Page 135 of Hush
“Did you get a message from Mr. Kryukov on the Thursday morning before the shooting?”
“Da. Yes. It contained information on the march and Vasiliev’s schedule on that day. It also had final instructions.”
Ballard reached for yet another photo board. “Entering into evidence exhibits fifty-five and fifty-six. Transcript of text message sent from Mr. Kryukov’s phone to Mr. Desheriyev’s phone.”
“So entered.”
“What were those instructions that you received in this text message?”
The jury listened to Desheriyev as they each received a copy of the transcript, the exact message sent that Thursday morning. “It said to be in position, ready to shoot the president when he walked down Capitol steps the afternoon of the march. I was to shoot him before he got into his motorcade. To shoot him in the chest.”
Renner rocketed forward, scribbling on his legal pad. Kryukov glared into space, scowling. He refused to look at Desheriyev.
“Was there anything else discussed?”
“He wanted to know where I shoot from. Where my sniper’s nest was. I told him.”
“Did you recognize the number that the text was sent from?”
“I did not. It was new one.”
“You did not know that was the defendant’s personal cell phone number?”
“No.”
“But it had the verification code, six-two-one?”
“Yes.”
“So you knew it was from your handler, Mr. Kryukov?”
“Yes.”
“Will you walk us through what happened on the day of the shooting, Mr. Desheriyev?”
The courtroom went deathly silent, still as a tomb. Tom watched motes of dust dance beneath the fluorescent lights. Most people held their breath. Reporters leaned forward. The jury watched with the sick fascination of watching a car crash before their eyes, a blooming horror show simply too terrible to turn away from. Even Tom breathed fast, quiet, quick pants through his parted lips. His memories pushed against the back of his eyes, clamoring for attention. His heart raced. His palms went slick.
Swallowing, he forced himself to listen to Desheriyev and locked down his mind.
Mike shuffled closer. Tom could see him out of the corner of his eye, feel the bubble of his presence pressing on him. Thank God. He sent a silent thanks, wishing he could turn and grasp Mike’s hand, tug him close. He’d been strong for twenty-five years. He was strong still, would be strong through this and everything else.
But he didn’t have to be alone, not anymore.
It killed him that he had to pretend to be.
Desheriyev seemed to grow, becoming more than the DC Sniper, a multi-national murderer, a professional killer for hire, as casually arrogant as he was violent. A man entirely without a conscience, plainly reciting the horrors of what he’d done like he was relaying a day spent with friends. Almost relaxed, he described each step of his murderous terrorist act. Behind Ballard, Agent Payne and others from the Secret Service and FBI watched from the gallery, their eyes ablaze, fury pouring from their rigid bodies and their stern, purposefully-blank expressions. Nothing could erase the wrath, the anguish, from their gazes.
“I set up my sniper’s nest in the cupola on the tower of the building at Pennsylvania Avenue and Sixth Street. I arrived early, before the morning traffic, before the march, before the rainbows. I watch everything. The crowds form. The traffic. The people gather. I could see the west end of the Mall and the Capitol steps.
“I waited for the Russian president to arrive. I saw him park and go up the steps and into the Capitol. I saw the march come down the grass and head for the Capitol.”
“Why did you not shoot President Vasiliev when he arrived?”
“Instructions said to shoot when he left.” Ballard motioned for Desheriyev to continue. “I watched him come down the steps. I had to calibrate my shot. Test my range. I fired first at the march. Took out their puppet President Vasiliev.” Desheriyev grinned. “Then I moved back to the steps. I breathed out, and brought the trigger back. Straight back. No hesitation. I fired. Fired again. And again. I got him in the upper chest with the first shot, but I wanted to hit him again. Vasiliev was surrounded by then by the Secret Service. I had to shoot them to get to him.” He shrugged.
Muted gasps of horror whispered through the courtroom. Tom clenched his hands together. Desheriyev was a monster. There was a glint in his eyes as he spoke, retelling his actions, his murders. He was getting off on the spectacle. All attention on him, and him able to retell the horrors of that morning. Nausea tumbled in Tom’s belly.
“A Dragunov fired in a city sounds like a cannon. I fired my shots within six seconds. That is the time in which a person freezes. They do not know what to do for six seconds. I broke down my rifle, made my escape.”
