Page 64 of No Vow Broken

Security would assume that their perimeter, and probably seaside and airborne assets, could protect against any threat unless someone could set up artillery. They would soon find out they were wrong.

Sergei approached the stream and studied the flow. It was sufficient and would be even better if they received the rain that was forecast for Friday evening. Looking back up the hill, he considered the best path to the stream. Hauling his payload down here wouldn’t be easy. Still, he was a large man and would be able to manage it. Fortunately, it would all be downhill. He just needed to allow a little extra time in case there were problems maneuvering the dolly.

The stream wound its way down the shallow valley and entered the Chesapeake just north of the church. The prevailing wind from the northwest also followed the valley, further aiding his plan. To top it off, the forecast for Saturday was favorable, which was a nice piece of luck.

If this worked, he'd take out not only the intended targets, but the pope, the president of the United States, his wife, and a slew of Secret Service agents, as well as Vatican security. He smiled just thinking about it. He would be the greatest assassin of all time, but no one would ever know. Plus, since the Russian government was notorious for its assassinations, the suspicions would fall there.

Perfect.

He’d have collected his huge payout from Plotnikov, assumed another name, and started living the high life on a beach somewhere, not answering to anyone. Even if they eventually traced the hit back to him, which was extremely unlikely—Sergei Sokholov would be no more. Plotnikov could then plausibly insist that he knew nothing about him. All their payments had been carefully made in the black void of cyberspace. They had been exceedingly careful so that money exchanged hands in ways that were untraceable and invisible.

This was his last job, and he fully intended to enjoy retirement to its fullest.

THIRTY-THREE

Lexi

Thursday morning—two days until the wedding

The morning started badly. Somehow, several news crews and interested onlookers—who just happened to have high-end camera gear—found our hotel. The local police and Secret Service were keeping them at bay as best they could, but they were an incessant presence anytime anyone went in or out. Cameras were everywhere. Anyone leaving was being asked if they knew what was going on or who was hiding inside. I was certain news crews and paparazzi were bribing the hotel staff to provide any information or rumors they had heard. We all started looking over our shoulders when we had public conversations.

We had completely overwhelmed this sweet little Maryland town and I felt bad the locals were inconvenienced by it.

Rock dropped a copy of the morning’sWashington Poston the table as we were eating breakfast in the hotel dining room.

“We’ve hit the big time, Lexi. First page in thePost.”

The top half of the paper had a quarter-page photo showing the park with the motorcade in the foreground and Slash and Tito celebrating after the last drone was destroyed. I recognized the back of my own head in the photo as I raced toward the guys.

“I think they could have come up with a more imaginative headline,” Rock groused. “I think ‘Presidential Assassins Foiled by Frisbee’ doesn’t have any rhythm or punch. Just another sign journalism is on a downward spiral.”

“I think it’s kind of catchy,” I said, bumping shoulders with him. “Although it’s not wholly accurate since there were three other drones and they were shot down or blew up on their own.”

I flipped through the rest of the front section and found several candid photos of our party and a terrorism analysis from someone I’d never heard of before. Amazingly, none of the photos included me, if you didn’t include the back or side of my head.

Rock tapped on another headline a little bit lower. “This is a better headline, ‘Chaos, Confusion, Drones, Oh My.’ But it’s still not up to thePost’s usual standards. This probably shouldn’t come as a surprise, but my employer has asked me to jump on this story, as I am in the area. Fortunately, they have no idea how inside the story I am. They just think I’m on vacation.”

“What did you tell them?” I asked.

“That I was at a family event this week, but I’d look into the story as I had time and may be able to provide a more investigative report next week.”

“Will that satisfy them?”

“Probably not, but that’s all they are going to get from me.”

“Thanks, Rock,” Slash said. “We appreciate your discretion.”

“Hey, you’re family, not a headline. I get that.”

Still, it was glaringly obvious that after the attack at Bluff House, and now this one in broad daylight in the middle of Washington, DC, the media was in a frenzy worse than if Daniel Radcliffe showed up unannounced at aHarry Potterconvention.

Rock tapped on his phone and provided a news update. “The White House issued a statement yesterday afternoon saying the president and first lady were not harmed and, in fact, were not even present at the time of the attack at Franklin Park. They were grateful that no one was hurt, and they’d like to commend the Secret Service for their professionalism and skill at efficiently eliminating the threat to the community.”

“Did they identify who was in the motorcade?” Slash asked.

“Fortunately for us, they did not. They didn’t respond to further questions, either, other than to say that both attacks are under investigation and they’re working with the local police. As of yet, they said they don’t know who’s responsible for the attacks.”

“Small victories,” I said.

---