Read Online Greene's Calling: Seventeen Book Three (A Supernatural Action Adventure Thriller Series 3) by AD Starrling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: AD Starrling
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shrugged. ‘Sure, dude. What did you wanna know?’
‘Can you tell me the name of the 1962 Columbus Day storm?’ said Conrad. He waited tensely while the kid tapped on the tablet screen.
‘Yeah. It was called Typhoon Freda,’ said the college student.
Conrad thanked him numbly, the words from the Japanese poem screaming in his mind.
“On Freda’s Dark Day
For the Rightful Blood to rise
The Falcon must fall”
A sudden premonition made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Conrad grabbed his cell and frantically dialed Laura Hartwell’s number again.
She picked up after the second ring. ‘Yes?’ she hissed.
‘What’s your codename for President Westwood?’ said Conrad, his knuckles whitening on the phone.
Static crackled down the line. ‘What—that?—breaking up—’ came the disjointed reply.
Conrad swore and looked at the cell’s signal. He had four bars; the problem had to be at Hartwell’s end. ‘The codename! What’s the codename for the president?’ he barked into the mouthpiece, aware of the frightened looks he was receiving from the two college students and a nearby Starbucks cleaner.
The line fizzled for a couple of seconds. Laura’s voice suddenly came through, clear as a bell in between the garbled sounds from the low signal. ‘—Falcon. His codename is Falcon—’
Icy fingers gripped Conrad’s heart. ‘Listen! I think something big is going to go down with the president today!’ He saw a female employee reach for the phone behind the counter, alarm evident on her face. ‘Are you with him?’
There was silence at the end of the line for a couple of beats before a busy tone sounded.
‘Laura? Laura, can you hear me? Where are you?’ Conrad shouted desperately into the mouthpiece of the cell. The busy signal continued to mock him. ‘Shit!’
He dialed again, his fingers almost striking the wrong keys in his haste. This time, a computerized voice stated that the person he was trying to contact could not be reached. He spun toward the college students. They shrank back in the booth.
‘Can I borrow that?’ he demanded, extending his hand to the iPad.
The kid practically threw the tablet at him. ‘Dude, take whatever you want! Just…don’t hurt us, ’kay?’
The coffeehouse was emptying fast, the customers eyeing him fearfully as they streamed through the exit; Conrad got the distinct impression they were committing his face to memory in case he made the six o’clock news.
He tapped on the tablet, typed something into a search engine, and opened the first web page that came up. He scanned the information swiftly. Seconds later, his finger froze on the screen. Conrad went back to the search engine, punched in directions for an address, and scrutinized the map that came up until he had it memorized. He tossed the tablet on the lap of the stunned college student, shouted a quick ‘Thanks!’ and raced for the door.
From the White House schedule he had just looked up, President Westwood was attending a special Columbus Day fundraiser at FedEx Field, home of the Washington Redskins football team, in Prince George’s County, Maryland. He was due to give a speech at ten thirty to an audience of approximately 85,000 spectators.
Conrad skidded to a stop on the sidewalk outside the Starbucks and glanced at his watch. It was five to nine; he had ninety-five minutes to get to the stadium and stop a possible assassination attempt on the president of the United States.
He looked around, spotted a suitable target coming up to the intersection on the left, and dashed out into the middle of the avenue. Brakes squealed and tires screeched in the eastbound lanes as traffic swung wildly around him. The horns blasting in the air were interspersed with waves of profanity.
Conrad ignored the yelling and general clamor, and stood facing the black Ford SUV barreling down the road toward him.
A man in a suit was talking on a Bluetooth headset behind the wheel. It took him a
‘Can you tell me the name of the 1962 Columbus Day storm?’ said Conrad. He waited tensely while the kid tapped on the tablet screen.
‘Yeah. It was called Typhoon Freda,’ said the college student.
Conrad thanked him numbly, the words from the Japanese poem screaming in his mind.
“On Freda’s Dark Day
For the Rightful Blood to rise
The Falcon must fall”
A sudden premonition made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Conrad grabbed his cell and frantically dialed Laura Hartwell’s number again.
She picked up after the second ring. ‘Yes?’ she hissed.
‘What’s your codename for President Westwood?’ said Conrad, his knuckles whitening on the phone.
Static crackled down the line. ‘What—that?—breaking up—’ came the disjointed reply.
Conrad swore and looked at the cell’s signal. He had four bars; the problem had to be at Hartwell’s end. ‘The codename! What’s the codename for the president?’ he barked into the mouthpiece, aware of the frightened looks he was receiving from the two college students and a nearby Starbucks cleaner.
The line fizzled for a couple of seconds. Laura’s voice suddenly came through, clear as a bell in between the garbled sounds from the low signal. ‘—Falcon. His codename is Falcon—’
Icy fingers gripped Conrad’s heart. ‘Listen! I think something big is going to go down with the president today!’ He saw a female employee reach for the phone behind the counter, alarm evident on her face. ‘Are you with him?’
There was silence at the end of the line for a couple of beats before a busy tone sounded.
‘Laura? Laura, can you hear me? Where are you?’ Conrad shouted desperately into the mouthpiece of the cell. The busy signal continued to mock him. ‘Shit!’
He dialed again, his fingers almost striking the wrong keys in his haste. This time, a computerized voice stated that the person he was trying to contact could not be reached. He spun toward the college students. They shrank back in the booth.
‘Can I borrow that?’ he demanded, extending his hand to the iPad.
The kid practically threw the tablet at him. ‘Dude, take whatever you want! Just…don’t hurt us, ’kay?’
The coffeehouse was emptying fast, the customers eyeing him fearfully as they streamed through the exit; Conrad got the distinct impression they were committing his face to memory in case he made the six o’clock news.
He tapped on the tablet, typed something into a search engine, and opened the first web page that came up. He scanned the information swiftly. Seconds later, his finger froze on the screen. Conrad went back to the search engine, punched in directions for an address, and scrutinized the map that came up until he had it memorized. He tossed the tablet on the lap of the stunned college student, shouted a quick ‘Thanks!’ and raced for the door.
From the White House schedule he had just looked up, President Westwood was attending a special Columbus Day fundraiser at FedEx Field, home of the Washington Redskins football team, in Prince George’s County, Maryland. He was due to give a speech at ten thirty to an audience of approximately 85,000 spectators.
Conrad skidded to a stop on the sidewalk outside the Starbucks and glanced at his watch. It was five to nine; he had ninety-five minutes to get to the stadium and stop a possible assassination attempt on the president of the United States.
He looked around, spotted a suitable target coming up to the intersection on the left, and dashed out into the middle of the avenue. Brakes squealed and tires screeched in the eastbound lanes as traffic swung wildly around him. The horns blasting in the air were interspersed with waves of profanity.
Conrad ignored the yelling and general clamor, and stood facing the black Ford SUV barreling down the road toward him.
A man in a suit was talking on a Bluetooth headset behind the wheel. It took him a
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