Warren Murphy: Target of Opportunity

Hidell stood on the eastern coping of the roof and looked down at the starkly abstract black-and-white compound of the Kennedy Library poised on the brink of Columbia Point, where the Atlantic lapped gray and cold.

The press was already gathered. Microwave TV vans spilled miles of thick cable everywhere. Satellite dishes pointed to the winter sky. And, of course, Secret Service agents, unmistakable in their Ray-Bans, moved about with brisk authority.

Rifle at his feet, Alek Hidell waited patiently, the cold breeze off the Atlantic worrying his faded hair, listening to Secret Service communications.

"Point of entry secure."

"Roger."

"Access road is now clear of traffic."

"Roger."

"Library roof checks out."

"Countersniper?"

"Science roof okay," said Alek Hidell into his wrist mike.

"Okay. Stay sharp. Stagecoach is turning onto access road. Repeat, Stagecoach is turning onto access road."

"About time," Hidell muttered under his breath.

A minute later three black Lincoln Continental limousines came up the perimeter road to the entrance to the Kennedy Library. The waiting crowd grew still. A wintry wind seemed to pick up.

And Alek Hidell lay down on the edge of the roof and cradled his rifle in his arms. He put his right eye to the cheap Japanese scope, his finger on the trigger, and tracked the middle limo-the one flying the presidential flags-with cool confidence.

When the three limos eased to a stop before the entrance, his earphone crackled, "Get set. Big Mac is about to step out. Repeat, Big Mac is about to step out."

"Make it easy for me," Hidell muttered, putting the cross hairs of his scope on the dead area where the rear curbside door would open.

Then it opened.

"Big Mac stepping out now. Watch your zones."

A familiar helmet of thick steel-wool hair lifted into the cross hairs and Alek Hidell squeezed the trigger carefully.

The helmet of hair erupted in a pink-and-gray flower of exploding blood and brains.

"He's been shot! Alert Mass General!"

"Sniper on roof! Repeat, sniper on roof! Everybody get down! Get down now!"

Everybody got down on the plaza, fearing another shot.

But there was no second shot. Just the echoes of the single rifle shot reverberating between the great buildings of the University of Massachusetts, and the answering cries of disturbed scavenger sea gulls.

"For the love of God!" a shocked Secret Service voice said over the air. "It's Dallas all over again!"

"You can say that again," said Alek Hidell, leaving his rifle on the roof as he quickly and quietly reentered the Science Center.

On the roof a single shell casing lay smoking. And scratched into the shiny brass were two letters: RX.

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and he stifled a yawn as the agent at the Mavis Car Rental counter tried to assure him that yes, while the city of Furioso, Florida, is as safe as can be, prudent tourists took precautions before driving into the city.

"What kind of precautions?" Remo wondered, hoping to cut off the droning spiel.

"For one thing, we suggest that our customers do not dress in touristy garb when driving into the city."

Remo looked down at his clothes. He was wearing a black T-shirt and matching black pants. Italian loafers enclosed his sockless feet.

"This," he asked, "is touristy?"

"Actually you're fine in the garb department, sir."

"I always thought so," Remo said good-naturedly.

"We also suggest you store all luggage in the trunk of your rental vehicle. No stacks of conspicuous luggage piled in the rear seat where they might be spotted by urban predators."

"Is that what they call them down here?"

"That's what the City of Furioso safety brochure calls them," said the rental agent, pulling a pastel-colored pamphlet from a plastic holder and offering it to Remo.

"The salient points are inside," he added.

"So why are you running them down for me?" asked Remo.

"Company policy. A lot of adults can't read these days. Lawsuits, you know."

"Lawsuits I know about," said Remo, opening the brochure.

It was festooned with palm trees and pastel bikinis. The Sorcerer's Castle and other famous attractions belonging to the nearby theme park called Sam Beasley World were splashed around the twenty points of safety.

Nowhere in the pamphlet was there any mention that renting a car and driving it from the lot and into the city was an open invitation to be slaughtered.

"It says here not to drive in through International Drive," Remo pointed out.

"Actually that's been updated. It's I-4 that's unsafe now."

Remo looked up.

"Urban predators read, too. Some of them."

"Excuse me, chump," a surly voice said at Remo's side. And a long brown arm reached under Remo's elbow to slip a pamphlet from the plastic holder. "Gotta have one of these here brochures."

Remo felt the butterfly touch on his wallet, which he carried in his right front pants pocket because pickpockets had the hardest time reaching into it undetected.

Remo stepped back, bringing the heel of one hand-tooled Italian loafer down on the instep of the would-be pickpocket with deceptively gentle force. Like a jigsaw puzzle held together by tough ligaments, foot bones began separating along every fault line, and the pickpocket yelped and kept yelping until Remo released the foot.

"Hey, man, what your damn foot made out of anyways? Lead?"

The pickpocket was hopping on his good foot while clutching his other Reebok with both hands. Blood seeped up around the laces with each hop.

The pickpocket saw the blood seepage and rolled onto his back the way Remo had seen hip-hoppers drop to the sidewalk to spin in place.

This man didn't spin. He began screaming that he was going to sue everybody in a fifty-foot radius for inflicting personal injury, emotional carnage and "expensive stuff like that there."

To quiet him, Remo nudged his skull with the toe of the same foot that had rearranged his foot bones. He began spinning. And screaming.

"Haaalllp!"

"Happy to oblige," Remo said as the rental-booth door was opened by a second possible urban predator. He gave the spinning man another nudge, which sent him spinning like a top out the door and onto a moving escalator.

"What his problem?" the newly arrived possible urban predator wanted to know as his head snapped from the escalator to Remo and back again.

"He tried to pick the wrong pocket," said Remo.

"What pocket is that?"

"My pocket."

The possible urban predator-Remo had sized him up by the steely 9 mm bulge in the crotch of his baggy pants pocket-did a double take, pretended to look at the red Mavis sign on the glass door again and said, "Oh. This be Mavis. I want Burtz. They number two and try harder."

"You were saying?" Remo asked, turning his attention back to the rental agent.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Why not?"

"All he wanted was your wallet."

"And all I wanted was to keep my wallet."

"He might sue."

"He might," Remo agreed.

A screech came from the vicinity of the escalator. "My damn leg! It caught in the fucking escalator! I'm gonna damn sue some sonna bitch over this."

"Just as long as he doesn't sue me," said Remo, grinning. And put out his hand for the keys.

"I need to finish telling you about the safety problems," the agent said.

"I have the pamphlet, remember?"

The agent plowed on anyway. "If, while driving from the airport, you are rammed from behind or someone attempts to run you off the road, under no circumstances should you stop your vehicle. Or if you are forced to halt, do not exit your vehicle."

"Got it," said Remo, signing the credit card slip.

"Your car will be waiting in the lot. For your personal safety our tags are no longer emblazoned with the Mavis corporate logo."