Resistance (34 page)

The LU-P Lynx Hale had been given to drive was just like the combat model he was used to except the machine gun was missing and a fabric roof had been fitted over the roll cage. The vehicle boasted a heater, but it couldn't compete with the cold air that flooded in through the open sides, and made an impotent whirring noise as Hale started the engine, backed out of the parking slot, and followed the road to the main gate. Guards saluted the officer as he rolled past, turned onto Alameda, and followed the busy street toward Broadway.

The purpose of the outing was to visit the state capitol, which was going to be the site of Grace's speech the following day. The Secret Service had primary responsibility for security, with lots of Denver police to provide backup, but a contingent of Sentinels would be present as well, in case of a Chimeran attack. The chances of something like that happening were extremely remote, but no one had been expecting a spire to land next to the Lincoln Memorial either.

So as Hale took a left on Broadway, and followed it to
the state capitol, he was thinking about the stinks and what sort of damage they might do if a shuttle-load of them dropped out of the sky in the middle of the President's speech. He was scheduled to check in with the Secret Service, and wanted to make certain they had arranged for air cover, so he went looking for a place to park. There wasn't any, because the legislature was still in session and entire sections of the street had been roped off, allowing a succession of delivery trucks to unload.

A speaking platform had been built, VIP bleachers were in place to either side of it, and a temporary fence had been set up to control what was expected to be a record crowd.

Hale drove around for a while before locating a parking spot three blocks away. After walking back he had to show his military ID before being allowed onto the capitol grounds. The man in charge of security was a Secret Service agent named Mack Stoly. He was a natty little man who was dressed in a gray snap-brim hat, blue topcoat, and pin-striped suit. He was at the center of a discussion that involved two other men and Hale noticed Stoly was wearing shiny street shoes. As if the agent was unwilling to compromise with the elements.

Hale, who was dressed in a winter uniform plus overcoat and combat boots, paused a few feet away and stuck his hands in his pockets while he waited for the conversation to end. That gave him a chance to conduct a slow 360-degree inspection of the surrounding terrain. As he turned he saw the capitol, a variety of structures off to the right, the portion of Lincoln Street which had been temporarily blocked off, the Ridley Hotel, the Civic Center, a cluster of public buildings, and then back to the capitol. Hale was looking up at the golden dome, and blinking snowflakes away, when someone spoke to
him. “Impressive, isn't it?” It was the man he'd been waiting for. “My name's Stoly. Are you Lieutenant Hale?”

“Yes I am,” Hale replied, as he shook the other man's hand. Stoly had blue eyes, even features, and a cleft chin. If he thought the Sentinel's golden yellow eyes were strange, he gave no sign.

“Thanks for coming over,” Stoly said. “With so many people involved in security, it's critical that we coordinate things properly. This is a good opportunity to agree on where your men will be placed—and what they will be responsible for.”

“Sounds good,” Hale agreed, as he stuck his hands back into his pockets. “From what I was told, our job is to deal with the stinks should some of them drop out of the sky.”

“True,” Stoly acknowledged soberly. “It's damned unlikely, but after what happened at the Lincoln Memorial,
anything
seems possible. So we've got to be ready. But you'll have a secondary mission as well—and that's crowd control. I'm told that the President's Chief of Staff wants a
big
crowd. So, contrary to our advice, he decided to bus people in from the nearest Protection Camps. The problem is that a lot of the people who live in the camps aren't very happy with the Grace administration. They aren't allowed to own guns, thank God … But that doesn't mean some whacko with a knife won't try to rush the platform, or worse yet,
twenty
whackos with knives! So you and your men will be a welcome addition to our security team.”

Hale spent the next hour accompanying Stoly from place to place, chatting with various agents and police officials, and discussing how to best position his Sentinels. He remembered to ask about air support, and was relieved to learn that it had been arranged. Finally,
once the tour was over, Hale was free to depart. Which was great, because Cassie was about to get off work, and he had promised to take her to dinner.

Hale was whistling as he crossed 14th and began the walk back to the Lynx. Maybe, had he been thinking about work, Hale might have noticed the young woman in the blue headscarf who passed not thirty feet away from him. Her name was Susan Farley—and she was there to kill the President.

God must have been listening to William Dentweiler's prayers—because the day dawned bright and clear. It was also cold.

Very
cold.

Which would have made things difficult had it been necessary to draw a Denver crowd. But thanks to busloads of citizens from the Protection Camps, all equipped with identical overcoats, box lunches, and “Noah Grace” signs, a sizable audience was guaranteed.

Meanwhile, Hale had men stationed on the capitol's roof, to either side of the speaker's platform, and on top of the barriers that had been used to block off part of Lincoln Street. Above, carving white lines across the sky, two flights of Sabre Jets could be seen ready to respond should Chimeran aircraft venture from the north.

So the stage was set as a cheer went up and the Army band played “Hail to the Chief.”

The Governor of the state of Colorado gave him a nice introduction, and President Grace was in an ebullient mood as he left the warmth of the capitol. He crossed the plaza and made his way down four short flights of steps to the platform below. He liked giving speeches, being at the center of attention, and hearing the applause. So even though his administration was
beset by problems, here was a moment he could actually enjoy. As Grace stepped up to the bunting-draped podium, flashbulbs went off, the last strains of “Hail to the Chief” died away, and the applause began to fade.

“My fellow Americans,” Grace said, mindful of the fact that millions would hear his words over the radio. “Darkness continues to gather all around us, but here in the heartland of our country the sun is shining, and we have reason to rejoice!”

It was an applause line, and thanks to the twenty shills Dentweiler had positioned in the audience there
was
applause, which Grace acknowledged with a nod as he waited for the noise to die down.

What followed was a stirring list of victories, accomplishments, and positive trends all strung together to lift the cloud of gloom that hovered above so much of the nation. As Hale listened, even
he
began to feel better, in spite of the fact that he'd been to Chicago and seen firsthand what life was like in that city.

But Hale wasn't there to listen. He was there to help provide security, which was why he kept his head on a swivel, his eyes scanning for any sign of a threat. There was nothing to see, however, not until he turned his gaze to the Ridley Hotel, and the dozens of windows that stared out onto the capitol grounds.

One of them was open, and that in spite of air so cold he could see his breath, and feel his fingers starting to grow numb. A guest perhaps? Determined to get a better view of the speech? Or something more sinister?

As Grace gave the crowd a somewhat embellished account of Operation Iron Fist, Hale brought his binoculars up to examine the front of the hotel. Try as he might Hale couldn't see into the room. But as he continued to stare Hale saw a momentary flash of light which served
to backlight both the person at the window
and
the familiar shape that was angled his way.

A Fareye! But then the image was gone, leaving Hale to wonder.

He blinked, hoping to somehow restore what he'd seen, but the room remained dark. Assuming he was correct, and not hallucinating, it was as if a light had been turned on behind the rifleman. Or a door had been opened into a well-lit space.

But what to do? Evacuate the President from the platform? That would be prudent, perhaps … But if the marksman was a Secret Service agent, or a photographer with a long lens, or a maid with a mop, a lot of people were going to be very angry.

But he couldn't just let it drop.

Hale glanced around for Stoly, and saw him on the far side of the platform. The handheld radio he'd been given was for emergencies only, and therefore silent, as he brought it up to his lips.

“Hale to Stoly … Front of the hotel, third floor, open window … At least one person inside. Yours?”

There was a brief pause, followed by an emphatic reply.

“Hell no!”

Hale felt a sudden surge of adrenaline as he took three steps forward to the point where one of his soldiers was stationed. “Give me your rifle,” he ordered harshly, as he took the Fareye out of the man's hands. “And stand perfectly still. I'm going to use you as a rest.”

As Hale laid the rifle across the Sentinel's shoulder, and put his eye to the scope, Stoly hit Grace from the side. And when the President went down a projectile hit the Governor of Colorado—who had the painful misfortune to be standing directly behind Grace when the projectile was fired. The Governor made a grab for his
shoulder as he fell, and the rest of the dignitaries scattered in every direction as the sound of the shot echoed between the surrounding buildings.

People began to scream.

Hale had the window centered under his crosshairs by that time, and even though he couldn't see a clean target, he fired repeatedly. Hale figured that if he hit the would-be assassin, then that would be good, but even if he didn't, the counterfire would probably be enough to ruin the bastard's aim. And that would be sufficient. Because within minutes, five at most, Secret Service agents and policemen would storm the room. To his credit the Sentinel whose gun he had taken stood perfectly still as Hale continued to fire, brass casings arcing through the air, and people continued to scream.

The window was open, the dresser had been moved into position in front of it, and the rifle was resting on a carefully arranged sandbag. Susan swore as someone knocked Grace down and her bullet hit one of the men behind him. Then, as she worked another round into the Fareye's chamber, some quick-thinking bastard fired at
her
.

Except that he missed, and Susan heard Puzo make a horrible gargling sound as the incoming bullet tore through his throat, and he brought both hands up in a futile attempt to stop the sudden spray of blood. Then he was falling, as another bullet whispered past her ear, and smashed into the mirror behind her.

Susan spent a fraction of a second analyzing the possibility of a follow-up shot on the President, saw that Grace was unreachable under a pile of protective bodies, and adjusted her aim. Secret Service agents would burst through her door within minutes, she knew that. But if she was going to die, why not take the man with the rifle
with her? Because if anyone deserved to die, it was the army of assholes who supported Grace and kept him in office. Susan found her target, and prepared to squeeze the trigger. Then she saw the left side of the man's face. “Nathan!” That was when a sledgehammer hit Su san's head, and the long fall into darkness began.

It was one-day down in the stink hole, which meant that another group of doomed prisoners had been led away, and the survivors were going to live for another forty-eight hours. Well, most of the survivors anyway, because Henry Walker was determined to kill the son of a bitch responsible for his wife's death.

Walker couldn't
prove
that Marcus Tolly had engineered Myra's death. And he was fully cognizant of the fact that
all
of the prisoners were going to die, the only question being
when
. But logical arguments didn't matter, because Walker had to kill Tolly, or lose his mind. So having named himself judge, jury, and executioner, Walker had made a study of the one-eyed committee-man's habits, and created a plan. And, as darkness fell over the pit, that plan was about to be implemented.

Tolly had finished his boil by then, and having returned his empty hubcap to the outdoor kitchen, he began to make his way over to the tent he had appropriated from a family of three. Tolly stopped every now and then to schmooze with his cronies, but Walker knew it was only a matter of time, and was content to wait within a recently abandoned lean-to located only yards from his quarry's tent.

But as he sat there, peering out through a hole in the wall and waiting for his prey to arrive, Walker knew it was the last thing Myra would want him to do. In fact he could almost hear her talking into his ear.

Killing Tolly won't bring me back, Henry … There's been enough killing. We'll be together soon enough
.

And Myra was right. Walker knew that. But watching Tolly swagger around the pit, pushing people around, and taking whatever he wanted, was more than Walker could bear. That's what he told himself anyway, although deep down he knew it was about revenge, and a desire to strike back at the man he felt sure was responsible for Myra's death.

Finally, having completed the long circuitous walk to his tent, Tolly paused to look around. Then, having satisfied himself that it was safe to do so, he bent over to enter his shelter. A shadow appeared as Tolly lit the lantern within and began to prepare his bedroll. That was the moment Walker had been waiting for. The key was knowing exactly where the big man was within the tent.

Walker had been a Marine, and he had killed before, but never like this. His heart beat wildly and his hands shook as he rose, and emerged from concealment. Three careful steps carried him over to Tolly's tent. The homemade dagger was one of dozens of such implements that had been manufactured in the stink hole and passed down to the living from the recently dead. The weapon was in Walker's right hand, and it made a ripping sound as it sliced through the patchwork quilt collection of fabrics that had been painstakingly sewn together to form a serviceable tent.