Page 77 of Hush
At six-thirty-three PM, the Russian ambassador called a press conference on the steps of George Washington University Hospital.
“I can confirm,” he said in his slow, rumbling voice, his accent grating, “that Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev has survived this horrific assassination attempt. He is in critical condition, but will recover. Our president is too strong to die.”
He swallowed and glared into the cameras. “The Russian Federation immediately demands a full investigation into this heinous crime. How has the Russian president been attacked on United States soil, on the steps of the United States Capitol? This supposed shining beacon of freedom has brought about the world’s greatest political crime. Wedemandan international investigation into this incident, before the United States covers up what truly occurred today.” He took no questions, and strode back into the hospital.
Tom exhaled slowly and clutched Mike’s pillow tighter.
News broke an hour later that cordons of joint task team members had surrounded a neighborhood in Penn Quarter. Residents in their condos had been evacuated, and SWAT teams from DC Metro, HRT from the FBI, and Special Operations teams from the U.S. Marshals, Secret Service, ATF, and others were swooping in from all sides. The news anchors hedged their reporting, not wanting to reveal the exact specifics of the operation.
Tom squeezed his phone, buried his chin in the pillow, and stopped blinking. His eyes watered, but he couldn’t look away.
Just before nine PM, the breaking news alert blared, and the screen violently shifted, veering to a helicopter’s perspective hovering over DC’s downtown, Penn Quarter. Law enforcement agents, geared up in full tactical gear, swarmed up and down an alley between a tall condominium building and a bank.
DC Sniper Caught.
The anchors stumbled over themselves, trying to blurt out the news first. The DC sniper had been penned in, an anonymous tip coming in just after the shooting that pinpointed the source of the shots. DC Metro police blockaded the neighborhood, cutting off his escape as the task force built a perimeter. The sniper tried to flee through connected buildings, but was cut off at all exits. He tried to disappear down the side of a building into a dark alley and was confronted by a phalanx of avenging law enforcement officials.
Tom held his breath. Secret Service agents had been killed, members of DC’s, and the nation’s, law enforcement community. He’d seen it all in his time as AUSA, including the retribution unleashed upon a criminal who had hurt one of law enforcement’s own. Anyone who hurt a federal agent or officer had a low, low chance of coming out of a search and arrest alive.
But, the news kept coming in.DC Sniper Arrested Alive. DC Sniper Injured. Expected to Recover. Sniper Rifle Recovered. Law Enforcement Has Found the Location of Shots Fired.
At eleven PM, Dylan Ballard, the United States Attorney for the DC Federal District, Tom’s former boss, came on camera outside of FBI headquarters. There were too many production lights set up, the news crews from twenty different organizations each setting out their light boxes and trying to burn away the night. Ballard looked washed out, wan. Maybe he really was. His tie was just a bit askew, his hair cowlicked at the back. Tom had never seen him so out of sorts.
A swarm of FBI agents and DC police officers surrounded Ballard. He was the hero of DC and federal law enforcement. He’d always been their man, the United States Attorney who dug in and turned the screws on the bad guys. No mercy. Ever. Of course they would back him up, surround him for this moment. Give him all their support.
Ballard read from a sheet he held just out of sight of the cameras. He’d always prided himself on his ability to speak extemporaneously, to skewer witnesses and reporters alike. Now, he read from a statement? Tom leaned forward, unconsciously, and held his breath.
“We have, at this time, definitively identified the DC Sniper as thirty-two-year-old Bulat Desheriyev, a Chechen national and a citizen of Russia. Mr. Desheriyev entered the United States on a B-2 tourist visa approximately three months ago. He appears to have settled into the Chevy Chase neighborhood in ward three, Washington DC. He does not appear to have secured employment. At this time, we believe he came to the United States for the sole purpose of carrying out these murders.”
Ballard paused, took a careful breath. Reporters hung on his every word. Cameras snapped, and flashbulbs washed out his face, made him look like a ghost. “We consider this to be an act of terrorism.” He looked straight into the cameras. “I can confirm that Mr. Desheriyev is in stable condition following his arrest. I cannot confirm any further information at this time and I will take no questions. Thank you.”
Ballard turned away from the cameras and disappeared into the law enforcement agents and officers behind him. They formed an impenetrable wall, staring down the reporters and the cameras and the flashing lights, stalwart in the face of the media’s shouted questions. Ballard strode into FBI headquarters, tucking his speech into his suit jacket pocket.
It hit Tom all at once, a massive sledgehammer to his chest. He couldn’t breathe, and the world went sideways, blurred out as his brain suddenly clenched, pain striking him every which way.
There was going to be a trial. Jesus Christ, there was going to be a trial, held on the world’s stage in his courthouse. A quadruple homicide, an attempted assassination of a foreign leader, an act of terror in the nation’s capital. Jurisdiction was unquestionably the Department of Justice and the DC federal court. A quadruple homicide and an assassination attempt as acts of terror opened the doors for capital murder charges. The death penalty. With relations between Russia and the U.S. at an all-time low, and now the Russian president’s blood staining the Capitol steps, this trial had the potential to define U.S.-Russian relations for decades to come, and global security, global stability in the world order. The whole world would be watching the United States, and this trial, a billion eyeballs watching and weighing his court’s actions every second of every day.
And he had a one-in-fifteen chance of being the presiding judge.
Something chewed on the base of his skull, a warning, a whisper of fear wreathed in caution. The world was going to turn to his court now, the eye of the global media fixed squarely on him and his fellow judges.
What now, with him and Mike? He’d wanted to stay quiet, stay concealed, at least for a little while. Come out slowly, safely. Away from the public eye.
But the public was coming, hordes and hordes of eyeballs that were going to tear apart his closet, put him and the rest of the court under the magnifying glass, burn them away like ants in the sun.
Slowly, Tom sank into the bed, clinging to Mike’s pillow as he pitched to his side.
Mike texted just after midnight, telling him he’d be out all night working with the task force to try and chase down as many leads as they could. Desheriyev hadn’t acted alone. His cell had texts on it from a handler. They needed to keep searching for Desheriyev’s handler, his co-conspirator. Follow the trail and see how large this terror cell was.
Stay safe, Mike. Are you coming here when you leave?
[I’d like to. Is that okay?]
Please come.
[Give Etta Mae a kiss for me. Try and get some rest.]
I’ll sleep better when you’re back.
