Nick Stephenson - Panic

She rubbed her arm absent-mindedly. “I have to check out today, so I wanted to come by and say thank you. You know, for everything. For getting me out of that… place.”

“Are you sure you have to leave today?” asked Mary, putting her hand on Christina’s shoulder.

“Yes, I’m sure. It’s my father’s funeral this afternoon and I have to be there. I’m sure you understand.”

Mary nodded and smiled sympathetically. Christina thanked her and turned to Jerome.

“And thank you for everything you’ve done, too. I know I wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for you. For all of you.”

The bodyguard mumbled something in reply, and Christina left the room, as more tears began to well in her eyes.

“How long have I been in here?” asked Leopold.

“Two days,” replied Jerome. “You lost quite a lot of blood.”

“And Stark?”

“Nowhere to be found. He got away.”

Leopold frowned and lay back down in the bed. They had been so close. No matter, they had Christina back, which was all that really counted in the end. He knew she would be okay, eventually. If the details of Senator Logan’s corruption ever went public, they would no doubt be covered up by his estate. It was pretty easy to get a gag order when your family knew all the judges. No point in fighting them. Let the authorities finish the job.

Leopold relaxed a little at the thought of handing this case back. He had found Christina, which was what he was being paid for. He would give the FBI everything they needed to link Stark to the murders, and give them Logan and the charity scammers on a silver platter. All that was left to do now was rest and recover.

“Are you well enough to go home?” asked Mary.

“Yes, I think so. Jerome, can you bring the car? I’ll handle the paperwork.”

Jerome nodded and left the room.

“I suppose you’ll be getting back the precinct now?” asked Leopold.

“Yes. I think my boss is finally going to be off my ass now we’ve managed to give the FBI something. Hopefully this will keep him happy for a while. I don’t think I can manage too many more graveyard shifts.”

Mary leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek, and then walked out the door, leaving Leopold and Albert alone in the room.

“Albert, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened. We should never have gotten you involved.”

“Are you kidding? The last few days have been the most fun I’ve had in of my whole life. I used to spend all my time indoors sitting at a computer, and now I actually have something interesting to tell my kids one day! If I ever have kids. I bet I will, though. The ladies love an action hero.”

Leopold smiled and held out his hand. Albert shook it vigorously.

“Thank you. If you ever need anything, anything , just let me know.”

“How about not shaking me so hard?” replied the consultant, grimacing. “Stitches, remember?”

“Oh, sorry.”

He let go and bowed awkwardly instead, making Leopold laugh out loud. Albert grinned again and left the room, closing the door behind him quietly. The consultant lay in the quiet room alone and exhaled deeply, feeling the pain in his shoulder start to recede once more. He closed his eyes and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Jerome picked him up from the hospital in the ’66 Shelby Cobra, and Leopold listened to the eager growl of the huge V8 engine as they rode through town. Not as comfortable as the Mulsanne, which was scrap metal by now, but more exciting than the town car gathering dust in the garage. Leopold figured Jerome wanted to blow off steam.

At the apartment, the consultant went straight into the living room and slumped in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, grabbing the bottle of scotch from the coffee table and pouring himself a healthy slug. The liquor hit the back of his throat and he closed his eyes, feeling the heat of the alcohol swell in his chest. He turned on the television and flicked over to the news channel, hoping to find out whether the last few days had hit the headlines yet. He didn’t have to wait long.

Jerome brought over coffee and they both sat and watched. The newsreader was touching his ear as the breaking news came in. They cut to a video of Christina, dressed in black, getting out of a polished limousine at one of the city’s many cemeteries, surrounded by journalists and reporters. She looked dazed and exhausted. Several reporters jabbed oversized microphones in her direction, but she kept her head down and pushed through. Leopold hadn’t expected such a large crowd.

The news anchor was back again and was talking excitedly, reporting that they had just received official confirmation that the President of the United States would attend the funeral. Leopold sat up in his chair.

The video feed switched to a hastily compiled video montage, displaying photographs of the President and Senator Logan together at various public and private events over the years. The news anchor mentioned that the two men had been good friends and that the President always took the time to honor his friends and loved ones. The news anchor was laying it on a little thick. Election year.

A black-and-white photograph of the Commander in Chief and Senator Logan shaking hands filled the screen as the anchor spoke. In the picture, the number fifty-three hung in an enormous banner behind the two men, and there was a half-eaten cake with candles on a large table in the foreground. It was the same photograph Leopold had seen nearly three days ago at the senator’s house. The same photograph Stark had apparently been so interested in.

Realization abruptly shot through Blake’s tired mind. “Jerome, fetch the car,” said Leopold, getting to his feet. “We’ve got about twenty minutes to get to that funeral before we have two more dead bodies on our hands.”

Jack Stark crouched atop the hill, his position covered by the thick foliage that grew around the private mausoleum, and peered through his binoculars. He was dressed in combat fatigues, the camouflage pattern perfectly blended in to his surroundings. The colonel opened the pack he had carried up with him and pulled out his rifle, an M99 Barrett with a custom scope. The rifle was high-caliber and designed for longer range work, but it was still just as effective at shorter ranges.

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.