Authors: Duncan Whitehead
Present Day, March 17
th
, St. Patrick’s Day, Savannah, Georgia 0500 hrs.
Just as he had been told, the door to the bank building was unlocked. Dermot Lynch glanced at his watch, everything was on schedule. He had been told that the crowds would gather early, so to avoid anyone seeing him, he would set up his weapon, make himself comfortable, and wait for the procession to come into view well before the streets below filled with people. He would have some fun though with his sights, and from his vantage point, he would take the opportunity to people watch.
Dermot had been born and raised in Boston, and had served in the US Marine Corp for twelve years before his recruitment by the Organization a year ago. They had kept him waiting; for the first ten months of his tenure, he had simply collected the monthly checks and waited patiently for them to call. They had told him to relocate to Miami, where he would rent an apartment and keep a low profile. He was not to socialize. He was to keep to himself and under no circumstances was he to deviate from any instruction given him to him by the Organization – and he hadn’t.
The long awaited call had eventually come, and in a few hours, he would carry out his first job for his employers. He wondered what he would spend his fee on; maybe a vacation. Maybe now they would allow him to move out of his tiny apartment and maybe they would let him, once he had proved his worth that morning, at least make some friends.
* * * * *
0700
Doug Partridge parked his rental car in the parking lot Peter Ferguson had instructed him to, courtesy of his briefing notes. He had been quite specific. It was all part of Doug’s escape plan, and there could be no deviation from Ferguson’s plan. The lot was a makeshift car park, a strip of waste ground located where the I-16 merged into Savannah at the junction’s of Montgomery and West Harris Street. It had been adapted to cater for the thousands of visitors due to arrive, or who had already arrived into Savannah. Doug paid the attendant the $25 fee, which would guarantee his parking spot for the whole day, and then proceeded eastward towards Bay Street. It was a brisk five-minute walk to the Union Bank Building and Dermot Lynch.
* * * * *
From where Peter Ferguson’s car was parked, he had seen Doug’s every move. Partridge had arrived on time, parked the rental vehicle in the lot he had been instructed to, and had not looked out of place. Crowds now had begun to gather, and hotels were emptying of guests as they headed to their chosen viewing points to watch the parade. Ferguson instructed his driver to head into the parking lot across from the alley, where their car had been secluded from view thirty seconds before.
The black Mercedes crawled into the makeshift parking lot. The attendant noted that it was an expensive car and had already decided he would charge the occupants double his advertised amount, especially as his lot was virtually full and he didn’t expect many more customers arriving this close to the parade start time.
Ferguson’s driver lowered the driver’s window after the attendant had directed the Mercedes to a parking space, a space next to Doug Partridge’s vehicle. The attendant approached with a smile on his face. His work was done and he would now leave the lot unattended and watch the parade, secure in the knowledge that there would be no more customers that day.
“Good morning,” said the attendant, “Seeing as though you got my last space that will be fif….” The bullet fired from Peter Ferguson’s silenced Glock 9mm automatic pistol, as he leaned over his driver, struck the attendant directly in the forehead. Quickly, and without anyone seeing, Ferguson’s driver exited the Mercedes, dragged the body of the unfortunate attendant towards the rear of the vehicle, and placed his body into the trunk of the car. Later on, he would dispose of the body on his drive back to Washington.As his driver was bundling the corpse into the trunk of the car, Peter Ferguson was placing the timed car bomb under Doug Partridges rental vehicle. Once satisfied that the device was secured on the chassis of the car, and the timer set correctly, Ferguson walked towards the sign that indicated that parking lot was open. He removed it, and placed his own sign over it which stated that the lot was now full and closed. Returning to the Mercedes, he and his driver slowly exited the parking lot and headed east towards Bay Street.
Present Day, March 17
th
Saint Patrick’s Day, Savannah Georgia 0800 hrs.
From his vantage point on the roof of the Union Bank Building, Dermot Lynch could see the parade turning onto Bay Street. The procession, led by four officers of the Savannah Police Department motorcycle division, who sped in front of the crawling parade, lights flashing and their sirens blaring, was the signal to the excited crowd that the parade was approaching. The long stream of floats, cars, marching bands and representatives of police, firefighting departments, military units, schools and colleges; many dressed in kilts of assorted tartans, led by bagpipers and drummers, was now only minutes away. He could sense the crowd’s anticipation and excitement, and he had never seen so much green in his entire life.
He rubbed his right eye, adjusted his baseball cap, and tucked the butt of the rifle into his shoulder. Maybe he would grab a turkey leg before he left the city, they smelled delicious. Finding his target, Lynch took a deep breath before he gently pressed on the trigger… and fired.
The bullet struck Dermot Lynch in the back off the head, killing him instantly. He hadn’t heard Doug Partridge enter the roof of the Union Bank Building. He hadn’t heard him approach, and he hadn’t even heard him breathe as he pressed the trigger. Dermot Lynch had been good, but Doug Partridge was better. Doug stared at the body that lay prone in front of him, blood oozing from the fatal head wound. He didn’t need to check for a pulse. Another paid assassin, thought Doug, probably just like him. Nothing personal, it was just business.
Doug knew he didn’t have long. Dermot had managed to fire off one shot, a result of a nerve reflex after Doug had shot him, though Doug was certain that there was no way that Lynch could have hit his target. Still, he needed to check.
Timing was essential and he knew that only had minutes-- minutes that were quickly turning into seconds. Partridge reached for the binoculars that lay beside Dermot Lynch’s body and raised them to his eyes. Scanning the crowd, he saw that the parade was still moving and that Elliott Miller was still alive and well. He threw the binoculars to the ground. That was the mission; kill the assassin and ensure that Miller lived. That was enough for Doug. Anything else was of no consequence to him, it was just collateral damage. Nothing more.
Doug sprinted towards the door that led to the roof, the door he had just entered. As he ran he unscrewed the silencer from his weapon and tucked them both into the front of his jeans pulling the green t-sheet he wore over them; concealing his tools of death. Exiting onto the street he found himself immediately immersed into the mass crowds of revelers. He removed his gloves and discarded them onto the ground, where they would be trampled by a thousand pairs of feet, he bent over and picked up a green plastic bowler hat from the ground and placed it on his head. As he headed west, he retrieved a cigarette from the carton in his pocket and lit it as he continued towards the car park where he had parked fifteen minutes earlier. No one paid any attention to him, no one noticed him. He was just another person enjoying the parade, and like a ghost, Doug Partridge disappeared into the crowd.
* * * * *
Peter Ferguson had seen Doug exit the building and had kept his eyes trained on him. Following behind, and unseen by Doug, he called his driver to signal for him to pick him up. As he waited for his driver, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he had lost Doug only to see him rise up, wearing a tacky plastic bowler hat. He watched as Doug moved through the crowds, disappearing into the throng of green. He was good. Doug Partridge was good. He was invisible; he had simply vanished, but Peter Ferguson knew where he was heading. The black Mercedes pulled up to the curb and Peter Ferguson entered the back seat.
“Did anyone try and move you on?” asked Ferguson.
“Yes sir, a cop, but I just showed him my shield and credentials and he just nodded,” replied the driver.
“Good, head back to the parking lot. I want to make sure that he gets into the car.”
Elliott Miller turned his head to face his wife “Did you hear that?”
Kelly was smiling and waving, and barely heard her husband speak, “Sorry what did you say darling? I can’t hear a thing. Isn’t this just fantastic? Look at them all. I have never seen so many happy smiling faces.”
“I thought I heard something. Something whizzed past my ear, and it sounded like a bee. Did you hear it?” repeated Elliott.
Kelly Miller laughed, “All I can hear is people cheering and shouting. All I can hear is people being happy, happy that they have the best mayor in the country,” she said turning to face her husband, “and they are right to be cheering. This is a wonderful day, and no dear, I didn’t hear a thing.”
Elliott grinned at his wife and returned to waving and smiling to the crowds of onlookers as his and Kelly’s car crept slowly forward.
* * * * *
Jeff Morgan, like Elliott Miller just had, also thought that he had heard something, and for a minute, thought that maybe a fly had flown into his ear. Shrugging, he continued to wave at the crowd, though with far less enthusiasm than the mayor and his wife. This would soon be over he thought.
* * * * *
Sam Taylor stopped waving and smiling the second he had heard the bullet fired by Dermot Lynch pass his left ear. There was no mistaking that the whistling noise. It was the sound of a speeding bullet. But, he hadn’t heard a shot, maybe because of the noise of the crowd? No, even with the cheering, laughing, and shouts of delight, he would have heard a gunshot. Maybe it was nothing. He turned his head and looked behind him, as his driver remained oblivious to his passenger’s shift in position, and the car continued to creep forward following the parade. If it had been a bullet it would have had to end up somewhere, thought Taylor as he turned to face forwards. If a shot had been fired, it could have only come from in front of him and the only building directly ahead of him was the Union Bank Building. He stared at the tall structure, roughly one thousand yards ahead, and thought that he saw something glint in the sunshine; something reflecting from the roof. He turned to face behind him once again. In the distance, he could see what looked like some type of commotion in the crowd, roughly two hundred yards behind his car. It was at the spot where he, Morgan and the mayor’s car had only a few seconds ago passed. He could hear screams, even above the noise of the crowd he could make out the shrieks of terror coming from behind him. He turned to his front and tapped his driver on the shoulder. “Stop,” he demanded. “Stop the car.”
* * * * *
The bullet intended for Elliott Miller, travelling at approximately three thousand feet per second had missed the mayor by two inches. It had then sped past the left side of Jeff Morgan’s head and missed Sam Taylor by an inch. The bullet had then entered the head of a woman standing in the crowd, killing her instantly before it passed through her skull. Then it ricocheted off a street lamp before eventually becoming imbedded in another reveler’s stomach. Sam Taylor jumped from the now stationary car, and despite his age, sprinted towards a crowd that had formed a circle in the vicinity where the screams had come from. He pushed his way through the throng of shocked onlookers and immediately saw that the woman was dead, her head virtually exploded on the sidewalk. Those who had been unfortunate enough to be closest to the woman were covered in blood, brain particles or both. Many were in shock and most were screaming.
As Sam Taylor stared in disbelief at the scene unfolding in front of him, paramedics pushed past him. Even though it was obviously pointless, they tried to perform emergency aid on the fallen woman. Several uniformed police officers were now also on the scene as the screams and hysteria of the witnesses to the horrific scene seemed to spread amongst the crowd lining the south side of Bay Street. Sam Taylor composed himself and made his way towards a second crowd that had gathered twenty yards behind the first incident.
* * * * *
Doug Partridge had picked up the pace of his walk. He lengthened his stride as he headed to the parking lot, his car, and freedom.
* * * * *
Peter Ferguson and his driver, both seated in the black Mercedes were once again parked in the alley opposite the parking lot, waiting for the arrival of Doug Partridge.
* * * * *
By the time he had pushed himself to the front of the crowd that had gathered around the second victim, paramedics were already at the scene and were trying to revive the badly injured man. However, the dead eyes that stared back at Sam Taylor would not see again. People were now beginning to panic. There was shouting and screaming as friends and relatives tried to locate loved ones, hoping that they were not among the victims of whatever had just transpired.
Sam Taylor stared around him, as the massive crowd that moments ago had been waving, smiling and whooping with delight now dispersed into buildings and side streets. Bay Street was now littered with discarded beads, hats and Irish flags. Panic was ensuing and the parade was now in total disarray.
The retired police chief shifted his gaze from the pandemonium developing around him and back to the man lying dead on the sidewalk. Above the noise and commotion, he could hear sobbing and could only stare in disbelief as his neighbor, Robert Thompson, cradled the head of his lover Danny Blake in his arms. The grief-stricken man was suffering from shock and rocking back and forth as a paramedic tried to pry him away from his partner. Robert looked up, tears streaming down his face, his eyes pleading for someone to wake him from the nightmare that he found himself in. His sad eyes met Sam Taylor’s.
“Please, please help him. Do something. Please. Please don’t let him die. Please don’t let him be dead. Help me, help us.” Sam did not speak; there were no words he could say that could ease the suffering of his neighbor. He turned away and began walking purposely toward the Union Bank Building.
* * * * *
Doug Partridge checked his watch as he approached the parking lot. It was two minutes after eight. There was no sign of the attendant whom he had paid $25 to park only seventeen minutes earlier. He threw his cigarette onto the ground and stubbed it out with the heel of his shoe. It was over. He had done what they had asked and now he would go to his daughter. He would melt back into society and would rebuild his life. Katie would want for nothing. Maybe he would even finish that book he had started writing all those years ago. He took a deep breath as he unlocked his car door and sat down in the driver’s seat.
* * * * *
Peter Ferguson smiled as Doug Partridge entered his car. He smiled again as he switched on the ignition. Ferguson looked at his watch; in ten minutes Doug Partridge would be headed south on the I-95 and in twelve minutes he would be dead.
“It’s time we left,” said Ferguson to his driver.
* * * * *
Sam Taylor was positive that the shots had come from the Union Bank Building. He once again forced his way through crowds of frightened people that were running and in panic as fear and confusion continued to spread along Bay Street. He grabbed a police officer by the arm who was attempting to control and shepherd the multitude of people to safety. The officer immediately recognized his former chief.
“Do you know what happened? Where is the mayor? Where is Chief Morgan?” asked Taylor.
“Two dead. Sniper we think. The parade has been stopped. The mayor is safe; they have taken him City Hall. Morgan is with him.”
Taylor indicated towards the paramedics still gathered around the body of the female victim, “Any idea who she is, I mean was?” asked Taylor.
“According to what I have heard on the radio, her name is Mopper, Cindy Mopper. We’re not sure where the shooter is. Not sure how many bullets fired. All I know is we have two dead. Mayor is safe. Look, Chief, I have to go,” said the officer who seemed as shocked as Sam was at scene and chaos unfolding around him.
Sam Taylor nodded, unsure what role, if any, he had to play. He was a retired police chief, not the chief. He had a pension, a wife he loved and who loved him, and who was no doubt watching events unfold on her television screen at home, frantically worrying about her husband. He was shaking; whatever was at the Union Bank Building was not his business, not anymore. Despite his urge to investigate, despite his instinct to do something, he couldn’t. He was unarmed and for the first time since he joined the police department thirty years before, Sam Taylor was scared.
The first thing he would do when he returned home would be to burn those damn books. He would forget about his infatuations with Elliott Miller and Jeff Morgan. He would live his life long and well. He would become an old man, he and Sabrina would buy that RV, and they would go travelling, visit relatives. He would cook Indian food and putter around in the garden, He might even buy a dog. As he turned eastwards, beginning his long walk back to Gordonston, amid the chaos and confusion, heading towards life, heading towards the retirement he deserved, he heard an explosion coming from the west. He did not flinch; he did not stop. He just carried on walking. Walking home. Walking home to his wife.
* * * * *
“What the hell is going on?” screamed Elliott Miller as Jeff Morgan entered City Hall, accompanied by three officers with their weapons drawn.
“Information is all over the place right now, but it looks like someone is taking potshots into the crowd and the situation. We are searching for the shooter or shooters now. The parade has been stopped. We are clearing the streets and doing our best to control the crowd. We have units on their way from neighboring forces. I’ll be honest with you Elliott, it is bedlam out there.”
“Any clues? Any idea why anyone would attack the parade? A phone call, anything?” asked Miller as he clutched his wife’s hand.
“I have no idea,” said Morgan, shaking his head, “Maybe a crazy, maybe someone with a grudge. All I know so far is that whoever it is fired indiscriminately into the crowd.”
“Good God,” said Elliott, “Is anyone hurt?”
Morgan nodded grimly. “The reports I have so far are confirming two dead. Shot. We have hundreds injured, minor injuries mainly, nothing fatal, due to the crowd. A lot of people falling, but thank heavens, no one trampled. It’s a miracle no one else is dead. ”
Elliott Miller placed his head in his hands. Kelly placed her arm around his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. After all the work, after all he had done to make Savannah safe. The infrastructure he and the city had set up for tourism, conferences. This parade was meant to show that Savannah was back on the map. He had rid the city of gang crime, cleared neighborhoods of thugs and villains. Now
this
. Whatever
this
was. Two people dead, two people dead on his watch. This was a disaster. Kelly rubbed her husband’s shoulders gently and Elliott raised his head. Surely, it could not get any worse.
“Keep me updated Jeff, if there is any news just...”
The explosion was close. It had come from the west.
“Jesus H Christ,” shouted Elliott “What now?”