“Seventy-percent dilution. Undetectable within two hours postmortem.”
Sinatra nods and checks his watch again. “Six minutes.” He tilts his head to speak into the two-way radio mic. “Six minutes.”
Lawford, standing on the pool patio just outside the French doors, keeps watch to the north side of the Lodge. “Roger that. North side clear.”
Lewis, standing on the front porch, maintains surveillance of the south side. “Six minutes. South side clear.”
In the president’s bedroom, Martin makes final preparations to the insertion apparatus. “Six minutes is cutting it close.”
Sinatra isn’t opening the matter for discussion. “We’re gone when they all return. That’s the agreement.”
Martin nods, laying out the insertion apparatus on the bed next to the unconscious Monroe. While Sinatra and Davis watch, he inserts the thin nanotube into the president’s jugular vein and begins to feed it down the major artery. Davis, surprisingly squeamish for a trained killer, looks away. He hates this part.
On the pool terrace, Lawford sees a figure emerge from the gloom of the surrounding woods. Leon Washington approaches Aspen Lodge from across the broad, open lawn. Lawford pulls his shoulder-mounted mic close to mouth. “North side. I’ve got eyes on unidentified black male approaching. One-two-five yards.”
“One male?” Sinatra asks via his radio.
“From what I can see,” Lawford responds, looking in all directions through his night-vision goggles.
Sinatra steps back from the bed and turns his head to the mic attached to his left shoulder. “Lewis?”
The operator on the front porch scans the surrounding area through night-vision goggles. “South side clear.”
“Back up north side. Move!” Sinatra orders.
Meanwhile, Martin has finished inserting the feeder tube. He glances to Sinatra, who nods his go-ahead. With the aid of a Keplerian Loupe, the operator threads the micro-thin wire into the nanotube in Monroe’s jugular vein and starts to feed it through the length of the insertion conduit, into the right atrium of the president’s heart.
Lewis has joined Lawford on the terrace, where they both watch Leon Washington, who has stopped approximately seventy-five yards from Aspen Lodge and simply stands motionless there.
“What’s with this fucking guy? Did he not get the memo?” Lawford wonders aloud.
Lewis shakes his head, uncertain. “Fucking shit show.”
Lawford halfway raises his suppressed HK MP7 submachine gun. “Smoke him?”
Lewis shrugs. Into his radio: “Unidentified male has stopped seven-zero yards from location. Advise.”
Sinatra observes Martin’s final efforts to place the conducting wire into the president’s heart. Into his mic: “If he comes any closer, take him out. We’ll evac south and loop around through the woods.” He checks his watch. “Bishop?”
“Negative,” Lewis responds.
The rest of the house is quiet and deserted. Light spills out of the president’s bedroom, cast by the bed-stand lamp Sinatra had snapped on to facilitate Martin’s work. The two operators on the pool terrace are visible through the French doors, gazing out over the north lawn, as Hayley enters silently through the front door on the south side of the residence. Relying only on the density of shadow to guide her inside the gloomy living room, she gets her bearings.
Inside the bedroom, Martin attaches the free end of the wire to the battery-powered device on the bed. Monroe moans, in a drugged stupor. The operator looks to Sinatra for a signal to proceed. The team leader nods. Martin reaches for the switch.
“Stop!” Hayley’s voice comes from behind them. Martin, Davis, and Sinatra all look in unison and see the intern standing in the open doorway, gun held at arm’s length.
“You wouldn’t be holding Bishop’s gun on us if Bishop had done his job,” Sinatra observes to Hayley, cool as a Zen master.
She ignores Sinatra, addressing Martin. “Put that thing down and move away from the bed.”
Martin does no such thing. Doesn’t take his eyes off her.
Sinatra wishes he could have a cigarette but can’t afford to contaminate the kill site. “One of the first women to make it through basic infantry training,” he tells Davis, gesturing at Hayley. To her, he adds, “I imagine you’re pretty good with a gun.”
“Sharpshooter badge. Forty for forty.”
“Forty for forty? Now that is impressive.” He pauses, chewing on his thumbnail in lieu of a smoke. “Are you prepared to die for your president, Ms. Chill?”
She points the gun at Martin. “Put it down.”
“He won’t respond to your command, only mine,” Sinatra explains to her. Then he looks to Martin. “Finish it.”
Martin puts hand to switch. Hayley tilts the gun barrel up a fraction and fires, bullet striking the wall just above the operator’s head. Martin freezes, looking to Sinatra for guidance.
In his earpiece, Sinatra hears from Lawford outside. “What the hell’s going on in there?!”
Sinatra is thinking of the best course of action. He tilts his mouth toward the mic. “Your unidentified male still stopped short of location?”
“Affirm that,” comes Lawford’s response.
Sinatra does not miss the flicker of anxiety that crosses Hayley’s face with the mention of an outside intruder. He understands immediately the significance and tilts his mouth to mic again. “Take him out if you don’t hear from me in the next thirty seconds.” A beatific smile creases his face as he looks to Hayley again. “Your friend for your president, Hayley? Is that a deal you’re willing to make?” Hayley stares at Sinatra, her powder blue eyes revealing nothing.
On the terrace, Lawford checks his watch. Sinatra’s deadline passes without word from him. The operative raises his weapon to take aim at Leon but then lowers it again. “Fuck” is what he says as he watches the woods light up with the beams of multiple flashlights, then erupt with two dozen men and women wearing dark blue windbreakers and carrying semiautomatic weapons.
9
HAYLEY CHILL
Sinatra hears Lawford’s muttered obscenity over the radio but hasn’t a clue what prompted it. Did his kill shot miss its mark? Did Lewis shoot first, stealing his kill? Did the unidentified male flee or hit the deck for cover? Whatever is happening on the Lodge’s north lawn isn’t his immediate problem right now. The advantage inside Monroe’s bedroom still lies with him. The intern has no idea his men have encountered a problem outside. She has unwisely revealed her connection to the unidentified male on the lawn and her concern for him can be exploited.
He gestures toward the unconscious president. “This vain and arrogant man is worth saving in exchange for your friend’s life?”
For most people, this might be an unbearable dilemma without clear choice. But for Hayley, there really is no other option. The president’s life must be saved above all other considerations, including her own preservation. Such is her hard wiring. She takes even more emphatic aim on Martin’s head. “Step away from the president,” she orders the operative with a tone leaving no question about her conviction.