Panic

“If only we had a little more time on our hands, I’d like to have some more fun with you.”

He edged the knife closer. It was touching the eyeball now. Leopold could feel the steel scratching against his cornea and tried not to flinch.

“Unfortunately,” Stark continued, “I really do have to be on my way soon.”

“I have a question for you,” said Leopold, trying not to move.

His opponent paused, contemplating a response. Eventually, he relaxed the hand holding the knife and smiled. “I don’t suppose it will make any difference now. Be quick.”

“How did you manage it?” said Leopold, taking the opportunity to take a deep breath. “All the pla

Stark relaxed his grip a little further and pulled back the knife. Then he threw back his enormous shoulders and laughed.

“You honestly think I’m the biggest problem this country has to worry about? I’m just the tip of the iceberg.”

“So it was someone else pulling the strings the whole time?” said Leopold.

“Just be thankful you’ll never have the chance to find out.”

“Give me a name,” said the consultant, looking straight into Stark’s eyes.

“Why? It won’t matter. Nothing will save you now.”

“I just want to die knowing who beat me.”

Stark paused for a moment. “I don’t suppose it’ll make any difference,” he said, bringing the knife up to Leopold’s throat. “And it’s always good to know when you are bested.”

“Tell me.”

The soldier leant forward and whispered a name into Leopold’s ear. When he had finished, he drew away and tightened his grip.

“Now. How do you want to die?” asked Stark, holding up the steel blade. “Knife or bullet?”

“Bullet. Through the heart.”

“Very well. At least you’ll die with some honor.”

Stark threw the consultant to the ground at his feet and kicked him in the ribs, rolling him a few feet back toward the clearing.

“Now, stand up,” said the assassin, gri

Leopold complied, concealing his cell phone in the palm of his hand as he did so.

“Any last words?”

“Just one,” said Leopold. “Duck.”

Stark looked confused. Leopold dropped to the floor and hit the send button on his cell phone. The soldier’s eyes widened in panic as he realized what had happened, frantically patting down the zip pockets that lined the front of his fatigues.

“What have you –” Stark began, but he never got to finish.

The two micro-explosives that Leopold had planted on Stark when he had been forced up against the tree received the signal from his cell phone and detonated. The consultant felt hot air blow against his face and he screwed up his eyes as the blast hit him, shielding himself with his hands and dropping to the ground as the shockwave hit. His ears rang from the noise, a wet thunderclap that was much louder than he had expected.

He looked up. Stark was still standing, a frozen look of surprise on his face. The colonel glanced down at his chest. Most of it was missing, exposing raw, dripping flesh and charred bone. Leopold could see where the man’s rib cage and lungs had once been. He could make out the lower intestines, which had been ripped apart and were leaking a thick, yellow liquid.

Stark opened his mouth in a futile attempt to breathe before his eyes rolled back into his head and he crumpled to his knees, where he stayed for a few seconds until his dead muscles relaxed and he fell onto his front. His leg twitched and he lay still.

Cold air hit Leopold’s lungs as he finally took a breath. His ribs flared in pain and he felt his head throb from where Stark had hit him. But he was alive. The ringing in his ears began to subside, and he could make out the sound of footsteps approaching through the woodland. Lots of footsteps.

He felt his vision began to darken and he knew he would pass out any second. His eyelids flickered. He could make out flashes of movement and noise and what he thought sounded like people talking. All of a sudden he was on his feet, hoisted up by an unknown force. Then the pain hit him again and his eyes snapped open, the world shifted into focus and his brain figured out what was going on.

“Leopold, can you hear me?” Jerome shouted into his ear.

The consultant grunted and looked around him. Six police officers and three Secret Service agents stood nearby, guns drawn, checking for danger. One of the police officers checked Stark’s pulse, a futile exercise considering that most of the pulmonary system was missing, but protocol nonetheless. Another officer checked the colonel’s body for any hidden weapons. The three Secret Service agents looked at Leopold with curiosity and holstered their firearms.

“What you two did was pretty stupid,” said one of the agents. “But I’ve got to give you credit for getting the job done.”

Leopold stared at the agent. Now was the time for damage control. The Secret Service would brief the FBI, who would quickly put up a cover story in case any of the details went public. Leopold doubted he would come off well in the report.

“Area secure,” one of the police officers shouted.

The agent nodded and ordered one of the others to call in the medical and forensic teams. Then all three agents stalked off in the direction of the funeral procession. Jerome wrapped Leopold’s arm around his shoulder and began walking after them. The police officers busied themselves with cordoning off the scene.

“What happened?” asked Jerome.

“After the Secret Service took you out, I went to find Stark. I wanted to trail him. Unfortunately, he saw me coming.”

“How did you manage to cause so much damage?”

“I was able to plant the remaining explosives on him while he was preoccupied. Then I just had to hope I’d get the opportunity to get far enough back to detonate them.”

“Risky move.”

Leopold nodded and felt the bodyguard pick up the slack as more of the strength in his legs left him.

“Mary called,” said Jerome. “She’s on her way in one of the ambulances. I texted her to say you were okay once I eventually found my cell. Had to pry it out of Christina’s hands.”

“There was one other thing,” said the consultant, weakly.

“What’s that?”

Leopold told him what Stark had said during their encounter.

“Someone else was calling the shots?” said the bodyguard, once his employer had finished. “Did you get a name?”

“Yes. And it’s not a name I ever thought I would hear again.”

Leopold felt his legs buckle again. He managed to summon enough strength to keep from collapsing and told Jerome the name the colonel had whispered into his ear.

“That’s impossible. He’s lying. He must be.”

“Why would he lie? He was just about to kill me.”

“Maybe he just felt like messing with you one last time.”

“No. I heard it in his voice. He was telling the truth.”

Jerome didn’t press the point any further, but Leopold could tell he was worried. A few minutes later they reached the funeral procession. The President had gone, rushed away by the Secret Service, and the rest of the mourners were now back on their feet, many of them wearing confused and worried expressions. They eventually found Christina, who had claimed a seat near her father’s casket. She looked up as they approached.

“My father always told me that the legacy a person leaves is the only inheritance that matters,” said Christina, tears welling in her eyes. “But he’s left me nothing but pain and humiliation. How can I ever forgive him?”

“Maybe you don’t need to,” said Leopold, sitting down next to Christina. “Your father’s legacy will hang over your head for the rest of your life. It will shape you and your family forever. And, more importantly, your father’s legacy will make you work harder than ever to prove to the world that you are not like him. You can achieve amazing things with the right motivation, Christina. I have a feeling we can expect great things from you.”