“Nevertheless, Senator, you know as well as I do that negative press — no matter its insinuations — would be a candidacy killer for you, especially when your opponents cry out for an investigation… Don’t you agree?” asked Jeff. “As popular as you are, even you could not carry on through the backlash of negative press and survive.”
“Seriously, after all these years, you think you’re a threat to me out of the blue? If that were the case, I would have acted against you long ago.”
Neither of the Hardwick brothers could argue that point. It was strong, solid and viable. The man had grown to be a supreme statesman and now stood at the threshold of the presidency.
“Still,” Stan finally said, “we pose a threat to no one but you, Senator.”
“Apparently you’re wrong.”
“No, Senator, we’re not.” Stan turned to his brother and met his gaze. And Kimball could almost see the symbiotic connection between the two brothers like arcing synapses from one point to the other, the communication between them unmistakable, the agreement of what they had to do quite clear.
In unison the brothers simply nodded to one another and stood back, both aiming their weapons at the senator and his wife. It was time to take measures.
With the slowness of a bad dream Kimball could not move fast enough as he reached out with a hand, not sure what he was going to do, and cried out. “No!”
The brothers were oblivious to Kimball as they fired their weapons in rapid succession, the room lighting up with muzzle flashes as the bullets penetrated their targets, the senator and his wife taking the shots and jittering with multiple impacts, the opulent backboard and wall becoming a canvas of blood and gore.
When it was over and the targets stilled, the room smelling like cordite, silence reigned.
Kimball stood in disbelief not knowing why he was surprised at the outcome since the Hardwicks were involved. When he told them there was to be no killing, apparently they took it as a suggestion rather than a command.
“I said no killing.”
“Yeah, well, welcome to the food chain,” said Jeff. “Did you really expect that he would just let us walk away without retaliating in some form? What we did had to be done. You know that. And stop trying to be something you’re not, Kimball. You’re no priest. You’re going to Hell just like the rest of us.”
Kimball stood immobilized and stared at the bodies. The senator and his wife had been efficiently riddled with bullets, the sounds of the weapons silenced by suppressors no louder than spits, and no cries of pain from either victim. Yet Kimball knew he had compromised their position by yelling out in gut reflex. He turned to Jeff who was glaring at him with fury.
“Nice going,” Jeff told him. “Now we’re gonna have to fight our way out of here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The assassin had followed Kimball and the Hardwick brothers from Baltimore. He had placed a simple GPS device to the bottom of their truck, the system sending an image of the pickup to the screen of his monitor, which was secured to the dash of his rented vehicle. From a distance of three miles he could safely follow without being seen. And when the vehicle finally came to a stop close to Senator Shore’s residence, he couldn’t have been more elated.
The Iscariot Agenda was going well.
Parking the vehicle approximately a block away from where the Hardwick brothers parked their beefy pickup, the assassin found a vantage point on the slightly canted rooftop of a 24-karat home that had been foreclosed apparently for some time, at least by the appearance of the dead lawn and unkempt shrubbery. From his position he had a perfect view of the pickup. And through the scope of the CheyTac M200 he appropriated from Hawk, the vehicle seemed within a stone’s throw away.
With precise handling he removed the additional pieces of the rifle from his backpack and began to assemble them, carefully snapping the sections together. Once completed, the assassin mounted the scope and checked the landscape through the lens, the world becoming a phosphorous green with objects becoming very clear and very detailed.
After securing a suppressor to the rifle’s barrel, the assassin found the wide trunk of an oak tree and sighted the weapon to its center. Maintaining a shallow and steady breath, drawing the crosshairs of the scope to the center of the tree’s trunk, the assassin pulled the trigger, the gun barely sounding off.
When splinters of wood exploded to the left of his intended target he recalibrated the scope and tried again, this time hitting his target dead on.
Closing his eyes, the assassin took a deep breath and released it with a long sigh. Once he felt a meditating calm sweep over him, he removed a photo from the side pocket of his backpack and examined it. It was a Photostat copy of the Pieces of Eight, the photo marked with circles surrounding the faces of those now dead.
Looking at the pickup truck, then back at the photo, and with Kimball and the Hardwick brothers currently engaged with the senator, the assassin knew he had more than enough time to set the stage for the next scene.
“No!”
There was no doubt in the minds of the two Capitol police officers that they heard the same thing. The cry was loud and crisp and clear.
From the first level they quickly galvanized into action and grabbed their MP5’s, the officers racking their weapons and heading for the semi-spiral staircase with the points of their weapons directed to kill.
Jeff, Stanley and Kimball heard the footfalls of the officers climbing the stairway. Having no choice, Kimball removed his firearm and racked the weapon, chambering a bullet. Jeff and Stanley moved quickly to the hallway, the stairway to their left — the officers getting closer. To the left of the stairwell was a recess whose inner wall bore the artwork of something avant-garde.
“I got this,” Stan whispered.
Stan went to the recess and hid behind the wall at the top of the stairwell. The Glock was in his right hand.
When the forward officer crested the top step Stanley surprised him by darting out from the recess and came across with his left hand in a sweeping arc, the blow from the blade of his hand catching the officer in the throat, the clothesline strike causing the officer’s feet to go out from under him as the force sent the man hard to the floor.
In fluid motion his gun hand came up and centered on the second officer, the man’s eyes going wide with the quick realization that his life was about to end as Stanley fired off three shots in quick succession, the bullets impacting the center of body mass with the striking force driving the man down the stairway, the body rolling to a stop at the bottom step, the man’s face contorted, his body a broken ruin.
In a sweeping motion Stan came around with the weapon and centered it on the man lying on the floor, gagging, his lungs fighting for breath as his hands clutched his throat where he was struck with a chopping blow. Without hesitation Stanley fired off two additional rounds, the bullets striking the officer in the forehead, two hard punches, his blood fanning out beneath him like a halo.
And just like that it was over.
Both men had been killed within a period of three seconds.
“Now that was a work of art,” commented Jeff.
“We’re not done yet,” he said. “Don’t forget the guy with the MP5 outside.”
Jeff held up his weapon, waved it and smiled. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Stan reciprocated with a smile of his own. “Then let’s go get him.”
Kimball was beside himself. The Hardwicks were caught up in their own blood lust. The killing was as much as an addictive drug with the brothers finding their fix with the pull of a trigger. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go down, he thought. In and out with no one killed — the mission simply to determine who the assassin was behind the killings of the Pieces of Eight.