The Third Coincidence (35 page)

chapter 53

California State Court justice shot. The FBI says this one’s not LW.

—Marian Little, NewsCentral 7

june 21, 3:08 p.m.

After finishing the assembly of the Israeli sniping rifle, Dalton settled into the narrow space between the back of the equipment shed and the edge of the OBA’s roof. The Galil had not ranked particularly high in his shot group test. But in the end, he had chosen the Galil because with its folding stock it fit into his backpack.

He could not have used the less-precise Galil for the surgical shot he made on Capone in Dallas, but it would be adequate for this much closer elimination of Chief Justice Evans. The cement wall of the Metro building on the northeast corner of Sixth and F would be a perfect shooting backdrop.

3:14

Dalton heard a clanking sound.
The wind’s blowing hard. The sound could be carrying from a distance,
he thought. He strained to hear it again. He didn’t need any surprises at this juncture. Then he heard it again. Clank.
No. That’s not a clank. Its a grating sound. No. Rub- bing. Yes. Rubbing. Metal rubbing and a clank. Yes, a clank, too.

He noticed the metal pipes along the side of the fire escape

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where they curved up and over the edge. They were loose and rat- tling.

Someone’s coming onto the roof.

Then a woman came over the top. She turned and looked back toward the fire escape.

More? How many more?

A man’s head appeared. He handed the woman an attaché case, then a second case. The man and woman looked in Dalton’s direc- tion, but it was clear from their lack of expression that they hadn’t seen him. That they hadn’t really expected to see anyone.

Dalton leaned back for a count of ten, then inched his head for- ward at an angle until he could see them with one eye. The couple appeared to be satisfied they were alone on the rooftop. From where the two stood, the equipment shed he was behind appeared to butt against the roof cap.

The man and woman knelt over their cases. Black cases.

Rifles. They’re starting to assemble rifles. Of course, they’re FBI snipers. They’re up here to cover Evans on his way back. They should have been here for his arrival. They ran me off and kept these incom- petents. Sloppy. No wonder the country’s falling apart.

Dalton pulled the Glock from his waistband and screwed on the noise suppressor. After a quick peek confirmed the agents were still assembling their rigs, he leaned out from behind the shed and fired twice.

They had died without knowing they had gotten closer to LW than had any member of McCall’s squad.

We all hope to learn from our mistakes, but these two just flunked their final exam.

He dragged the agents’ bodies over next to a tarp partially cov- ering a jumble of whole and broken roof tiles. The man’s credentials from his pocket gave his name as Ben Curtis. Dalton kept the cre- dential and put Curtis’s radio in his pocket and the earpiece in his own ear. After pulling the tarp over to cover the two agents, he an- chored it against the wind with some roof debris. If the FBI sent a

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chopper into the area, the two agents would be hidden from view. Dalton then took one of their FBI caps to put on in the event he needed to look over the rooftop.

They’ll expect someone to be up here, Dad. If I’m seen wearing the FBI hat—well, I’ll go over it all with you later.

An idea came in a flash. He liked its poetic justice. He would finish assembling the FBI rifle, then use it instead of the Galil. He would enjoy watching the media ask McCall how he could bungle the job so badly as to let Commander LW use an FBI rifle to elimi- nate the chief justice of the United States.

Agent Curtis’s radio crackled: “This is Agent Cawley,” the voice said. “It’s three thirty. We’ll be exiting the building in a minute or two.”

Damn! No time. I’ll have to use the Galil.

After the shot he would take the rope ladder to the ground. Fast. Unseen. He’d leave the scene carrying his hand gun so that by- standers would report seeing a man carrying a gun, wearing long pants, a sweatshirt, and a red baseball cap. Headed that way!

I’m way ahead of you jerkoffs.

The radio squawked again, “Cawley here. Agent Curtis, are you and Bradley in position?”

Dalton put on the FBI hat, turned the radio so that the wind gusting on the roof would slam against the mouthpiece, and raised up to peer over the edge of the building. “Yes,” he answered. The fewer words the better. Things were moving too rapidly for Cawley to focus on his reply as Agent Curtis.

Daddy, your birthday present should be here in a few minutes.

chapter 54

A CD was received at a San Francisco radio station: “I’m an LW recruit. I killed the state court judge to protest the failures of the courts in California to stand up against the Federal government’s repeated encroachments of

state’s rights.” An unnamed FBI source, said,

“Different case. Different nut.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

june 21, 3:20 p.m.

Jack opened the van’s side door as Frank skidded the van to a stop at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Seventh. Agent Rex Smith jumped in.

“Agent Bullock, the stand-in for Evans will be leaving the den- tist in about ten minutes,” Rex said. “There are two snipers on top of the building at the nearest intersection. I’ve positioned agents at each corner in all directions. Agents are at all the entrances to the metro system within five blocks. Hopefully, we have enough vehicles in the area to block off the exit from any underground parking garage. Agent Crenshaw’s squad is positioned in the National Mall. Other agents are scattered along as many possible escape routes as we could identify and staff in the time available.”

“The concentration of agents should be south of the dentist,” Jack said. “How is it set up?”

“That way,” Rex answered. “I agree. South is Dalton’s more likely route, given the location of his car. Only four agents are north of the dentist. If Dalton heads north, the agents positioned south will fol-

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low turning the pursuit into a large floating box. Agents are staking out any observed motorcycles. We have two agents on the trolley and two more near the Union Station Plaza. I’ll radio to get the agents moving should we learn he’s heading that way. More agents are watching the entrances to the Metro Rail System inside Union Sta- tion. A chopper’s holding at the bureau on Pennsylvania and Tenth. It can be over this area in a few minutes. We should be able to cor- ral Dalton once he shows himself. In the event of foot pursuit, agents will put on FBI hats.”

Rex handed Jack and his squad FBI hats. “If that happens, get these on your heads.”

Jack grabbed the front of Millet’s shirt. “Stay in this van. Keep the doors locked. Like you said, ‘You’re no secret agent man.’ You are not to participate in any pursuit or get out of the van for any reason.” Jack thought briefly about ordering Rachel to stay in the van as well, but she had a job to do and he knew she was good at her job.

“Where do you think Dalton will head?” he asked Rex.

“The Mall. It’s got trees and shrubs and pedestrians at all hours.” “Frank. Nora. You agree?”

“It’s the one place where he could anticipate agents might lose sight of him while he stays on the move,” Nora said as she turned to step out of the van.

“That’s where I’d head,” Frank said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries some kind of misdirection in an attempt to blend in with the citizens.”

Jack nodded. “All right. Lock and load. Rex, join your agents.

Frank, position the five of us near the entrances to the Mall.”

“You heard the man,” Frank said, “except for Millet, everyone out of the van. Colin, I want you to take a position near the Mellon Fountain. It’s in the small triangle where Sixth Street, Pennsylvania, and Constitution come together. If we fail to get him before he gets to you, he’s yours. If he surprises us and heads north, Rex will radio a position two command. That’ll mean you’re to move toward the Hyatt as will the agents from the Mall. The agents at the Supreme

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Court will move west. The agents from the west will move east. Those positioned near Union Station will swing around and drop down to finish the moving box.”

Jack watched Colin’s smooth gait as he picked up speed moving east on Pennsylvania Avenue.

“I’ll take Nora with me to Ninth and Constitution,” Frank told Jack. “You and Rachel cover Seventh Street between Pennsylvania and Constitution Avenues.”

“If he crosses Constitution,” Jack said, “he’ll be in the Mall. Dal- ton will have a plan for once he gets into the Mall. So, if the oppor- tunity presents itself, let’s take him on the streets.” Jack turned back toward Millet. “As soon as we’re gone, roll up this window and lock the door. I meant what I said. Keep your ass in this van.”

“Wilco, Jackman, the hero shit’s your job.”

Frank and Nora walked away quickly in the direction of Ninth Street.

“I’ll set up next to the Federal Trade Commission on the north- east side of Seventh and Pennsylvania,” Jack said to Rachel. “You cross to the west side and take a position near the National Archives Building.”

Jack held Rachel’s arm for a moment and softened his voice. “Be careful.”

She smiled and touched him on the heart.

june 21, 3:29 p.m.

Dalton tucked the heavy gloves he had worn to climb the rope to the rooftop inside his pants at the waist. He would need those gloves again when he went down the air duct. He still wore the latex gloves he had put on before assembling the Galil.

Earlier he had considered coming up from one of the under- ground parking garages to take the chief justice from up close. But then he had realized that the FBI could have a contingent plan that would quickly block the exits from those nearby garages. And even if he got out to the road, once they had identified his car it would be

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difficult to avoid capture. After days of plotting out all possible al- ternatives, he had decided his best escape would be on foot. It would be slower, but it would not be what they expected. Besides, it would allow him more flexibility to get into the National Mall and back to his car.

His stomach felt as if an alien was gnawing at the walls of its cap- tivity. After popping an antacid, he wiped the sweat from his brow, rubbed his latex glove on his pants, and tightened his grip on the rifle. After steadying his stance with one knee down, he put his red cap beside him, and put the FBI hat on his head.

He drew in a breath and let it out long and slow, then another, and another. The Galil’s reduced precision made a chest shot nec- essary. In a later communiqué he would tell America that not every- one in his militia had the shooting skills of the volunteer recruit who put down Capone in Dallas. Mommy always said, “When you get lemons make lemonade.”

There he is! There’s Evans! He’s such a creature of habit. He’ll turn left at F and walk back to the Court the same way he came. The FBI agents are moving in a standard protective pattern.

Slow slight movements of his hand allowed the scope to keep its crosshairs on Chief Justice Evans or the agent immediately shield- ing Evans. The choreographed group moved closer to the corner, just a few more steps. The grand moment was near.

The corner would be the weak spot in their protection scheme. The spacing between the agents nearest the curb had already begun to spread due to their wider arc compared to the agents turning the inside of the corner. The tail car, lagging back some, could effect his escape, but would not effect the killing of the chief justice.

Now.

Whap! Whap!

Dalton’s two shots, divided by an instant, struck dead center on the chest of the gray-haired man he believed to be Chief Justice Thomas Evans. Through the scope, he watched the man collapse against the wall of the building, watched his eyes go big, his tongue

272 David M. Bishop

lolling from the corner of his mouth. Then his legs buckled and he went down.

The minute the shot rang out, everyone looked up.

Dalton squeezed a few indiscriminate rounds into the crowd bunched at the corner. Through the scope he saw a slug chip frag- ments from the building’s masonry wall. Then a woman clutching her chest fell to the sidewalk. Another shot struck a man standing sideways. His nose exploded. He grabbed his face, blood oozing be- tween his fingers.

Dalton swung the Galil to the FBI tail car. It looked empty. The passenger-side door flew open, then the driver, who had leaned over to push open that door, came back into view.

The Fool! Evans is dead.

He took careful aim and again brought his finger tight against the trigger. The driver slumped forward, his body falling against the horn. It blared. People were screaming and scattering like cattle spooked by night lighting. He could feel their confusion. Taste their panic.

Dalton knew that FBI agents would soon identify the OBA build- ing as the source of the shot and they would swarm the boarded-up building. They would not find him. He would be gone.