Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

Kim was pegged to the spot by indecision over whether to cover the story or help the bleeding victims around her. Lester shouted, “Get with it, Drake! This story is all ours for the time being, but others are going to be coming. It’s your moment, girl. Grab it with both hands.”

“But these people, Tom…”

“Fuck ’em,” he snarled. “We all take our chances in this game. They caught it, we didn’t. Shit happens. The medics will be here in a few minutes for them anyway, and our job is to cover the goddam story! You make up your mind right now whether you want to be a reporter or Florence Nightingale. You stop to help those poor bastards and you can kiss your career good-bye.” He had to keep her focused, keep her mind busy, or she would falter. Fucking newbie.

Harold ran up and rigged them with collar microphones and earpieces. “We’ve got the station. Go!”

“Kim? What’s happening over there?” The familiar voice of the news director back home in Arkansas comforted her.

“There was some kind of explosion in one of the TV vans,” she said. “It was not close to the parade route and probably has nothing to do with the wedding. Maybe an overheated generator or something.”

Lester broke into the conversation through his own microphone. “Fuck that! The goddam thing blew up almost right next to us! I’ve got some great fucking shots here, dude. Bodies and fires and all kinds of good shit. Kim and I are alone with it right now, but it won’t last long. Get us on air!”

The voice in her ear told her to stand by and be ready to go live. The news director took a few moments to confer with the station management. Fire and destruction always made good television, even better when media people were involved, but this was frontline action and a royal wedding at the same time, and their reporter had it! “Get your thoughts together, Kim. We’re going live in about one minute, as soon as we offer you to the network and cables.” The additional revenue from such an exclusive report could cover the budget for Kim’s entire trip.

Her heart flopped, but Tom flashed a thumbs-up and gave a smile of encouragement. The network was going to carry her report! No other reporters were at the smoldering site yet because they had been out of position, trying to get close to the parade route. Kim pulled out her hairbrush and a small mirror, but Tom Lester slapped them from her hands, saying the unkempt look of the blond hair dangling over her forehead and the dirt on her face and jacket added authenticity. He did not want her to see the trickle of blood working a crimson path down her dirty cheek. A button had torn from her blouse, enough to give a glimpse of a lacy black bra. Sexy as hell. The voice in her earphone started a nineteen-second countdown. Then she heard the godlike tones of the network anchorman saying, “…and here is reporter Kimberly Drake at the site of the explosion. Kimberly?”

In his hotel room in Belgium, Juba smiled as he recognized Kim Drake. She had her opportunity, just as he had predicted. He dialed another number, and this time a soft pop no louder than a firecracker went off unheard beneath the van rented by the Arkansas station. The contents of the canisters bled invisibly into the air, crawled out from beneath the van, rose, and spread.

Kim’s mike was live. Her dream was coming true. She was on live network TV! Once she started to talk, her nerves calmed and the training kicked in. Nothing fancy. Let the pictures speak while you give the who, what, when, where, why, and how. The network news directors were impressed with the kid.

Crew Manager William Warner of the London Fire Brigade was chewing a chocolate and peanut energy bar when the first explosion detonated less than a hundred meters from his truck. He had kept his team on full alert during the wedding, so they were already in their bulky coats, overtrousers, and fire boots. The truck was rolling in seconds, its lights flashing, the horn honking and the siren shrilling to push a path through the crowd as the crew slapped on helmets and pulled on gloves.

There were some casualties but only a small area of actual damage, and his firefighters were on it immediately with suppressant chemicals, then waded into the charred debris with their tools. Some cleared a circle for emergency medical personnel. Walker found himself bumping against a small American news reporter with a microphone in her hand.

Kim had finished her first report, but the appearance of the fire truck and its flashing lights gave her more material. Tom had them in his eyepiece as they dove into work. Let the pictures talk! Her throat was very dry; her eyes started to mist, and her skin itched. Probably the smoke, she thought, and plunged ahead with her work.

She had expected to be shoved aside by the big firefighter because that is what would have happened in the States, but this was England, where people valued courtesy. William Warner let her stand her ground because nothing important was happening anyway and his people had the work in hand. He coughed.

Warner had listened to the reporter and agreed with her quick conclusion that this had the look of an accident, maybe an undetected electrical fire inside the truck that set off a gas tank leak. Only an off-the-cuff hypothesis by an untrained observer, but a pretty good guess. Arson investigators would sort it out soon enough. He had already given basically the same report to the Command Center; the situation was under control. He felt a tug on his sleeve. The disheveled young reporter thrust the microphone at him, and Warner leaned down to answer the question. The telly camera was pointed at him.

Kim cleared her throat, then had to do it again before speaking. Exposed portions of her skin were stinging as if she had been attacked by a swarm of bees, and she felt woozy. She wouldn’t let that sideline her. “I am standing with an official of the London Fire Brigade,” she said. “Sir, what can you tell us about this explosion?”

Warner was about to answer that all was quite well, that it was an accident, when he actually looked at her. The girl’s face was flushing bright red, and she was rubbing her forearm, where a gelatin-like substance was clinging. Then a sharp chirp squealed from a rectangular device attached to the thick collar of his coat. He jerked his head up. More chirps were coming from the crew’s uniforms, and his firefighters turned to him with alarm and shock on their faces. They were in the midst of thousands of people, and their hazardous materials detectors were singing like mad canaries.

“Get your rebreathers on and button up!” he yelled. The reporter was collapsing at his feet, clawing at her skin as she sucked in air, having trouble breathing. Her eyes rolled back. The cameraman was falling to his knees.

“Oh, dear God,” Warner said, slapping down his own face shield as he grabbed the radio that was on the frequency of the Royal Command Center. “Red Alert! Crew Chief Warner in Sector Kensington Three. Red Alert! Dirty bomb! I repeat: Dirty bomb! ”

D AWKINS WAS A BIG ,strong man who had more muscle tissue than an ordinary person to protect his organs, and the adrenaline coursing through his system gave him the extra burst of strength he needed to reach the Marine position while still carrying the woman. Then his eyes closed and he toppled hard to the ground.

Marines do not have medics, but they have a brotherhood relationship with combat-trained Navy corpsmen. Corpsman Rick Suarez trained alongside the MARSOC Marines, even having the mission specialty of being a demolitions expert. Suarez jumped to the side of the wounded Double-Oh even before Kyle scrambled to them.