Max Collins - Fate of the Union

Finally, just as the thunder seemed about to diminish, Adam Benjamin, in a blue off-the-rack suit with white shirt and red tie, strode out from the wings, beaming to the crowd and waving, walking right by Rogers and Reeder. Now the applause rose to its former apex and beyond.

Akers emerged from the wings, close on Benjamin’s heels, and took position at the top of the stairs just to the right of Rogers.

A spotlight followed Benjamin and stopped with him as he paused to stand and wave, poised between Akers and Rogers, the speaker nodding to the crowd in humble acceptance of their adoration.

Just as the applause began to diminish, Benjamin turned, nodded to Reeder, then strode to the podium. He patted the air to silence the crowd, which of course only inflamed them further.

Benjamin stepped away from the podium, smiled at the crowd, shaking his head, finally putting a big show of putting his finger to his lips. They laughed, and applauded even more, the crowd well aware of its costarring role in the spectacle.

Finally Benjamin moved to the podium and the crowd took their seats.

“ Usually, ” he said, in his casual way, “ a speech like this begins: ‘My fellow Americans.’ But the politicians who address you that way don’t view you as their ‘fellow’ anything. They view you as, well, I guess... a kind of obstacle. Those hypocrites calling you ‘Americans’ is almost an insult, because these politicians... not all, but many... don’t really believe in America. At least not the Common Sense version that the founding fathers had in mind. ”

He paused to let them applaud again and seemed flattered when the crowd again got to its feet. When those on the stage did the same, Reeder reluctantly joined them. Just because he liked what this guy had to say didn’t make him any happier about being played like this.

With a palm, Benjamin quieted the crowd and the applause gradually thinned and seats were again taken.

But one man was still on his feet.

One man was in fact coming down the left outside aisle, quickly, applauding as he came, as if his enthusiasm couldn’t be contained. The spotlight on Benjamin meant some of the other bright lights were off now, and Reeder could see the guy pretty clearly.

Akers apparently hadn’t seen the man, his eyes on the front row where two audience members were on their feet and coming toward the stage, applauding, maybe just wanting a closer look. One of Benjamin’s security staff cut in front of them and the pair backed up to their seats.

At the podium, Benjamin was saying, “ Our two once-great political parties have been driven to the far left and far right, leaving the rank and file among us alone in the middle, without representation. ”

The two at right taken care of, Reeder swung his attention back to the guy in that outside aisle, who was now almost to the stairs onto the stage at far left. Surely security near the stage would grab him — but where were they? The audience member approaching, applauding, looked respectable enough — navy blue suit, white shirt, shades of red-striped tie, echoing the speaker’s own wardrobe. A thirty-something professional, sandy hair cut short.

“ Everybody tells me ,” Benjamin was saying, “ that it’s impossible for a third-party candidate to win. But what if that third-party candidate represents the vast majority of Americans in the common-sense middle? ”

Could this be Reeder’s attacker at Bryson Security?

Was it the blond from the SIM card?

At this distance, and with the bright lights, Reeder couldn’t be sure. Half out of his chair, he was about to yell to Akers, to alert him, but the security man was turning toward the left side of the stage, having apparently spotted the guy, so yelling might only distract Akers, who had this.

Then the approaching figure’s hand slipped under the suit coat and came back with something.

“ Gun! ” Reeder yelled.

A collective gasp came up from the crowd, sucking the air from the room and silencing the speaker as Akers reached for his own piece on his hip under his unbuttoned suit coat...

... but too late.

The sandy-haired figure pointed a sound-suppressed automatic at Akers, who fell to his knees as if pleading to the man not to shoot.

Only Akers had already been hit, the silenced shot inaudible over the noise of the crowd, who were now reacting in screaming horror and yelling amazement.

But Reeder had seen the reduced muzzle flash and, instinct taking over, he leapt from his chair, Rogers rising, too.

Gun still in hand, Akers was trying to get up, the bullet having hit him in his Kevlar vest, but the sandy-haired man — up on the stage now, at Reeder’s far left — leveled what was probably a .45, wearing the bulky extension of a sound suppressor, right at the agent, hitting Akers twice in the side, under the arms, where the Kevlar didn’t cover.

Then the sandy-haired man (not the SIM card blond at all) wheeled toward Benjamin at the podium, the big automatic with its extended snout pointing the speaker’s way.

Three thousand — plus were on their feet shrieking now, like a hellish choir, while members of Benjamin’s security force were coming toward the stage, too little, too late.

This time Reeder heard the cough of the silenced weapon, and the crunch of metal meeting wood as the bullet slammed into the podium just as he threw himself at Benjamin, taking him to the floor, onto his side, covering him as he would a president, bracing for the impact of any rounds from the assassin that might try to get through him to their target.

Reeder flinched at the whipcrack of a round, fired nearby, but not a silenced one, a Glock round, and knew he was all right.

Confirming that came: “ Clear! ”

Rogers.

Staying on top of Benjamin, who was still on his side, face to the crowd, Reeder shifted enough to see the would-be assassin sprawled on the stage, eyes open wide and a black-rimmed, scarlet-dripping hole in his mid-forehead.

Rogers, on stage, Glock gripped in both hands, swiftly scanned the crowd for other shooters. The hall was half-empty now, many having fled, others frozen on their feet at their seats, some recording the pandemonium with their cells, while the camera crews on their platforms left and right kept rolling. The reporters, on both the left and right of the hall (and politically as well, for that matter), were to a man and woman hiding under their tables.

Frank Elmore materialized and leaned in to say, “Mr. Reeder, we’ll take it from here,” and Reeder rose while four security men in “COMMON SENSE” windbreakers helped the stunned Benjamin to his feet, and formed a phalanx around him, hustling him offstage.

Reeder rushed to the fallen Akers, where Rogers was already down at the man’s side, trying to staunch the bleeding with her jacket. As Reeder knelt opposite her, Rogers lifted her bloody jacket so Reeder could appraise the red-gushing entry wounds under the man’s other arm.

She gave Reeder a look.

He gave her one back.

She returned to keeping pressure against the fallen man’s side with the jacket, for what good it would do.

Akers, his flesh now a wet-newspaper gray, grabbed Reeder’s wrist with surprising strength.

“Cap...” Akers said. “Cap it... all.”

“Cap it all? You mean, Capitol?”

Akers swallowed and nodded once. “... Senk.”

“You mean ‘sink’? What about sink?”

The grip on Reeder’s wrist was limp now. “No! No... Senk .”

“Senk. Is that a name , Jay? Is that—”

But Akers was gone, eyes rolled back as if staring at the ceiling, where netted balloons awaited a celebratory release not to come.