The second agent hesitated for vital moments as his target was obscured by Harden’s writhing body, and Cole took the opportunity to thrust the web of his hand, between his index finger and thumb, straight into the agent’s throat, the impact crushing the windpipe and killing him instantly.
Harden, who had now dropped to her knees, looked up at Cole with pleading eyes. ‘Please,’ she offered, real emotion now evident in her voice, ‘I can make you rich. I can — ’
Cole cut her off with two quick nerve strikes, rendering her unconscious. He wanted desperately to kill her, but the fact was that she was living proof of Hansard’s plans, and a ‘strategic interview’ with the woman would corroborate what Cole would tell the President — if he got there in time to save her.
29
Standing on the stairs from the old swimming pool to the Press Briefing Room above, President Ellen Abrams took several long, slow and deep breaths.
‘Okay, Stevie,’ she said to her bodyguard, loyally by her side. ‘It’s showtime.’
Together, they ascended the steps to the first floor. Abrams would emerge from behind the curtain to take her place behind the podium whilst Mancini would subtly move to one side, unseen.
He smiled at the President and nodded his head. ‘Yes, ma’am. Showtime.’
30
Cole had quickly stripped the Secret Service agent closest to his own size and weight, and had exchanged clothes.
He now wore the man’s dark blue suit and tie, Sig Sauer handgun on a tactical holster on his belt, radio earpiece in and operational.
‘Eagle Eye moving to podium,’ Cole heard over the radio, and he knew it must be Mancini reporting on the President’s movements.
He opened the door of the Secret Service room and strolled out confidently, just as an agent would who had every right to be where he was, going where he was going.
He turned immediately right at the stairs and ascended them quickly. He had less than a minute.
31
Ellen Abrams emerged to the podium to the blinding flash of lights from the gathered cameras, and it took her eyes a few seconds to focus.
The small room was full to capacity, each chair in the theatre-style bank occupied, as well as all standing room behind and to the sides. Even after its refurbishment, the Press Briefing Room was something of a fire hazard. The main door to the room was blocked by reporters, all eyes intently on her, waiting for her statement so that they could report it to the world.
She glanced to her left and saw Mancini waiting there in the shadows behind her.
Reassured by his presence, she began.
32
Cole’s trip through the house was almost as rapid as when he had been manhandled inside earlier in the evening, and it had been plain sailing until he was outside the press room.
At the top of the stairs he had turned right, and then just before the entrance to the West Colonnade, he turned left into the outer press offices.
The people there had made way for him, and he had listened intently to the radio as Mancini announced Abrams was at the podium.
And then Cole had been at the door to the Press Room, shoulder to shoulder with reporters and press agents who hadn’t made it inside.
Two Secret Service agents blocked the door. As he approached, he saw their faces change from welcome of a fellow agent, to concern, to suspicion. ‘Who the hell are you?’ asked the one on the left, six feet four and two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle.
Both men’s hands were already going to their guns, but Cole was faster, catching a point behind the big man’s ear, moving to his right even as the first man dropped unconscious to the floor, trapping the second agent’s gun arm and punching him in the side of the neck, disrupting the blood flow and knocking him out cold.
Cole saw agents further down at the far end of the corridor reacting, but paid them no attention as he burst through the door into the Press Briefing Room.
33
As President Abrams made her introductory statement to the press, and to the millions of Americans watching at home, Mancini was no longer listening to the words.
He merely scanned the room to make sure that all cameras were on, focussed, and concentrated on the stage.
It was beautiful, it was all so beautiful; he could see Abrams’ head just in front of him, the years of pent-up frustration and rage just seconds away from being being opened up in a maelstrom of violence. That pretty little head would soon be exploding into a million little pieces, televised across the globe. Beautiful.
He took a deep breath.
And then in one fluid, practised motion, he drew his pistol.
34
Eyes turned on Cole as he shouldered his way through the door, the heavy mahogany smashing into the reporters pushed up against it.
Cole looked at the podium, Ellen Abrams resplendent in front of the Stars and Stripes hanging in front of the thick blue curtains, and then to her left.
A man in the shadows, hand going to his belt, a flash of metal as his handgun raised up towards Abrams.
There were too many people in the way, blocking Cole’s line of sight.
Ignoring the screams and the chaos resulting from his entry, he moved before the rest of the Presidential security detail ensconced within the Press Room had time to react, pulling one reporter down to the floor and using him as a steeping stone, placing one foot on his prone form and pushing off, jumping clear over the first line of reporters even as his own gun came clear from his unbuttoned jacket, his arm pointing straight as his body sailed through the air, finger squeezing the trigger.
A single shot echoed out, and the whole room watched as the 10mm round whipped past the President, entering the right eyeball of the man in the shadows behind her, exiting via the rear of the skull along with three pounds of bone and brain matter, blown across the painted blue wall.
Mancini was dead before Cole came crashing earthwards, landing on top of three reporters in the second row of theatre seats, who screamed, jumped up and pulled past him, joining the mass exodus for the main door.
Cole himself dropped the gun, spreading himself defencelessly over the back of one of the chairs in surrender.
The other agents in the room had reacted now, and whilst four of them bundled the President back down the stairs to the pool, still others helped the reporters exit the room, whilst four more surrounded Cole in and amongst the blue theatre chairs, guns drawn and trigger fingers itchy.
But he had done it.
The President was alive.
35
Hansard had watched the bank of television monitors in his office at the ODNI with anticipation bordering on excitement, a rare feeling indeed. Each monitor was tuned to a different news channel, all broadcasting live from inside the White House, and he had watched the events unfold from every angle — first the opening introduction of Abrams’ speech, then the chaos at the door even as Mancini was raising his gun, and then as Cole had leapt over the press corps and shot Hansard’s man straight through the eyeball.
Although many of the networks’ camera crews had fled the room, there were still live feeds coming through from three of the news channels — either because the cameras were being operated by remote, or by people with nerves of steel — and Hansard had kept watching, open mouthed, as President Abrams — still alive! — had been bundled away, members of the press had fled, and the Secret Service had arrested an unresisting Cole and led him away.