Term Limits (35 page)

The car returned less than a minute later with a different driver behind the wheel. Omega squatted on one knee and blinked away a drop of sweat that was forming on his brow. The muzzle of his silencer was extended to the far end of the bush, pointed straight at the head of the man behind the wheel of the car. Only a thin green leaf concealed the lethal black cylinder. The contrast between the dark green and black paint on his face and the whites of his eyes gave him a reptilian appearance.

Under the pine tree in the backyard Alpha checked his watch again, and then, reaching forward, he flipped the protective caps off the rifle's sight. He hugged the butt of the rifle close to his cheek and eased his right eye in behind the sight. Moving his hands slightly, he placed the head of the man standing watch at the back door in the middle of the sight's crosshairs. The plan was to wait another minute or so, giving the marshals ample time to check in and get relaxed. The man by the back door brought his radio up to his mouth and said something. The sniper was too far away to hear, but he knew what was said. When the guard
lowered his radio back to his side, the sniper whispered into his headset, “Omega, this is Alpha. I'm ready to start the game, over.”

Alpha flipped the safety switch into the off position and brought the sniper's trigger back one notch. The crosshairs marked a lethal intersection on the temple of the marshal's head. The killer squeezed the trigger and a spitting noise popped from the end of the thick, black silencer. Without waiting to see the outcome of the shot, the sniper let go of the rifle and rolled to his right, out from under the low branches of the pine tree, leaving the rifle behind. He didn't need to check to see if his bullet had hit the mark. He knew it had.

Springing up from the ground, he broke into a sprint for the right side of the house, whispering into his headset, “One down, three to go.” Reaching over his head, he pulled the silenced MP-5 off his back and flipped off the safety. Nearing the front corner of the house, he slowed for a step and then spun around the edge of the porch. Dropping to one knee he swept the gun from left to right, searching for his next target.

The movement of the black shape coming around the corner caught the attention of the marshal standing watch at the foot of the porch steps, and he instinctively reached for his gun. Before he could get his hand to his hip, the assassin fired three quick rounds, two hitting the marshal in the face and the third striking him in the neck, the impact of the bullets throwing his head backward and sending the rest of his body with it. With his machine gun aimed at the front door, the killer ran
toward the man he had just killed and whispered into his headset, “Two down, two to go.” Upon reaching the marshal, he opened the dead man's jacket and yanked the radio from his belt. Ducking under the edge of the porch, he waited and listened to the marshal's radio.

At the end of the driveway the man in the bushes leapt forward and unloaded four quick bursts into the driver's seat of the sedan. The window broke into thousands of pieces, the bullets slamming into the side of the marshal's head. Without pause, the hired killer approached the car, shoved the barrel through the shattered window, and pumped a final round into the driver's head. Turning on the balls of his feet, the killer sprinted up the driveway toward the house. With the adrenaline rushing through his blood he barked into his headset, “Three down, one to go.”

Five seconds later, he joined his partner at the foot of the porch, his breathing controlled but heavy. Alpha was listening to the marshal's radio to see if the man inside the house had been alerted. He pointed and sent Omega to check the windows to the right of the front door, and he went to check the ones on the left. They peered over the railing of the porch and looked through the windows.

Omega saw him first, sitting at the foot of the stairs reading a magazine. “I've got number four,” he whispered into his mike. They met at the stairs of the porch, and Omega pointed at the window. “It's a clear shot from the first window on the right.”

Alpha nodded and said, “I'll crawl under the window and take up position on the other side. When I
give you the signal, pump two rounds into the window, and I'll take him out.” Omega nodded his confirmation and they started up the steps. Alpha got down on his stomach and crawled to the far side of the window. Switching his gun from his right side to his left, he peeked through the window to make sure his target hadn't moved. Stepping away from the window he gave his partner a nod and hugged the butt of the MP-5 tight against his cheek. Omega stepped back and pointed the muzzle of his silencer toward the middle of the tall window and fired two shots. A split second later, Alpha stepped into the new opening and trained his gun on the startled marshal. Pulling the trigger, Alpha sent three bullets crashing into the center of the man's head. With robotlike precision the two men slammed fresh clips into their weapons and stepped through the jagged window frame. They trained their guns in opposite directions as they moved to the foot of the stairs. Footsteps sounded from upstairs, and they looked up at the ceiling.

A deep voice called out from the top of the stairs, “Is everything all right down there?”

Without pause, Alpha called back, “Sorry, sir, I dropped a glass. Can I get you anything?”

“No, that's all right, I'll come down. I'm getting a little hungry.” Turnquist started down the staircase, and Alpha pushed his partner back and out of the way.

When the congressman reached the middle landing, he turned and froze, staring at the man dressed in black. Alpha squeezed the trigger and the barrel jumped. A stream of bullets popped from the end of
the silencer and slammed into Congressman Turnquist. The impact of the bullets sent the congressman reeling backward and into the wall, where he hung for a moment, pinned by the bullets slamming into his chest. The assassin took his finger off the trigger and Turnquist's body slid to the ground, leaving a bright red streak on the white wall.

AT ABOUT 7:55 P.M., A FAIRFAX POLICE SQUAD rolled through Congressman Turnquist's neighborhood. It was part of his regular patrol route, but since the recent flurry of assassinations his duties had shifted from spending his nights writing speeding tickets and nailing drunk drivers to checking up on the various congressmen and senators who lived in his part of the city. He was getting to know most of the marshals who were assigned to protecting Congressman Turnquist and looked forward to stopping by every hour or so to talk with whoever was sitting in the car at the end of the driveway. As he approached the white sedan, his headlights passed
over the car. No one was visible in the front seat, so he shined his spotlight on the car. The police officer put his squad in park and got out, thinking that whoever was on watch must have fallen asleep. He could appreciate how boring their jobs must be. There were nights when after a full thermos of coffee he could barely stay awake, and he was on the move. These poor guys sat in one place all night.

He strode up to the window and looked in. Just as he'd thought, the marshal was lying across the front seat. The cop brought his flashlight up and turned it on. It took him a second to process what he was seeing. His eyes opened wide as he froze in shock at the sight of the bloody body. After several seconds he grasped the severity of the situation and ran back to his squad to call the dispatcher.

Upon receiving the call from the officer at Turnquist's house, the dispatcher sent two additional squads and an ambulance to the scene. Her next call was to the Fairfax police chief, who directed her to call the FBI. Within two minutes of the patrolman's finding the marshal's body, Skip McMahon was on the phone asking for a chopper. He came into the task force's main conference room and started telling agents whom to call and what to do. Then, grabbing Jennings and Wardwell, he headed for the roof of the Hoover Building.

Once in the elevator, he pointed at Wardwell and said, “Get ahold of the Fairfax Police Department and have them patch you through to the officer at Turnquist's. Kathy, call the marshals' office and make sure they know what's going on and then… no, call the marshals' office second. First call the
Virginia State Patrol and tell them if they spot any cars with multiple males, twenty-five to forty-five, to pull them over for questioning and approach with extreme caution. Have them pass the word on to all the local police departments.” Both agents pulled their digital phones out and started punching away at the number pads. By the time they reached the roof, the blades on the helicopter were just starting to spin.

Wardwell tugged on his boss's sleeve. “Skip, the cop is waiting for backup. He says he hasn't heard a thing since he arrived.” Wardwell shouted as the helicopter grew louder and louder. “He wants to know what he should do.”

“Tell him to wait for backup and then proceed with caution.… And tell them not to touch anything.” McMahon had an empty feeling in his stomach that they weren't going to find any survivors at Turnquist's house.

The rotor wash of the props became intense, blowing their hair and ties in every direction. A man in a bright orange jumpsuit waved them toward the open door of the chopper, and with McMahon leading the way, they hustled up the five steps and onto the helipad. Keeping their heads low, they ran under the spinning blades and climbed into the backseat. The chopper lifted off and arced northward before turning back to a southwesterly course, leaving the bright lights of Washington behind. As they raced toward Fairfax, Virginia, McMahon turned to Jennings. “How often were the marshals checking in?”

Jennings shouted into McMahon's ear, “Every
half hour. They made their seven-thirty check-in and were scheduled to check in again at eight.”

“How many marshals were assigned to the congressman?”

“Four.”

“What's the ETA for the Quick Response Team?”

“When the call went out, most of them were in the lab working on the evidence collected from the bombing yesterday. We've got choppers coming in to pick them up on the roof, and their mobile crime lab and heavy equipment should arrive around eight forty-five.”

McMahon couldn't get the vision of a team of commandos assaulting Turnquist's house out of his mind. The thought made him think of Irene Kennedy and General Heaney. He grabbed the digital phone out of his jacket and dialed the direct line to Roach's office. “Brian, I need you to do me a favor. Get a chopper over to the Pentagon and have it ferry General Heaney and Irene Kennedy out to Turnquist's.”

“Consider it done. I just activated the Hostage Rescue Team. They'll be airborne and en route in under five minutes. They should be arriving right behind you. If there's the slightest sign of these terrorists, I want you to hold tight and wait for them to handle it.”

McMahon doubted the killers were waiting around, but knew Roach had to do things by the book. “Have the HRT stay airborne. If I need them, I'll call them in.”

“You're running the show. Have the Fairfax police been in the house?”

“Not yet. I'll call you as soon as I get there. We're only a couple of minutes out.” McMahon hung up, and the next several minutes were punctuated by a nervous silence.

The chopper came in at about three hundred feet and circled the neighborhood looking for a place to land. Three police cars with their lights flashing marked the end of Turnquist's driveway. The chopper pilot knew enough not to land near the crime scene and have his rotor wash send evidence flying. He flew about fifty yards down from Turnquist's house and checked the area with his spotlight for wires. He found a spot where the trees weren't a problem and set the bird down in the middle of the road. The three agents again crouched as they ran away from the chopper. Halfway down the street they were met by a woman with grayish black hair carrying a flashlight. She looked at McMahon and said, “FBI?”

Skip stuck out his right hand. “Yes, I'm Special Agent McMahon and these are Special Agents Jennings and Wardwell.”

“I'm Police Chief Barnes. Follow me, and I'll show you the way.” All four started down the street.

“Have you been in the house, Chief?” asked McMahon.

“No, I just got here.”

“Have any of your officers been in the house?”

“No.”

As they walked up to the white sedan, Barnes pointed her flashlight down and illuminated several brassy objects. “Watch your step, we've got some shell casings on the ground.” She led them to the
window of the sedan and shone the light on the dead marshal. The man lay slumped over the middle armrest with shards of glass covering his body. Three bullet holes were clearly visible on the left side of his head.

McMahon noted the distance from the shell casings to the car and then looked at the marshal's hands. They were empty. “Let's go look at the house.”

The chief told her two officers to stay put and then led McMahon, Jennings, and Wardwell up the driveway. As they neared the house, another body could be seen on the ground in front of the porch. Barnes shone her flashlight at it and illuminated the dead marshal. When they neared the body, McMahon stuck his arms out and stopped everyone from coming any closer. “Chief, may I borrow your flashlight for a second?” Barnes handed it to him, and Skip stepped closer to the body. Putting the flashlight under his armpit, he put on a pair of gloves and bent over the body. He looked at the bullet holes in the center of the man's face and then the one in his neck. The marshal's hands were open and lying away from his body. Skip looked at his holstered pistol and closed his eyes.

Standing back up, he said, “Everyone stay here for a minute. I'll be right back.”

He started for the porch steps, and Wardwell shouted at him, “Skip, you're not going in there alone.”

“Yes, I am. Just stay put. The less people we have traipsing around here the better.”