The Senator: A Blake Jordan Thriller (3 page)

Five minutes earlier, Victor Perez crawled out of the same space and stood where Blake was standing now. He had dragged Senator Jim Keller through the pathway, holding his wrists behind his back and pulling the unconscious man from behind while he crouched and leaned forward to keep his momentum.

Although it was only a short distance, he still managed to have a lot of thoughts while enacting his plan.
Would he make it out of the arena alive? Would he be able to get to his getaway van with the senator?

He tried to focus. He knew from years of training that he had to concentrate on what he was doing
in the moment
that very second and he had to be perfect. One little slipup, one small mistake, could set off a chain of events and alter the trajectory of his plan. Still, it was hard to keep the questions out of his mind.

Perez reached the end of the pathway that didn’t exist just a week earlier. He had stolen schematics of the arena’s third floor several months prior, before he became a “janitor,” and after it was announced that this would be the location for the convention. He studied them and after learning where Jim Keller would be taken before his speech, he found the space connecting the suite and the spot where he now stood.

He found the large shipping and storage crate that he had left here a few days before. It was the kind of crate that musicians used to haul their gear when travelling. He had taken it from the backstage area while the crew hired to set up the event started unloading their equipment prior to the first day of the convention. An hour ago, just before he expected the senator to arrive at the suite, he had checked on the crate to make sure it was still in place and hadn’t been moved by anyone.

The crate had black ABS paneling and chrome-plated handles and butterfly latches to keep its contents secure. It also had four wheels which Victor Perez locked before positioning the crate just underneath the pathway’s exit so he could more easily pull the senator out and deposit his body inside.

At a hundred and eighty pounds, Jim Keller was not a large man. The fifty-nine-year-old former SEAL had been in politics for ten years now.
Once a SEAL, always a SEAL
, as they say – the senator was still sharp as a tack but surely wasn’t expecting to be cold-cocked in the back of the head and stuffed inside a box.

But pulling the senator from the end of the pathway Perez had created took a lot out of him. He closed the lid of the crate and secured the two butterfly latches in place before pulling his duffle bag strap over his head and securing it on his shoulder. Then he replaced the air return’s grille. Although the hallway was rarely used, usually only in emergencies, he didn’t want to make a careless mistake if he didn’t have to.

He snapped all four wheels to unlock them, freeing up the crate to be pushed easily from behind. It was rectangular so he pushed from one of the short sides. That would also make it possible to get the crate through one of the doors at the end of the hallway.

Perez moved quickly. In less than a minute, he had made his way to the end, unzipped his duffle bag, and grabbed his Beretta, should he need it. He wiped sweat from his brow and opened the door. Two DDC agents were in front of him. They looked at Victor Perez like they had seen a ghost.

In a way, they had.

Victor Perez raised his gun and shot both agents in the chest before they had a chance to process and make sense of who they were seeing. They fell to the floor, leaving a clear route to exit the building. Perez walked over to the agents, who had managed to draw their weapons before being taken out, and kicked both guns away from their bodies. “It was good to see you again,” he said, as he stood over the two men.

Agent Davis moved through the packed convention floor. It was the most direct path to the front of the arena and the path she had to take if she was going to have a chance at stopping what appeared to be a kidnapping. Her gun was holstered inside of a black draped jacket that she kept unbuttoned over a white shirt which she tucked into black pants. The outfit looked like something out of an Ann Taylor catalog.

As she pushed her way past the delegates, supporters, and critics of Keller’s, Jami could overhear some of the comments people were making. They were wondering where Keller was. The fact that Billings left the stage so awkwardly when the senator was supposed to join him created some concern.

She thought about announcing that she was a federal agent and asking, no, demanding the people in the crowd to get out of her way, but she also didn’t want them to panic. And she didn’t want the media to go crazy like a pack of sharks finding a trail of blood in the water. She knew that if she didn’t find Keller, that’s exactly what would happen.

Five minutes later, Jami emerged and ran to the front of the arena. A woman was near the turnstiles speaking with security and made eye contact and started to walk quickly to Jami. It was RNC Chairwoman Debra Stewart, who she had met earlier. Stewart was visibly upset and had the building’s security scrambling.

“What is going on here? Senator Keller was supposed to be on stage fifteen minutes ago,” she said.

“Ms. Stewart, please not right now – I need to speak with security.”

“What do you mean not right now? We just came from Keller’s suite, he’s nowhere to be found. Now you show up here, without the other guy and without the senator, and you don’t want to tell me what’s happening? I’m in charge of all of this and I need to know what the hell is going on here,” Stewart pressed.

“He’s missing, okay?” Jami admitted. “Were not sure what happened. Agent Jordan and I are trying to locate him. We can talk later, right now I need you to let me do my job.” Jami walked over to the off duty cops who were working the event as security. They were huddled together and discussing the situation as Debra Stewart had already told them that she couldn’t find the senator anywhere.

Music began to blare from the stage and the crowd started to roar, believing that this might mean that they were moments away from seeing their presidential nominee walk onstage. Jami turned around and saw smiles come to what were previously concerned faces. Many began to clap along with the beat. Four days all led up to this moment.

Or so they thought. The reality was that someone had asked for filler music to be played while they figured out what was happening. Jami was somewhat relieved. The music would buy some time. She wondered what the cable news talking heads were saying.

Three more men walked up to the two huddled together and joined the conversation. Jami flashed her badge as she approached. Chairwoman Stewart stayed where she was and made a call with her cell phone.

“Is it true? About Keller?” one of the men asked.

“Yes,” Jami admitted, “I need to know if you’ve seen anything out of the ordinary in the past few minutes.”

Her eyes jumped from face to face, desperately looking for any information they might have. One man spoke up.

“I just kicked a guy out about half an hour ago, right out here,” and pointed outside the doors to the front entrance to the arena. “David Mitchell. He was trying to get in with an invalid press pass. Paul here remembered him from a few nights ago when he was kicked out.”

“Where did he go?” Jami asked. Just then, she heard someone in the crowd say that the news was reporting on Jim Keller.
What was the media reporting?
Jami looked back at the man she was talking to.

“He went out to the parking lot,” the man said and pointed outside.

David Mitchell sat on his Honda motorcycle and thought through his options. After being kicked out on the second night of the convention and not even making it past security tonight, he knew that getting back into the United Center wouldn’t be possible. He could see two officers at the side entrance from where he sat. For a moment, he considered the possibility of getting past them.
Not a chance
, he thought.

By now, all building security had surely been told about him trying to get inside. He wondered if there was another way he could get to Congressman Billings and confront him. He thought through the different scenarios in his head. He could try to catch him on his way to his car. He’d just get a
no
comment or worse, completely ignored, anyway.

But Mitchell had proof that Billings was involved with giving a local Chicago-based business tax breaks that were based solely on his friendship with the owner. He had the document, the complaints from similar businesses who came to Mitchell last month hoping he would expose the congressman on his Website. And Mitchell had hired a private investigator the last time the congressman was in town who had captured pictures of Billings and the business owner dining at a high-end restaurant on Michigan Avenue.

Mitchell’s Website had been a success. He had broken a number of stories and made a name for himself similar to
The Drudge Report
on the other side of the aisle – independent journalism at its finest. No editors. No agendas, except for his own, maybe.

David Mitchell had hoped that tonight would be his shot to finally break this story at the height of the congressman’s career. Confronting him live, using a real-time video streaming app on his phone TMZ-style and posting the footage on his Website would have been so much more captivating than exposing the man through the written word. But it was looking like he had no other choice than to do just that.

Right before Mitchell was about to kick start his bike, he heard a loud noise in the distance near the arena. He snapped out of the funk he was slipping into and became fully present. By instinct, he crouched while still sitting on his Honda and positioned himself to be hidden behind the Chevy parked in front of him.

What he saw next confused him.

A man – a janitor – had busted through the exit, pushing a large black crate across the parking lot and stopped behind a black Ford van that looked like something that might be used by a SWAT team. The windows were blacked out with dark tint, making it impossible to see anything inside the vehicle.

Mitchell watched through the clear windows of the Chevy, lifting his head just high enough to see what was happening.
What was this guy doing? Was he was running from someone?

Before he could finish thinking those questions through, he had his answer.

A body! He’s pulling out a body from that crate!
He watched as the janitor opened the two back doors of the van and pulled a gray-haired man in a business suit from the crate and pushed him inside the van. Mitchell thought the man looked like he was dead. Then he saw the janitor climb in and was holding something in his hands.
They were handcuffs
. He watched the janitor cuff the man and climb out.

The man lifted the crate and threw it in the back of the van before closing the doors and getting in. He pulled off so quickly his tires screeched for a moment and it startled David Mitchell.

Without hesitation, Mitchell started his bike and followed the van at a distance and kept his headlights off.

I ran down the hallway and turned the corner, not sure what I expected to find. I definitely heard something.
A clicking sound
.

Past the turn, I saw that the hallway ended. “McGovern? Flynn? Do you copy?” I spoke into my earpiece as I ran. I was sure that the double doors would open to the entranceway where they were stationed. There was no response. “Do you copy?” I asked again.

“Blake, I’m headed there now,” I heard Jami say.

I slowed down as I approached the doors. I held my gun with my right hand and with my left, I slowly depressed the door bar and pushed. It didn’t open. I tried the left one with the same result.
Was the click that I heard someone locking the doors? Or gunfire? Or was I just paranoid – did I even hear a noise?

I backtracked, not knowing what I might find on the other side of the locked doors. I wasted at least two minutes going back to see if there was any other way out. There were two other doors on the opposite side of the hallway – the direction I had decided not to go in when I heard – or thought I heard – a sound. Those doors opened up into an area being used by the stage crew. There were a few black crates scattered around. A dumping ground for all of the cases the audio equipment and other items used on stage were usually stored in. A couple of stage hands noticed me. They seemed shaken up to see me holding a gun.

“Federal agent,” I said and flashed my badge at them and reentered the hallway. Backtracking didn’t take a lot of time but more than I expected. Two, maybe three minutes tops. I lifted my arm and grabbed the gun with my left hand to keep it steady and pointed in the middle where I thought the lock would be located. I fired my weapon and I saw the right door loosen and open about an inch.

I kicked the door, still holding onto my Glock with both hands and walked through the doorway. The two men I had stationed here were lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Their weapons were a few feet away from each of their bodies.
It had been the sound of shots firing that I had heard
. I looked all around to make sure the room was clear and I put my hand to my earpiece. “McGovern and Flynn are down,” I said.

Stepping over their bodies, I walked outside to see a blue motorcycle speed off. Up ahead of it was a van going just as fast as the bike. Jami ran around the corner. “That’s them!” she yelled.

Less than a minute later, we were in my black DDC-issued Tahoe and speeding south down Wood Street. I could no longer see the van, only the bike, and their headlights were off. Except for an occasional tap of the brakes, it was next to impossible to follow the van. “How the hell did this happen?” I asked Agent Davis.

“You can’t put this on me, if you had stayed with the senator, we’d be in the same spot right now.” I pushed the accelerator to the floor with my foot as I tried to keep up.

“They turned!” she yelled a second later. I looked ahead and the bike was gone. I decided that they had turned west on Adams Street. I drove a block further and turned right on Jackson to try to cut them off and as we got close to Damen, we saw the bike pass us. I turned on my emergency lights and it took a few seconds to get the traffic to stop for us as we squeezed through the cars travelling on both sides of the road at Jackson and Damen. The bike sped off and disappeared.

I figured he had gotten on the ramp to take I-290 east to downtown. We took the onramp and headed down the highway at over a hundred miles per hour. The roads were empty for a Thursday night and we couldn’t find the bike anywhere on the road.
Was I wrong? Had he actually gone straight?
In the heart of downtown Chicago, we exited at Wacker and got back on Congress and drove west to backtrack, hoping to catch a much needed break. But we didn’t see the bike again. Our luck had run out. The bike was gone.