Still, Levy could not begrudge her this desire, as she had faithfully stood by him through a turbulent political career spanning nearly three decades. The house just outside of Charlottesville was in need of extensive remodeling, and a warm glow spread throughout his body at the thought of making a home there with his wife, and how much she would enjoy the process.
“Senator?” He broke from his thoughts and turned to peer at Kevin Aidan. “We need to talk about your meeting with the governor next week. He’s going to ask you about school funding, so I think we ought to—”
“Later, Kevin. Let an old man rest for a moment,” Levy joked as he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. The light drum of the rain on the roof of the vehicle dulled his senses as he drifted back into fantasies of retirement. He took no notice when the vehicle splashed through a miniature lake of rainwater as it made the sharp right turn onto Independence Avenue.
From the moment he received the second call, the man in the black Tahoe worked quickly but efficiently. His hands were steady as he peeled away the threadbare blanket covering the object on the seat next to him. Lifting the awkward rectangular weapon onto his lap, he flipped a latch to move the optical sight into place, then swung the firing-pin mechanism down into position.
What he held in his hands was known as the M202A1 66mm launcher, also designated as the Flash launcher by the U.S. military, for whom it was specially manufactured. This particular weapon had been conveniently lost during a live-fire training exercise at Fort Bragg the previous spring with a full complement of three M74 rockets. The semiautomatic launcher was actually capable of firing four rockets in four seconds, but it was only issued with three, and the army’s investigation would have been far more extensive if ammunition not assigned to the missing weapon had also disappeared.
As the launcher was already loaded, he had twenty seconds to spare. He used this time to move himself and the bulk of the weapon simultaneously into the passenger seat. After extending the trigger into the firing position, he scanned his mirrors and peripheral visibility. Through the rain streaking down his rear windshield, he saw the first of the two Suburbans approach.
The man took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Looping the strap into the crook of his right arm, he cracked the passenger side door and waited to see if fate would spare the life of Senator Daniel Levy.
As luck would have it, the first light was green. He breathed a soft curse as the convoy began to roll through the intersection, and so it was with a slight pang of relief that he watched as an errant motorcycle swerved directly in front of the lead Suburban. The driver braked hard to avoid clipping the bike, and the man holding the launcher in his lap heard a brief squeal of tires when the following vehicle stopped. In a quiet show of impiety, he thanked God with a fervent whisper and pushed out onto the sidewalk.
“Weapon! Move, move, move!” Heads snapped up as the shouted words came over the radio. The agents in the first vehicle swung frantically in their seats to search for the threat. Senator Levy was jolted awake from a light sleep, and he turned to his advisor with a confused expression. Reading panic in Aidan’s face, he immediately turned to look out of the rear window. The world around him was blocked out by sheets of rain. It was only then that he felt the first wave of paralyzing fear.
Spurred on by a surge of adrenaline, the young driver of the second vehicle broke protocol and attempted to maneuver around the first, but the sudden stop had left the vehicles too close together. He clipped the rear bumper of the lead Suburban, forcing the heavy SUV to grind to a halt. It was all the time the man needed. The weight of the launcher kept it steady on his shoulder as his eyes found the primary target. He squeezed the trigger and the first rocket screamed toward the second vehicle, its deadly path marked by a thin contrail of white smoke.
The senator saw a brief flash through the driving rain and closed his eyes as the agents screamed into their radios.
The man immediately adjusted his aim after he saw the projectile slam into the back end of the second Suburban. The M74 rocket was filled with 0.61 kilograms of a thickened pyrophoric agent, known as TPA, with chemical properties similar to those of white phosphorus.
The results were devastating to behold. Another rocket tore into the lead Suburban just seconds after the vehicle carrying the senator was reduced to a heap of smouldering metal. The particles expelled from the warhead’s casing ripped into nearby vehicles and passersby. One agent managed to get the rear door open just before the impact and was thrown 20 meters from the vehicle, his scorched body writhing on the damp pavement until he expired a few moments later.
The chaos was unimaginable on Independence Avenue, as the street was filled with people returning to work from their lunch hour. The screams of terrified onlookers were lost on the man as he turned his attention to the chase vehicle that had initiated the first warnings over the radio. The fact that he had fired two rockets within five seconds had given the agents in the last car little time to react, and he could see there were only two of them, one behind the wheel. He lifted the launcher, but immediately pulled it back down when he realized that the agent exiting the passenger side already had an MP5 submachine gun up at his shoulder. Benecelli squeezed off a 3-round burst that missed the assassin by inches, the 9mm slugs tearing into the red-brick wall of the Arts and Industries Building.
Then Benecelli’s line of sight was blocked as his target moved behind the bulk of the Tahoe.
Meanwhile, the man with the launcher was beginning to feel the chance for escape rapidly slipping away. The angle at which he had parked the rented truck had given him a direct route to the National Mall through the Smithsonian’s Haupt Garden. Still shielded by the Tahoe, he took two steps back toward the wrought iron entrance, then turned to sprint through the gate and down the tree-lined path.
He stopped and turned once more before reaching the sharp right curve that led out to the Mall. His breath was coming hard, but his hands were steady as he checked to make sure that the final round was properly seated in the weapon. Then he lifted the launcher to his shoulder for the third and final time.
The rain was driving harder now, heavy curtains of water sweeping over the buildings and the approaching sidewalk, obscuring much of their view and drowning out the cries of the wounded. On the other side of the Tahoe, Agent Megan Lawrence moved carefully to the left, her standard-issue Sig Sauer P229 up in a modified Weaver stance as she covered her advancing partner. Benecelli held the only automatic weapon in the vehicle, and she couldn’t help but realize how completely outgunned she was. Megan commanded her mind to remain clear as she focused on the slowly widening gap between the front windshield of the truck and the narrow path next to the Arts and Industries Building. She did not think about her six-year-old daughter or the close friends she had just lost, although both thoughts were screaming for her attention. At that moment, all her awareness and considerable skill were focused on Benecelli as he began to edge around the front of the vehicle.
Her partner hesitated just before moving into position for the shot, and it was only then that Megan heard the terrible whine of the solid-fuel rocket as it sped down the path and into the passenger side door of the Tahoe. Standing frozen in place, she watched in horror as the triethylaluminum filler burned its way through the vehicle’s frame like it was made of plastic. Jagged pieces of metal coated in smouldering particles of TPA embedded themselves deep into Benecelli’s face and chest, and the last thing she heard were his screams of agony before her world faded to black.