Panic

The Barrett used solid brass rounds and propelled them at three times the speed of sound, keeping the bullets supersonic for nearly a mile and a half. Stark didn’t need to worry about range or being spotted; at this distance, the round would hit its target a full second before the soundwaves did, so a silencer wouldn’t be necessary. More accurate that way.

The rifle itself was made from matte black steel and was around fifty inches in length when assembled, most of that length in the barrel. The weapon was single-shot bolt-action, which made for greater accuracy and reliability than a semi-automatic but resulted in a delay while the next round was loaded into the chamber. No matter, there was only one target Stark cared about, and the mechanics of a bolt-action were somehow more satisfying. More brutal. Stark smiled at the thought.

He pulled out the bipod, barrel, trigger assembly, bolt assembly, and butt plate and carefully assembled the weapon, securing it in place. He lifted the weapon and positioned himself near the edge of the bushes, where he set the rifle down so that the muzzle just protruded from the leaves, still partially obscured from sight. He rested his right elbow on the soil and squeezed the trigger with his index finger. The empty Barrett responded with a satisfying deep metallic thunk resonating from the breech.

Stark took out a single round and loaded it into the chamber, secured the bolt in place, and placed five more on the ground to his right, tips facing up. He attached the rifle scope, flipped open the lens cap, and looked through the sight. He adjusted the scope to his requirements and replaced the cover. He smiled with satisfaction. The perfect killing tool. And if the plan went as it was supposed to, he wouldn’t even need to fire it.

Chapter 45

The Shelby Cobra screamed out of the garage and tore down the street, wheels spi

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” said the bodyguard, not taking his eyes off the road as they barreled forward, the tires finding the grip they needed.

“The President,” said Leopold. “That was Stark’s target all along. Stark knew the senator and he were close, and knew that the President would be at the funeral.”

“How’s he going to take out the President in a public place? He’ll never get close enough.”

“Think about Christina’s injuries. Why would someone cut into a person’s flesh, only to stitch it up again? The doctor said that there were traces of morphine in her system, that she wouldn’t have felt a thing the whole time. The cuts weren’t torture.”

“So what were they?” asked Jerome, shifting gear as they rounded a corner.

“It first caught my attention when she said the cuts were irritating her,” said Leopold. “I could see the swelling when we first found her, but assumed it was an infection. The only other thing that would cause a reaction like that would be a foreign body, placed underneath the skin.”

“Let me guess – like micro-explosives?”

“Exactly. Judging by the number of deeper cuts, Christina could have as many as six explosives implanted underneath her skin. All Stark has to do is wait for her to get within a few feet of the President, and then trigger the detonator. The blast would be strong enough to vaporize both of them,” said Leopold.

“Stark could pull that off from a distance with a cell phone. All he’d need would be a clear line of sight to keep an eye on his target.”

“Yes. Which means he has to be at the cemetery. We need to get there before the President arrives and gets too close to Christina.”

“Can’t you call this in?” asked Jerome, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“And who’s going to believe me? By the time I get through to the right people and convince them I’m not some wacko, it’ll be too late.”

“Fair point”, replied Jerome. “Looks like we’re on our own. I’ll need directions.”

“The funeral is at Green-Wood Cemetery,” said Leopold, his voice raised over the noise of the engine. “That’s in Brooklyn. Must be a family plot or something, seeing as they stopped taking bodies years ago. Nothing the right co

“It’s at least thirty minutes in this traffic.”

“We don’t have much of a choice. Just floor it.”

The bodyguard smiled and revved the engine to five-thousand rpm. He shifted down from fifth gear to third and the Cobra surged forward, reaching seventy miles per hour within two seconds. Leopold felt the force of the acceleration slam him into the back of his seat as Jerome crossed over into the bus lane and the slow NYC traffic fell behind.

Ahead, a public bus pulled out onto the road, coming up quick. The bodyguard swore and wrenched the wheel to the left, merging with the rest of the traffic and narrowly avoiding a blue pickup that was a few feet behind them. The driver of the pickup sounded the horn angrily and Jerome swerved back into the empty lane with a screech of rubber as they flew past the bus, escaping a rear collision with a white SUV ahead. As they cruised ahead, Leopold turned and saw the driver of the SUV stare at them, slack-jawed. He waved back, cheerily.

He flicked on the radio and eventually found a station reporting on the funeral details. The reception was fuzzy, but he could just about make out the news reporter over the static. The President was on his way and due to show up in less then ten minutes. Jerome gripped the wheel tighter and kept his right foot down.

After a couple of minutes they reached Manhattan Bridge, a two-lane highway that spa

The bodyguard swore again and pulled out onto a pedestrian crossing, forcing several bystanders to jump out of the way. From here, Leopold could see that one of the bridge’s lanes was closed due to maintenance, marked by a line of orange traffic cones.

“Hold on,” said Jerome.

Jerome revved the engine again and released the clutch, sending the car hurtling forward in a cloud of burnt rubber. The traffic cones were scattered to the side as they surged forward, bouncing off the bodywork of the vehicles lined up in the other lane.

“I don’t see any holes in the road,” said Jerome.

“They usually close off one of the lanes to keep the maintenance guys safe while they work on the support systems.”

“Good. I wasn’t looking forward to what might happen if there were any chunks missing out of the bridge.”

Leopold gri

Jerome urged the car forward, squeezing every last drop of speed out of the giant engine. As they crossed the halfway point, Leopold spotted a flash of blue light reflected in the rear-view mirror, followed shortly by the sound of a police siren.

“Dammit, looks like we’ve attracted too much attention,” said Leopold, glancing back in his seat.

The flashing blue lights of the police car stayed reassuringly far behind as they sailed over the Manhattan Bridge. As they entered Brooklyn, the traffic began to merge into both lanes again and Jerome had to swerve to avoid a collision. He turned onto the expressway and put his right foot to the floor, passing the other cars and sweeping from lane to lane to avoid the vehicles in front.