Chapter One Hundred Five

The Liberty Bell Center / Saturday, July 4; Noon

EVERYTHING FROZE DOWN to a single white-hot fragment of a second that moved in bizarrely slow motion. The First Lady was leading the applause for the unveiling of the Freedom Bell. Beside her on the podium Andrea Lester was reaching in her pocket. Grace’s phone was falling from her hand as she pulled back the flap of her coat to reach for her gun. Agent O’Brien was starting to raise the detonator.

My gun was in my hand.

I could hear myself screaming but I had no idea what I was saying.

Every eye in the room was turning toward me. Agents were clawing at their guns.

I had no shot at O’Brien—the First Lady was between me and him. On the podium Andrea Lester was reaching for the President’s wife. Something flashed in her hand and I realized that she had a blade. Not steel—the Secret Service would have caught that—but probably one of the many polymer knives that were nearly as hard as steel and would never trip a metal detector.

With a scream of “Allah akbar!” she lunged at the First Lady.

I shot Andrea Lester twice in the chest. The bullets spun her away from her intended victim but the polymer knife tore a long gash in the First Lady’s sleeve.

Everyone started screaming; panic was immediate and total. I ran forward, grabbing people and hurling them out of my way as I fought to get to the podium where I could get a shot at O’Brien, who had bolted for the podium. The two agents flanking him were already moving, one of them tried to tackle him while the other stepped back and drew his sidearm. Then the crowd surged between us and I lost sight of them.

A shattering volley of gunfire erupted from the far side of the podium, and as I pushed Rudy and the secretary of the interior out of my way I saw that the agent who had drawn his weapon on O’Brien was falling backward, a bullet hole in his temple. The shot hadn’t come from O’Brien—it had come to my left. I turned and saw a gun in Ollie Brown’s hands and as I watched he swung a pistol around and fired two shots and then the throng hid him from view. Had he shot the agent? It seemed like everyone in the room had a gun and bullets burned past me. There was too much commotion to tell who was who, and I didn’t know how many people in this crowd were Brierly’s agents or members of some terrorist hit cell. It was total chaos.

I pivoted and started toward O’Brien but as I located him in the screaming crowd I saw the second agent go down, blood jutting from a slashed throat. O’Brien moved back toward the podium, the detonator still clutched in his big hand.

And suddenly I understood.

It was the bell.

“Seal the room!” I bellowed as I raised my gun once more, then I saw out of the corner of my eye that the First Lady was still on the podium. Andrea Lester was down, and one of the First Lady’s bodyguards was down; other agents were rushing the podium, guns drawn, racing to protect the President’s wife. Gunfire was coming from every point in the room and I saw agents in blue blazers shooting at civilians; I saw a man dressed in carnival pattern shorts standing guard over a pair of congressmen while nearby a Secret Service agent was trying to wrestle a plastic handgun from the hand of what looked like a news reporter. I needed to get to the top of the podium so I could see the room and try to see O’Brien so I could stop him before he pushed that button.

Grace split off to my left and vanished into the press. I saw a swarm of agents pull the First Lady down and hustle her toward the STAFF ONLY door; but in the confusion the wife of the Vice President was still there, nearly lost in the press of congressmen fighting to get away from the gunshots, her agents down and bleeding. Several people were firing now and I couldn’t tell if it was a pitched gun battle or panic shooting; then I saw an agent mount the steps to protect the VP’s wife, but a split second later he staggered and went down, his white shirtfront blooming with red. A second agent leaped up but he also took two in the chest and pirouetted into the crowd. I saw a hand holding a gun pulling back into the crowd. It was bare—no coat sleeve, just a flash of a Hawaiian shirt. One of the tourists? A reporter? Shit . . . how many of these bastards were in the crowd?

“Top!” I yelled when I saw him fight his way out of a knot of panicking people. “It’s O’Brien!”

He nodded and plunged into the crowd again, but there was so much resistance he made no headway. Some of the guests were trying to drop down to the floor to avoid the gunfire, but the storming crowds trampled them. I saw Rudy pushing a group of Girl Scouts into a corner to keep them from getting crushed by the rush of people. There were screams of pain interspersed with the din of the terrified crowd and the constant barrage of gunshots. I heard the distinctive commanding yells of Secret Service agents but no one was heeding their orders to drop and remain down. I had no idea where Grace or the rest of Echo Team was and I continued to fight my way toward the podium. The VP’s wife was huddled down, arms wrapped around her head, flanked on both sides by dead agents. There were hundreds of people yelling and screaming and fighting to try and get out of the Liberty Bell Center.

I caught another flash glimpse of O’Brien. He was still smiling as he raised his hand to bring the detonator up above the level of the crowd.

I had no time to think. I launched myself into the air and my shoulder caught the Vice President’s wife in the side; I wrapped my arms around her and my momentum carried us off the podium just as Michael O’Brien depressed the button.

The Freedom Bell exploded.