Jack slid slowly back and watched as the barrel moved closer and closer
to his face. He could smell the metal. He could envision the smoke, the
projectile racing out faster than any eye could follow.
Then the door to the room was hit with an enormous blow.
Collin whirled around. The second blow crashed the portal inward and a
half-dozen D.C. cops bulled in, guns drawn.
“Freeze. Everybody freeze. Guns on the floor. Now.”
Collin and Burton quickly put their guns down on the floor. Jack lay
back on the bed his eyes closed. He touched -9 his chest where his
heart threatened to explode.
Burton looked at the men in blue. “We’re United States Secret Service.
IDS in our right inner pockets. We’ve tracked this man down. He was
making threats against the President.
We were just about to take him into custody.”
The cops warily pulled out the IDS and scrutinized them.
Two other cops pulled Jack roughly up. One began to read him his rights.
Handcuffs were placed on his wrists.
The IDs were given back.
“Well, Agent Burton, you’re just gonna have to wait until we get done
with Mr. Graham here. Murder takes a priority even over threatening the
President. Might be a long wait unless this guy’s got nine lives.”
The cop looked at Jack and then down at the bag on the bed. “Shoulda
taken off when you had the chance, Graham.
Sooner or later we were gonna get you.” He motioned for his men to take
Jack out.
He looked back at the bewildered agents and smiled broadly. “We got a
tip he was here. Most tips are worth shit.
This one. This one might get me that promotion I’m sorely in need of.
Have a good day, gentlemen. Say hello to the President for me.”
They left with their prisoner. Burton looked at Collin, and then pulled
out the photos. Now Graham had nothing. He could repeat everything they
had just told him to the police and they’d just get him ready for the
rubber room. Poor sonofabitch. A bullet would’ve been a lot better than
where he was headed. The two agents picked up their hardware and left.
The room was silent. Ten minutes later the door to the adjoining room
was eased open and a figure slipped into Jack’s room. The corner TV was
swiveled around and the back was eased off. The TV was remarkably
real-looking and an absolute sham. Hands reached inside and the
surveillance camera was swiftly and silently removed and the cabling was
pushed through the wall until it disappeared from sight.
The figure opened the adjoining door and went back through. A recording
machine sat on a table next to the wall.
The cable was coiled up and deposited in a bag. The figure hit a button
on the recording machine and the tape slid out.
Ten minutes later the man, carrying a large backpack, walked out of the
front door of the Executive Inn, turned left and walked to the end of
the parking lot where a car was parked, its engine idling. Tarr Crimson
passed the car, and casually tossed the tape through the open window and
onto the front seat. Then he proceeded over to his Harley-Davidson
1200cc touring bike, the joy of his life, got on, fired it up and
thundered off. Setting up the video system had been child’s play.
Voice-activated camera. Recording machine kicked on when the camera did.
Your standard VHS tape. He didn’t know what was on the tape, but it must
be something pretty damn valuable. Jack had promised him a year’s free
legal services for doing it. As he hurtled along the highway, Tarr
smiled, remembering their last meeting where the lawyer had balked at
the new age of surveillance technology.
Back in the parking lot, the car glided forward, one hand on the
steering wheel, the other protectively around the tape.
Seth Frank turned onto the main road. Not much of a moviegoer, this was
one tape he was dying to watch.
BILL BURTON SAT IN THE SMALL BUT COZY BEDROOM HE HAD shared with his
wife through the evolution of four beloved children. Twenty-four years