And yet, and yet…
Beneath the freezing cold, Alex felt herself sweating.
What was wrong with this? What was wrong with this picture? It wasn’t just that her guts were in a turmoil; every part of her was.
Her hand went to her weapon and rested upon it. She moved cautiously away from where she had stood, looking for hints as to what might be imminent, trying to figure what Federov might have known that she didn’t. Had he been warning her or jerking her chain?
Then there was an ominous noise. A bang in the distance. Then another. She saw all the security people stiffen to alert. For a moment, everyone froze.
Then she realized.
More airplanes? No! Something from beyond the perimeter. Something that defied the most zealous of plans of protection.
More loud blasts in the distance, followed by another round, then quickly a third. She saw the members of the president’s Secret Service escort cringe. Then there was a whistling in the air above.
Incoming projectiles!
Some of the security people quickly went for their own weapons. Then there were a series of explosions across the square. One, two, three, moving toward the presidential target with incredible precision.
Then all hell broke loose.
A few yards away, Alex saw a woman’s throat burst open with a horrible gash. The woman staggered and blood flooded from her wound. She never knew what had hit her. Smiling one second, dead the next.
Then someone else was hit by something. Chaos everywhere. Bodies were falling and people were running. Explosives were coming into the square from what seemed like every direction. The entire entourage, the entire ceremony, was under attack from far beyond the square.
She heard someone yell in English. “RPGs! RPGs!”
Rocket propelled grenades. Instinctively, Alex tightened her own security pass around her neck so everyone could see it. She ran toward her van and her presumed means of escape. But it was like running through a riot because everyone was fleeing in a different direction. She was knocked over twice and had to fight her way back to her feet.
An older Ukrainian man with an American flag ran across Alex’s path. Before Alex’s eyes, a piece of shrapnel hit the man in the face and blew his head open. Blood gushed from the wound, hot and wet, splattering everyone within a few feet. He reeled and went down.
Then another RPG landed and then another. Then she couldn’t count any more because the rounds were on top of each other and coming in on top of the entourage.
Everything that happened seemed to happen simultaneously. The whole moment of terror was frozen into one frame of time.
A blizzard of bone, brains, and blood. Screams.
Cries of pain and terror.
Barked orders from the various security services.
Shots were fired from many directions. Alex couldn’t tell if they were friendly or hostile.
Alex wanted to vomit. Her insides wanted to explode. Instead, she kept moving. She had lost sight of Robert. Americans were calling out, running. Ducking and darting. There was no logic except survival.
Alex continued toward the vehicle that had brought her. She searched the crowd madly for Robert but still couldn’t find him. She thought she saw Reynolds on the ground with a wound, but when she altered her course and ran ten feet in that direction, the man rose and staggered with the help of another man. She was no longer sure what she had seen.
Someone gave a command for all American security people to show badges and ready weapons. She drew her handgun. She moved toward her car.
Then Alex saw that the presidential limousine had taken a direct hit. The driver writhed in the front seat. His face was covered in blood. She knew she couldn’t do anything for him. Half his head was missing. He was still moving, but she knew he would die. She could do nothing.
She ran toward her own vehicle. Bullets were hitting everywhere. She spun around; the wreath lay under a body that looked Ukrainian. She turned in another direction and the complete lack of reality slammed home. Two agents whom she didn’t know had the president between them. They had automatic weapons drawn and were looking for a car to use to escape. The president’s own car had taken a devastating hit. So had the backup limo. They were within ten feet of her, then five, then ran smack into her.
“Here!” she screamed. “FBI!” she shouted, identifying herself. “Here! Here!”
They looked. There was the number-two armored Mercedes, abandoned by the Ukrainians. She threw open the door. The keys were in the ignition. She threw open the backdoor.
The Secret Service agents looked at her and understood. They abandoned their prearranged emergency routines. They just wanted the president out of there. They pushed the president in and covered the president’s body with their bodies.
For a brief moment, Alex surmised that Ukrainian security had been infiltrated by traitors. The RPGs must have been the first line of attack. Gunmen on the ground would probably be the second.
American English: a man’s voice. “Out of the way, lady! Out of the way!” A marine major in uniform-the driver for the Benz-blindsided her, grabbing her shoulder and yanking her out of the way. She hit the ground hard.
Just then, Alex discovered she was right. Combat between forces on the ground. Two men with automatic handguns and ski masks made a move toward the driver’s side of the Benz, confronting the driver.
The marine whirled with his sidearm, but he wasn’t fast enough. The gunmen fired. The marine’s eyes went wide in disbelief as the bullets threw him against the side of the car. The gunmen were only a few feet from the president.
Alex stared at the enemy for less than half a second, understanding the moment perfectly. She raised her Walther. They didn’t expect that from a woman. They turned on her, but turned too late.
She was younger, faster, and smarter, and somehow God seemed to guide her hand. It was Colosimo’s all over again, but this time for keeps.
She fired six shots, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
What happened would replay itself in her mind for the rest of her life, every surreal moment. Before either assassin could fire a shot at her, Alex saw her bullets shatter the front of the one man’s face and rip a hole in his neck. His weapon flew from his hands and he sprawled backward.
She hit the second man in the sternum. He was heavier and stockier, but no match for a.9 mm round, even from her old Walther. He managed to squeeze the trigger of his weapon, but the shots flew into the sky.
Crimson pools burst from his chest as he fell.
She lurched quickly to her feet. The marine was dead on the ground beside her, the left side of his neck and face shot to pulp.
In every direction, everyone was running through a hornets’ nest of automatic weapons fire and rockets. Remaining Secret Service agents closed in on the limousine. From behind her, in the backseat, two Secret Service agents huddled against the president, their weapons up.
One of them yelled, “Driver down! You! Get in!”
She knew this part of the drill too. Service procedure was to get Einstein out of the Red Zone as fast as possible. She turned and looked. The Service people meant her. She should drive.
For a split second, Alex could see the face of the president, as dazed and terrified as the guards. Like any battle, everything had gone exactly to plan until the first shot was fired.
She holstered her weapon and slid into the front seat of the vehicle. The front window was cracked but not shattered. It had been hit hard twice and showed the points of impact. But it had held. God bless Stuttgart engineering.
“I’m FBI!” she said to the agents in back.
“Get us moving!” one of them barked back. “Drive!”