Night and Day (Book 2): Bleeding Sky (35 page)

“Smart
guy,” Bristow said.

I
stared across the street as the motorcycle at the end of the motorcade went
through the checkpoint on First Street. “Yeah. Let’s hope we’re
smarter.”

Chapter
Twenty-One

There
was a moment, around five-thirty that afternoon, when I honestly began to
believe that we had been smarter than Shuster. That our security plan had
proved impenetrable. That the loss of his original team had slowed him down,
thrown him off.

It
was right around that time when I found out I was wrong.

I’d
spent most of the day shuttling from my office to the communications
consoles, then back to my office. Bristow had installed a radio on my desk,
tuned to the primary tactical channel so I could monitor the motorcade from
there, but I was too antsy to just sit and listen.

The
situation was unnatural to me. I hadn’t thought it through when Bain offered
me this job. Or more accurately made it impossible for me to say
no.

I’m
a hands-on kind of guy. If you hire me to do surveillance, I want to be the
one watching. If you hire me to provide personal protection, I want to be
next to the principal. I do this kind of work because I like the work. It’s
not always pleasant, and there isn’t always a happy ending, but at least I
can say that I gave it my all, that I did my best, whatever the
outcome.

On
this job, I couldn’t say that. Because my best would be standing next to
Heymann, scanning the crowds, watching the buildings, listening for
something that might signal a security breach. Ready to engage the threat,
whatever it was, whenever it came.

Of
course, Martinez had been right. In my position, my place was in the command
trailer, monitoring, giving orders, planning ahead for contingencies.
Looking at the big picture, instead of focusing on the twenty feet around
the principal.

It
wasn’t a problem of not doing my job. The job itself was the problem. But it
was what it was, and I was stuck with it.

Things
were quiet in the square. There were still men along the chicken wire
perimeter fence on the other side of the streets, watching people walk by or
go in and out of the shops and restaurants. I hadn’t seen Jimmy since he
left to meet with Northport, but I figured he was inside Eddies Dogs, having
another free meal.

Troopers
still hunkered down inside their sandbag defensive positions at the corners
of the square. But they were relaxed. I could see talking, smiles, laughter.
With Heymann gone, the weight was off of them for a few hours.

And
then the weight came crashing down again.

I
had just sat down at my desk for the tenth time. Martinez was at an unused
console on the other side of the trailer, listening, ready to come get me if
I was needed. Bristow was on the steps outside, watching the square as he
monitored the radio traffic on a portable.

“Shots
fired,” I heard somebody shout on the radio.

I
stood.

I
was almost to the door when I heard another, calmer voice say, “This is Unit
One. Farmer is secure. We’re moving.” Unit One was the Humvee that Heymann
was riding in. Farmer was Heymann, a play on Hay Man. The people who came up
with code names liked to have their fun.

I
went out into the hall and almost knocked Martinez over as she ran toward me
from the other direction. “I heard,” I said.

She
followed me into the communications area. Bristow stood over one of the
consoles, giving orders to a trooper wearing a headset. “Condition Red,
Condition Red,” the trooper was saying into his microphone.

Bristow’s
eyes met mine. “Heymann’s alive. Apparently uninjured. No casualties
reported so far.”

“The
shooter?”

“Don’t
know,” he said with a quick shake of the head.

“I
want the volume up on every console,” I said. “I need to hear what’s going
on.”

Bristow
nodded and went from console to console, flipping a switch on each. The room was
filled with voices, some calm, some panicked.

“We
left two guys behind,” a voice said from one of the platoon channel consoles
on my left.

“Fuck
‘em, we’ll get them later,” came the reply. It sounded like Lt.
Alvarez.

“2133
Central,” I heard from the police channel console behind me. “I’m in pursuit
of a Metroville cab, tag november-oscar-one-two-november-golf-nine-one-one.
Heading west on Regis, passing First.”

“Units
2116, 2122, 2113, respond and intercept Metroville taxi, traveling west on
Regis vicinity First Street,” the police dispatcher said.

I
looked at Bristow. He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Son
of a bitch!” the previously calm voice of Unit One shouted. “That motorcycle
just got creamed.”

“Keep
moving, Unit One.” Alvarez again. “This is Third Command. Can somebody get
the cops to block these fucking intersections?”

“This
is Police Central,” a woman’s voice said on the channel. “We’re working on
it, Third Command. Roadblocks are in place from Madison south and we’re
rolling them north in your direction.”

“2116,
2133, that’s him.” The police channel again. “Ram him into a light pole if
he won’t stop.”

The
command trailer door flew open and Sgt. Mackey came inside, a trooper behind
him. Bristow went over to them.

“2133
Central, the vehicle is stopped. We are moving in.” A twenty seconds passed.
The voice was less clear, probably coming from a portable. “Central, this is
2133. This is not the cab, repeat, not the cab.”

I
sat down at an unused console and waved Martinez over. “I need to talk to
Unit One,” I said as I pulled on a headset.

She
leaned over me and flipped a couple of switches on the console. “Go ahead,
sir,” she said. “Press the foot pedal to talk, lift your foot to
listen.”

“This
is Welles,” I said. “Unit One, report.”

“Unit
One,” he said. “We’re southbound on Second, approaching Norfolk.”

“ETA?”

“Twelve,
thirteen minutes,” he replied. “We lost the lead motorcycle and have no
police escort in front. Unit Two is in front of us, but they’re having
trouble getting traffic out of the way.”

“Unit
Two, this is Welles. If they won’t move, force them onto the
sidewalk.”

“Unit
Two, understand.”

“Unit
One, what happened?” I asked.

“We’d
just pulled up at Martini’s,” he said. A popular joint in midtown. I guess
the ambassador had decided on Italian food for dinner. “Farmer exited the
vehicle and was approaching the door when he was fired on. Sculptor tossed
him back inside and we rolled.” Sculptor was Clay.

“Police
Central, are you still on the channel?”

“Police
Central,” the woman said.

“Can
you get somebody in front of Unit Two to clear the way?” I needed Heymann
back in his trailer as quickly as possible.

“They’re
enroute,” she said. “ETA 1 minute.”

I
realized Bristow was standing over me. I pulled off the headset and said,
“You still have that Stryker staged nearby?”

“Yes,
sir,” he said.

“Move
it into the square and get another rolling down from City Barracks. I want
one at First and Antietam, the other at Second and
Fredericksburg.”

“Yes,
sir,” he said. “Sir, you’re going to want to hear what Trooper Wickie has to
say.”

“Right
now?”

He
nodded. “Right now.” He waved the trooper over, then went to another
console. As the tall, bald trooper approached, Sgt. Mackey behind him, I
could hear Bristow giving orders to the Stryker crew.

“Sir,”
Wickie said, saluting. “Trooper Wickie, D Company, City Barracks
Garrison.”

“What
have you got for me, trooper?”

He
pulled something from inside his shirt and handed it to me. A photograph.
The photo of Shuster we’d distributed that morning. “Sir, I saw him in the
square this morning, around zero-eight-thirty.”

“Where?”

“Near
the big black trailer, sir,” he said. “I had finished the morning courier
run and was about to get back to the barracks when I saw him.”

“You’re
sure it was him?”

He
nodded. “Yes, sir. He was wearing a Security Force uniform. He caught my eye
because I thought it was strange that somebody his age was still just a
trooper.”

“What
was he doing?”

“Nothing,
sir,” Wickie said. “He was just standing there, looking around.”

“And
you’re just getting around to mentioning this now because...”

Mackey
stepped forward. “The lad’s with the utility platoon of the Barracks
garrison,” he said. “Not one of ours. Just a courier driver.”

“I
hadn’t seen the picture this morning, sir,” Wickie said. “When I came back on
the afternoon run, I happened to see it on the ground next to one of the
guys and asked about it. When he told me who it was, I went to Sgt.
Mackey.”

I
looked at Mackey. “Sergeant, I want you to personally start checking every
Security Force trooper in this square against that picture. Pay special
attention to anybody who’s standing alone or doesn’t look like they have a
reason to be where they are.”

“Yes,
sir,” he said.

“Good
work, trooper,” I said, looking up at Wickie. “Now grab yourself a rifle and
get in one of the defensive positions till we go off Condition
Red.”

“Sir,”
he said with a salute. He followed Mackey out of the trailer.

I
wasn’t happy that Shuster had been able to get inside the perimeter. Not
happy at all. But I blamed myself, just a bit. I hadn’t expected him to be
bold enough to actually come into the square, or to be wearing a Security
Force uniform. Civilians were stopped at the checkpoints. Security Force
personnel glided through without a glance. It was a hole in the security
plan I’d created. And one we’d fill as soon as Heymann was safe in his
trailer.

I
went to the police channel console and motioned to the trooper operating it.
She handed me her headset and I put it on. Then she pressed down on the foot
pedal.

“Unit
2133, Security Force Command.”

“This
is 2133,” he said.

“Why
were you chasing that cab?”

“A
witness pointed it out as the source of the shot,” he replied.

“This
is 2101,” a different voice said. “I’m on-scene at that location. We have
multiple witnesses that say the shot came from a cab parked in an
intersection across Second. Some say the cab was at Regis and Second, others
say Edgewood and Second. We’re trying to confirm.”

“Keep
us advised, 2101,” I said. I pulled off the headset and moved back to the
unused console I’d been at. I put on the headset and keyed the mic. “Unit
One, Welles. ETA?”

“We’re
making better time, but it’s still gonna be eight or nine
minutes.”

“Any
delay, let us know,” I said. I removed the headset, stood, and headed for
the door. I motioned Martinez to follow.

Bristow
looked up as I passed. “I’ll be outside,” I said. “Anything happens,
holler.”

“Sir,”
he said, turning back to the console.

I
went down the steps, Martinez at my heels, and walked about ten feet away
from the trailer. The square, which had been relaxed and full of life ten
minutes earlier was eerily quiet. The sidewalks were empty, the people on
them either chased out of the square or into the shops and restaurants. The
troopers manning the defensive positions were alert and scanning their kill
zones. Those on the perimeter had their weapons ready.

And
I didn’t know where Jimmy was. Maybe Daryl had kept him longer than
expected.

“I
think we’re okay, sir,” Martinez said, looking around. “Maybe a little
undermanned but that will change when everybody gets back.”

I
sighed. “If we’re okay, it’s only because we’ve been lucky so far,” I said.
“And as much as I believe in luck, I don’t believe you get lucky every time
you need it.”

“Sometimes
you do,” she said.

I
watched Sgt. Mackey moving from man to man in the square. Quick glance at
the face and move on. He’d probably be done by the time Heymann got
back.

Martinez
followed my gaze. “You really think Shuster is still here, sir?”

“No,”
I said. “I don’t even know why he was here this morning. Maybe doing some
close recon or something, checking line of sight for a long range
shot.”

“That’s
why we have Corporal Cooper.” She looked up at the cab of the crane. I could
just make out the man inside. He had a pair of binoculars to his eyes and
was slowly scanning the taller buildings outside the square.

“In
theory, Lita,” he said. “He as good a shot as Bristow says?”

“Security
Force Champion three years running,” she said. “I try every year, but he’s
tough to get past.”