Authors: Kevin Carrigan
As Lane drifted toward unconsciousness, he summoned up one last breath and said, “You
fuckin
’ spic.”
Chapter 37
Clay walked over to where the duffle bag had landed after Lane was shot. He was impressed by the weight of the bag as he picked it up.
This is it!
But Clay was anxious to get out of there. He knew that Delgado had been lying all along. Delgado had repeatedly said that the objective of the mission was to kill Lane. So why the tranquilizers?
Clay turned to head back toward the van. Delgado, who was supervising the agents as they loaded Lane and his partners into the back of the SWAT truck, called out to Clay, “Hey, wait up.”
Oh fuck.
He had to play it cool. Clay stopped and turned toward Delgado. As Delgado got close, Clay asked, “What’s with the tranquilizers, Jorge?”
“Just a last minute change in plans,
muchacho
,” Delgado replied as he closed in on Clay. “Your service to the nation is greatly appreciated. The president sends his thanks.” Delgado took another step forward, drew his M9 pistol and pumped three rounds into Clay’s chest at point blank range.
Clay was blown back six feet and landed flat on his back, his arms out to his sides. Before Delgado even lowered his weapon he was hit by high-beam lights coming from a vehicle that was hidden behind the tree line a mere fifty yards away. A Jeep Wrangler roared its engine as it raced from the woods directly toward Delgado.
The operation has been compromised!
Delgado grabbed the duffle bag full of money and bolted toward the truck.
“Go!” he shouted.
The agents looked up. They had just finished closing and locking the back of the truck as Delgado ran past them on his way to the driver’s seat, still shouting, “Go! Go!”
“Jorge, we need to get Clay’s body first!” yelled one of the agents.
Delgado was on the verge of panic. He did NOT want to screw up again, especially on the mission that had been planned by Bonsam. “No! Let’s get the hell out of here,” he screamed as he started the truck. He stomped on the accelerator just as the agents climbed in, and sped toward the dirt road leading out of the woods.
The Jeep bounded across the clearing toward the site of the ambush. Isaiah pointed toward the van and shouted to Isaac, “Over there! Over there!” Isaac did a hard right turn and gunned the Jeep forward. As they reached the van, Isaac slammed on the breaks, sending the Jeep into a short skid.
The Grant brothers leapt from the Jeep and ran to Clay. Isaac reached Clay first, dropping to his knees beside him. He slid his arm under Clay’s neck and lifted his head off the ground. “Clay! Clay! Oh man. Clay, come on.
Come on Clay! Come on,” Isaac pleaded as tears formed in his eyes. He shook Clay gently, but Clay remained unresponsive. He pulled Clay to his chest and hugged him, rocking him back and forth. “Please don’t die brother, please don’t die.”
Isaiah had run a few yards down the dirt road in a futile pursuit of the truck as its taillights disappeared into the night. He stopped and stared into the darkness as the sound of the truck faded away. He turned and walked back toward Clay and Isaac, his pistol still in hand. He stopped after only a few steps. He looked ahead and saw Isaac hugging Clay’s limp body, sobbing and calling out Clay’s name. Isaiah felt fury like he had never felt before. He clenched his teeth and spun around. Pointing his weapon down the dirt road, he screamed at the top of his lungs, “We’re
gonna
kill you, motherfucker!”
Chapter 38
The head of the Secret Service Presidential Protection Detail was not happy with the news he had just received from President Bonsam. There was nothing more unnerving for the Secret Service than to have the president make a last minute change to the travel arrangements. He could not believe that Bonsam had decided to travel by motorcade in lieu of helicopter from the Detroit Metropolitan Airport to Auburn Hills, which was located almost an hour away from the airport. A helicopter could get him there in less than ten minutes.
Bonsam had made the call to the Secret Service as soon as he had rolled out of bed. He indicated that he felt obliged to drive through downtown Detroit as a sign of gratitude to the many faithful supporters of his reelection. Regardless of the reason, the Secret Service was now forced to scramble together Michigan law enforcement teams to provide security along the route with less than four hours notice. The head of the Presidential Detail had been on the phone all morning to make this happen. It was an excruciating task. Once he felt that he finally had the situation under control, he leaned back in his chair, rubbed his temples in an effort to relieve his headache pain, and said to himself, “I hate Mondays.”
President Bonsam arrived at Detroit Metro Airport shortly after noon, and minutes later, he and the top two managers of his reelection campaign team climbed into the presidential limo. Soon the motorcade was racing down I-94 East toward downtown Detroit.
“Sir, when we get to the Palace we will start rehearsing your speech,” said one of the managers. “We’ll have plenty of time before the rally begins, but it behooves us to rehearse early so we can tweak the speech if necessary.”
“We want to be sure your message resonates with concern for the issues that most affect the people of Detroit,” said the other manager, “like unemployment, crime, et cetera.”
Bonsam sat in the back of the limo with his hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. He was oblivious to the conversation that was going on around him. The managers looked at one another, and quietly closed their folders. It was clear that Bonsam’s mind was elsewhere, and they knew that it was in their best interests to remain reticent for the rest of the trip.
Bonsam was burning with anger, but he had come to control the anger that encompassed his thoughts and feelings. In the back of his mind, visions of fire were swirling about and trying to consume his thoughts, but he was able to keep the visions at bay. He focused solely on the view out the windshield in front of him as the limo merged onto I-75 and made its way toward downtown.
Minutes later the limo merged onto the John C. Lodge Freeway and headed straight toward Cobo Center.
Cobo Center is an enormous convention center that has hosted numerous concerts and sporting events, and each January it is the venue for the world famous North American International Auto Show.
It is located next to the Detroit River and is one of the city’s most famous landmarks. The freeway actually goes directly under the mammoth building complex.
Bonsam smiled as the limo approached the underpass. As it sped beneath the building, he imagined what was to take place above later in the evening. As the limo emerged from the other side of the underpass,
the
most famous Detroit landmark came into view, the Renaissance Center.
The Renaissance Center is the world headquarters for General Motors, and like Cobo Center is located on the shore of the Detroit River. It is an amazing complex containing interconnected
skyscrapers
that together form the pinnacle of the Detroit skyline. The RenCen is practically its own city within the city of Detroit.
Bonsam pushed the intercom button connected to the driver and said, “I want you to pull over and stop directly in front of the Renaissance Center.” The shocked driver instantly contacted the head of the motorcade and informed him of the unexpected stop. Within five minutes, Bonsam was standing before the RenCen as Secret Service agents swarmed the area.
Bonsam looked upward and stared steadily at the central tower, the Detroit Marriott Hotel. It was over 70 stories high and surrounded by four 40-story office towers.
Neither his campaign managers nor his aides had any idea what Bonsam was doing, and soon most of them found themselves staring at the tower as well, trying to discern what the president was looking for.
Auburn Hills was another 30 miles north of downtown Detroit, and to have the president stop and expose himself to the public at large with no warning was a Secret Service nightmare. As nearby citizens realized what was going on and moved toward the motorcade, the agents hastily cordoned off the area to keep the onlookers a safe distance from the president.
Bonsam knew that by making this stop, his plan would be bolstered even more. He snapped out of his trance and looked at the people who had gathered. He quickly dropped into his charismatic mode and started waving and shouting to the crowd that was forming. He even winked at a group of elderly ladies, which made them cheer with excitement. A minute later he climbed back into his limo and ordered the driver to continue to Auburn Hills.
Chapter 39
The Palace of Auburn Hills was packed with fans and supporters of President Bonsam from across the Detroit Metropolitan area. The Palace is the home of the Detroit Pistons, the “Bad Boys” of the NBA. Many people consider Detroit’s entire male population to be bad boys, and a good chunk of the female population as well. Detroit is consistently rated as one of the worst cities in America due to its astronomical crime rate. Detroit was also home to one of the worst race riots the country had ever seen. The Twelfth Street Riot of 1967 left forty-three dead and hundreds injured. During the five days of violence, more than 2,000 buildings were burned to the ground. President Bonsam knew all of this when he selected Detroit for his “October Surprise.” It was perfect.
He sat alone in the Pistons’ locker room mentally preparing for what was about to come. He closed his eyes and smiled to himself. He had struggled to gain control over the visions that had been haunting him, and he had begun to succeed. In his mind he saw himself hovering high above the men in the white hooded robes, only this time they were screaming in agony as their bodies went up in flames.
Clark, Martineau, Mason, and Clark’s closest friends and supporters were celebrating their final visit to the Governor’s summer residence on Mackinac Island. The island, located in Lake Huron between Michigan’s upper and lower peninsulas, is a scenic natural wonderland. The residence had been built in 1902 and used as the Governor’s summer residence for over 60 years. It is located high on a bluff overlooking the crystal blue waters of the Straits of Mackinac.
People mingled about on the large porch of the residence and the mood was festive. Martineau stood at the center of the porch with her elbows resting against the top of the railing. The vista before her was spectacular. Clark approached Martineau and stood beside her, and he, too, placed his elbows on the railing. He leaned over and bumped his shoulder against Martineau’s shoulder causing her to laugh. “Beautiful, isn’t it,” he said as he gestured toward the Straits.
“Unbelievable,” she replied. “This has been the best three-day weekend ever.”
Clark stood up straight. “Yeah, only a week and a day to go, Kenna. It should be smooth sailing for us from now until then,” he said.
Martineau flopped her head forward and shook it back and forth. She stood up straight and knocked her knuckles against the wooden railing twice. “Sam, I can be very superstitious at times,” she said jokingly, “I’m Creole, remember? Don’t say things like that. You’re going to bring us bad luck.”
As they both laughed, they heard Brett Mason call out from the porch door, “President Bonsam is about to give his speech!” Clark, Martineau, and the others who had gathered on the porch made their way back into the residence and gathered around the large television in the main room.
Cheers erupted in the Palace as President Emmanuel Bonsam stepped onto the podium. He was so full of himself. He arrogantly strode to the front of the podium, waving to the crowd. He continued waving while doing a slow 360-degree spin, acting like he was the supreme pontiff himself. He scanned the crowd, absorbing the energy in the room, while making sure that everyone and everything was in place. Kirk’s death had assured him the party nomination. Tonight’s events would secure the presidency. His presidency. His Providence.