's plots had been thwarted because of his intelligence prowess. Uncertainty made Alison nervous. Had the pastor been playing her, biding his time to keep her here until Coolly arrived? She started to reach for the Glock in her waistband. Coolly came through the door. “You won't need that, Alison,” he said. His voice was smooth and warm. He extended his hand. “Grieg Coolly. I've been watching your exploits on TV.” “Are you here to arrest me, Agent Coolly?” Alison asked, a tremble in her voice. “Arrest you no, assist you yes.” He turned to the pastor. “Henry, got any of that coffee you’re so famous for?” “Yup, just made some.” He motioned to a carafe on the credenza. “Help yourselves. You guys have a good talk. I'm going for a walk in God's glorious sunrise.” After pouring two cups of coffee, Grieg handed one to Alison and sat down in the chair next to hers. Taking a sip of the steaming liquid, he said,” Alison, what do you know about our President?”
“Well,” Alison said, plying her memory. “He comes from old money. Some say he actually bought the presidency. He was known as a playboy living off Daddy's money. His wife died in their second year of marriage. He never remarried. The first time he ran for political office was for senator. And he would have never have been elected president if Senator Josh Ross hadn't died." Grieg was silent. Finally he said, “And what do you know about the D.C. Killer?” “He’s murdered seventeen women that we know of. He drops them still breathing into the Potomac with a concrete block tied around their ankle. No leads, no DNA. When the authorities find one, another one dies within days. The killings stopped in February of last year and have not resumed. It's presumed the unsub is either incarcerated or dead.” “Good. You're very well versed on the case.” “Why are you asking me about a Washington case?” “There may have been a break in it.” He paused and his eyes became steely. “What I'm going to tell you must be kept in the strictest confidence. Even if my plan fails and you’re arrested, you must not reveal what I'm about to tell you.” “Okay,” Alison said dubiously. Coolly’s eyes probed hers. “I mean it. If this comes to light before it’s time, people will die. Even Henry doesn't know.” “People have already died.” “Yes, and so will a lot more unless we do something about it. But this has to be kept quiet.” “You have my word.” Grieg leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Jerald Robbins is the D.C. Killer.” Alison gasped and stared wide-eyed at him as though he’d lost his mind. She wanted to be convinced. “You can't be serious,” she said. Coolly thought her smile was rather patronizing. Grieg’s expression was stern. “Dead serious.” He leaned back in his chair and finished his coffee. He stood, set the cup on the desk and stepped to the window. “My son Jefferson is in the Secret Service. The day Robbins announced his bid for president, Jeff was assigned to his detail.” He turned and looked Alison full in the eyes. “He was with the President the night Senator Gyration was murdered.” “So, are you saying Robbins killed Gyration?” “Listen. That night Robbins went jogging. He complained of stomach cramps and insisted on using the bathroom at Merreio’s. That restaurant is two blocks from Senator Gyration's residence.” “So?” “So when the President exited the restroom thirty-seven minutes later, he appeared healthy and wanted to continue his run.” “Well, that’s plausible,” Alison said. She wanted to know if Grieg had anything more than conjecture. If what she had heard of this man was true, he never went after a suspect without having solid evidence. “Okay. But when Robbins came out of the bathroom there was a blood spot on his sweats. Jeff overnighted those pants and scrapings from his shoes to a lab.” “When will you have the results?” “The lab is run by a friend of mine, a former colleague. He's putting a rush on it. We should have them by this afternoon.” Grieg paced a little, then sat back down. “My informants tell me the assassin's name is Sean Waller. “If that’s accurate, I know him. He was in my unit in Iraq. He was one of my best men. He could travel miles in the desert, slit a man's throat and be back in time for breakfast with no trace he was even in the enemy's camp.” Grieg sat silent with his head down. After several moments he looked up. Alison’s quizzical expression prompted him to speak. He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “Talking about Sean made me remember. One night we raided an enemy prison camp, only to find everyone dead.” “How many” Alison asked, her heart sinking. “Twenty.”



Chapter 32
At 10 AM Saturday, Sean Waller was back in Lerds, parked right on Main Street. He was uncharacteristically relaxed and unconcerned about arousing suspicion. From what he could surmise after a half-hour’s observation, people here were normal. They would greet each other and move on. No one seemed to notice the stranger sitting in the strange car. No police cars patrolled Main Street, which was nothing more than a wide spot in the highway. He took a chance and strolled over to the Stop and Shop. It reminded him of an old-time general store. The stock ranged from candy bars to horseshoes and a little of everything inbetween. “Howdy. What kin I do for you?” the man behind the counter said. He appeared to be about 50. The tip of his black and gray beard nearly grazed the Formica counter top. “Just passing through. Thought I'd stop and get a cold soda.” “The refrigerator’s right back there.” He pointed to the back of the store. “Got all kinds. Coke, Seven Up, Pepsi. Even got some of them fancy bottles of water.” Sean selected a bottle of spring water and laid two dollars on the counter. The man rang up the purchase and handed him the change. “Thanks. Seems like a quiet town.” “Yeah, ain't much happens ‘round here.” The man grinned widely, revealing his mouth’s jack-o-lantern interior. “’Bout the only excitement we get is when Otis gets a snout full.” “Otis?” The man chuckled. “Well, we call him Otis after that guy on the Andy Griffith show. His real name’s Larry Two Toes. He's an Indian...er, excuse me, Native American. Lives just south of town.” “Gets drunk does he?”
“Yeah, and it’s a real shame too. John, he's our constable, he picks him up and locks him in a cage at his repair shop. Usually keeps him overnight and lets him go when he sobers up.” “A town this peaceful, I wouldn’t think you’d need a constable.” “Wouldn't if it weren't for Larry,” the man said, stroking his beard. “John keeps tryin' to win him to Christ. He ever succeeds, he can hang up his star.” “Thanks for the drink,” Sean said, raising the bottle in a salute. “You come back and see us anytime,” the man said with a wave. Driving away from town, Sean kept watching for traffic. Except for a farm truck a mile ahead, the highway was deserted. At the repair shop, he pulled into the gravel lot on the side. All seemed quiet. Still favoring the leg, he walked to the back of the house. John's body still lay where he had fallen. A hurried inspection of the grounds and buildings uncovered no activity subsequent to last night’s. Stevens couldn't have gone far. She had to come up for air soon. When she did he would get her. End of her, end of story, mission completed. Steel paced his office. This thing was completely out of hand. Two more prisoners were executed last night in Texas and Alabama. Neither was in for murder. One had robbed a convenience store and the other was a drug dealer. Their assassin was believed to be hiding somewhere in the boondocks of Nebraska. This time the trio would forgo the services of their contract killer. They were taking matters into their own hands. If Alison wasn't killed before she was captured, they were done. She held the thread that would unravel their lives. Robbins had made a deadly mistake contacting the assassin directly. Why not just put his hit request on a Beltway billboard? If the Shadow sensed a threat of being exposed, Tony knew he wouldn’t hesitate to take them all out.
Through his contacts in Southeast Asia, Tony had heard of a man exceedingly skilled in the art of murder. His code name was the Phantom and that was all anyone knew. Every law enforcement agency in the world was hunting for him. Unlike their man, the Phantom worked for no country, no agency. He was for sale to the highest bidder. If the price was right, he would assassinate the guy on the corner or a world leader. It was the Phantom’s practice to deal with one contact only. That individual was handsomely paid. If, however, the contact dared to betray him, death was imminent. That had in fact happened once and the Phantom’s response enhanced his reputation exponentially. Not only did he torture and kill the point man, he murdered his family first and made him watch. Word got around and the message was clear: No one informed on the Phantom and lived. Steel paced, did some more brainstorming and weighed his options. This was a high risk operation. If their man found out they’d gone around him, they were dead. The intercom buzzed. “Ms. Thompson, didn’t I say no interruptions?” “I’m sorry, Mr. Steel. It's the President.” Steel groaned. The last thing he needed was Robbins griping in his ear. But you didn't dismiss good old Jerry. He picked up the phone. “Mr. President, I was just thinking about you.” “I'll bet you was, Tony. I want to know how close we are. We need to eliminate Alison Stevens ASAP.” “I should have some good news for you by the end of the day.” “You better.” Robbins slammed down the phone. Steel sighed. Taking the burn phone from the center desk drawer, he dialed up his friend. Grieg and Henry would set the trap at an abandoned farm. Grieg pointed at the dilapidated barn. “The loft is still used to store hay,” he told Alison. Henry and I will set up out there.” He indicated an overgrown field beyond the barn.
“The nearest neighbor’s a mile and a half away,” Henry
said.
Alison, aka Jimmy, was the bait. They drove back to Henry’s office. While Grieg and Alison talked strategy, Henry made calls to the post office, hardware store and restaurant, talking with his parishioners and dropping casual hints. “Yeah, Jimmy’s supposed to be staying at the old Faison place,” he would randomly mention as they chatted. “That should cover it,” he said to Grieg and Alison as he clicked off the last call. “If anybody goes lookin' for John, the jig is up.” He shook his head. “I hate to leave him lying there like that, but I know he would want it this way.” Grieg nodded. “He was the type of person who always put others’ needs above his own.” “I wish you would change your minds. This man has made a career out of killing people,” Alison said. “You're the one who'll be in danger, Alison. I can't guarantee we can stop this man before he gets to you.” “I understand that. But...” “Alison, if you want to back out, no one could blame you.” “No. We've got to stop him. If Robbins is in charge of this it will take him a few days to replace him.” “Right. And Robbins may very well panic over this. Those who panic do stupid things and give themselves away.” Alison nodded, grateful to have Grieg Coolly as her wing man. “Before we go we need to ask God's blessing on this operation,” Henry said. The two men bowed their heads. Alison closed her eyes and shifted self-consciously from one foot to the other. Still, she thought, here were strangers, Christians, willing to put their lives on the line for her. John had given his life. She couldn't let them do this. Quietly, she started for the door. Henry's words stopped her. “Dear Lord, thank you bringing Alison into our midst. Help us as we fight against this evil penetrating our nation.
And bring our dear friend to yourself and help her to know how much you love her.” Alison turned round. From the way Henry had spoken, she expected Christ to be in the room. She and the two men were indeed alone, but the atmosphere was charged. An unfamiliar, indescribable kind of peace enveloped her. She remembered having the same sensation when her father got the family together for prayer. Tears pricked her eyes. “And Lord,” Henry continued, “give us your strength, courage and wisdom in what we are about to undertake. In Jesus’ name, amen.” “Amen, Grieg echoed. “Amen,” Alison murmured. Grieg glanced at Henry. The pastor gave him an almost imperceptible nod. God was working on Alison's heart. “Wait ‘til I get Old Betsy,” Henry said. He stepped to the back of the office and opened a closet door. He pulled out a huge rifle that stood almost four feet high with a scope nearly as long as the barrel. Grieg grinned approvingly. “Henry is our sharp-shooting champion.” “This is my great grandpap's Sharps 50 caliber buffalo gun,” Henry said, handing it to Alison. She hefted the rifle, lifted it to her eye and peered through the scope. “Wow, I don't think I could carry this all day. It would wear me out.” “Yup, you’re right. Good thing it’s for shootin' and not carryin',” Henry said, smiling. “The old gal is so accurate, if you can see it you can hit it.” “Okay, let’s go get this guy,” Grieg said. They filed out into the mid-morning sun, ready for battle.



Chapter 33
Stepping into the High End restaurant, Sean surveyed the room. Two men, middle-aged and elderly, sat in a booth in the back. Both wore jeans, plaid shirts and work boots. They nodded to the stranger and lifted a hand in greeting. Sean slid into a booth by the window so he could see the parking lot and the highway leading into town. A heavy-set woman came out of the kitchen. “Mornin’! What can I get for you?” Her smile lit up her face. “Just coffee. Say, my sister said a friend of hers was living here. She asked me to look her up.” “What's her name? We don't get many movin' in. Most people were born here and even some of them don't stay,” Margie said. She poured him a cup of coffee. Opening a display case, she took out a slice of apple pie and set it on the table. “Pie and coffee are complements of the welcoming committee. That's me,” she grinned. “Thanks,” Sean said, spooning cream and sugar into the cup. “You’re sure welcome. What’s your sister’s friend’s name?” Alison would be traveling under an alias. “That's the thing. It's embarrassing, but I forgot her name,” he said, keeping his eyes lowered. “Well, I hate to tell you but the only stranger I've seen in the last month is Jimmy.” “Jimmy?” “Yeah. Odd little dude. Just started working for John in the last few days.” So Alison was passing herself off as a male. “You mean at that tractor repair place down the highway?” Sean said. Adrenalin pumped through his veins. “That's the one,” Margie said, grinning. “John is known to take in a stray now and again.”

Sean got up as if to leave. “Well, thanks for the pie and coffee. Say, you wouldn’t know where this Jimmy is staying, would you?” “As a matter of fact I do. Henry, he's our pastor, said he's camping out south of town. Down the old Faison place.” Sean grinned. Alison was as good as dead. “Yeah. Jake Faison went bust about ten years...,” the elderly farmer began. “Twelve years ago. Ain’t nobody lived there since,” the younger one said. “How do I find this place?” “Well, it’s simple, really,” Margie said. “You go down south of John’s. Turn right at the first road and keep heading west.” “You'll run right into it. Big old two-story house,” the old guy said. “Yeah, ’bout five miles out on that gravel road,” the younger one said. Margie suddenly wondered why Sean would be so interested in Jimmy. “Say, you ain’t a cop are you?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Actually, I am,” Sean said, opening his jacket. He pulled the Glock from his shoulder holster. Margie's eyes widened. She shrieked and turned to run for the kitchen. Sean shot her in the back. The bullet passed through, exploding her heart. She dropped, dead before she hit the floor. The two men stared at him, their eyes dark with shock and terror. The old man had his hands up and was trying to stand. A bullet to the head made him sit back down. His upper half fell forward on the table with his arms reaching straight across. Something sounding like a shriek caught in a cough, and fairly inhuman, escaped the younger farmer’s throat. Half standing in the narrow space between the seat and table, he reached out his hand to the elderly man slumped in front of him.

“Dad.” He strangled on the word. Sean shot him in the head. He fell back in the seat, his hand touching his father's. Sean fired several more shots into the corpses. The sound was like corks being popped out of bottles. “Can't have any witnesses,” he declared. He looked out the window. There was no one on the street, no activity in town. Because he had stopped each beating heart, there was only a small amount of spilled blood. He wiped up the few spots there were, then dragged the bodies into the kitchen. On the way out, he turned the sign on the door to 'Closed’, then locked it and walked to the rental car. He drove away, whistling to a tune playing on the radio. Just another day's work. It might be Monday before they found them. By that time, he would be sitting in his living room listening to Beethoven, sipping cognac and planning the assassination of the President.



Chapter 34
In the loft, the two men crouched behind a stack of hay bales. They could see Alison in the house pacing back and forth in front of the windows. The house sat within easy shooting distance 100 yards from the barn. Grieg wished she’d get away from those windows. “Henry, this thing could get real dangerous real quick,” he said, his face stony. “Yes, I know,” Henry said. His hands were moist and sweat beads dotted his forehead. The loft felt stifling. Grieg had seen stress reaction like this many times. There was a world of difference between shooting at a paper target and shooting a man. Henry was a good man, a caring person. “I know you're a pastor and your instinct is to help and not harm.” He put his hand on Henry's arm. “But you have to shoot to kill. Alison's life depends on your accuracy.” Henry nodded, swallowing the bile in his throat. “I know, Grieg. I'll be okay.” “I'm sure you will,” Grieg said, patting his pastor on the back. Alison stood at the dining room table. An AK-47 lay on it to her left, a Glock was on the chair to her right along with two extra magazines for the rifle. The Glock she took from Samuels was tucked into her waistband. She walked deeper into the rooms. The layout reminded her of her parents’ farmhouse. She could almost see her mother lying dead on the kitchen floor. The image was jarring. She heard a small scraping sound to her left. A tiny mouse no longer than an inch peeked out. Alison stood still. The creature ventured out from the safety of the cupboard and scurried along the baseboard. There was a flash of black. The snake seemed to come out of nowhere. A terrified squeak was silenced as the snake tightened its jaws around the mouse’s head. The mouse struggled wildly to free itself from the snake’s deadly grip. There was a crunch and the small creature was still. Alison was not superstitious, but the skirmish struck her as a portent. Would she be the next victim? She thought of killing the snake and tearing the mouse from its mouth. Why? The poor creature was dead. She walked down the hallway into the front room. Grieg and Henry had fallen silent, each caught up in his own thoughts. In his mind, Grieg went over a checklist. Had he forgotten anything? His car was hidden in a ravine two miles away. They had stacked the hay into a square with one bale missing in each direction. That way they could shoot and still be protected. He had over 100 rounds for his Glock; Henry had 50 for the Sharps. Surely that would be plenty. He didn't expect the firefight to last long since once it started their position would be revealed. Henry tried to calm his pounding heart. His hands trembled. Could he do it, shoot to kill? Could he take a human being’s life? Bible passages ran through his mind: David facing Goliath; Gideon and his 300 when God gave him the victory over thousands of Midianites without one Israelite having to draw his sword; Joshua's conquest of Jericho. “The walls fell down flat,” he murmured. “What?” Grieg asked softly. “Nothing, just thinking,” Henry whispered. The two men continued their watch, sensitive to any movement. In the house, Alison wiped her moist hands on her pants. She had played the bait before, but never felt this vulnerable. She felt as if she had a target not only on her back, but on her head as well. If Henry and Grieg didn't stop him first, Sean would kill her. For the first time in years, the question ran through Alison’s mind: If I die, will I go to hell? The last time she’d had that fearsome thought was in church the Sunday before her parents were murdered. When the invitation was given, she felt a tugging at her heart.
Her mother and father had started attending the little white clapboard church a few months earlier. Alison had seen a big change in her father's life. He gave up smoking and didn't curse anymore. At times she would come into the kitchen to hear her mother humming. She recognized the tune as one of the hymns they sang in church. When her parents died, she became angry with God. Even now as an adult she felt like an orphan. For years a hot anger toward God and criminals burned in her soul. Now she was just numb. She carefully approached the window and searched the surrounding pastures. They were so densely overgrown that it would be easy for the assassin to slither his way undetected almost to the house. But there was nothing unusual happening, at least as far as she could tell. She sat in an old recliner and tried to relax. It was impossible. She got up and resumed pacing. At 11 o'clock, the sunlight lit up the front room. The heat shimmered off the baked earth. The temperature inside the house was stifling. Alison walked past the large window again. She caught a glimpse of movement outside and jerked back. Too late. She felt the punch against the window a split second before the glass exploded inward. The impact blew her out of his line of sight. She skidded on her back across the bare floor, hitting her head on the wall. She lay motionless, holding her breath. The tinkling of the bullet passing through the glass echoed against the barn walls. “He's here,” Grieg said just above a whisper. His eyes searched in the direction of the shot. “Where?” Henry asked, his head swiveling in all directions. His hands, steadier now, gripped his rifle. “There.” Grieg pointed to a small spot of brown to their left. “You sure? I don't see any movement,” Henry said, his eyes straining. “Trust me, that's him,” Grieg said firmly.
Resting the barrel on a hay bale, Henry drew a bead on the brown patch. He breathed out and in and held it. He clicked the first trigger, preparing to fire. He was about to take a human life. So this is how David felt, he thought. He slowly squeezed the main trigger. Sean jerked back. The bullet nicked the sleeve of his camouflage shirt and plowed into the ground. Henry and Grieg ducked behind the wall of bales. A flurry of shots peppered the space above their heads. Henry raised his head to look through the opening. Grabbing him by his shirt sleeve, Grieg yanked him back down. A bullet cut through the space Henry had occupied seconds before. “Wow, thanks,” Henry said in a hoarse whisper. He was worried. “Is Alison alive?” “I don't know,” Grieg said, his faced turned away. “She got hit hard. I saw her go down.” “What are we gonna do?” Henry asked as another bullet plowed into the bale beside him. "He's pretty well got us pinned down.” “You stay here. Get a shot in whenever you can.” Henry started to speak, but Grieg cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I know, I know. Just keep him occupied,” he said. “I'm going to try and work my around behind him.” “You be careful.” “You too. Keep your head down.” “I will. I'm kinda attached to it,” Henry said with a nervous grin. Another bullet smashed into the bale above his head. Henry fired, punching a hole in the roof. Grieg almost laughed. “Well, at least he knows we're still alive.” “Sorry,” Henry said, rolling his eyes. Grieg removed one of the bottom bales and wiggled his way out. Crawling across the loft, his thoughts turned to Alison. How badly was she hit? Was she dead? He couldn’t let his concern for her distract him. At the opening to the main floor, he swung onto the ladder built into the wall. Above him, the old buffalo gun boomed again. He grinned. Henry would keep him pinned down. He might not hit anything, but he sure would make a lot of noise. He shimmied down the ladder and dropped to the floor in a squat. Staying low, he worked his way to the back. Sean sent two quick shots into the barn. With his eye to the scope, he scanned the house. No movement. He was sure he hit Alison. He felt the impact. If she wasn't dead she was dying. If he could keep them pinned down, she would bleed to death. He had to finish the guy in the barn. He sent a few more bullets into the loft. There was a flash of white. A bullet kicked up dust an inch from his face. He triggered a quick burst, then dropped and flattened himself tight to the ground. Dust puffed on his left. He had been here too long. He had to leave, but not before he made sure his target was executed. A steely resolve came over Henry. Several times before he had had this same feeling, although he ultimately relied on the Word of God, not feelings. Each time God gave him this assurance, his prayer was answered. Henry stood straight up and immediately felt the wallop of bullets slamming into the bales. Two of the bales tumbled over, exposing him. Undeterred, he walked across the loft. Bullets flew all around him. Not a one touched him. He would die at God's appointed time, not before. Sean couldn't believe it. The guy stood right up and fully exposed himself to his line of fire. Stepping over some hay bales, Henry came into full view. The man carried a huge rifle. He walked to the window of the loft. Framed in the opening, Henry stood looking down at Sean. It was an easy shot, one hundred fifty feet away. At this distance he couldn't miss. Grieg watched in horror as Sean raised the rifle. Coming to know Christ was the greatest thing that had happened in Grieg's life. Now he was about to see the man who brought him to the Savior die. He realized at that moment how much he loved his pastor. “NO!” Grieg shouted. Jumping to his feet, he ran at the assassin. Sean pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. No misfire, just an audible click. He pulled out the magazine. He knew he had just put in a fresh clip. He tried again. Nothing. Without aiming, Grieg fired, the pistol bucking in his hand. If he could distract the assassin, it might give Henry enough time to deliver the killing shot. Rolling over, Sean squinted, then smiled. “Well, if it isn't my old friend Grieg.” He trained the NEMO Omen .300 on the man running in his direction. Grieg had been in crossfires before. His hands steady, his mind calm, Henry squeezed the trigger. The bullet slammed into the Winchester, disabling it. His hands stinging, Sean rolled on his back. He grabbed at his Glock but his hands wouldn't cooperate. Henry’s next shot sent a bullet through Sean's right sleeve, burning his skin but not penetrating. As Sean fumbled with the Glock, Grieg was there in front of him. “Don't move,” he said, aiming between the killer's eyes. Sean thought about it, then surrendered. He would bide his time. There would be an opportunity to escape later. Grieg reached down and retrieved the pistol from Sean's shaky grip. “Roll over on your stomach.” Complying, Sean said.” It's good to see you again, old buddy” “Shut up, Sean. There will time enough for talking after we get you secured,” Grieg said as he frisked the prostrate man.



Chapter 35
From his viewpoint face down on the turf, Sean watched a pair of boots approaching. “We thought you might be dead,” Grieg said, shoving Sean’s pistol into his belt. “I would be if you hadn't made me wear the vest,” Alison said, covering the killer with the AK-47. “Shoulda aimed for your head,” Sean muttered into the dirt. “Shoulda, woulda, coulda,” Alison taunted. “We've got you dead to rights on a dozen murders.” “That all?” Sean said as Grieg snapped on the handcuffs. “Lady, you don’t know the half of it.” “So that's him?” Henry said walking up to the group. “I don't mean to insult you, young man, but you sure don't look like much.” “Yeah, without his guns there's not much to him,” Grieg said. “You all think you're so smart.” Sean sneered at them as Grieg and Henry hauled him to his feet. Alison stood back several paces with her weapon trained on him to ensure there were no false moves. He glowered at Alison with one of the most fiercely hateful looks she’d ever seen. “You just signed your death warrants.” He fairly spat out the words. Despite Grieg’s holding his arm, Sean lunged at Alison and she jumped. He snickered as Grieg yanked him back. “Sean, I’m about to give you the deal of a lifetime,” Grieg said. “Listen, we know who hired you. If you testify to the secret grand jury, I might be able to negotiate immunity or at least a lighter sentence for you.” Sean twisted around and glared at his captor. “You don't have a clue who you're dealing with, do you?” Grieg and Alison kept quiet. Grieg raised his eyebrows at Henry as a signal for him to do likewise. Once a suspect started talking, you didn't interrupt. This perp, however, was through talking.
Sean bided his time. He had been in tough spots before. Once in Nicaragua when captured by a drug lord, he escaped within minutes of being executed. When the drug lord sent his thugs after him, Sean turned their own weapons against them, then returned and killed the drug lord and his family. A by-the-book agent, Grieg wouldn't harm Sean, just turn him over to the FBI or whichever agency the FBI designated. “We need to talk,” Alison said with a nod toward Sean. “In private.” “Okay,” Grieg said. He nudged the assassin forward and led him into the barn. Grieg tied a rope to the chain between the two cuffs, then tossed it over a beam and pulled it taut. Sean’s arms rose perpendicular to his torso. “Comfy?” Grieg asked, smiling. “Don't take long,” Sean groaned, wincing in pain. They left him hanging there and walked outside. As soon as they were out of sight, Sean started working on the rope. “Is he secure?” Henry asked, looking back at the barn door. “As much as he can be for now,” Grieg said. "I won’t leave him like that very long." He turned to Alison. “What’s on your mind?” “We can't take him to a grand jury. Number one, we would never make it alive. Even if by some miracle we did…” “Yeah, I know. But we have to do something. We can't just leave him hang.” “How strong is the case against the President?” Henry asked, leaning on the Sharps. “With the evidence we have, if it was anyone else we would have no problem obtaining an arrest warrant,” Grieg said. Alison nodded. “And if the DNA from that blood is Gyration’s, we would get a conviction. But we still need more evidence, rock solid proof. Something he can't wiggle out of.” “This guy, will he talk?” Henry asked.
“No,” Grieg said. “He’ll be roasted alive before he'll say a word.” “We need to establish a connection between him and Robbins without relying on his cooperation,” Alison said. She rubbed her chest where the bullet had struck. It would take days for the bruise to heal. Without that vest, she would be dead. Looking her straight in the eye, Henry said, “Alison, God has given you a warning. If he had shot you in the head you’d be in hell now, and forever.” Alison looked a bit flustered. “Grieg,” she said, turning away from the pastor, “I know his mindset, but let's take him into the house and try to reason with him.” “Alison, you need to listen to what Henry is saying.” “I don’t have time for that right now,” she snapped. “There will never be a right time,” Henry said softly. “Haven’t you been running from God ever since you found your parents dead?” Grieg gently prodded. Fuming, Alison turned and walked rapidly toward the barn. She blinked back the tears misting her eyes. She refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing the effect of their words. Henry and Grieg looked at each other, then followed. At the barn door, Alison stopped short. “Oh no.” Her eyes scanned the area. She moaned. Grieg and Henry came alongside and saw the reason for her distress. The handcuffs dangled from the rope. There was no sign of Sean. “Where could he b...” Without warning, there was a pop like the sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle. Henry’s voice stopped. His mouth dropped open. He fell at his friends’ feet, a large hole in the back of his head. His unseeing eyes stared up at them. The scream stuck in Alison’s throat as Grieg grabbed her by the arm. He jerked her inside the barn and swung her to the floor. A series of bullets peppered the wall above their heads. Raising her head slightly, Alison gaped at the fallen pastor. Henry's body jerked once, twice, and again a few seconds later again. “We've got to help him,” she cried, her voice raspy with anguish. “He's dead,” Grieg said, his voice choking, tears streaming down his cheeks. “No, no, he moved!” She started toward Henry. Grieg pulled her back down. A bullet whined over their heads. “Sean’s making sure he's dead.” Alison buckled in despair. As they watched, Henry's body jerked twice more. Grieg felt as though his world had collapsed. Henry wasn't just his pastor. He was his mentor, friend and confidant. “How many rounds do you have?” Grieg asked, his voice thick with misery. “Fifteen. The rest are in the house. I thought we had him,” Alison said. She was gripped with suffocating fear. This time Sean would aim for her head. If he spied so much as an inch of skin, she was dead. “Look Alison, he's going to keep us pinned down until we run out of ammo. Then he'll walk right up and kill us.” Two more shots whined over their heads, closer this time. Sean was adjusting his range. Grieg saw the terror in Alison’s eyes, but knew he couldn’t stay with her. “I'm going to work my way behind him.” “No Grieg, he'll be expecting that.” “We don't have a choice!” His tone was suddenly stern and authoritative, as if he was having to overrule a resistant child. “Wait three minutes, then space your shots. Don't waste your ammo.” Alison didn't argue. If they didn't kill Sean, he would murder them. Grieg wriggled backward through an opening in the old barn's back wall. Several boards were missing, making the hole just large enough for him to fit through. Once outside, he crawled across the corral. Pressing under the old board fence, he stayed low. Sean’s shots were slowing down. Grieg stayed close to the building as he crept around it. Soon Sean would figure out what they were doing. Moving past the barn, Grieg crouched as he picked his way through a patch of horse weeds. He checked his watch. Alison should start returning fire now. In the barn, Alison hugged the floor. Bullets still flew over her head. One nicked a stray strand of her hair. Surely it had been three minutes. With no watch, she counted the seconds. Then she heard shooting, but not aimed at her. No bullets hit the wood. He was shooting at Grieg. He had to be. There were more shots coming from her left. Grieg was shooting. Sean returned fire. She made a determination in her heart. Two men had given their lives for her. Both John and Henry died protecting someone they didn't even know. From the depths of her subconscious she remembered a Bible verse. Pastor Phillips had read it one morning in the small country church.
'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'
Leaping to her feet, Alison shouted, “No more! No one else is going to die for me!” Holding the pistol in front of her with both hands, she exploded from the barn and ran straight for the assassin. Sean grinned. This time he wouldn't miss. She was as good as dead. He aimed at Alison's head. Slowly, he squeezed the trigger. A burning sensation in his right arm almost made him drop the weapon. He looked down. Blood ran down his arm and dripped off his elbow. Grieg fired again and grazed Sean’s left arm. Reflexively, Sean pulled the trigger. The bullet plowed into the ground in front of him. His right arm was useless. He shifted the weapon to his left hand and fired at Grieg, hitting him three times. Thrown back, Grieg disappeared in the weeds. Sean turned his attention back to Alison. She was still coming. At 50 yards, Alison began firing. The first bullet hit his vest. At 25 yards, she shattered both his legs, at 15 his left arm. At 10, she ended it with shot to the bridge of his nose.
Shaken but exhilarated, she came to a stop three feet from the fallen assassin. She stared at his corpse. She had wanted to use him to catch Robbins. “Guess I'll just have to find another way,” she murmured. She couldn’t take her eyes off Sean’s dead body. She heard someone giggle and realized it was her. She shouldn’t be happy, but she was. The death merchant’s shop was closed. She holstered her weapon and looked around for Grieg. Her elation turned to horror when she spotted him staggering through the weeds. Blood soaked the front of his shirt. He took two steps toward her. His knees buckled and he collapsed backward onto the ground. Alison ran to his side, tears blurring her vision. “Di...did ...we get him?” Grieg asked, the words coming in halting pants. On her knees, Alison cradled his head in her lap. “He's dead. You killed him,” she lied. “Al...Alison, tell my son I lo...love him.” He closed his eyes, his breath was shallow. Covering the wound in his chest with her hand, she tried to stop the flow of blood. Impossible. He was dying. Nothing she could do could stop it. Grieg's voice became a whisper. She leaned down to hear him. “Al...Alison...Ch...Christ ...” He drew a shuttering breath. “He changed my li...life. I....” Grieg's head lolled to the side. He was gone. Gently laying his body on the ground, Alison slowly rose to her feet. In pure wretchedness, she screamed. Her voice echoed and reechoed across the countryside. Like an animal snared in a torturous trap, she shrieked until her voice was gone. In the last 24 hours she had caused the deaths of three good men. Men with families, with hopes and dreams. Three human beings. The Glock had one bullet left in the chamber. She put the barrel in her mouth. It was time to end it, end all the hurting and pain. It was her fault and she couldn’t live with it. “No more!” she screamed around the end of the barrel. “No more.” She squeezed the trigger. There was a click. She tried again. It misfired. Falling to the ground, she sobbed. All the pain of all the years came crashing down. She could not go on. What if Robbins was the D.C. Killer? What if he controlled the world? She wasn't responsible for stopping him from murdering. “I don't care!” she shrieked. “I DON'T CARE!” But she did. She stared at the two dead men and thought of Henry lying dead on the other side of the barn. One had tried to take her life. Three had died to save it. What did she owe them? All of them were dead because of her. No, because of Robbins. “So you're going to throw John's life away?” Henry's words echoed in her mind. How many had Robbins killed? Seventeen women as the D.C. Killer, three times that many as President. Unless someone stopped him, he would go on killing. But why did it have to be her? She looked down at Grieg's face. Blood smeared his lips and chin. What did she owe him, Henry, and John? Grieg's blood covered her hands and smeared her shirt and pants. She stared at her hands, turning them over and over. If she had been home that night, Joe Brimmer would have killed her too. Sirens sounded in the distance. They would be on her in minutes. Jarred into action, she started running toward the house to gather all the ammo she could carry. At the front of the barn, the Sharps buffalo gun lay a few feet from Henry’s body. Alison hesitated. The rifle was big and bulky, not easy to carry on a bouncing ATV. Yet it was great for shooting long distances. She’d get it on the way back. She raced to the house and grabbed as many cartridges as she could stuff into her pockets. She had stashed the ATV in the back of the barn. She was in the house maybe a half a minute, then tearing back to the barn, slowing down only enough to scoop up the Sharps. She was 100 yards away from escape and running fast on a downhill slope. She jumped onto the ATV just as the first state police car roared into the barn lot. He dipped into a ravine. She decelerated the motor to quiet it. With all the dust his tires kicked up, she prayed he hadn’t seen her. She followed a dry creek bed at full throttle for a mile. She’d have to come up with another mode of transportation, or they would find her without even trying.



Chapter 36
In the Oval Office, Robbins slammed down the phone. He leaped to his feet, cursing to make the devil dance. Everything was starting to unravel. His assassin was dead, Alison was still alive and a reporter in Pennsylvania was asking questions. The latest poll showed his approval rating down by 20 percent. He called Steel. Tony clicked on the recorder. “What are you doing about this woman?” Robbins growled. “Are you speaking of Alison Stevens?” “Who else would I be speaking of, you idiot?” “What would you like me to do about her, Mr. President?” “Stop her any way you can before she brings us all down.” “Would you like me to arrest her?” “Don't toy with me, Steel. I want you to kill her. I want her dead, and then you bring me her head on a silver platter!” Robbins shouted. The phone buzzed to silence. Steel clicked off the machine. He smiled. Now if he could get Keaton to spout off like that he was home free. He buzzed his secretary. “Yes, sir?” she said, her voice briskly formal, her tone barely tolerant. Her disdain for her boss was becoming more obvious every day. He should fire her, but why risk controversy with everything else he had to deal with? She was close to retirement anyway. “Get ahold of the attorney general. Tell him it’s of utmost importance that I see him right away.” “Yes sir.” Tony began setting his plan in motion. He had never overseen a sting operation. He knew the logistics, though, and this would be the best one the FBI ever undertook. If it worked he would emerge a hero. If not, he would end up in federal prison or dead.
Hmm, maybe he would run for President. He was still thinking about it when Keaton came in. The perpetual sheen of sweat glinted on his forehead. The attorney general plopped down in a guest chair. It creaked under his weight. “What is it, Tony? I've got fifty police agencies all over the country conducting a child porn sweep.” Tony grinned. Between his weight and the weak heart, Keaton might keel over right here. But then he would have to frame someone else. Barney Gibbons came to mind. “Just thought you would want to know the assassin is dead.” “Wh...what?” Keaton stammered. His face turned pasty white. He slumped down further in the chair. “Yup. Alison Stevens killed him an hour ago,” Tony said, relishing the moment. With trembling hands, the attorney general reached into his jacket pocket. He took out the vial, shook out two pills and popped them into his mouth. He mopped his brow and tried to slow his heavy breathing. “Wha...what are we going to do? We can't allow her to live.” Color began returning to his face. “I’m not doing anything. I'm washing my hands of the whole affair.” Hidden from view under his desk, Tony held a small remote. He quietly pressed the button, turning on the recorder. “You can't!” Keaton cried. “We must eliminate her.” “I can't do that,” Steel said, his voice steady and calm. “What you're asking me to do is against the law.” “Yes, you can. You order Alison Stevens killed or I'll do it myself.” Keaton bounded to his feet and headed for the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned. The attorney general looked Steel full in the face and said, “I don't want that woman to see another sunrise.” He hurried out, slamming the door. Steel switched off the machine and smiled. “Got you.” Alison's troubles were increasing by the minute. She had to find a way to ditch the ATV. She could hear a helicopter, in the distance but gaining. They wouldn't give up. With three dead, four including John, they would track her to the end of the earth. Four men had given their lives that she might live. Five sacrificed themselves for her, and One wasn't just a man. Christ died so she could live forever. The taste of gun oil in her mouth reminded her just how close to hell she had come. One breath away and she would have been without hope. She would spend eternity separated from her parents. But she wasn't ready to give up, to turn to the Lord. No time to think about that now. The chopper was just over the next rise. They would be on her in a minute. The cave seemed to appear out of thin air. It was just a hole in the side of a hill, not even large enough for a man to stand in upright. She shot into its mouth, not thinking of any consequences. She ducked her head going in, but her back still scraped against the craggy top. She switched off the engine and fell off the ATV onto the rocky floor. She thought about tracks and hoped the hard-packed earth would conceal them. The helicopter came over, 100 feet off the ground. Surely at that height the pilot couldn't miss seeing the cave. She ducked and trained the back the Sharps on the opening. One hundred feet up, the Phantom spotted movement in the cave. The text had come a half hour ago: Sean was dead. Now the Phantom’s targets were down to one. He had never failed a mission. He wouldn’t fail this one. The helicopter allowed him to move in, do the job and get out before police agencies could mobilize. He had equipped it with crop-dusting modules. If discovered near a kill site, he would feign ignorance and claim he was hired to dust for insects. He’d say that, being unfamiliar with the area, he had become confused and gone off course. He was as good at lying as he was at killing. Two miles away, he set the bird down behind a low ridge. He switched the engine to whisper mode. Crouching in the cave, Alison breathed a sigh of relief. She waited five minutes, counting off the seconds, quieting her pounding heart, forcing herself to think. She couldn't just blunder blindly through the countryside. As far as law enforcement was concerned, she was a dangerous criminal, a serial killer. Any officer who encountered her would shoot first. Sunset was about three hours away. If she could elude them until then she would have approximately 10 hours to make her escape. It would be difficult to track her in the dark. If she could find transportation and if luck was with her, by dawn she could be hundreds of miles away. She held her breath, listening. Nothing. Just the sounds of birds and insects. Something was wrong, she could sense it. Easing to the mouth of the cave, she cautiously looked out. A breeze stirred the leaves of a nearby tree. Flying low to the ground, he came within sight of the cave. She was still there. Circling to the other side of the ridge, he quickly set the chopper down and shut off the motor. The rotors spun lazily to a stop. He ran silently to the top of the ridge. The sun’s glare prevented him from seeing her. However, the back end of the ATV was clearly visible. Coming closer, he saw a slight movement at the back of the cave. He smiled. This was going to be easier than he thought. He set the cross hairs on the gas tank, and slowly squeezed the trigger. The ATV exploded with a whoosh. The sound was contained within a hundred yards. Intense fire filled the cave and flames shot from its opening. Nothing could live through that. His job was done, his mission completed. He stood up and stretched. He thought of Margarita, his latest girlfriend. He was growing tired of her. She was becoming boring. She was a clinging vine and once he returned to Europe he could just lose her. He was still debating whether to keep or ditch Margarita when the bullet struck and shattered his right forearm. He dropped to the ground and shifted the rifle to his left hand. A second bullet kicked up dust an inch from his nose. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he rolled over and over, landing under a bush. His eyes searched the horizon. The sun glinted off the Sharps, betraying her location. Laying the rifle in the fork of a branch, he squeezed off a burst. Dust flew to the right a foot in front of her. He adjusted his aim. The next one came within inches of where she lay. The pain in his arm was excruciating. He breathed in and out in an attempt to transport his mind to a place far removed from it. It might have to be amputated. He could do nothing about that now. His objective was Alison. Even if he wasn't being paid $100K, he would still take her out. Alison tried to calm herself. His shots were coming closer. She couldn't stay there much longer. His next bullet cut the air an inch from her ear. Laying the crosshairs on the top of his head, she pressed the trigger. His neck exploded. Her bullet sent his throat through his spine. The man sprawled in a bloody dead heap. A great sadness came over Alison. It seemed death was her constant companion. Walking down the hill, she approached the Phantom cautiously. He was dead, no question. How many more would Robbins send after her? How many more innocent people would he murder just to get to her? She couldn't allow it to happen. She dragged the Phantom’s body into the burned out cave and walked to the helicopter.



Chapter 37
Jerald Robbins killed for the first time when he was five years old. The victim was Dennis, Jerry’s best friend and brother. The two boys were playing in the tree house. Their father had built it early that summer in a large oak behind the house. Two years the elder, Dennis always helped Jerry climb the ladder, which was actually just wooden slats nailed to the trunk. Dennis would clasp his arms around his brother’s waist and gently push as they struggled upward. One time Jerry lost his balance. He fell back against his brother's chest, crying out in fear. “It's all right, Jerry. I've got you,” Dennis said, smiling. Jerry hated that smile. He hated Dennis. On that bright afternoon in August, his rage against Dennis took control. They had just finished lunch. Their mother gave them each a candy bar. She gave Dennis a Payday and Jerry a Snickers. Sitting in the tree house, Dennis unwrapped the peanut covered bar. Jerry looked at the treat and decided he had been cheated. He wanted to trade. Dennis refused and took a big bite. It seemed to Jerry as if half the Payday disappeared into Dennis’ mouth. Throwing the unwrapped Snickers to the floor, Jerry stomped to the opening in the railing. “I'm going down and make Mom give me a Payday,” he sniveled, knowing his brother would follow. “Wait! You can't go down by yourself,” Dennis said. Wrapping his candy in the torn cover, he laid it on the floor. Stepping past his brother, Dennis climbed down until only his head and shoulders were visible from above. He held his hand out to his brother. “Okay, Jerry, come on. Climb down in my arms.” Jerry picked up his brother’s candy bar and, grinning, took a huge bite. “Why you little brat!” Dennis shouted. Grasping the railing, he started pulling himself back up onto the platform.
Using the football punting technique his brother had taught him, Jerry kicked Dennis in the face. Stunned, his brother stared up at him in disbelief. With every ounce of strength in his five-year-old body, Jerry kicked him again. The toe of his shoe struck the tip of Dennis’ nose. Tears sprang from his eyes and he started bawling. Jerry kicked him again, breaking his nose. His brother cried out in pain and fear of losing his grip. “Jerry stop! Owww. Stop, Jerry, you're hurting me. Ouch!” With his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth, Jerry kicked as hard as he could. Dennis’ hands began to slip. Jerry kicked his brother one last time with such thrust that his feet flew out from under him. He landed on his rear and slid toward the platform’s edge. Scrambling to his feet, Jerry watched his brother lose his grip and fall. His hands still clutching for the tree, Dennis plummeted through the air. He crashed to the ground. His head struck a rock and the shrieking stopped. Unaware that her son’s life was being ended outside her kitchen door, Mrs. Robbins was finishing up the lunch dishes. Dennis’ screams tore through her like a knife. She ran outside screeching. Dennis lay at the foot of the tree, his neck twisted at an odd angle. Her other son, now her only son, looked down at her, sobbing. He was still holding Dennis’ Payday. That day Jerry learned he could replicate emotions. That night after his mother tearfully tucked him, Jerry sneaked out of his room. Hiding in the shadows at the top of the stairs, he listened to his mother sobbing. His father tried in vain to comfort her. Tomorrow they would go to the funeral home to select a casket. Jerry was looking forward to it. He had never been in a funeral home before. This would be the last thing they ever bought for Dennis. Now the room they had shared was his and his alone. As far as the candy bars were concerned, he would bide his time. Maybe he would wait until next week after they had buried Dennis. Then he would ask for a whole box of Paydays,
and he was pretty sure he’d get it. Tiptoeing back to his room as his mother still wept, the little boy smiled and got back into bed. Throughout his childhood and teenage years, Jerry learned there were ways of getting whatever you wanted. He honed his devious manipulative skills through college and his entry into politics. Now, as President of the United States, Jerald Robbins had become the master of his emotions. There was nothing in his soul that resembled remorse for those whose lives he had snuffed out. They were a means to an end. Their blood paved the highway to his success. After two decades of mourning the child she lost, Mrs. Robbins succumbed to a drug overdose. Suicide, the medical examiner had said. Devastated by his wife's death, Jerry’s father died of a heart attack two months later. After looking into Robbins’ history, an astute reporter wrote, “It seems everyone around Jerald Robbins dies.” Reading the man's column in The Washington Post, Jerry murmured, “You don't know how right you are.” Seated at his desk in the Oval Office, he thought of all the lives he had taken over the last 35 years. His only regret was that he hadn't taken more. He never understood why serial killers made stupid mistakes or taunted the police. Was there some secret yearning to be caught? He had no desire to spend the rest of his life in a six-by-nine foot cell. This brought him back to the subject at hand: Alison Stevens. The woman had more lives than a cat. Three times he had sent assassins after her and three times they had failed. They would not fail again. Robbins picked up the phone and called Steel. At four that afternoon, Jeff Coolly was notified of the death of his father. By five he was in a private plane headed for Nebraska. In the solitude of the cabin, he tried to imagine how life would be without his best friend. When he was10, Jeff’s mother died of cancer. Coming home from the hospital after she passed was the hardest. Finding his son in his bedroom sobbing, Grieg had not said a word. He simply enfolded Jeff in his arms and let him cry. After Jeff stopped weeping, his father dried his tears and made supper. He waited until his son was ready to talk, then explained to him the promise and glory of heaven. “Your mom is up there having the time of her life,” he said, smiling, yet Jeff could see tears in his father’s eyes. “And one of these days you and I will be up there with her.” That night Jeff received Christ as his savior. With tears misting his eyes, he murmured to the Lord, “Tell Mom I love her.” Jeff turned from watching the clouds to review the report the FBI director had just issued. “We are widening the search area to include Kansas and other states,” Tony Steel said in the special bulletin. “If you see Alison Stevens, do not approach her. Call the nearest law enforcement agency. She is armed and considered very dangerous. She has killed and we are confident that given the opportunity she will kill again.” The plane was passing over St. Louis when Jeff’s cell phone rang. “This is Jeff Coolly.” “Jeff, this is Chester Long. I was a friend of your father’s. I am so sorry.” “Yes, thank you, Mr. Long. Dad spoke of you many times.” “Jeff, I run the private lab where you sent the pants and scrapings. I ran the analysis on them myself.” Jeff's heart skipped a beat. “What did you find?” “How you obtained the sweat pants I don't want to know. However, I will say this. The DNA of the blood does not match the DNA in the fabric.” Jeff’s sharp inhalation told Chester all he needed to know. “Jeff, you must be very careful here. I believe this is what got your father killed.” “Whose blood is it, Chester?” “Senator Donald Gyration’s,” Chester said, his voice barely audible.



Chapter 38
That Alison was rusty proved true when she tried to get the helicopter off the ground. She was glad she hadn't waited until dark. As it was, she almost nosed the chopper into the hillside. Any closer and Robbins wouldn't have to worry about paying an assassin. She straightened the chopper out, landed it and took a deep breath. The few lessons she’d had were from pilots on assignment or conducting searches. Even those few enabled her to take the controls for a short period. But this was different. Flying at night could be dangerous even for experienced pilots. It was crazy for her to try this. She had no choice. She couldn't walk out. The ATV was a burned-out hull with a body lying next to it. They would discover the cave eventually. With any luck she would be many miles away when they did. She walked a short distance from the helicopter and listened closely. She could hear dogs howling. They were tracking her. She ran back to the chopper. She tried again, this time keeping it low to the ground. The blades stirred up a cloud of dust. She prayed it was too small for them to see. She slowed the motor almost to the point of its failing. Holding her breath, she dodged trees and power lines. She was flying so low she was under the lines. If the rotors even nicked one it was all over. Then she saw it. A mile away was an airport with a small field, a runway and a couple of hangars. Three planes were tethered in a grassy field nearby. They looked to have sufficient distance between them. She brought the chopper down between a Piper and a Cessna. She switched off the motor and ran for the nearest hangar. Just as the rotors quit turning, a helicopter flew over the horizon. The pilot was scanning the area with binoculars. Alison crouched behind a group of 50-gallon drums. The helicopter hovered over the buildings for a few seconds, then
moved on and disappeared over a hill. After counting off two full minutes, she stepped out. Careful to stay out of sight, she swept the two hangars. Both appeared to be deserted. At the rear of the second she discovered a partition, behind which was a small office. The door was too crooked to be locked. The battered desk was scattered with papers. A ratty office chair sat behind it. An old refrigerator with its motor whirring took up one corner of the cramped room. Inside she found a full plate of food covered in plastic wrap. On the bottom shelf was a gallon jug of water. Even cold, the ham, corn and boiled potatoes tasted delicious, but not having eaten for 36 hours, the food lay heavy on Alison’s stomach. She drank deeply from the jug and placed it back in the refrigerator. If possible, she would refill it and take it with her. She opened a door at the back of the office and stepped into a tiny bathroom. After using it, she stared at the stranger in the mirror. Large, dark bags hung under her bloodshot eyes. Her face was a pasty color and smudged with dirt. Her hair was a rat’s nest. She was repairing the damage as best she could when she heard a sound in the office. She turned off the light and gently cracked open the door. A man who appeared to be in his 80s was staring at the empty plate. “Now, Millie ain't gonna believe this,” he said. His beard brushed back and forth against his shirt as he slowly shook his white head. “I don't remember eating my supper. Maybe I did.” He picked up the phone and started punching in a number. Alison knew she must move fast. Stepping into the room, she said in a low, commanding voice, “Put the phone down and get your hands up.” Dropping the phone in its cradle, the old man slowly raised his hands. Twisting his head to look at her, he said. “Yer the one they're lookin' for, ain’t ya?” “Stand over by the wall,” she said, gesturing with the gun. Instead of complying, the elderly man sat down in the chair. Folding his hands, he placed them on the desk. “I'll shoot,” Alison said, her voice shaky. “No ya won't.” He smiled at her. “Yes I will. Haven’t you heard? I'm a killer.” Even to her the words sounded bizarre. “You ain't no killer. Yer just a-scared.” Alison let the pistol drop to her side. It seemed useless now. She began to cry in big, hulking sobs. Crumpling to the floor, she dissolved in tears. This went on for several minutes. Finally the tears stopped. She felt his closeness. He handed her several tissues and helped her to her feet. She was weak and stumbled. Steadying her, he guided her to the chair. When she was seated, he picked up the Glock and held it out to her butt first. She looked at it as if it was a snake. This object, this gun that had ended lives and would again, she wanted nothing to do with it. He laid it on the desk and looked down at her. “John told me about you,” he said gently. “Called me last night.” Alison was silent. He wondered if she had heard him. Finally he heard her murmur, “Last night.” She raised her eyes. “You knew John?” “Oh yeah. We was old drinking buddies. That is until he got saved. Used to go out, drink all night and be passed out when the sun came up. Name’s Dick Rice, by the way.” “And now, Dick, I suppose you're going to tell me I need the Lord too?” “Don't ya?” “No, I don't. I'm doing all right by myself.” Dick nodded at the Glock on the table. “How’s that workin' out fer ya?” The elderly man smiled at her. “I have to get out of here,” Alison said. Pushing herself to her feet, she brushed past him and headed for the door. “Now you hold on. That's just what I was gonna tell ya.” “What?” Alison asked impatiently. Her hand on the doorknob, she turned to face him. “I'm gonna fly ya outta here.” She shook her head. “I'll take the helicopter.” “Soon as they figure out what happened they're gonna be lookin' fer that bird.” “Why would you help me? You don't even know me.” “Henry was my pastor and besides, John believed in you.” Alison was silent. The sacrifices of those willing to risk their lives for her plagued her. “We can't leave before dark. They're gonna be lookin' fer ya.” He held up a finger. “But I got a cubbyhole I can hide ya in. They'll never find ya.” He went to the middle of the room and threw back a worn rug. He pulled a pen knife from his pocket and pried up three boards. Fascinated, Alison watched as an opening large enough for her to fit through appeared. “It ain’t much. Just a little concrete room. There’s some cans of food down there, and bottled water.” At a loss for words, Alison simply said, “Thank you.” “Now, there's a light, jest pull the chain. When they come lookin' fer ya I'll stomp on the floor.” Dick helped her onto the top step. “When ya hear me stomp shut the light off and keep quiet. I'll let ya know when they're gone.” Alison climbed down into the hole. She pulled the hanging chain. A bare blub lit up, illuminating a small chamber. Dick replaced the boards. He called down, “Ya best eat some of that food. G’head, help yerself. Yer gonna need ever ounce of strength ya can get.” Alison spoke loudly through the boards. “Dick, why are doing this? You're risking your life. Even if they don't kill you, they'll put you in prison for the rest of your life.” Looking down at her through the slatted opening, the old man smiled. His eyes seemed to take on a heavenly light. “Missy, when John told me about the Lord I started to feel a burning right here.” He put his hand over his heart. “I knew He was what I'd been a-lookin' for the whole time. Haven't had a drink in twenty years. Don't need one.” Alison could see the glint of tears in his eyes. “How could I not do all I can for Him after all He's done fer me?” A noise outside the office startled them both. Hastily putting the last board in place, Dick threw the rug over the
opening. “Just stay back in the corner and keep quiet,” he whispered. Alison pulled the chain and the chamber was dark. She huddled in the corner farthest back. Above her, Dick struggled to control his breathing. Easing himself around the desk, he sat down. There was a sharp rap on the door. “Come in,” Dick said, hoping his voice didn't betray him. This would be the first time since he received Christ that he would defy the law.



Chapter 39
“And the other DNA?” Jeff said, thinking he knew the answer. “Because I was a friend of your father’s I'm going to tell you something known only by a few.” Chester hesitated. He was silent for so long Jeff thought he’d lost the connection. Taking the phone from his ear, he glanced at the screen. It was still black. He held it back to his ear and heard Chester take a deep breath. “The D.C. Killer’s last victim was recovered after being in the water for only a short time.” “Are you saying they were able to retrieve DNA from her body?” “That's exactly what I'm saying,” Chester said, his voice rising an octave. “And it matches the DNA on the sweat pants you sent me.” “Could there be any mistake?” “None. These pants have the presidential seal on the waistband. Jerald Robbins is the D.C. Killer, without a doubt.” “Chester, I want you to take those pants and lock them up in an undisclosed location with a copy of the DNA report. Then put another copy in a bank safety deposit box. I’ll contact you later and have you fax me the report.” “What are you going to do, Jeff?” “I'm going to do what my father would have done. I'm going to catch me a killer.” In Washington, Tony Steel prepared to do the same. He had suspected for some time that Jerald Robbins was the D.C. Killer. Now he would set out to prove it. First, he must extract himself from any involvement. Robbins must not go on trial. Jerry would do anything to save himself, including murdering those around him, even from jail or prison. Steel had worn a wire when he met with the President three hours earlier. Back in his office, he locked the door and listened to the recording for the fifth time. He couldn't detect
any breaks. Steel grinned as he listened to Robbins proudly admitting that he had ordered hits on criminals and civilians. Then Jerry went on to rant and rave about Alison. In the midst of his tirade, he almost let fly a second admission. It began with Robbins saying, “We can make her disappear.” “How can we do that?” Tony asked, baiting him. “We'll use a stronger rope than I... er...the D.C. Killer did on Shannon Miller.” Got you! Tony’s fist pumped the air. The tape wouldn't even have to be spliced. Along with the rest of the evidence he had collected, it would be enough. All the recordings would be analyzed, each one scrutinized more thoroughly than Nixon’s. This was no small incident like Watergate. Steel was still vexed by the question of how he could assassinate the President and have the public laud him as a hero. An idea formed in his mind. At first he dismissed it. O'Sean Davis poured himself a second cup of coffee as he watched the special report. He shook his head. “You know, I just can't believe all the things they’re saying about that girl.” “Honey, you only met her once.” “I know, but something just doesn't feel right,” he said, poking his finger at the TV. “She's not a killer. I'd stake my pension on it.” He went to the sink and rinsed out his cup. “Well, all we can do is pray for her,” his wife said. She went to her husband and hugged him. She wished she could hold him forever. Each time he left, the thought came to her that this might be the last time she would see him alive. As they did every morning, the couple knelt in prayer. Their prayers today were for O’Sean’s safety and that of the woman running from death. In the air over Kansas, Dick's cell phone rang. He looked at the screen and hesitated. Most folks who had ever known his number were dead now. This one he didn't recognize. He answered with an apprehensive “Hello?” He listened for a moment, then turned to the woman sitting next to him in the darkened cockpit.
“It’s for you,” he said, holding the phone out to Alison. Below them the nation slept. Above the small plane, God's stars attested to His caring vigilance over humankind. Alison gave him a questioning look. Her heart pounded and she felt faint. Who would know she was in a small plane flying over farm country in the middle of the night? “It's all right, it's a friend,” Dick said, gesturing with the phone. Alison took it, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. “Yes?” she said, her voice shaking. If they were trying to get a fix on them, she and Dick were sitting ducks. They could easily be blown right out of the air. “Alison.” The voice on the other end was calm and reassuring. It reminded her of Grieg’s. “This is Jeff Coolly. Grieg was my father.” When the cops had tracked down the chopper with the false registration to Dick’s airfield, he had pleaded ignorance as to how it got there. Knowing his character, they believed him. With his more extensive knowledge of the case, Jeff was able to piece the puzzle of Alison’s whereabouts together. Alison was taken aback. “Jeff, I...” “Alison, I know you didn't kill my father or Henry. Just listen.” For the next several minutes they compared notes. Jeff filled her in on what he knew. Alison in turn told him of the events of the past week. For the first time in months, Alison felt in control. She was once more an FBI agent in charge of an investigation. “I'm on a plane heading back to Washington,” Jeff said. “What about your father? Shouldn't you be there to make the arrangements?” “Dad has many friends in the church. They'll take care of his body until I can get there. Besides, Dad’s not there, he's in heaven with the Lord.” Alison heard the sorrow in the young man's voice. “Alison, we have got to stop this man.” “I agree, Jeff. There’s no question Jerald Robbins is a cold-blooded killer. He must be stopped.”
Pastor Milton entered his small office at the back of the church. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He had tossed and turned all night. Finally, at 4:30 he got up. Something was wrong. There was an evil presence in Washington. The Holy Spirit spoke to him, telling him to fight the only way he knew how. He got on his knees and prayed for Alison, that God would protect her and bring her to Himself. When Pastor Milton saw Alison’s face on the news, he recognized her. He remembered their meeting on the church steps. What he heard from the Lord didn't jibe with what the media was saying about her. He felt a dark cloud pressing down his spirit. He could almost see the demons swirling above the city. And so he prayed. Robbins struggled to hold himself together. Everywhere he turned, there was a Secret Service agent. His protectors were his captors. Only his bedroom and bathroom were off limits to them. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? He saw their secretive expressions, heard their derisive whispers. They were plotting against him. Robbins locked himself in the Oval Office. He sat down behind the desk and opened the secret compartment. Slipping on Donald Gyration's ring, he admired it in the light. Of all the trophies he had collected from his victims, this was the most elaborate and valuable. Usually he would make off with a lock of hair or a piece of clothing. The ring was made from the horn of steer bred on Gyration’s Texas ranch. Miriam had had the tip of the horn snipped off. Then she instructed a jeweler to make it the centerpiece of a cluster of diamonds. The artisan polished it until it shined like a small, round jewel. When he saw the ring, Robbins couldn't resist wrenching it from the dead man's finger. Two of the women Robbins had killed were wearing lockets bearing tiny pictures of their children. He rummaged around until he found them underneath the newspaper clippings. Laying them and a few of the clippings on the desk, he closed his eyes. He laid his head back, reliving the kills. In his mind, he heard the women's screams, their sobs, their pleas for mercy. An evil smile spread across his lips. “Mr. President? Mr. President, are you all right?” Robbins’ eyes flew open. His secretary, Rose Chandler, stood before his desk, wringing her hands. Her eyes flickered from the ring to the lockets to the clippings. Robbins reacted like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He hastily opened the top drawer, swept everything into it and slammed it shut. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. “What can I do for you, Ms. Chandler?” he said, biting off each word. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. President. Are you feeling all right?” “I'm fine. Now what did you wish to see me about?” “You’re five minutes late for your meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, sir.” Her inflection had suddenly become officious. The President’s annoyance was evident. “Very well. Tell them I'm on my way. And close the door.” “Of course, sir.” Back at her desk, Rose phoned the conference room. She had worked for three presidents. Each one was different from the last. However, Robbins was especially mysterious, distant and uncommunicative. She never felt comfortable around him. That ring she had seen on his desk bothered her. Where had she seen it before? Robbins waited until she closed the door, then transferred the items to his secret compartment. He took a few minutes to gather his thoughts, then stood and tightened his tie, slipped on his jacket and walked out the door. As he passed Rose’s desk, he was sure he heard her whispering. Whirling around, he pointed his finger at her. “Are you speaking to me, Ms. Chandler? Or about me?” Rose looked up from the document she’d been typing. His stance and expression, not to mention his words, frightened her. “Sir?” “If you have something to say to me, just say it. Don't talk about me behind my back.”
Shocked, Rose's cheeks reddened. She was appalled that he would attack her in such a way. “Mr. President, I would never do that,” she stammered. Unconvinced, Robbins gave her a threatening look and walked away. They were all out to get him. He should fire them all. No, he should get rid of them all.



Chapter 40
As the eastern horizon lightened, Dick prepared to land. To Alison the landscape appeared to be nothing more than a maze of fields. As they came closer to the ground, she could make out a small dirt strip. It ran between two fields with soybeans on one side and corn on the other. Dick came in low and buzzed a white two-story farmhouse. A man carrying an AK-47 appeared at the door. He stared up at the plane. Dick laughed. “Good old Chet, ready for anything.” Seconds later, they were bouncing along the ground. The man met them at the end of the strip. He helped Dick out of the plane. The elderly man rubbed his back, taking some time to stand straight. “Hey old man, don't you know you're too old to be flying cross country at night?” the man said, grinning and gripping Dick's hand. “Ain't never stopped me before,” Dick said, smiling. “Alison, meet Chet Adkins, best fighter pilot in these here United States.” “Dick, how many times I got to tell you a Christian don't stretch the truth?” Chet reached out and shook Alison's hand. His grip was firm but gentle. Dick's tone turned serious. “Chet, this is the lady I was tellin' ya about.” “Let me get this plane under wraps. Then we'll get some breakfast and see what we can do,” Chet said. Fifteen minutes later he had the plane covered with tarps at the back of a hangar. He piled junk engine parts around the fuselage to hide it completely. The sun was just coming up as the three of them walked toward the farmhouse’s back door. Alison looked up at the sunrise and reflected on the last 24 hours. About this time yesterday, she had knocked on Henry’s office door. Since then, four men had died, two trying to kill her and two who gave up their lives for her. Now these two men were risking their freedom and their lives for her as well. In the kitchen, Chet's wife, Marie, was setting plates on the table. She shook hands with Dick, then turned to Alison and hugged her. A short, round woman, Marie reminded Alison of her mother. Holding Alison at arm’s length, she said, “Don't worry dear, we're going to help you. Sit down and eat. You've got a hard road ahead of you.” Marie loaded Alison's plate with eggs, bacon, toast and three pancakes. She filled the coffee cups to the brim, then sat down next to her husband. Alison didn't think she could eat until she smelled Marie’s wonderful food and realized how hungry she was. She was about to dig in when Chet began to pray. “Dear Lord, we thank you for Alison, for bringing her our way. We pray you will help her and us to bring down this evil that is plaguing our nation. That you put a hedge of angels around her. That you bring her through unharmed and that you show her your love. We thank you for what you have provided. Bless it to our bodies’ use so that whatever we think, say or do will be to your glory. In Jesus name, amen.” Alison felt something warm and wondrous enter her soul. Yet it all seemed wrong─her life, her career, everything she stood for. Excusing herself, she left the table. Her companions looked puzzled but said nothing. Outside, she walked toward the rising sun, trying to sort out her feelings. She had never given much thought to sin, her sin that is. Now she felt like the vilest sinner who ever lived. Jerald Robbins had nothing on her. In the kitchen, the three believers bowed their heads in prayer. Each one of them had faced this battle before. God was wooing Alison. The blackness of Alison's soul weighed her down. In her mind's eye she saw Christ dying on the cross. Dying on the cross for her. Falling on her knees in the morning dew, she cried,” Oh, God, forgive me. I don't deserve your love. Please...please forgive me...”

As the sun rose on a brand new day, the Son of God rose in Alison's heart and gave her a brand new life. She got off her knees and returned to the kitchen. The smile on her face testified to the joy in her heart. In his office, Jerald Robbins paced the floor, then stretched out on the couch. The meeting with the joint chiefs had not gone well. They urged restraint. He wanted to drop bombs all over the map. He couldn't rest. He must kill again. He had thought possessing the power of the leader of the free world would be enough to satisfy his lust for blood. It wasn't. He wanted to hear the shrieks of one dying at his hands, to look in their eyes as their life's light was extinguished. The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Steel to see you, sir,” Rose’s tone was clipped and business-like. “Send him in.” He rose from the couch as Tony entered the room. He didn't bother to shake hands, just walked brusquely to his desk chair and sat. “Give me some good news, Tony. Tell me she's dead.” “Who?” Robbins eyed him irritably. “Don't play coy with me. You know very well who. Alison Stevens, who else?” He leaned forward in a challenging posture. Steel didn’t blink. “I have no idea where Alison is. Or if she is alive or dead.” He wanted to say more but the wire was picking up every word. “I want that woman dead.” Robbins’ eyes burned with anger. “Jerry,” Steel began, then paused long enough to aggravate Robbins’ frustration further. “We know who the D.C. Killer is.” Robbins’ heart froze along with his face. He stared at the man he had appointed as head of the most powerful law enforcement agency in the world. He remained silent. “It's you, Jerry. You killed all those women.” “That's ridiculous,” Robbins snorted. “You're accusing the President of the United States of being a serial killer?” “We have evidence going back to when you were a state representative,” Tony bluffed. “We know you murdered your wife.” Robbins jumped to his feet and shouted, “I want you out of here right now! You're fired!” “What's in the secret compartment, Jerry? The one presidents learn about their first day in office.” Shaking with rage, Robbins stormed toward the door. Steel remained seated, looking straight ahead. “If we opened that compartment right now would we find Donald Gyration's missing ring? The ring his wife said he never took off?” Robbins whirled on his former friend. “I want you out now. Right now! Clear out your office, and if you’re not out by the end of today I'll have you thrown out.” He wrenched open the door. “I'm leaving. But I'll be back with a warrant for your arrest.” “Try it and I'll have you shot on sight.” Triumphant, Steel returned to his office. He had enough on Robbins to have him impeached. However, he wanted him dead. If Robbins lived to tell it, he would implicate him and the whole network. Steel gathered everything in his office into cardboard boxes. He had removed and hidden the tapes and electronic equipment the night before. Steel finished packing his belongings and sat at the desk. He didn't have long to wait. Fifteen minutes later, two men appeared at the door. They wore dark suits and blue ties. Their shoes were standard black. Both were deferential and apologetic. He waved away their remarks. “We were ordered to inspect the items you're removing from the office, sir. Sorry.” “Perfectly fine, gentlemen. That’s why I left the boxes open. Please tape them up when you're finished, okay?” “Of course, sir,” one of the men said as he knelt in front of the first box. “I'm going down the hall for a cup of coffee. Let me know when you’re done.” He got up and walked toward the door.
“I’m sorry, sir. Our orders are for you to remain in this office. You do not have access to the rest of the building.” The one standing stepped in front of him. “I'm going down to the lounge and relax while you paw through my personal property. If you want to shoot me for having a cup of coffee, go right ahead,” Steel said firmly. The agent blocking Tony looked at his cohort, who nodded. Moving aside, the agent said, “Please don't go into any other part of the building. I'll come for you when we're finished here.” Wordlessly, Steel left his office and his dream job. Hours ago, he received word that his second assassin was dead. It was time to salvage what he could. Alison, Dick, Chet and Marie were finishing breakfast when they heard a plane. From the loudness of the engine, it was only a short distance off the ground. “Wait here,” Chet told the others. He went to the window. A blue and white Cessna came in low and touched down on the landing strip. The plane taxied and came to rest at the end of the field. Jeff Coolly climbed out. A few minutes later, he appeared at the kitchen door. With misty eyes, Dick welcomed him with a firm handshake. “Jeff, I'm sorry about your daddy,” he said. “Thank you, Dick. I know Dad counted you as one of his dearest friends,” Jeff said. “He would be proud of you for what you're doing.” Dick released Jeff's hand and turned to the others standing at the table. “Chet, Marie, Alison, meet Jeff Coolly, the best Secret Service agent in the country.” “After today I may be just another inmate in a federal prison.” A half hour later, Dick and Marie waved at the Cessna as Jeff, Alison and Chet took off for Washington.



Chapter 41
Turning a corner in the hallway, Tony Steel pushed in his earpiece more snugly. The tiny bug in his office brought the agents’ words in loud and clear. Sweat beaded on his forehead and moistened his underarms. This morning when the idea came to him, he initially dismissed it. After all, as head of the FBI he was never armed. There had never been a reason for him to carry a weapon. Nevertheless, before leaving the house he stuck his old snub-nosed pistol in his belt. He listened to the two agents arguing in his office. “I don't like it,” the one rifling through the boxes said. “I think we ought to kill him here and take our chances.” “Our orders are clear. Take him to his house, kill him and his wife and make it look like a home invasion.” Hearing that, the thought struck Tony that if he killed them first it couldn’t be here. He would never get out of the building. At the first shot, the place would be overrun with agents. And as much as he tried to spin the truth into a scenario of self defense, he would not get away with it. Steel rushed down to the lounge. He picked an empty cup out of the trash. He sat down at a rickety table and wrapped his hands around the cup to steady them. He had to come up with a strategy. He couldn't let them reach his home. If they did, he and Jenny were both dead. No way would he let them kill her. His mind whirled. Why had he let Robbins bully him into this psychotic scheme? Five minutes later, the taller agent stepped into the break room. “We're ready to go, sir. Your items are being loaded into the agency limo. We'll take you home.” Sitting in the back with one agent beside him and the other driving, Tony put his plan in motion. He bent over and pretended to heave. The ersatz G-man stared at him, his face dour with skepticism. Tony didn’t have to fake the sweat pouring from his face or his shaking hands. “Lo...look in the cabinet an...and see if there’s a vomit bag.” Taking his eyes off his charge, the man turned to the small cabinet. He rummaged through it for a few seconds. There was an audible click behind him. He twisted around slowly and stared into the barrel of Tony's snub-nosed .38. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know who my own agents are, and aren’t? Now we're all going to take a little ride, and it's not going to be to my home.” The man sneered. He reached over and picked up the limo’s internal phone. Tony pushed the .38 into the man’s temple. “One word, you say one word and I'll put a bullet in your brain and when your buddy opens the door I'll kill him too.” He dropped the phone, but the guy didn’t scare easily. His hand snaked inside his jacket. Tony waited until he brought out the Glock. The pistol was fitted with a sound suppressor. Tony shot him in the knee. The soundproofing in the limo’s passenger compartment was designed to muffle conversations, not gunshots. The driver jerked the wheel, sending the car into the curb. Screaming, the wounded man dropped his pistol and grabbed his knee. Tony scooped up the gun before the fake agent could recover. He checked the magazine─fully loaded. “Okay, you're going to tell Bozo up there to take us to the White House.” Gasping, the man said, “He'll never do it.” His hand clutched his shattered knee as if trying to put it back together. “You better hope he does. I have enough bullets to take out your other knee, elbows, fingers and toes. And that, my friend, is just for starters. Then I'll blow out your spine and make you a paraplegic.” Tony was in command. He felt good for the first time in years. The man's face paled. The look in Tony's eyes told him he meant every word. Still, he hesitated. Steel shot him in the right foot with the .38. The man doubled over, shrieking in pain. Tears ran down his cheeks. The driver was yelling almost as loudly as his partner. “Sorry, I couldn't tell where your toe was. Next time I'll have you take off your shoe,” Steel said coolly. Lowering the
smoked glass partition, Tony pointed the Glock at the driver’s head and said, “Take me to the White House.” The man’s eyes zig-zagged from the road to the rear view mirror. “Are you crazy? They'll never let us past the front gate.” “Listen, I've already shot your friend twice. I have no qualms about killing you.” He fired inches to the driver’s right, tearing a hole in the seat beside him. The man jumped as if the bullet had struck his body. Sensing movement behind him, Tony swung around. The wounded man lunged at him. Steel shot him in the face at point blank range. The man slumped back in the seat, dead. Steel turned and pointed the pistol at the driver’s head. “Now you either take me to the White House or I’ll kill you too and drive this thing there myself.” Five minutes later, they approached the White House gate. “You better make this convincing or I'll kill you and the officer.” Tony raised the partition and propped the dead man up against the door with his bloody face turned away from the officer's station. The officer glanced at the driver dismissively and came to the back of the vehicle. Tony lowered the window a few inches. “Oh, Mr. Steel. I just heard you resigned.” “Just some last minute business to discuss with the President, Howard.” “Let me check real quick.” “Fine. How's your son doing?” “Much better, sir. The cancer is in remission. My wife and I can't thank you enough for finding that doctor for him.” “Glad I could help. You give them both my best.” Howard let the phone ring 10 times. “Go ahead, Mr. Steel. I'm sure it's all right.” “Thanks, Howard,” Tony said, raising the window. As they rounded the drive, he said, “Park up there, I'll walk in.” The man parked in a small, designated area. He shut off the motor and turned to face the back of the limo. He opened his mouth to speak.
Tony shot him between the eyes. The man’s face registered surprise. His eyes crossed as if trying to see the hole. He slumped over sideways, nicely obscured from view, and dead. In the privacy of the back seat, Tony lowered his slacks. He held the Glock against the inside of his thigh while he taped it. Then he straightened his clothes and walked into the White House.



Chapter 42
Murray Duran sat down at his desk and turned on the computer. As a reporter for The Washington Post, he received all kinds of kook emails. Most were memory clogging junk. However, he read them all, always looking for the gem among the garbage. He opened an attached file, praying it wasn't a virus. What he heard next caused him to almost upset his cappuccino. Jerald Robbins’ voice came through loudly and distinctly. “Don't play coy with me. You know very well who. Alison Stevens, who else?” There was a pause, then, “I want that woman dead.” Murray never ran. He thought jogging was for yuppies. This morning, however, he charged like a running back through the newsroom, dodging desks, waste baskets and coworkers. They gaped at the portly man, amazed that he could move that fast. He barged into Terry Heathen’s office without knocking. Breathlessly, he huffed, “You gotta hear this.” Not waiting for a reply, he dashed back to his desk. Intrigued, Terry followed. Murray wasn't given to excitement. He must have something big. Murray turned up the volume. Terry's jaw dropped. Murray downloaded more. For the next 10 minutes, reporter and editor listened to the President of the United States confessing to conspiracy and murder. At the end of the recording, Terry was silent, trying to absorb it all. This could be one of the biggest news stories ever to hit the wires. He turned a pale face to his reporter. “Murray, secure these recordings. Back them up and lock them up. Do not, I repeat, do not lose them or let anyone, and I mean anyone, listen to them.” “Sure,” Murray said simply. In his mind, he pictured himself receiving the Pulitzer Prize. “This is your story,” Terry said. “I want you on it twenty-four seven. You report to me and only me.”
“Got it,” Murray said. His fingers were already flying over the keyboard, writing the story of his lifetime. In the sky over Virginia, Chet was showing Alison a verse from Isaiah.
No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD, and their righteousness is of me, saith the LORD.
“Alison, God has assured us of victory,” Chet said. “Even at this moment, God is fighting for us. I don't know how He’s going to do it, but Jerald Robbins and his whole network of murderers are coming down,” Jeff said as he brought the plane in for a landing. He had chosen a small airport on the outskirts of Silver Springs, Maryland, that was operated by a friend of a friend. They could rent a car here and drive to Washington with less chance of being detected. Jeff taxied the plane to an area where it couldn't be easily seen from the highway. As they deplaned, he noticed that vehicular traffic on the airport’s service road was sparse. The hangar and buildings around it looked deserted. Cautiously, the three approached the office. Drawing his weapon, Jeff said, “Careful. Something's going on. This place should be busy.” “I agree. Especially in the early afternoon,” Chet said. Disguised as a man, Alison pointed her Glock at the ground, ready for action. Hearing voices, they drew near the office warily, stopping just outside the door. After a few seconds they realized the voices were coming from a TV. Carefully peeking through an open window, Jeff stared at the screen. Two men inside sat with their backs to him watching the report. “No, Bill, no word as yet on the President’s condition,” a disembodied voice said. A shot of the White House filled the screen. “What we do know at this time is that twenty minutes ago former FBI director Tony Steel walked into the White House and shot and killed one Secret Service agent and wounded another. He then made his way to the Oval Office and took the President hostage.” The picture changed to a live shot of an FBI SWAT team advancing through the Rose Garden. Jeff backed away from the window. He motioned to the others to follow him. They retreated to an empty hangar where he told them what he had seen and heard. “They're going to kill Steel,” Alison said. She thought she would have no feelings for the man. Now her compassion for him and his wife surprised her. This was one of the men who plotted to have her killed. She should hate him but she didn't. She looked at the two men. “We have to stop them, tell them what we know.” “Alison, you need to hang back,” Jeff said. “If they see you they'll shoot on sight.” “Jeff's right,” Chet said. Locked down in his office, the Vice President sat at his desk feeling as though he was the hostage. There were three Secret Service agents in the room with him. Two stood on either side of him and one between him and the door. Four more were posted just outside. He called his wife, apprising her of the situation and assuring her that he was fine. Then he insisted on speaking to the President or Steel or whomever answered the Oval Office phone. So far, the FBI negotiator had been unsuccessful in convincing Steel to give it up. Steel picked up the phone, then without a word dropped it back into the cradle. It rang again. On the fifth ring, Tony answered. “I'm not interested in speaking with anyone right now. I'm in the middle of an interrogation.” He started to hang up. “Tony, this is Jack,” the Vice President said, silently praying. “Hey, Jack! Great news! I've just caught the D.C. Killer.”
“That's fantastic, Tony. If you'll put down the gun and unlock the door we can arrest him.” “Oh, he's already under arrest. I'm in the process of collecting evidence. Now if you will excuse me I must continue my examination of the prisoner.” There was a loud curse and what sounded like a slap, then silence. The FBI and Secret Service had monitored the call. Now they moved to analyze what they heard. A psychologist, psychiatrist and a physician were consulted. Their conclusion? The former head of the FBI was delusional and dangerously unstable. Four snipers were positioned at each corner of the White House. They spoke via radio. “The windows are impenetrable. They’re made to take a hit from the most powerful firearm,” Ken Rustier said. “The walls of the Oval Office are lined with steel. The place is a virtual fortress.” “Or prison cell,” an FBI agent piped. “What if Steel’s right?” chimed in another. “What if Jerald Robbins is the D.C. Killer?” “Don't be absurd. You're talking about the most powerful leader in the world,” Ken said. However, in the back of his mind he asked himself the same question. “How do you like it, Jerry?” Tony said, slapping Robbins on the left cheek. The President’s head snapped sideways. He recovered, glaring at his former friend. A trickle of blood ran down his chin. He wrestled with the duct tape that bound his hands behind his back. “How do you like not being in control? Knowing I can kill you at any time?” “You're insane, Steel. I'm the President of the United States.” “And why is that, Jerry? Is it because you're a good man, or is it because Senator Ross committed suicide? Oh wait,” Steel said, rubbing his chin. “He didn't kill himself. You ordered him hit.” “I never ordered anyone killed!” Robbins shouted, jumping to his feet, his hands pulling frantically against the tape. Tony punched him, his fist landing on Robbins’ jaw with
a stupefying crunch. Robbins fell on the couch with his head lolling on the cushion. He shook it off and with few more twists worked his hands out of the tape. He leaped to his feet and socked Tony on the point of his chin. Surprised, Steel fell back against the edge of the desk. Robbins kicked him in the ribs. On the floor groaning, Tony rolled away from the President's second kick. Scrambling to his feet, he tried to bring up the pistol. Robbins grabbed his wrist. Face to face, Tony stared into the hollow eyes of the D.C. Killer. Depending on his schedule, Robbins would work out every morning for 30 minutes to an hour. At two inches taller and 20 pounds heavier, he had a distinct advantage over Tony. Wrenching the gun from his grasp, he slammed the barrel into Steel's temple. People across the country and around the world watched the live closed-circuit feed in horror and fascination. The President of the United States was fighting for his life. Then both men dropped from view. For 30 seconds the world held its breath. In a rented car speeding to the White House, Jeff, Chet and Alison listened to the updates on the radio. Handling traffic control on Pennsylvania Avenue, O'Sean Davis became oblivious to the vehicles slowing to a crawl around him as he stared in the direction of the Oval Office. Back in the newsroom, Murray Duran was glued to the TV. His story was only partially written. Terry had instructed him to take his time and verify every jot and tittle. If they were wrong, not only would Robbins sue, he would do everything in his power to end their careers. At the command post set up on Pennsylvania Avenue, the captain radioed his sniper. “Fire on the Oval Office window.” The man opened fire. Several bullets hit the window; the sound reverberated inside the room. Stunned, Robbins and Steel separated. Steel was now in possession of the gun. There was a crash as SWAT broke down the door. “Drop the weapon, Mr. Steel!” the leader bellowed. With six rifles trained on him, Steel squeezed the trigger. Seeing the look in Tony's eyes, Robbins ducked behind the desk. Six shots resounded through the Oval Office. Tony Steel was catapulted across the room, his dead body slamming into the window. He slid as if in slow motion to the floor, his time on earth at an end.



Chapter 43
As a precautionary measure, Robbins was rushed by ambulance to Walter Reed. The nation waited anxiously to learn the condition of its president. Almost forgotten for the moment, Tony Steel’s body was removed from the Oval Office. Riding escort in the President’s motorcade, O'Sean Davis felt uncomfortable. His spirit was telling him something wasn’t right. At the hospital, Davis and 10 other officers set up a perimeter. The Feds cleared the ER. Ambulances were diverted to other hospitals. Secret Service posted agents at every entrance. Off-duty agents were called in to provide extra security. The man striding briskly toward O'Sean looked harmless enough. Nevertheless, being on high alert, Davis's hand rested on the butt of his weapon. As he approached the officer, Jeff Coolly reached into his back pocket. Davis gripped his pistol and unsnapped the strap. Jeff brought out his badge wallet and held it in front of him. “Jeff Coolly, Officer. I'm one of the agents assigned to the President's protection team.” Davis relaxed and snapped his holster. “Let me call it in,” O'Sean said, keying the mike on his shoulder. “Control, got an Agent Coolly here. Says he's assigned to President Robbins’ team.” Seconds later Ken Rustier answered, “Send him in.” Smiling, O'Sean said, “You can go ahead, Agent Coolly.” Jeff noticed a tiny cross pinned to Davis’s uniform shirt and asked, “Are you a Christian, Officer Davis?” His smile broadening, O'Sean said, “Yes sir, my wife and I both know Christ as our Savior. We're members of Cornerstone Baptist with Pastor Milton.” Jeff returned the smile. “Thank you, Officer Davis.”
Rustier met Coolly outside the ER. “Thanks for coming, Jeff. When this is over, I'll see if I can get you some extra time off.” “Thanks, Ken. Where do you want me?” “He's insisting on going to Martha's Vineyard. Security’s being beefed up on the island. Helicopter’s on its way.” Rustier glanced at his wristwatch. “Should be on the pad in two minutes.” “He's leaving?” Jeff asked incredulously. “Yep. Says he wants to be away from the White House until they’ve cleaned up the Oval Office.” Rustier listened through his earpiece, then shouted, “Marine One is here! Let's move, people.” A minute later a gurney carrying the President of United States emerged from the ER. Robbins waved to a cheering crowd. Chet and Alison stood on the sidelines, watching their quarry make his escape surrounded by a legion of armed men. Jeff watched the spectacle from the helicopter, praying their plan would work. Murray Duran's fingers flew over the keyboard. Sweat moistened his forehead, underarms and palms. Five minutes ago, he had attempted to reach the attorney general for comment. He was informed that Keaton was on his way to the hospital with chest pains. As Robbins was leaving the ER, the attorney general was being whisked into an exam room. U.S. Attorney General Keaton Wallace was pronounced dead at 7:45PM. In his study at his home in Brookland, the President’s chief counsel, Barney Gibbons, wept. He stared at the chrome revolver in his hand. Somberly he opened his desk drawer. Taking out a locked black box, he inserted the key. He kept the gun in one locked drawer and the bullets in another. He removed one bullet, relocked the box and placed it back in the drawer. He loaded the bullet slowly. This was the end of his life, his career. His reputation was in shambles. He was taking the coward's way out and leaving his wife, children and grandchildren to deal with the sordid
aftermath. The disaster that his life had become was of his own making. He could not face prison. The single gunshot resounded throughout the house. In the kitchen, Gibbons’ wife burst into hysterics. She knew what had happened and she knew why. Screaming unrelentingly, she picked up the freshly washed dinner dishes one by one and smashed them on the floor. When there were no more, her wailing slowed to steady weeping. She dared not go into the study, knowing what she would find. Instead, she called 911. Jeff guarded Robbins as he would any prisoner he was transporting. He watched Robbins’ eyes, his hands, his body language. As they boarded Air Force One, the President was informed of the death of his attorney general. There was no emotion, no question as to how, just a nod and a grimace. Later, in the air, a staffer handed him a note. “Well. Looks like I'm going to have to appoint a new chief counsel. Seems my lawyer has committed suicide. Dropping like flies.” His eyes locked on Jeff’s. “What about you, Mr. Coolly, would you like the job?” “I'm not qualified, sir, “Jeff said, barely able to swallow the bile rising in his throat. “Neither was he.” Robbins balled up the memo and tossed it in the trash. Driving slowly down K Street, O'Sean Davis thought one of the men standing under an awning looked familiar. The man lowered his head, but not before O’Sean recognized the face. Man or no man, that face was Alison Stevens’. He should call it in and request back-up before approaching her and her companion. He pulled his patrol car to the curb and sat watching them. Chet punched in a number on his cell phone. “Mr. Marley's office. May I help you?” “I have a legal matter to discuss with him,” Chet said, eyeing the patrol car in the store window’s reflection. “May I tell him who's calling?” “Just tell him Scout One.”
Thirty seconds later, a gruff voice cautioned, “This better be important. I don't usually talk to broken down old fighter pilots.” “Nor do I consort with shyster lawyers,” Chet said, smiling. “What's going on, Chet? Haven't heard from you in months.” “Listen Al, I need to speak with you but not on the phone and not in your office.” “You in trouble, Chet?” “I could be,” Chet said, watching Davis get out of his car. “Meet you in an hour at the restaurant on Cherry. You remember that place?” “Yeah. We'll be there.” Pushing the end button, he turned to face the officer. Alison fingered the Glock under her oversized shirt. No way was she going shoot a cop. “You folks need some help? You look lost,” O'Sean said, smiling. He had learned that a smile could go a long way in avoiding trouble. The letter arrived at Murray Duran's desk via courier. Murray’s eyes had begun to blur from monitor glare. Terry told him an hour ago that the entire front page of tomorrow's issue was his. The deadline was coming fast. He ripped open the envelope without looking at the return address. His heart was in his throat as he pulled out the documents and scanned the pages. Snatching the phone, he shouted, “Terry, get in here now!” He slammed down the phone and resumed typing. Terry pushed open Duran’s door and said, “What is it Murray? Everybody's waiting for you to finish. We go to print as soon as you do.” Duran shoved the letter with the form stapled to it across the desk. Terry read them with wide eyes and dry mouth. When he finished, he had to swallow several times before he could speak. “You keep working. I'll call the lawyers and authenticate this.” On the way out, he paused at the door. Murray stopped
typing. They looked at each other. “Murray, if this is legitimate it means the President of the United States is the D.C. Killer.” “Stop the presses,” Murray deadpanned, and went back to his typing. “We're tourists, Officer. Perhaps you could direct us to the Washington Monument.” Chet handed the officer a map of the city. Davis took the map in his left hand as he rested his right on his hip. “Well,” he said, “I could trace it on the map or we could just ask Agent Stevens here to show you.” Alison's face drained of color. Her hand flittered toward her pistol.



Chapter 44
The Washington Post hit the street and the internet two hours late. Murray Duran's story was flawless. Every allegation was backed up with irrefutable evidence. A series of photos of Jerald Ribbons in Senator Gyration's bedroom was splashed across the front page. In the first, Robbins was removing his ski mask. In the second, he was holding a small pistol. The third showed him leaning over Gyration's body. Sharp and in color, the photos consumed the top half of the front page. Below them was a shot of the incriminating DNA form. Duran’s article chronicling the content of the tapes was interspersed on the page. Within 30 minutes, the networks were running rampant with the bombshell. Americans were waking up to find their morning shows preempted by images of Jerald Robbins committing murder. Alison fully expected Davis to arrest her, put her in the back of his squad car and haul her off to jail. She expected nothing other than being locked up for the rest of her life. She should have been frightened. Yet a sense of peace filled her heart. If this was what the Lord had for her, she would deal with it. Davis reached out his hand. She grasped it apprehensively, believing she was about to lose her freedom to the cold steel of handcuffs. “I've been keeping up with your exploits,” he said. “Something didn't seem right to me.” Releasing Alison’s hand, he said, “I want to hear your side of the story.” For the next five minutes, Chet and Alison filled Davis in on Robbins and Steel. Then Chet took a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to the officer. Davis unfolded and scanned the DNA report. He let out a low whistle. Chet said, “Copies have been sent to the FBI, the Justice Department and The Washington Post.” On Martha's Vineyard, Jeff's cell phone vibrated. He had lain down fully clothed. He got up, went into the bathroom
and closed the door. He listened, then spoke quietly. He looked at his watch. Four-thirty. It would be light soon. He ended the conversation and walked to the front of the house. A convoy of vehicles was coming up the drive, red and blue lights flashing. Ken Rustier stood at the window watching. He spoke into his radio. “Is the President secure? Okay, keep him there.” Wordlessly, Jeff handed Ken a copy of the DNA report. Ken scanned the single page. He’d seen the same image just minutes before. “How do we know this is accurate? Or for that matter, legitimate?” “The analysis was done by one of the top labs in the country.” “And where did they get the pants, Jeff?” Rustier asked. His eyes bored into Jeff’s. There was no answer. “We'll deal with this later,” Rustier said quietly. To the rest of the team members who had congregated in the room, he said, “Hang back.” He looked stone-faced at Coolly. “Jeff, you come with me.” The two men walked out to meet the line of vehicles idling in front of the house. Before Jeff could stop him, Ken Rustier pulled his sidearm. Standing in the growing light holding a document was someone he knew only as the most wanted fugitive in America. Fifteen men in dark suits surrounded her. Alison didn't react, but stood her ground. “Agent Rustier I'm agent Alis...” “I know who you are,” Rustier snarled. “What are you doing here?” “I have a warrant for the arrest of Jerald Robbins for murder,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Lady, you can turn around and put your hands on the hood. Do it carefully with no sudden moves,” Rustier said, raising his pistol. Behind Alison the 15 FBI agents pulled their weapons. Jeff put his hand on Rustier's arm. He shook it off. “Ken, listen to her. Don't get shot defending a killer.”
“My job, and yours, is to protect the President of the United States. I am not going to hand him over merely because of a piece of paper signed by some bogus judge.” Alison took a step closer, holding the document out to him. “Agent Rustier, this warrant was signed by John Roberts, chief justice of the Supreme Court.” Tentatively, Ken took the warrant, shaking it out with his left hand while keeping his Glock pointed at Alison's head with his right. In the house, the 10 Secret Service agents trained their weapons on the 16 FBI agents. At a signal from Rustier, they would begin firing. The signal never came. Instead, he holstered his pistol, pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. “It's me. I need the number for Chief Justice Roberts’ residence. Yes, I know what time it is. Just do it.” He listened for a few seconds, pushed the end button and punched in another number. It rang once, twice, three times. “Chief Justice Roberts, this is Ken Rustier. I'm...” “Yes, Agent Rustier, I've been expecting your call. And before you ask, the warrant is genuine,” Roberts said, his voice rusty with sleep. “This is indeed a sad day for America.” “Thank you, Chief Justice,” Ken Rustier said, putting the phone back in his pocket. His shoulders slumped. He radioed the agents in the house. “Stand down. Lester, see if he's awake and ask him to join us in the living room.” Alison gestured to her fellow agents. They put away their weapons. Rustier and Coolly led the way back to the house. “What? Are you sure?” Ken Rustier shouted, holding his hand over his ear. “Did you check the bathroom? Oh, man, this can’t be happening.” He took off running, yelling over his shoulder to Alison. “It seems we have misplaced the President of the United States!”



Chapter 45
He couldn’t run much farther. The sun’s heat was becoming stronger. Where could he hide? He had known this day would come from the moment he slid his dead wife into the river. Fear of this day was always in the back of his mind, like a tiny spider gnawing away at his brain and telling him he’d be found out. He could hear the sirens and helicopters. Coming upon an abandoned house, he forced the back door. He took a quick look around and climbed onto the wobbly kitchen table. He grasped the edge of a large opening in the ceiling and pulled himself up into the attic. Through gaps in the lathe, he watched and listened, knowing they’d find the house just as he had. He checked the small .25 caliber automatic. He had 15 founds in his pocket. Not enough. Ken Rustier was torn apart. Sworn to protect the President, he was now expected to hunt down a serial killer. Ken’s problem was that they were one and the same. What would he do when they found him? Strong as the evidence seemed to be, he was finding himself unable to make the transition from protector to pursuer. At 6 AM, the paperboy had delivered The Washington Post. One of Ken’s agents tossed it absently onto an end table just as Ken was entering the living room. He glanced down at the front page and was knocked for a loop. He picked it up and scanned it in disbelief, then read it thoroughly. For five minutes, he stared at the photos of Jerald Robbins at a murder scene. He called Murray Duran and they spoke briefly. Duran had a reputation for being objective and accurate. Still, Ken was suspended in doubt. The initial search of the island proved futile. There was no argument over jurisdiction. The FBI and Secret worked together. There was, however, disagreement over their quarry’s official status. “He has not been convicted and until he is he’s still the President,” Rustier insisted.
“I understand how you feel, Ken, and I admire your loyalty. But as far as I'm concerned he is a fugitive,” Alison said. “And as such it's my job to bring him in.” “Let's just find him, then we can sort it out,” Jeff said. And so they searched. People were warned to stay indoors. Proprietors closed their businesses. School was cancelled. They began a house-to-house search at 10 o’clock, by which time the media had converged on Martha's Vineyard like an invading army. Special reports soon dominated the airwaves. Digital media sent the message around the world. The President of the United States, Jerald Robbins, was the infamous D.C. Killer. In an unprecedented action, Jackson Alexander was sworn in as President that morning. Congress also immediately impeached Jerald Robbins. No longer President, Robbins’ public image became that of a depraved murderer on the loose. Radio talk show hosts fielded calls from listeners screaming conspiracy. They claimed liberals wanted Robbins out of office because he was a law-and-order President. The Republicans scrambled to disassociate the party from Robbins. In the skies over the Vineyard, news choppers jockeyed for live feed position as they hovered above the search. The nation gawked as FBI SWAT teams combed the woods, fields and beaches looking for the disgraced ousted leader of the free world. Time was running out. He struggled to gather his thoughts, to calm his racing heart. If he could just hold out until sunset, if he could elude them until then he would find a way to disguise himself. If he could slip off the island there were doctors who for a price would alter his appearance. He wished he had better weaponry than a .25 automatic. It was only effective at close range. He shifted and stretched his legs, trying to get more comfortable. A helicopter flew overhead, so close its rotors shook the old house. He looked at his watch. Only a few
minutes after 11 and already the heat in the attic was stifling. Sweat poured off his brow and ran into his eyes. He should come down and take his rightful place as President. No. He had swiped the Post off the end table after seeing Rustier read and put it back there. Luckily the other agents were all too preoccupied with what was going on outside to notice him slipping away. How did he miss the camera in Gyration's bedroom? And rather than suspicion being thrown on some common criminal, the pistol he had stupidly tossed under the rose bush connected the dots for them. They had the photos, the gun and his DNA. They had him dead to rights. The voice startled him. “You can come down now, Mr. President.” Ken Rustier’s words echoed through the nearempty house. Robbins crawled to the hole and looked down. Rustier and Jeff Coolly stood just inside the back door. “Agents, am I glad to see you. I thought we were under attack.” “No, just looking for an escaped murderer,” Coolly said. Robbins carefully swung down and planted his feet on the table. A pistol dug into his back. The old table shook, nearly giving way. Rustier and Coolly helped him down. They stepped back as he straightened up. Rustier spoke into his radio. “We’ve found him. We have the President.” He was playing a ruse. There was no way for Robbins to know he’d been replaced, and that was a can of worms better left unopened. Movement at the window caught Rustier’s eye. Alison was watching through the foggy glass, her Glock pointed at the ground. “Jerald Robbins, you are under arrest for the murder of Senator Donald Gyration,” she said, her voice loud, firm and steady. Robbins turned to his former protectors. “Is this a joke?” he said, slowly moving his hand to his back. “I'm sorry, Mr. President,” Rustier said, stepping forward.
Robbins moved fast, faster than any of them anticipated. He dropped to the floor and pulled the table over himself as a shield. “Look out, he's got a gun!” Jeff shouted. Leaping aside, he pulled his pistol. Reluctant to draw on the man he had safeguarded for two years, Ken nevertheless reached for his Glock. With a smile on his face, Robbins shot Rustier in the heart. The agent dropped without a sound. In the next breath Robbins sent a bullet Alison's way, missing her by inches. With his gun pointed at Coolly, the former President squatted behind the table and inched forward, pulling it along with him. If he could reach Rustier's body he’d have more firepower. He heard sirens and the helicopter coming. He had only seconds to make his move. As he stretched his hand toward Rustier’s weapon, Alison stepped to the window, smashed the glass with the gun barrel and squeezed off two quick shots. The first one missed, the second tore a hole in Robbins’ arm, forcing him to drop the gun. Jeff was on him in an instant, kicking the pistol away. He knelt by Rustier and spoke into his radio. “Agent down. I need air vac now.” “I'm bleeding,” Robbins whined as Alison came through the door. He glared at her. “She shot me. She tried to assassinate the President of the United States.” They ignored him. Jeff pressed his hand over the hole in Ken’s chest. Jerald Robbins screamed in pain as Alison flipped him on his belly with her foot and snapped on the cuffs. By American jurisprudence standards, the trial was swift─just four short weeks. It dominated every form of media. Cameras focused on every aspect, holding the public in thrall. Special reports intruded on nightly TV entertainment. Robbins insisted on testifying. He worked on his speech for days. He drafted and redrafted, agonizing over how he could convince the jury and public that his criminal acts were indeed beneficial, even heroic. Numerous times he tore the paper up only to start over with the same disingenuous pap.
He had never written his own speeches. More often than not, he saw them for the first time on a teleprompter as he stood behind a podium. Robbins’ outlandish ramblings on the witness stand crashed and burned. Whirling in delusion, when he was finally finished bloviating he sat waiting for applause. You could hear a pin drop as the jury glared at him with revulsion. After a few moments the prosecutor rose. Walking toward Robbins, he slowly clapped his hands. This man was a Robbins appointee. Over the next two days, he ripped Robbins’ testimony to shreds. People in the gallery sat mesmerized as their now former president pleaded for his life. Every TV, computer and iPhone in America was flooded with photos of Robbins and his murderous team. All over the country arrests were made and trials prepared. Robbins’ jury began its deliberations at 3:45 PM. At 6:10, they announced they had reached a verdict. Standing straight as a pole, the foreman looked Robbins in the eyes, his gaze unwavering. In a loud, clear voice, the fifty-year-old plumber declared, “We find the defendant guilty of murder on all counts.”



Chapter 46
“Open five.” The correctional officer shouted to be heard over the din. The cell door rolled back, revealing a nine-bynine foot room. Jerald Robbins balked, refusing to enter. His eyes swept over the narrow bunk with its paper-thin mattress and the combination sink and toilet. The smell of urine assailed his nose. “I won't go in there. I am the President of the United States.” “Not any more, sweetheart. You’re just another inmate on death row.” The officer freed Robbins’ handcuffed wrists and gave him a persuasive shove. “Now get in there before I introduce you to the goon squad.” Propelled forward, Robbins stumbled into the cell. Rubbing his wrists, the banished U.S. president stretched out on the bunk. He attempted to think of something other than his fate. Death loomed, but not for years, possibly decades. Appeals, delays and other legal maneuvers would go on indefinitely. Or he would buy his way out. He still had millions in the bank and more in investments. In the meantime, he would use his powers of deceit, manipulation and charisma to find a way to escape. For the next two days, he schemed, worked out and bantered good-naturedly with the COs. He would have to find the weakest link among them. On the third morning, the officer picking up breakfast trays paused at Robbins’ cell and said, “Back up to the cuff port. You're going to medical.” “Me? I'm not ill, Officer,” Jerald said, smiling. He hated pretending to be friendly. What he really wanted to do was drive a knife through the man's heart and twist it. “Routine checkup. Let's go.” Robbins reluctantly put his hands through the opening. The doctor was a man of about 65, possibly 70. He turned a friendly face to the two men entering his exam room. “Just lay him on the gurney, Officer.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Makin,” the officer said, forcing Robbins to lie down. He quickly locked him down with straps across his chest and arms while the doctor did likewise to his ankles. “You want I should stick around, Doc?” “No, no, that won't be necessary. He’s well secured. You're not going to give me any trouble, are you Mr. Robbins?" “Let's just get this over with,” Jerald growled. The officer smiled, waved and took his leave. Uncurling a stethoscope from around his neck, the old sawbones listened. Then, straightening up, he patted his patient lightly on the chest. Robbins looked exasperated. “When I was in the White House I had my own personal physician.” “Yes, yes, I know you did,” Makin soothed, turning away. Moving to a small table, he prepared a hypodermic. Returning to the gurney, he swabbed Robbins’ arm. “Wouldn't want you to get an infection.” Robbins stiffened, his eyes widening. “What is that? What are you putting in me?" “Just a little something to help you along.” The doctor slid the needle indelicately into Robbins’ vein. When the vial was empty, he pulled it out the same way. “All done,” he cooed, waving his hand in the air. Replacing the cap on the hypodermic, he put it in the pocket of his smock. Dr. Makin leaned over and put his face close enough to Robbins’ for their breath to mingle. His voice was low but compelling. “Remember when you were seventeen you beat a young boy to death for calling you an idiot?” The doctor smiled at him. His face changed and the smile hardened into a visage of rage. Tears flooded his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. “That boy, that beautiful little twelve-year-old child you murdered was my son. Markey Makin. You remember that name? I was working the ER that night. They brought him in at exactly five minutes after eight, beat all to pieces. You did it. You murdered my son.”
Jerald Robbins tried to speak, to deny the accusation. His mouth was frozen, his toes were immobile, his whole body was paralyzed. He couldn't even blink his eyes. Dr. Makin held out a creased scrap of paper. The writing in blue ink was so faded it was nearly illegible. “See this? Can you read it? No? Then let me assist you,” the doctor said as tears dripped off his craggy chin. “It reads:
If anyone finds this I must be dead. And if I am Jerry Robbins is my killer. In the last two weeks Jerry has beaten me up three times. He says the next time he will kill me and I know he means it. Please catch him before he kills someone else. Markey Makin
“This is my last day at the prison. My wife and I are moving to Daytona Beach. All fun and sun.” He carefully folded the note and put it in his pocket. “During our preparations we cleaned out Markey’s room. Finding this caused all the pain to come back like it happened yesterday. It was stuck in his bloody shoe, the shoe he had on the night you killed him.” Makin’s chest heaved. Grasping the tail of his smock, he wiped the tears from his eyes. He smiled at Robbins. To Jerry it seemed like the grin of a skeleton. He stood looking at Robbins pitilessly. “Feeling helpless? Now you know how my son felt. I would like nothing more than to beat you to death like you did him. To break every bone in your body.” The elderly man sighed. “But I want to go home tonight to hug and kiss my wife and tell her our son’s murderer is dead.” What had Makin done to him? Robbins’ heart hammered. He couldn't even move his eyes. The doctor leaned over him again. “What you are experiencing is what those women you murdered felt. They were powerless to stop you from taking their lives away from them. However, I can stop you. Consider this small recompense.” He took another hypodermic needle from his pocket and jammed it into the same injection site.
Dr. Makin backed up. Jerald Robbins’ body began to twitch. “This is an untraceable drug, one of my own preparations,” the doctor said. “Once in the system it dissipates.” Jerald Robbins’ heart pounded. It actually bulged up against his chest wall. In his mind, he screamed. He kept on screaming as his heart raced faster and faster. The doctor laughed derisively. “What you are suffering is a drug induced heart attack. A massive one.” For the first time in his life, real tears formed in Jerald Robbins’ eyes. The faces of the women he had killed swirled around him. They crowded around his bed of death. They mocked him, jeering and laughing shrilly. He willed himself to move, to run, to get away. Sweat flowed from every pore in his body; he felt as if he were on fire. Darkness closed in around him. The doctor's voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Markey, my dear sweet little boy. At last you have your revenge. Your murderer is dead.”



Epilogue
Seated in the sixth pew of Cornerstone Baptist Church, Alison opened her Bible to the Gospel of John, chapter 15. Beside her Jeff Coolly did the same. Her new position as FBI director had at first overwhelmed her. Now, after two months, she was settled in, appointing new department heads after dismissing those involved in the scandal. Jerald Robbins’ network had fallen thanks to upright law enforcement officials and clean-handed prosecutors bringing its operatives to justice. President Jack Alexander led the nation back onto the true path. As they had in Alabama, he and his wife labored together as a team and set an example worthy of citizens to follow. Pastor Milton stood and walked to the pulpit. The earnestness in his eyes was reflected in his voice. “Our nation has been rocked by corruption and unspeakable criminality. The people's trust and confidence in our leaders has been severely wounded. Yet, as He always has, God is working all things together for our good.” His hands gripped the podium as his eyes swept over the congregation. “Today we honor those who gave their lives to bring down this evil.” Alison thought of those who had died and were now with the Lord. They sacrificed themselves for the good of their fellow man. Yet they were not dead. Derrick, John, Henry and Grieg were more alive today than they had ever been on earth. And someday when her life was over she would see them again. A smile played across Alison’s lips. She glanced at Jeff. Reaching over, he took her hand. Together as husband and wife, they would face whatever the Lord had for them. Alison had finally found the peace for which she had searched so long.
On the sands of Daytona Beach, Dr. Makin raised his glass to the ocean. At his side, his wife did the same. Together they drank a toast to Markey, and to deadly justice. The End


*****


Enjoy Deadly Justice?
Keep reading for an excerpt of Hands of the Father
Published In 2016


Hands of the Father
Globe straddled the woman's chest, his knees jabbing into her ribs. She grunted under his weight. Her red, leaking eyes were fixed on him. Her face was flushed and swollen. She made little muffled pleading sounds behind the gag that sealed her lips. Globe wanted to resist, to run from the barn and go back to playing with the puppy. Papa would kill the puppy tonight. Papa killed everything Globe loved. He started to crawl off the woman, this temporary mother. She was sobbing now. Her breaths came in sharp, ragged puffs that were quickly absorbed into the soft hay. Her eyes left the small boy and traveled to the tall man towering over them. Taylor Jackson grabbed his five-year-old son and plunked him back down on the woman's chest. “Now you stay there, boy, ‘til I tell you to get off.” He glowered at the child. “You hear me?” “Yes Papa,” Globe said, his own eyes beginning to trickle. Taylor brought the willow switch down across his son's back to make sure he understood. The boy cried out. He reached a small hand around to his back and was rewarded with a red throbbing stripe across his fingers. Two more delivered to his shoulders and Globe sat still. Taking aim, Taylor whipped the young woman on her bare thighs. She began to heave and buck, giving the little boy the ride of his life. Five minutes later Taylor stopped. The gag on her mouth was coming loose. Wracked with pain, she sobbed uncontrollably. Taylor reached down and pushed down the rag binding her jaws. She choked out the words almost incoherently. “I'm sorry. I didn't know.” “Ain’t no excuse. You shoulda asked,” Taylor said, wiping his face with a grimy bandana. “Put your hands around her throat, boy.”
Globe twisted around on this mother's chest and looked up miserably at the man. “No Papa. Don't make me do that.” Taylor backhanded the boy along the side of his head. “Now you do as I say.” The child fell sideways, striking his elbow on the straw covered floor. He straightened up and reluctantly put his small hands on the woman's neck. Try as he might he couldn't fit his fingers around her throat. Globe's thumbs pressed into her windpipe. “Squeeze,” his father demanded. Fearing his father's fury, Globe pretended to press in. “Put your back into it, boy.” “Please, Papa, she didn't know. Couldn't we give her another chance?” Taylor seemed to consider this for a few seconds. Stepping up to the two, he leaned over. Putting his big, work-worn hand over his son's soft ones, he pressed. The woman’s breath whined out of her. She began to buck and whither more than when he had whipped her. Globe attempted to pull his hands away. His daddy's iron grip held him. “Daddy, please, no. Daddy.” “Shut up boy!” Taylor barked. His eyes were glazing over. “You hold her fast or I'll whip you within an inch of your life.” Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. To the woman he appeared as a rabid animal. Globe clasped her throat until his mother stopped breathing. He felt a few short puffs of wind coming from her mouth. Then they stopped. He thought she must be dead. His father yanked him off her, throwing him to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Taylor picked up a pail of water he had carried in from the well. The boy knew the water would be cold even on this hot July evening. The man upended the bucket and dumped its contents of the bucket on the woman's face. She gasped and sputtered and began to sob anew. Reaching down, Taylor cut the ropes binding her hands and feet. He folded the Barlow and slipped it back into his pocket.
"Now git in there and git me some supper and be quick about it." The woman scrambled to her feet and straightened her dress. She pulled the cloth from her mouth, untied it and held it out to the man. Taylor yanked the rag from her hand, stuffing it into the back pocket of his overalls. Raising his foot, he kicked her in the backside. The woman staggered out of the barn door, still sobbing. Taylor followed. Globe lay on the floor of the barn, his heart breaking, aching for a love he would never find.


*****


Dear Reader:
Writing a book is more a marathon than a sprint. Each day you add a little more until the pages become a chapter, the chapters a section, then the sections a book. After the story is written, the author goes back over the manuscript with the eye of a reader. As for myself, I read the book out loud. This gives me a sense of the rhythm. If it doesn’t sing right, I change it. Throughout the process, writers keep their eye on the prize. Their reward is the satisfaction of the reader. If a story is well told, both the author and the reader are pleased. I trust that for you I have achieved success and that you enjoyed Deadly Justice. Darrell



ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Darrell Case is the author of several books. He and his wife, Connie, live in central Indiana.
For news on Darrell’s latest books excerpts and free offers visit https://darrellcase.org

Also by Darrell Case
Live life to the Fullest
Out of Darkness
Never Ending Spring
Sluagh
River of Fire
Miracle at Coffeeville
Hands of The Father
Tales from My Back Porch
The Secret of Killer’s Knob

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