Triggers

Cheung looked up, and—ah hah! There was a service door in the roof of the elevator. He tried to reach it but wasn’t tall enough. He gestured to the big cop, who had no trouble pushing the roof door aside. The cop then immediately stepped out of the way, and Cheung craned his neck to hazard a peek. It was dark in the shaft, but—Christ, yes, there was someone there, illuminated from below by light coming out of the elevator. He was shimmying up the thick cable.

“Cheung to Jenks: the suspect is climbing the elevator cable. He’s about ten feet shy of the top.”

“Copy, Manny,” Jenks replied.

The elevator door started shuddering shut. Cheung wheeled around, going for the rubber bumper at its edge at the same time the tall cop moved for the “Door Open” button; they collided, and the cab lurched into motion—

—and through the open roof Cheung could see the cable moving. There was a massive thud, and the cab shook violently. The assailant must have lost his grip and fallen the twenty feet or so he’d climbed. One of his arms flopped down through the roof hatch.

There was no stopping the elevator’s ascent now, and Cheung hoped there was enough clearance to keep a downed man from being squeezed against the top of the shaft.

But, yes, there must be enough clearance! The assailant must have entered the elevator yesterday, when it was announced that Jerrison would give a speech here, and had simply hauled himself up onto the cab’s roof and waited; doubtless when they did finally get to examine the roof, they’d find blankets and whatever else he’d needed to survive overnight in the shaft.

The elevator came to a stop, and the door opened, revealing a crowd of agents and dour Lincoln off to the right.

“Who the hell pushed the button?” Cheung demanded.

“I did,” said Jenks. “I thought—”

“Jesus Christ,” said Cheung, cutting him off. “You!” he pointed at a female agent. “In here.”

The woman hurried forward, and Cheung motioned for the tall cop to boost her up. She placed a finger on the wrist that was dangling through the hatch and shook her head. The cop lifted her higher so she could stick her body through the roof hatch. After a moment, she signaled that she wanted down.

“Well?” Cheung demanded as soon as she was standing again.

“It’s not pretty,” she said.

Agent Susan Dawson spoke into her wrist microphone. “Dawson to Central: Prospector secured in the Beast. Tell Lima Tango that he’s got a severe gunshot wound—shot in the back. His physician, Captain Snow, is with us.”

The Beast had bulletproof windows and five-inch-thick hull plating. There was a presidential seal on each of its rear doors. A small American flag flew from the right side of the hood, and the presidential standard flew from the left. The vehicle had a blue emergency light that could be attached to the roof; the driver—himself a Secret Service agent—had already deployed it. Motorcycle escorts with sirens blaring were out in front and following behind.

The car took a hard right onto 23rd Street NW. It was only 1.3 miles to Luther Terry, Susan knew, but the traffic was heavy with the tail end of Friday-morning rush hour.

Dr. Snow was still trying to stop the flow of blood, but it was all over the president’s gray-haired chest; even with the transfusion, it seemed clear he was losing blood faster than it was being replaced.

“Where’s the vice president?” asked Agent Darryl Hudkins.

“Manhattan,” said Susan, “but—”

A male voice came over their earpieces: “Rockhound is en route to Air Force Two. Will be at Andrews in ninety minutes.”

Despite the siren—and the driver leaning on the horn—they’d slowed to a crawl. Those motorists listening to the radio might already have heard that the president was being rushed to the hospital, and that might make them slow down for a look: would-be Zapruders hoping to catch the moment of presidential demise.

“This is ridiculous,” the driver said over his shoulder. “Hold on.” He pulled a hard left onto E Street, and Susan did her best to keep the president from sliding out of his seat as the car careened onto its new course. They were now heading directly toward the Kennedy Center. The limo then took a sharp right onto 24th, and the president pressed against Susan. She gently pushed him back into place, but the hip of her dark jacket was now soaked with his blood.

A voice came over Susan’s earpiece: “They’ve got a stretcher waiting at the ambulance entrance, a thoracic team is assembling, and they’re clearing an operating room.”

“Copy,” Susan said. They were doing better than when Reagan had been shot decades ago. Back then, the Secret Service had started taking the president to the White House, not realizing he’d been hit until he began coughing up bright, frothy blood.

Mercifully, some cars were pulling aside to let the Beast pass. Susan looked into the rearview mirror, catching the driver’s eyes there. “Maybe two more minutes,” he said.