CHAPTER 9
H
igh above Greenwich and the Merritt Parkway, James removed a Remington M24 sniper rifle from a duffel bag at his feet. He assembled the weapon system, attaching a bipod, muzzle suppressor and a telescopic scope. He then spread out on his stomach on top of a concrete ledge beside some vegetation along the edge of the bridge. His perch afforded cover, and a clear line of sight toward oncoming traffic.
This location was selected because of its extended sightline. James focused on a predetermined spot on the parkway, adjusted a dial on the scope for wind speed. From this vantage point, he could see approaching vehicles in the high-powered scope. Even the
faces
of drivers were clearly visible. The distance to the target was seven hundred yards. Close to a half-mile.
James had achieved mastery in the use of the weapon. Navy SEAL commanders were amazed by his world-class skills. He was among a very small group, maybe a dozen men who had the talent to harness the lethality of the weapon at extreme distances.
Kate meanwhile had driven the Chevy from the private school into downtown Greenwich where she parked the car. Casually attired, she pulled a latex mask over her head which gave an image of an elderly woman, then put on a short wig. She glanced in the rearview mirror, took a few deep breaths.
Here goes.
She crossed the street to a small building—the Greenwich branch of First Fidelity Bank—moved around to the back, pressed a chunk of plastic explosive against a window pane and stuck a receiver into the putty-like stuff which had been synchronized to a transmitter in her pocket.
She circled around to the front of the building, stood motionless, and with her eyes swept her surroundings.
All clear.
She taped a cardboard sign to the front door, returned to the Chevy, gunned the engine and headed for the foothills above town. Holding the transmitter, she pressed a button which remotely igniting the plastic explosive on the window pane at the bank.
Then all hell broke loose.
The glass shattered, a security system node tripped—sending a signal appearing on a monitor at the Greenwich Police Department. Every patrolman within a five-mile radius of the First Fidelity Bank sped over.
The first police officer arrived and saw the sign on the door.
KEEP BACK—WE HAVE A HOSTAGE
Not long after a dispatcher relayed the information
every
patrol car available headed for the bank.
The chaos was in full swing at First Fidelity when Alec Specter entered an onramp to the Merritt Parkway. He slipped into traffic, accelerated to 60 M.P.H., classical music piping through surround-sound inside the luxury interior.
James calmed his mind and muscles, concentrated on regulating each breath.
Slow. Rhythmical.
He felt his heartbeat. Body and rifle—a single mechanism.
A beat.
Then he saw it: the sedan came into the crosshairs.
He fingered the trigger.
Three . . . two . . . one . . .
Crack!
A bullet sliced the air, at supersonic speed.
The hot-lead projectile moved at three thousand feet per second: a tremendous
clank
as the bullet tore into a rear tire. Sparks flew as a wheel scraped against pavement. Specter reeled from the blowout, struggled to control the vehicle. Gravel spit against the undercarriage. He skidded toward the shoulder, finally coming to a stop.
James pulled back on the rifle bolt, a spent cartridge flying into the air.
He chambered a second round of fury, Specter shaking violently.
James fixed the crosshairs, squeezed the trigger, Specter unable to react before the bullet cut through the windshield: A leather seat tore open—very near his rib cage.
Terrified, he flung off his seatbelt and dove for cover. He pressed his body against the carpet, struggled to grasp his mobile phone.
“Nine-one-one operator. Where is your emergency?”
“I’m . . . somebody’s trying to kill me.”
“Sir, please talk slowly. What’s your location?”
“Uh . . . Merritt Parkway . . . North of King. Hurry, damn it!”
Ahead on the parkway—under the bridge—James set the rifle on a bed of red-hot coals he had prepared earlier. He scurried up to the pavement, casually strolling on the side of the road.
Kate slowed the Chevy alongside him. He opened the door, hopped in. She drove away from the area.
“How did it go?” she asked, anxious.
James looked at her, grinning, his adrenaline pumping still.
“We’re good, just drive.”
She exhaled, shaking her head.
“This is going to age me twenty years.”
He rubbed her shoulders and neck.
“I think we got our message across.”
A silence.
James added, “There’s one way to know for sure that Specter’s our man.”
Kate said, nervously, “Tonight, we find out.”
Tonight.
CHAPTER 10
K
ate awoke slowly.
There was no clock at her bedside in the cottage, but judging by the sun’s angle early afternoon was approaching. She lay there in the dimly lit bedroom, coming out of a dream. The dream is kind of similar to ones that she’s been having off and on in recent months.
In the dream, the morning begins like any other. She leaves home in search of an anniversary gift for James, along with their daughter. They’ve become inseparable, best buddies. It’s another girl’s day of shopping, the destination a shopping mall in a nearby suburb.
Once inside, they browse through specialty shops and stop at the food court for ice cream. There, they talk about things. They can converse on any topic. It’s great. Fun and spirited, the girl is a precious gift from James—the apple of Kate’s eye.
Suddenly, she’s now fully awake.
The dream doesn’t surprise her. She’s been thinking more and more about having a child and would love to start a family.
That is, if she and James ever emerge from this horrible nightmare.
With her mind back in the present, she pulled herself out of bed and jumped in the shower, wondering how James was doing with the preparations for tonight.
Feelings of relaxation washed over her as her body was pelted by the flow of hot, soothing water.
Stepping out of the enclosure she wrapped herself in an oversized towel, opened a window and dried her hair as a cool breeze skimmed across her skin.
On the porch, she nestled into a cozy chair with a cup of coffee, a bagel and a blanket draped across her legs. Old Greenwich is so quiet you can hear a pin drop. She listened to a chorus of birds singing from the woods at the alley’s end. The sun’s glow warmed her face, and in the moment, she felt peaceful and safe.
She knew it wouldn’t last, so she soaked it all in.
Now back inside the cottage, Kate heard the Chevy pulling into the carport below. Moments later James came through the door.
“Kate, I’m back.”
At first, he didn’t see her.
“Where are you?”
“In here.”
He came closer to the bedroom door.
“Kate, we need to kill some time before tonight. I was wondering if you had any ideas.”
When he reached the doorway he found her standing beside the bed, wearing one of his shirts.
Only
his shirt.
It’s unbuttoned to her waist.
In the half-light, she slipped it off her shoulders as he followed it to the floor.
He smiled widely.
“I guess you do.”
CHAPTER 11
T
he disaster James had left in his wake on the Merritt Parkway in Greenwich was now the responsibility of a police officer, and not one from the Greenwich Police Department, they were preoccupied with the “hostage” crisis at First Fidelity Bank. This was an officer from the nearby Westchester County Police Department.
A cowering Alec Specter had finally opened his car door for him.
“Are you alright, sir?” the policeman asked.
“I’ll live. Just get me the hell out of here.”
Visibly shaken, he quickly found the officer’s squad car and jumped inside. Specter was then driven to a hospital where he was examined thoroughly, the physician concluding it was anxiety, not bullet holes, the patient suffered from. He received medication to help calm his nerves and the facility released him.
Riding home in a police car, he arrived to find three police officers, already at their stations. His son had been pulled from a private school. Along with his mother, he huddled at the estate, which now resembled a fortress.
In downtown Greenwich, at First Fidelity Bank, efforts to persuade the phantom robbers to surrender had failed. The Swat Team fired tear gas canisters inside the building and stormed in. Having found no bandits on the premises, it was quickly determined that the “robbery” had been a ruse—a diversion to draw police officers away from the location of the ambush of Alec Specter. The Merritt Parkway was combed in search of evidence by a team including Greenwich police detectives, though none turned up—except for the rifle. By now, it had no evidentiary value owing to the sustained, searing heat of the coals.
By late morning, the Greenwich Chief of Police was ready to have a conversation with Alec Specter. A half-hour later, an unmarked police car turned off the road and drove through the gate at the Specter estate. Inside, the Chief was accompanied by the lead detective assigned to the case. They climbed the front steps and the detective was about to ring the doorbell when a woman, dressed neatly in a maid’s uniform, opened the door.
“Hello,” she said, “I assume you’re here to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Specter.”
“Yes ma’am, we are,” replied the detective.
They followed her through a large foyer. As they approached the drawing room, a heated argument ceased as the two men entered. The couple turned and noticed the lawmen, standing awkwardly in the doorway.
Clearing his throat, the Chief finally said, “Good morning. I’m George Brennan, Chief of the Greenwich Police Department.”
He pointed to the man beside him.
“This is detective Moody. He’s in charge of the investigation.”
The couple stood near a leather sofa opposite two chairs. Alec Specter waved a hand toward the chairs, offering no handshake.
“Have a seat.”
Mrs. Specter had shuffled out of the room before he could introduce her. Beyond the doorway, she leaned against a staircase wall, remaining close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“I’d hoped we would be meeting under better circumstances,” the Chief began. “This must be difficult for you and your family.”
“That’s an understatement.” Specter was clearly agitated. Beads of sweat accumulated on his forehead, his tone accusatory. “You’re supposed to protect me. It’s your job, damn it!”
“Yes, sir. It is.”
What a jerk,
the Chief thought.
“Who did this to me?”
“If it’s okay with you, sir,” Chief Brennan replied, “I’d like to let detective Moody speak.”
“Speak!” To their ears, Specter’s voice was like fingernails, scratching against a chalkboard.
“Mr. Specter, we want you to know, we’ve put all our resources on this.”
“Great. I feel much better. Tell me what you
have,
” Specter commanded.
“Well, no leads, so far. Nobody saw anything, but it’s early in the investigation. We’ve covered the area surrounding the ambush with a fine-toothed comb. The only thing we found was a rifle, though the weapon has no value—in terms of evidence.”
“Why the hell not?”
“The sniper laid the rifle on a bed of burning coals.”
Specter raised an eyebrow.
“In doing so, any possibility of capture while in possession of the weapon had been eliminated. By the time we found the rifle, it was useless from the intense heat.”
The lawyer stared at his feet, shook his head.
Shit.
“It gets worse,” detective Moody said. “This is the work the people who are capable of meticulous planning and coordination. More telling is the marksmanship. I doubt whether there’s more than a handful of men who could have fired those shots. The distance was close to a half-mile.”
The detective paused.
“This person has a lot of skill and talent.”
“Then why did he miss?”
“He didn’t,” the detective replied.
“Explain.”
“The bullets found their marks precisely as the shooter intended. The first shot, the one that blew out your tire and forced you into a stationary position on the shoulder—to accomplish this, the sniper had to make adjustments for the angle and the speed of the vehicle. As for the second bullet—the one that struck the seat just inches from your heart—to achieve this kind of pinpoint accuracy, many factors were taken into account, such as gravity, humidity, wind speed and the downward angle of the bullet after it made impact with the windshield.”
“Someone is trying to send a message. Is that it?”
The detective and the Chief shared a look.
“We think so.” He proceeded cautiously. “Mr. Specter, do you have any enemies you can think of who might want to hurt you?”
Specter barely caught himself before laughing in their faces. A complete list of his enemies would be longer than a phone book.
“Not off hand,” he mumbled.
Chief Brennan spoke in a serious tone. “Mr. Specter, what we’ve got here are highly trained men with military backgrounds, most likely Special Forces. The Police Department is assigning additional personnel to this case.” The Chief glanced over at the detective. “The officers outside are here for your protection. Another man will stay here inside the house if you wish. I advise you to stay at home until we can sort this thing out. Our job is to keep you
alive
.”
“Damn right it is.”
The detective leaned in, closer to Specter.
“They might try to make contact.”
The Chief caught a glint in Specter’s eyes.
You’ll be the first to know.
CHAPTER 12
A
few hours before the chaos broke out on the parkway in Greenwich, the hunchback named Boris was driving a panel van into a church parking lot in Bethesda, Maryland. The affluent suburb, located eight miles north of Washington, D.C., consisted mostly of single-family dwellings. The hour was nearing three a.m. A cloak of low-lying clouds obscured the moon, providing excellent cover. Boris opened the rear doors of the van and removed a motorbike.
Attired in black clothing, he slung a backpack over his shoulder. Mounting the bike, he rode two miles before reaching a wooded area where he concealed the motorbike with a camouflage tarp. He covered the remaining distance of three hundred yards on foot before arriving at his destination—the home of Senator Edward Kowalski and his wife. Settled amidst a stand of mature trees, the red brick house provided a sense of privacy. Walking to one side of the house, he stood beside the garage, picking the lock on a box containing the control panel for the home’s security system. Opening the box, he steadied a small flashlight between his teeth and shined it inside the panel. Examining the wiring layout, he made a comparison to one he held in his huge hand.
The two were identical.
Excellent. The Deacon has delivered on his promise.
He connected wires inside the panel to a small electronic devise at his side. Its purpose was to trick the system into thinking a signal had been sent to the security company’s monitoring center in the event a door or a window had been opened. This completed, he went around to the rear of the house and picking a lock on a French door, he slowly entered the living room. Quietly, he moved through the darkened interior and down a hallway that lead to the bedroom where he saw the Senator and his wife, lying in bed. There in the silence, he waited.
And waited.
Satisfied the Senator and his wife were both asleep, he removed his gear from a backpack. Slipping inside the bedroom, he placed a plastic mask very near the nose and mouth of the Senator’s wife. Attached to the mask was a tube supplied by a small tank lying on the floor. He held the mask in place and watched her chest rise and fall as she inhaled the gas, inducing a state of unconsciousness. In a few hours, the gas would dissipate, leaving no trace. Moving around to the other side of the bed where the Senator lay snoring, he repeated the procedure. The task now done, he directed his flashlight on Kowalski’s face. For a moment, Boris studied the man: mid-sixties, pale, overweight.
He pulled the covers down to the bottom of the bed, exposing the couple. Clicking his forefinger against a hypodermic needle, he spread two of the Senator’s toes apart. Finding a vein, he pressed the plunger, injecting an air bubble into his bloodstream. The bubble reached the Senator’s heart, and he began to convulse violently. Boris kept the flashlight beam on Kowalski, watched as the Senator gasped his last breath.
The body lay motionless, the struggle for life over.
Boris spoke in a low voice. “Into the pit of Hell you will go.”
Beside the Senator, a Bible lay on his bedside table and on top of the book sat a magnifying glass used as an aid for reading small print. Boris flipped through the pages, eventually finding the one he was looking for. He laid the magnifying glass atop the page, which contained one verse in particular.
MATTHEW 3:2. REPENT, FOR THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN IS AT HAND
He packed up his gear and walked to the other side of the bed. Mrs. Kowalski lay in a silk sleep-shirt that barely covered her. With his flashlight, he swept across her body, his expression animated. In her early forties, the woman was quite attractive. More than likely, theirs was a second marriage.
He peered down on her female form, his stare intensifying.
She lies here with this swine. A miserable wretch.
Lingering above her, Boris removed a knife from his pocket.
He then caught himself, replaced the blade.
The Deacon would have my head.
The humpback stood there in the darkness, not moving.
My work here is done.
He began walking toward the hallway and retreated from the house, resetting the alarm system and covering his tracks as he went.
Boris disappeared into the cool night air—like a
ghost
.