Across the way in the opposite direction, the Federal Trade Commission Building forged into view like the prow of a steamship, its rounded face fanged with limestone colonnades. Peeking over its shoulder, the Washington Monument’s arrow tip caught the midday glare.
The motorcade’s route was not the straight line between the White House and Capitol Hill that lay before Evan. The twisting course they’d mapped out, designed to thwart malignant planning, lay well beyond his range. The two contingency routes carried the motorcade even farther afield from his location.
That was what Candy was for.
To herd the prey.
He rolled his head toward Pennsylvania Ave. A plastic grocery bag snared on a telephone line above the wide street wobbled in the faint breeze.
From far in the distance, the sound of chopping rotors reached him.
Candy’s voice came through his earpiece. “It’s go time.”
Staying flat on the roof, Evan reached beside him, unzipped the backpack, and removed the weapon.
President Bennett ducked into the first of the three limousines, the helicopters low enough to blow his hair out of place. His body man, a Secret Service agent, and Eva Wong were waiting in the rear compartment. He settled into the leather, noting the sparkle of sweat at Wong’s temple.
“Nervous?” he asked.
She shook her head too rapidly, a cunicular tic.
He laid a presidential hand on her knee. “It’ll be fine.”
The agent’s body was tense; his jacket flapped open to grant him quicker access to his SIG P229.
As the three matching limos eased out of the protective shield of trees to join the convoy, Bennett took a moment to smooth down his hair. He found himself breathing a bit more deeply than usual.
All at once the driver tapped the brakes, causing them to lurch in their seats.
Wong cried out, and the agent drew his weapon.
Bennett found himself gripping his seat belt. He gave a laugh that sounded a touch strained even to his own ears and let go. The dummy vehicles behind had halted as well.
A rap came on the agent’s window, followed by a fall of blond hair as Agent Templeton leaned over.
Since the windows didn’t open, the agent cracked the door to talk to her.
“Come on,” she said to the agent, gesturing for him to climb out. “I’m taking the ride myself.”
The agent hesitated.
Naomi said, “Get out.”
He obeyed.
She took his place, sitting heavily, the plush leather seat giving out a sigh of air.
Bennett said, “You sure you want to join me here on the bull’s-eye?”
She kept her seat belt unbuckled, her eyes pegged to the window. “Like you said: If I can’t get you seventeen blocks safely, we both deserve to die.”
She rapped the divider, and they pulled out and away from the White House.
Courier bag slung over one shoulder, Candy McClure sliced through the pedestrians behind the blockades, unnoticed by the motorcade cops guarding the intersections. She held an iPhone live-streaming from a camera she’d hidden in Lafayette Square on the right foot of the statue of the French general himself. The tiny lens was angled on the northeast gate of the White House, through which Evan’s intel had indicated that the presidential motorcade would exit.
And indeed that’s where the three limousines appeared now, sandwiched in the middle of a host of G-rides, the footage crisp and seamless. The limos halted at the gate, waiting to insert themselves into the stream of the bigger convoy.
Holding the phone tightly, she watched the tires as Evan had instructed.
The back vehicles ground their wheels against the gravel before accelerating, but the lead limo turned them gradually as it eased forward.
The target had been identified.
Threading closer to the sawhorses, she smiled. Misreading her, one of the motorcade cops tipped his head to her, a tough-guy flirt. She let her smile widen.
Drifting past the curved marquee of the Shakespeare Theatre Company, she took a position on the corner that gave her a clear view up E Street. Swiping the live feed off her iPhone, she called up her telephone favorites.
In place of names, the entries were simply numbered 1 through 10.
A hush of excitement rippled through the crowd, and she looked up as the presidential motorcade swung into view, a cavalry charge of G-rides and SUVs. She waited as the river of dark steel snaked through the turn, the presidential limos finally appearing. Each flew miniature flags on either side of the hood, Old Glory and the Presidential Standard. Three helos tracked the limos overhead, spread like hawks.
The front SUV of the motorcade had reached her corner now, whipping past the sawhorses, Cadillac One still a quarter mile back. Candy wet her lips, her focus narrowing to the vehicles blurring across the 9th Street intersection a full block away.
Her finger hovered over the first telephone number.
She waited.
Pairs of vehicles shot through the target intersection, as fast as shuffled cards — SUVs, G-rides, another set of SUVs.
She didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
And then Cadillac One’s grand grille appeared, the limo hurtling forward. The rear tires had just cleared the crosswalk when she thumbed the first telephone number.
The manhole cover in the intersection exploded, blasting twenty feet into the sky, severing Cadillac One from the vehicles behind it.
There was an instantaneous eruption of activity.
Four sets of G-rides screeched to the sides, forming a chevron, Cadillac One and its protective SUVs accelerating through them. The dummy limos split north and south, all three limos peeling apart, putting distance between themselves, their respective choppers shadowing them overhead. The motorcade cops scrambled, parting the crowd, shoving sawhorses aside to open up escape routes.
Candy focused only on Cadillac One.
As it raced toward her, readying to bank into a turn around her corner, she thumbed phone number 3, blowing the manhole cover right behind her, forcing what remained of the convoy to veer back on course and continue along E Street. The Park Police helicopter tilted abruptly to dodge the flying disk, which missed the left skid by no more than a foot.
For good measure she tapped 4 and 5 next, blowing manhole covers to the north of the upcoming intersections so Cadillac One wouldn’t deviate from its course. She sprinted along the sidewalk, keeping it in sight.
Rather than drop low into the building corridor again, the helo swooped to a greater height, providing better overwatch. Sirens blared. Some of the agents lunged out of their vehicles, weapons drawn, shouting into radios—AOP! We have an AOP! Attack on Protectee in progress! Repeat: in progress.
Candy fixed her attention only on the presidential limo. As it neared 6th Street, a quick dial of phone number 8 blasted another cast-iron saucer skyward, steering the limo south. The EOD’s protective measure of spot-welding the manhole covers only added to the explosive force from the charges Candy had placed beneath them last night.
Courier bag bouncing on her hip, she ran after the convoy as it swept out of sight ahead. Onlookers screamed, stampeding up the sidewalks, providing her some cover. But she was running against the current, with purpose, which made her conspicuous. Sure enough the flirtatious motorcycle cop picked her up, his helmet swiveling in her direction.
He revved the bike and accelerated at her hard, steering between G-rides and up onto the sidewalk. She got off calls to 9 and 10, initiating the Indiana Avenue charges on either side of 6th, funneling the convoy ahead so it would pass behind the Newseum. She couldn’t see the explosions — she hadn’t reached the corner yet — but she heard the eruptions even over the commotion of the crowd.