Secession: The Storm Read online

  They’re using the phone to track my position somehow, he realized. Amazing.

  And then the barrage stopped.

  “You’ve just made a big mistake, Agent Perkins,” he said breathlessly into the phone, his body hiding under the coffee table. “There are some very good reasons for me to sacrifice my life. You’re going to have to come in and get me, and I’ll give you fair warning – it’s not going to be Mardi Gras.”

  Abe yanked the phone’s cord from the wall and rolled away – unsure exactly what technology allowed them to locate him so precisely, but not wanting to take any chances. It took him a bit to gather himself, rising cautiously and ready to dive for cover just in case the cops still had a bead on him somehow.

  But nothing happened.

  Replaying the incident, he grew angry. He concluded that the conversation with Agent Perkins was yet another example of over-zealous, totalitarian response. Then again, what else should he expect?

  “I’m going to make them experience helplessness,” he whispered. “I need to make them understand what it feels like to see people you care about die right before your eyes – and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

  Returning to Heidi’s hospital room, Jefferson Clifton wanted desperately to kick his wife’s ass, but it didn’t happen. First came the personal physician’s insistence on checking Heidi’s status. It had taken stern words and outright bullying before the medical staff had given its Good Housekeeping seal of approval to walk the short distance to the pressroom. Now, the doctor wanted to make sure she hadn’t suffered from the effort.

  President Clifton’s patience was stretched even thinner by Aaron’s continued presence. His wife’s chief of staff seemed determined to hang around, making things worse by reinforcing Heidi’s performance with a fountain of glowing, supportive praise.

  I need to be calm, Mr. Clifton thought. I can’t scold Heidi in front of her people. I’ll just loiter and play the role of supportive husband until that young staffer moves along.

  When a very bossy nurse appeared, demanding everyone vacate the room and give Mrs. Clifton an opportunity to rest, his head nearly exploded. He was already livid with Heidi, incensed by her seemingly careless act. He believed her unwillingness to ignore her impulsive nature was her primary weakness as a politician.

  Eight years ago, it had been her passions that had propelled her to the lead of the Democratic-pack. That same enthusiasm had been at the center of her downfall as well. And yet, incidents like today pointed to the conclusion that she hadn’t learned her lesson.

  Rash stunts like today’s trumpeted remarks on gun control could lead the party’s powerbrokers to withdraw their critical support. Her occasional outbursts of off-message ranting would surely put him in an early grave.

  Time after time, he’d tried to coach her through it, but it just didn’t seem to be doing any good.

  This time, he was going to shove the message down her throat. He even considered turning on the television in her room, so she could watch the results of her own foolishness.

  It had been decided over two years ago that gun control was not going to be a part of the 2016 campaign. Sage political minds had run the numbers, processed the polls, and gauged the pundits. Their recommendations had been unanimous - leave gun control out of this election if the Democrats wanted to hold onto the White House.

  And Heidi had agreed, reassuring the influential individuals guiding their party of her resolve to remain on message.

  Now, three days before the election, she’d gone flying around the pressroom on her broomstick, the wicked witch of stupidity. He was going to let her know, in no uncertain terms, how ignorant her decision was.

  But he needed to do that in private. Despite his anger over her blunder, the event didn’t warrant a public dressing-down. Scolding her in front of her subordinates would only create more issues in the long run, he plotted.

  Disgusted, he’d eventually left the room, heading to a nearby lounge area where he knew there was a television.

  The first image he spotted was an aerial view of some house. He could see tons of police cars lining the road beyond the roof in the center of the picture. The announcer was reporting about a standoff.

  He quickly flipped channels, anticipating a replay of his wife’s remarks while some network political analyst tore Heidi to shreds. Again, he discovered another video of dozens of cops rushing around with their guns drawn, expressions rife with urgency all around.

  A hasty survey of the cable networks confirmed that they were all broadcasting similar footage.

  “What the hell,” Jefferson mumbled, not seeing what he’d expected. He adjusted the volume to better hear the journalist.

  “All that we know at this point is that there have been over a dozen law enforcement casualties in this generally quiet neighborhood. I spoke with one of the local residents, and here’s what she had to say.”

  The image zoomed in on an elderly woman, the name Carol Fullerton flashing across the bottom of the screen. “The police swarmed my house and told me I had to leave my home immediately. They rushed me out the back door so fast, I didn’t even pick up my purse. About a half an hour ago, all heck broke loose over there. I heard hundreds of gunshots and explosions that lasted for some time. I can’t imagine what kind of building could remain standing after such abuse. Everything I own is in that house. I just hope I have a home to go back to.”

  The network then switched back to the aerial view, a fuzzy, long distance shot of what appeared to be the roof, yard, and surrounding woods of a typical upscale home. The on-the-scene reporter’s voice returned, “According to some off-the-record sources, the FBI approached this residence because the owner was a person of interest in the recent assassination attempt on presidential candidate Heidi Clifton. As of this moment, I’ve been unable to obtain official confirmation of that information.”

  The former president rubbed his chin, relieved that for once, the campaign had caught a break. Heidi’s misstep at the press conference would be overshadowed by the events unfolding in Houston. If the gunman held out for a while longer, her words might be completely overlooked.

  The upstairs bedroom was equipped with a security monitor as well. It had been a wise precaution, the central television downstairs now riddled with police bullet holes.

  Four cardboard boxes, each filled with golf balls and lined against the wall, provided a bulletproof barrier.

  Checking the placement of his makeshift shield, Abe couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

  His cousin had actually discovered the small miracle. Always a boisterous fellow, the mouthy-relative had issued a challenge of marksmanship – shooting golf balls. Several of the small targets had been strategically placed, and the contest begun.

  After dozens of shots, the competitors eventually sauntered over to examine their accuracy. As they first approached, Abe was troubled by what appeared to be untouched targets. There was no way he could have missed every shot. Upon closer examination, they found that each ball had indeed been struck numerous times, yet each had maintained its integrity.

  What was even more astounding was the fact that most of the bullets had created entry holes, but hadn’t penetrated through the other side. That observation was confirmed after he sawed a few of the balls in half and found bullets lodged inside.

  “We’ve discovered a new type of reactive armor,” he’d announced to his cousin. “The military will be happy to know they don’t need all of that expensive, heavy steel plating. They can just cover their tanks in golf balls and call it a day.”

  “And,” replied his grinning relative, “If the battle lulls, the troops can always work on their slice. A multi-purpose piece of gear!”

  Little had Abe known how important the role that small piece of ballistics-trivia would play.

  The local driving range sold bags of “experienced” golf balls for a few dollars. A business down the street rented moving vans and sold boxes. Abe selected
the tall, thin wardrobe packers so that they provided enough girth for the balls to rest three-deep. That was plenty of ballistic protection for what he needed.

  The storm shutters had been installed years ago, designed to withstand the occasional hurricane that visited Texas every few years. In anticipation of this day, he’d modified a select few of the thick barriers, cutting a small rectangle into the wood at the very bottom of the window cover.

  An inch wide and just over three inches high, it was the perfect shape, allowing his rifle barrel a clear field of fire while at the same time providing enough clearance for an unhindered view by the weapon’s optic.

  Abe thoroughly understood the wooden shutters wouldn’t stop an incoming round from a high-powered sniper rifle. That fact had just been violently reiterated downstairs. That’s what the golf balls were for.

  He also understood the gamble involved in exposing himself, even though the opening was tiny. It was a calculated risk. It was well known that military and law enforcement shooters possessed extraordinary skills with their weapons. But hitting a 1-inch wide opening while under duress was unlikely, and he planned to put the men who opposed him under significant stress.

  After verifying the lights were out, he pulled down the small cut of wood, making sure not to show any movement or color behind the opening. After a quick adjustment of the golf ball barriers, he unfolded the shooting sticks and set the Trackerpoint rifle into the stabilized platform. He was extra careful to keep the muzzle well back of the opening.

  He began scanning his surroundings, paying specific attention to the areas where he’d hide if he were a long-range shooter. There really weren’t that many options.

  His neighborhood consisted of upscale residences, most sitting on lots consisting of 4 to 10 acres of land. Thick woods surrounded the well-manicured lawns, only Mrs. Fullerton’s hacienda visible from his homestead. That’s where he spotted the first FBI shooter.

  Zeroing in with his computer-controlled optic, Abe had to hand it to the guy – he was extremely well hidden.

  There were several vents on the Fullerton roof, spinning aluminum units commonly called “whirlybirds.” One of the neighbor’s wasn’t turning, despite the heat of the day.

  Abe would have passed right over the sniper, but the lack of movement seemed odd, drawing additional scrutiny. Upon further inspection, he noticed the proximity of the beach-ball sized vent to the stone chimney extending upward through the shingles. It just looked out of place, and that caused him to focus on the oddity.

  The sniper had removed the whirlybird’s upper section, resting it next to the chimney to provide excellent concealment. But it wasn’t enough.

  Abe pushed the target acquisition button, the green brackets flashing on the small gap between the metal vent and stone façade. He felt no guilt, having little doubt that the man on Mrs. Fullerton’s roof would kill him without hesitation.

  The laser registered the distance to the target at just over 300 meters, a leisurely shot for the fancy rifle.

  For a moment, he considered scanning for additional shooters, but decided the delay was unnecessary. Once he fired on the closest man, the others would give themselves away as they returned fire. He prayed the police snipers would be unable to zero-in on the tiny slot carved in his shutter.

  Abe pulled the trigger, the green guidance arrows instructing him to adjust his aim a few inches to the right, less than a foot higher. The electronic crosshairs were actually centered on the chimney when the powerful weapon roared.

  Unlike the aircraft, the effect of this shot was nearly instantaneous. Abe saw the concealed government shooter jerk, and then his weapon clambered down the shingled roof. He immediately zoomed the optic out for a wider field of view and began scanning for anyone daring enough to return fire.

  Like the shooter on Mrs. Fullerton’s roof, the sniper on the water tower was also well concealed. Somehow, the man had managed to procure an off-white bed sheet that closely matched the paint on the steel tank. Only the appearance of a black rifle barrel gave him away, a mistake that would cost him dearly.

  The range finder signaled 820 meters just as the first incoming bullet struck the shutter with a resounding “thwack.” Abe ignored the broken glass and splinters, trusting in his bullet stop to keep him alive. Still, his fingers moved with nervous haste as he repeated the aiming process. Another round plowed into the golf balls at the same moment his .338 reported its deadly discharge.

  A spectacular plunge confirmed he’d struck the target, the sniper’s dark image rising briefly to its feet, and then plummeting over 60 feet to the ground. Before the already-dead man slammed into the earth, Abe was scanning for more work.

  Standard law enforcement procedures stipulated a secure perimeter of 300-500 meters around any active shooter. The exact distance established for any operation was up to the local commander’s discretion – terrain, population, and urban density all factors that were to be taken into account.

  With Abe’s counterattack on the FBI’s over-watch personnel, he assumed they would rethink how close their assets were positioned. He was right.

  From his elevated perch, he could examine movement several hundred yards down the thoroughfare in front of his house. Uniformed police officers were casually stepping to their cars, obviously heeding an order to pull back.

  The feds were running this show. They had set up a blocking position along his street, more to keep innocent passersby safe than to confine the distant suspect. Perimeter duty was a boring, mundane assignment – rarely involving direct engagement with a suspect. Given the nonchalant manner of the officers’ movement, they evidently felt secure, removed from the dangerous man who lived so far away.

  Abe and the Trackerpoint turned their casual egress into a nightmare.

  The fugitive began firing round after round into the helpless police cruisers, each of the 250-grain bullets delivering over 1,000 pounds per square inch of force. Automotive sheet metal was sliced like carbon paper, engine blocks providing only slightly more resistance to the living hell of Abe’s incoming fire. Fuel tanks were punctured like water balloons, the volatile liquid dripping on the ground, elevating the danger even more.

  Recovering from their initial surprise, many of the policemen sought cover by going prone or diving for the shallow ditch that bordered the road. It didn’t do them any good.

  So accurate was Abe’s weapon, even the slightest exposure meant death. After several men were picked off, some of the survivors scampered from their hides to evade the rifleman’s fury, hoping movement and distance would save their lives. Their escape plans failed.

  Others made for the trees after seeing man after man fall to the unbelievably accurate fire being sent their way. The soft pines provided concealment, but little cover. Abe could spot their anxious, frightened, faces peeking from behind the evergreens. It reminded him of Charlie’s expression as the bullets tore into his chest. He would deliver a similar experience to these brothers of the badge.

  Even at 500 meters or more, the .338 could blow through a tree trunk and still maintain enough energy to penetrate a cop’s body armor. Two more officers dropped before the others realized they might as well be hiding behind toothpicks.

  Only the density of the forest allowed any survivors.

  Chapter 7 – Hello, Sam

  Zach watched her stroll across the hotel’s lobby, resisting the urge to let loose with a proper West Texas wolf whistle.

  The Texan wasn’t sure of her genetic composition, had no idea what ancestry had produced Detective Samantha Temple’s legs, but he knew he wanted to visit that country before he died. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be today.

  “I’d never guess you were a cop,” the ranger said, a forced professionalism returning to his manner.

  They moved to a secluded corner, well away from the constant traffic of guests, porters, and staff.

  Moving one leg slightly forward, she lifted the short black skirt high enough to reveal a petite revolve
r holstered just above the top of her hose. Zach tried to look away, but she caught his glance. “Don’t get any ideas, Mr. Texas Ranger.”

  “Yeah? Well, don’t flatter yourself, Sam. I was just checking to make sure your equipment was proper,” he replied, shaking his head.

  Snorting, she looked away with rolling eyes, “I’ve never had any complaints about my equipment, Ranger. Don’t concern yourself.”

  Zach believed her.

  He’d met this example of Houston’s finest just the previous day. He was trailing a suspected con artist, a rather crafty fellow whose most recent sin was an attempt to bribe a government official in Louisiana. When his offer of significant monetary exchange had been rejected, gunplay erupted, and the perpetrator allegedly bolted for the Lone Star State. Major Alcorn had assigned Zach to hunt the criminal down.