Nick Stephenson - Panic

The Shelby Cobra screamed out of the garage and tore down the street, wheels spinning furiously in an attempt to gain traction and put the engine’s five-hundred horsepower to good use. Jerome sat in the driver’s seat, his right foot planted to the floor.

“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 connections can’t fix.

“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 spanned the Hudson river and connected Manhattan Island with Brooklyn. The traffic ground to a halt at the intersection, forcing Jerome to slam the brakes. From where they sat, Leopold could make out a line of cars spanning the entire bridge, none of which was moving.

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 grinned in agreement. Hitting so much as a pothole at this speed would wreck the suspension send them spinning out of control. The radio cracked again. The President had arrived.

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.

The blue lights were getting closer now. Leopold knew the patrol car would have radioed ahead for backup by now, but there wasn’t much anyone could do to them while they stayed on the expressway, other than track their progress. Once they hit the suburbs, things would be a little more challenging. The radio announced that the President’s car was pulling up. They weren’t going to make it.

Jerome didn’t slow down as they hit the exit for Green-Wood, swerving the car in a tight turn onto Third Avenue and into the rough industrial areas that surrounded the picturesque cemetery. The blue lights of the police car had vanished now, lost in the maze of streets and bustling traffic, but Leopold knew there would be more waiting.

As the Cobra charged down Twentieth Street, the grassy mounds of the Green-Wood cemetery rolled into view, peaking above the black iron fence that rose ten feet or so above the sidewalk and wrapped around the entire park. The lawns were littered with headstones, most of which were old and crumbling, and the swaying branches of oak trees were visible in the distance. Christina would be toward the center of the cemetery somewhere, where the expensive plots were kept. The radio presenter announced that the President was getting out of his car.

Jerome wrenched the car onto Fifth Avenue with a shriek of spinning rubber and executed a wide turn without dropping the engine speed, fishtailing slightly as he span the steering wheel to compensate. The entrance gates to the cemetery were close by. That’s when Leopold saw them coming.

Ahead, not more than fifteen hundred feet, a strip of flashing blue lights rushed toward them. The sirens cut through the noise of the traffic, a cacophony of high-pitched wails that bounced off all the buildings around them. Leopold saw the three squad cars screech to a halt and half a dozen police officers spill out onto the street, dragging a heavy chain of traffic spikes across the road behind them, before taking up positions behind their vehicles. The spikes were between the Cobra and the entrance gates, and there was no way to avoid them.