Cross Fire (Alex Cross 17)
Chapter 6
AT AROUND 7:35, a black Lincoln Navigator pulled up in front of Taberna del Alabardero, a hotsy DC eatery for the stars.
Two men got out of the back on either side and another emerged from the front, while the driver stayed in the car. All three wore dark suits, with barely distinguishable ties.
Banker’s tie, thought Denny. Wouldn’t wear one to my own funeral.
“The two from the backseat. You got it covered?”
“I got it, Denny.”
Everything was dialed in. The scope’s bullet drop compensator would account for the two biggest drags on any bullet — wind, if there was any, and gravity. From this angle, the barrel might be pointing high, but the crosshairs would put Mitch’s eye right where it needed to be.
Denny watched the targets through his own scope. This was the best seat in the house. Second best anyway. “Shooter ready?”
“Ready.”
“Send it.”
Mitch slowly exhaled, then pulled off two shots in the same number of seconds.
Vapor trails showed in the air. Both men went down — one on the sidewalk and the other flat up against the front door of the restaurant. It was kind of visually spectacular, actually — two perfect head shots to the bases of two skulls.
People were already freaking out in the street. The third man literally dove back into the car, while everyone else ran or ducked and covered their heads.
They didn’t need to worry. The mission was over. Mitch had already begun to break down — the man was as fast as a speedway mechanic.
Denny unslung the M21, pulled off the magazine, and started packing. Forty seconds later, they were both on the stairs, double-timing it down to street level.
“Hey, Mitch, you weren’t planning on running for elected office, were you?”
Mitch laughed. “Maybe president someday.”
“You did perfect up there. You should be proud.”
“I am proud, Denny. That’s two dead crumbums nobody’s got to worry about no more.”
“Two dead piggies in the street!”
Mitch squealed, a pretty good imitation of swine, actually, and Denny joined in until their voices echoed up the empty stairwell. Both of them were drunk on how well it had gone. What a rush!
“And you know who the hero of the story is, right, Mitchie?” he asked.
“Nobody but us, man.”
“Damn straight. We did it ourselves. A couple of real live American heroes!”
Chapter 7
THE SCENE OUTSIDE Taberna del Alabardero was a total zoo when we got there. This was no ordinary hit or rubout. I knew that much without even getting out of the car. The radio had been blaring about a long-distance hit, from a gunman that nobody had seen, firing shots that nobody had heard.
And then there were the victims. Congressman Victor Vinton was dead, along with Craig Pilkey, a well-known banking lobbyist who had recently dragged both of them into the headlines. These homicides were a scandal wrapped in another scandal. So much for quiet times in Homicide.
Both dead men were the subject of a federal inquiry regarding influence-peddling on behalf of the financial services industry. There were allegations about backroom deals and campaign contributions and all the wrong people getting rich — or richer — while middle-class citizens had continued to lose their homes in record numbers. It wasn’t hard to imagine someone wanting Vinton and Pilkey dead. A lot of people probably did.
Still, motivation wasn’t the first question on my mind right now. It was method. Why the long gun, and how did someone pull this off so effortlessly on a crowded city street?
Both bodies were covered on the sidewalk when my buddy John Sampson and I reached the awning in front of the restaurant. Capitol Police were already there, with FBI on the way. “High profile” means “high pressure” in DC, and you could all but cut with a knife the mounting tension inside that yellow perimeter tape.