Read Online The Next President by Joseph Flynn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joseph Flynn
Tags: Suspense
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through the picture’s right eye. The sound was no louder than a matchstick snapping.
Firing the weapon in a large, crowded, noisy room, it would be effectively silent. Then dropping it in the pocket of an innocent bystander and letting him carry off the murder weapon as bedlam ensued would be child’s play.
When the bystander eventually happened to notice he had something in his pocket, he’d take it out and leave his fingerprints on it.
J. D. reloaded to fire another round at the newspaper photo. The typical minigun was a shoddy piece of work that was fired once from a range of not more than ten feet and then thrown away. But Walter Perry’s handiwork was reliable at twice that range and reusable. He fired the second round and it tore the photo of Del Rawley in two.
J. D. went into the house and found a blank sheet of writing paper. He drew a rough oval approximately the size of an adult head. He sketched in eyes, brows, and a nose. As art, it was as primitive as the stick figures he’d received Which was exactly the point.
He took the drawing to the garage, removed the torn picture of Rawley from the planter, and taped up his drawing in its place. He moved the ladders closer together, leaving only a six-inch opening between them for the drawing. He stepped back as far as he could go, maybe twenty-five feet.
J. D. Cade didn’t know who was blackmailing him, who was threatening his son, or what the man looked like. At the moment, though, the crude portrait was sufficient to focus his anger.
He fired the pen gun, and the round struck its target squarely between the eyes.
Across the country in Virginia, in the last light of the day, a man with many names, most of them unpleasant and bestowed on him by his multitude of enemies, cut back a jasmine plant that had gotten leggy. A native of the tropics the plant would have to be brought indoors before the first frost. But placed in a bright window, it would blossom again in January, its white star shaped flowers and glorious fragrance delights to the senses.
The name by which the man thought of himself was the Gardener.
An altogether different type of character approached him. Of medium height and blocky build, he had a receding hairline, protuberant eyes, and two large warts, one at either end of a wide, lipless mouth. His name was Harold Starchley, but to everyone who’d ever worked with him he was Harold the Toad.
The Gardener, of course, knew that toads could be useful. They devoured slugs and other pests.
“I talked to the technician, sir. He said Cade must have cloned the PCR we sent him and installed a switch to deactivate the homing function. That’s the only explanation for why it works perfectly some of the time and not at all other times.”
“Mr. Cade doesn’t like us intruding on his privacy.”
“If he’s cloned the PCR, sir, it means he’s taking countermeasures. He’s probably looking for us right now.”
“Of course he is. Which is why we haven’t let him see us.”
“But time is passing, sir, and Rawleys numbers are still up.”
“You have a point, Harold. Perhaps Mr. Cade needs a bit more prompting He returned his attention to snipping the jasmine.
“Well, we do have our options, don’t we?”
THREE
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
That morning’s Los Angeles Times held news of interest for J. D. Denver—The FBI may have prevented a second assassination attempt against presidential candidate Senator Franklin Delano Rawley. An anonymous source has revealed that another sniper shot at Senator Rawley may have been planned for when the candidate speaks in this city later today. The two speeches the senator will be giving here are at indoor venues, leading authorities to conclude that the attempt would be made as Senator Rawley entered or left one of the buildings.
Neither the FBI nor the Rawley campaign would comment publicly on the matter, but it has been confirmed that the Rawley entourage has moved from the Four Seasons
Firing the weapon in a large, crowded, noisy room, it would be effectively silent. Then dropping it in the pocket of an innocent bystander and letting him carry off the murder weapon as bedlam ensued would be child’s play.
When the bystander eventually happened to notice he had something in his pocket, he’d take it out and leave his fingerprints on it.
J. D. reloaded to fire another round at the newspaper photo. The typical minigun was a shoddy piece of work that was fired once from a range of not more than ten feet and then thrown away. But Walter Perry’s handiwork was reliable at twice that range and reusable. He fired the second round and it tore the photo of Del Rawley in two.
J. D. went into the house and found a blank sheet of writing paper. He drew a rough oval approximately the size of an adult head. He sketched in eyes, brows, and a nose. As art, it was as primitive as the stick figures he’d received Which was exactly the point.
He took the drawing to the garage, removed the torn picture of Rawley from the planter, and taped up his drawing in its place. He moved the ladders closer together, leaving only a six-inch opening between them for the drawing. He stepped back as far as he could go, maybe twenty-five feet.
J. D. Cade didn’t know who was blackmailing him, who was threatening his son, or what the man looked like. At the moment, though, the crude portrait was sufficient to focus his anger.
He fired the pen gun, and the round struck its target squarely between the eyes.
Across the country in Virginia, in the last light of the day, a man with many names, most of them unpleasant and bestowed on him by his multitude of enemies, cut back a jasmine plant that had gotten leggy. A native of the tropics the plant would have to be brought indoors before the first frost. But placed in a bright window, it would blossom again in January, its white star shaped flowers and glorious fragrance delights to the senses.
The name by which the man thought of himself was the Gardener.
An altogether different type of character approached him. Of medium height and blocky build, he had a receding hairline, protuberant eyes, and two large warts, one at either end of a wide, lipless mouth. His name was Harold Starchley, but to everyone who’d ever worked with him he was Harold the Toad.
The Gardener, of course, knew that toads could be useful. They devoured slugs and other pests.
“I talked to the technician, sir. He said Cade must have cloned the PCR we sent him and installed a switch to deactivate the homing function. That’s the only explanation for why it works perfectly some of the time and not at all other times.”
“Mr. Cade doesn’t like us intruding on his privacy.”
“If he’s cloned the PCR, sir, it means he’s taking countermeasures. He’s probably looking for us right now.”
“Of course he is. Which is why we haven’t let him see us.”
“But time is passing, sir, and Rawleys numbers are still up.”
“You have a point, Harold. Perhaps Mr. Cade needs a bit more prompting He returned his attention to snipping the jasmine.
“Well, we do have our options, don’t we?”
THREE
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
That morning’s Los Angeles Times held news of interest for J. D. Denver—The FBI may have prevented a second assassination attempt against presidential candidate Senator Franklin Delano Rawley. An anonymous source has revealed that another sniper shot at Senator Rawley may have been planned for when the candidate speaks in this city later today. The two speeches the senator will be giving here are at indoor venues, leading authorities to conclude that the attempt would be made as Senator Rawley entered or left one of the buildings.
Neither the FBI nor the Rawley campaign would comment publicly on the matter, but it has been confirmed that the Rawley entourage has moved from the Four Seasons
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