“I can assure you this is a very respectable establishment.”
“You have secret hallways and exit doors you know nothing about. Aren’t you worried about security??
??
He looked at her blankly and then shook his head. “This isn’t some big city. There’s never any serious crime.”
“Well, that streak was just broken. Do you have Mrs. Martin’s phone number?”
He handed it over and she was called. There was no answer.
Alone for now, Michelle stood in the middle of the room. All those years of work, all that time proving she could do the job—it was all down the drain. She didn’t even have the consolation of having hurled her body in front of a would-be assassin’s bullet. Michelle Maxwell was now part of history. And she knew she was also history with the Secret Service. Her career was over.
CHAPTER
4
THE FUNERAL PROCESSION was stopped and each car was searched, as was the hearse. It was Harvey Killebrew, devoted father, grandfather and husband, lying in there when they opened the casket. Virtually all the mourners were elderly and obviously frightened by all the men with guns, and there didn’t seem to be a kidnapper within the bunch, but still the agents directed all the cars and the hearse back to the funeral home.
Rent-a-Cop Simmons approached a Secret Service agent who was climbing into his sedan to lead the caravan back to the funeral home. “What next, sir?”
“Okay, what I need is this road watched. Anyone trying to come out, you stop. Anyone coming in, you stop and check for appropriate credentials. We’ll get you some relief as soon as we can. Until then, here is where you’ll be. Got it?”
Simmons looked very nervous. “This is really big, isn’t it?”
“Sonny, this is the biggest thing you’ll ever have happen in your entire life. Let’s just hope it turns out okay. But I kind of doubt that.”
Another agent, Neal Richards, ran up and said, “I’ll stay, Charlie. Probably not a good idea to leave him here all by himself.”
Charlie glanced at his colleague and said, “Sure you don’t want to come back and join the party, Neal?”
Richards smiled grimly and said, “I don’t want to be within a mile of Michelle Maxwell right now. I’ll stay with the kid.”
Richards climbed into the vehicle next to Simmons, who maneuvered his van so that it blocked the road. They watched as the caravan of agents and mourners passed out of sight, and scanned the countryside in all directions. There was no sign of anyone. Simmons kept his hand firmly on the butt of his gun, his black leather glove crinkling as he squeezed the pistol grip. He reached over and turned up the volume on his police scanner and then looked nervously at the veteran agent.
He said in a loud voice, “I know you probably can’t tell me, but what the hell happened back there?”
Richards didn’t bother to look at him. “You’re right, I can’t tell you.”
Simmons said, “I grew up here, know every inch of the place. If I was trying to get somebody outta here, there’s a dirt lane about a half mile down the road. You cut through there and go out the other side, you’re five miles away before you even know it.”
Richards now glanced at him and said slowly, “Is that right?” He leaned toward Simmons and reached inside his coat pocket. The next moment Secret Service agent Neal Richards was lying facedown on the seat, a small red hole in the center of his back, the stick of gum he had pulled from his pocket still clenched in his hand. Simmons looked in the back of the van, where the woman was taking the suppressor off her small-caliber pistol. She had been secreted in a small area under the van floor’s false bottom. The chatter from the police scanner had covered the slight noise she made coming out. She said, “Low-caliber dumdum, wanted to keep it in the body. Less mess.”
Simmons smiled. “Like the man said, this is really big.” He pulled out the dead agent’s wireless mic and power pack and threw them deep into the woods. He drove off in the opposite direction of the funeral home. Eight hundred yards down the road he turned onto a weed-covered dirt lane. They pushed Agent Richards’s body out there in an overgrown ravine adjacent to the road. Simmons had been telling the agent the truth: this road was the perfect escape route. Another hundred yards and two bends in the road brought them to an abandoned barn, its roof starting to fall in, its doors open. He drove directly into the space, got out and shut the barn doors. Parked inside was a white pickup truck.
The woman emerged from the back of the van. She looked nothing like an elderly widow now. She was young, blond-haired, slender yet muscular and agile, dressed in jeans and a white tank shirt. She had used many names over her brief life and currently went by “Tasha.” As dangerous as Simmons was, Tasha was even more lethal. She had that essential trait of a polished killer: she possessed no conscience.
Simmons took off his uniform, revealing jeans and a T-shirt. Next he pulled out a makeup kit from the rear of the van and removed the wig, matching sideburns and eyebrows and other parts of his facial disguise. He had been hidden in the hollow platform under Bill Martin’s casket; after helping to carry John Bruno out, he assumed the role of “Officer Simmons.”
From the van they lifted a large box containing Bruno. The box was marked as containing communication equipment in case anyone had bothered to look. A large tool case was situated against the back of the white pickup’s rear window. They took Bruno and placed him inside the tool case and locked it. There were vents in the sides and top of the case, and its interior had been padded.
Next they loaded bales of hay that were stacked in a corner of the barn into the bed of the truck; that mostly concealed the tool case. They jumped into the cab of the truck, donned John Deere caps and pulled out of the barn, taking another weed-infested dirt road back to the main drag about two miles farther down.
They passed a stream of police cars, black sedans and SUVs heading, no doubt, to the crime scene. One young cop even smiled at the pretty woman in the passenger side of the truck cab as he sped by. Tasha gave him a flirty look and waved back. The pair drove on with their kidnapped presidential candidate safely unconscious in the back.
Two miles ahead of them was the elderly man who’d sat by the entrance to the funeral home when John Bruno and his entourage passed by. His whittling done, he’d escaped Maxwell’s lockdown by a few minutes. He drove alone in his ancient, muffler-rattling Buick. He’d just received the news from his colleagues. Bruno was safely tucked away, and the only casualty had been one Secret Service agent unlucky enough to pair up with a man he undoubtedly believed was harmless.
After all this time and work, it had finally begun. He could only smile.