McCauley conducted his run in typical fashion, warming up slowly the first half-mile, but achieving full stride by the time he entered the park. There was a hill at the southern entrance, which, depending on the direction he ran, would require he either run up the hill at the start or down it at the finish. He usually liked to run up the hill, finding it more forgiving on his knees than the additional pounding they took running downhill. Today, however, he decided to run in a clockwise direction, which would mean running downhill on the way home. His knees, after all, were responding favorably to the daily dose of glucosamine chondroitin for his joints.
McCauley was just rounding the bend that led from the top of the hill back to the park’s southern entrance when he noticed another jogger dressed in slate gray sweats approaching him on the path ahead. A new guy-must’ve just moved in, he thought. McCauley rarely saw anyone on the path at this early hour.
As he drew near the jogger, it was difficult to distinguish much about his features. The man wore sunglasses and had pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over the top of his head, partially obscuring his face. As the distance between the two runners closed, however, the man in the gray sweats abruptly stopped, pulling something from the small of his back. The jogger had withdrawn a large handgun and pointed it directly at McCauley. A second later a muffled spit of fire issued from the muzzle of the gun. McCauley tumbled and fell to the ground as a jolt of pain pierced his left thigh. I can’t believe it…I’ve been shot!
Steven McCauley lost his focus on everything but the man in the gray sweatshirt, whose threatening presence seemed to envelop him like smoke from a smoldering campfire. Before he could register a protest, the muzzle of the nine-millimeter Lugar fired again, the second shot piercing the middle of his chest. Bewildered and unable to grasp what was happening, he tried to escape, haphazardly clawing the ground in an effort to back away from his oncoming assailant. His efforts were of little use as the man was now straddling him from above, pointing the gun directly at his face. It was at this moment that he heard the last words he would ever hear.
“This is for Dallas Weaver, ya bloody wanker.”
The man in the gray sweats then fired a third round into McCauley’s face, the bullet entering his mouth just above the chin, ripping his jaw apart. McCauley’s hands made involuntary, spastic movements caused by the shock and trauma to his body. He tried to scream, but no sound would come from his mouth. He put his hands to his face but could feel nothing below his nose.
Just as with Dallas, McCauley’s carotid artery had been severed, the blood pumping out in spurts with each contraction of his heart. The man stared passively down at McCauley now, watching the life force ebb from his victim’s helpless body, relishing the confusion in his eyes as he struggled to make sense of what was happening. The running path was awash with blood and it was only a moment later that Steven McCauley breathed his last breath, his eyes staring blankly toward the sky as the life force spirited back into the heavens.
“There ya have it, Mr. McCauley. We’re all square,” Kilmer said, and slowly resumed his solitary jog back to the entrance of Hidden Park, content he’d evened the score for the death of his trusted friend.
THIRTY-SIX
John Hopkins University
Travis Marlon was way beyond his comfort zone. He had reluctantly taken the unexpected assignment from Richard Kilmer to fly directly to Maryland to locate one Sela Coscarelli, a research fellow at Johns Hopkins University.
“Can it, mate,” Kilmer had said. “Yer not doing bugger. The Livermore op launches t’night. Cripes, how tough can it be to case a Sheila? Scope her out, and gimme the deal on pinchin’ her. It’s simple. Now belt up ‘til I spell ya.” All of which meant: do it and shut up.
Holloway had ordered that Dr. Sela Coscarelli be put under immediate surveillance for reasons unclear to Marlon, but she was apparently essential to force the willing cooperation of Jarrod Conrad. There had been another setback with the antigravity machine, and Conrad was now central to making it operational. Because all of Kilmer’s available men were committed to Livermore, Marlon was the only suitable man for the job. True, Stuart Farley was available, but he came with predictable consequences, which Kilmer was eager to avoid. Besides, the volatile Farley was already staked out at Conrad’s place in Stanford. So even though it was not his forte, Marlon grudgingly agreed to handle the task and report his findings.
He shook his head, remembering the earlier discussion he’d had on the matter. I must be losing it, he thought. He was feeling ill-prepared, lacking the necessary expertise to tail a person, but forged ahead despite his misgivings.
Marlon had been following the slender, dark-haired woman since his arrival, trying not to be spotted as a tail. Even with his rudimentary skills, he had learned a great deal about Dr. Coscarelli in a short time. Primarily she was of woman of simple tastes, and didn’t appear to have any complications in her life that would make kidnapping her difficult. He briefly questioned Jordan Blair, her research assistant, and discovered Coscarelli was normally in class weekday afternoons, but spent the bulk of her time in lab with graduate students; her research and teaching endeavors were clearly her highest priority. But Ms. Blair had also volunteered that she was the oldest daughter of Senator Alfonse Coscarelli, a significant and obvious complication, but one that was not his concern. He was merely to investigate and report; Dr. Coscarelli’s kinship to one of the most powerful men in the country was somebody else’s problem.
While Sela Coscarelli seemed very affable and outgoing, it didn’t appear she had a love interest, or even many close friends. From what he could gather, she lived alone except for a Siamese cat. Marlon was able to identify this little tidbit through a careful examination of her home a few blocks from the edge of the campus. By happenstance, he’d discovered an open window that allowed his entry. A cursory inspection yielded nothing more than the cat, a few family pictures, and stacks of scientific papers confirming her academic passion. How odd that such an attractive woman lives alone, he mused.
After watching his subject perform a ho-hum routine, Marlon had finally reported his findings to Kilmer. Remembering their conversation still bothered him.
“Richard…Marlon here.”
“Bonzer there, Trav. I trust yer in Maryland,” Kilmer had answered tersely. “What’a’ya found out about Coscarelli?”
“All things considered, she’s pretty low-key and would be easily abducted. But I suggest we steer clear of this woman. She’s the daughter of U.S. Senator Alfonse Coscarelli of New Mexico. Kidnapping her will unleash a shit-storm of heat. An army of police will be searching for her, and the media will rip into this story like a pack of hyenas. This isn’t a good idea.”
“Good or not, it’s what Holloway wants,” Kilmer replied. “More to the good…yer teein’ up the transport. Sully’ll meet ya after Livermore. With yer intel, he’ll make the pinch, and yer to brin’ her in.”
“Whoa…just a second, Richard. We discussed this. I don’t kidnap people. I’m a freaking pilot, for chrissakes,” Marlon remembered saying, hardly believing his ears.
“We ain’t hagglin’, Travis…everythin’s wonky. Ya just give Sully everythin’ ya got on the woman. He’ll be the heavy; yer goin’ to a safe house. I’ll give ya the spot later. Just keep under wraps ’til we figure the next move. I’m mad as a cut snake, but that’s the deal… ya good?”
“Got it,” Travis had said, wishing he could worm out of the assignment, but he knew his fate was already sealed. “Sully and me will take care of this…” he said, ending the call.