something…
CHAPTER
4
T here was no sound at street level and hardly anything audible in the hotel room. The silencer on McAlister’s SAR suppressed it. No one really knew what happened right away. The bullet just did its job, with deadly indiscriminate force.
The Fire Commissioner reacted first. Was it the heat? A fainting spell? Then he noticed a small hole two inches above the eyes, squarely in the middle of the forehead. A trickle of blood in front; a red, wet burst in the back.
“Oh my god,” he said too softly to be heard. “Oh my god!” he yelled.
Everything began to move in slow motion. People spotted blood oozing down. Police Chief Marelli rose out of his chair and drew his .357 magnum. It was a more than adequate “manstopper” that he’d never actually used in the line of duty. Maybe today. He also keyed his radio and ran down a litany of orders to his men on the perimeter. They pulled their fully-loaded light-weight Arasaka LEH-451’s. The smaller size and comfortable feel delivered lethal force at handgun range. Each officer carried two speedloaders with hyper-penetration rounds. But like Marelli himself, no one on his squad had ever aimed and shot at a human being
“Down. Everybody down!” Marelli shouted. Banks ignored him. But soon he realized it was too late.
The police scanned the crowd for guns. Onlookers ducked down covering their heads. People quickly realized the magnitude of what had happened. Children were the first to cry, then the adults. All of this took a half a minute to unfold. All of it was caught on Chuck Wheaton’s tape.
McAlister began to disappear in one smooth motion. He had timed it all, rehearsed his moves, considered each variable and left no margin for error. He didn’t believe in mistakes. In his business, the people who made mistakes never had the opportunity to make another one. They were dead.
He quietly rested his weapon on the floor. Better it should be found. There was too much danger in trying to hide it. The serial numbers on the Galil would not give him away. He had milled them off, then for good measure, burned them. He did the same to the numbers on the scope and the silencer. The latex gloves assured that he’d leave no fingerprints. But the assassin even made certain to wipe down the gun stock. His cheek could give him away. A faint impression, some perspiration. The same was true of the Colt scope atop the rifle. McAlister knew that the FBI labs would drill down to the microscopic degree.
Next, he surveyed the room one last time, which was unnecessary. He’d already burned all but the clothes he wore in the Berkshires, 30 miles away. By now his car, a used clunker, was rusting in the Hudson River. Two nights ago, McAlister drove it off the side of the road near Stuyvesant, fifteen minutes up the line. So with nothing left except the Israeli rifle, McAlister quietly walked to the door, unfastened the chain lock and left.
The commotion hadn’t started outside yet. He’d only pulled the trigger 12 seconds ago. Once in the hallway he stopped, listened for any sign of another hotel guest or staff member. None. Everyone was outside. He continued down the hall for 18 fast steps to his destination, room 315, belonging to the antique dealer from New York, Roger C. Waterman.
Outside shock turned into pandemonium. Police fought to control the crowd, searching for gunmen. But they were unprepared.
The mayor took the microphone, “Please be calm. Please stay where you are.” No one listened. In the midst of all the chaos was a cute blonde 15-year-old sophomore from Hudson High. Madelyn Schecter. She’d gotten the amazing assignment to cover the speech for the high school newspaper. She was even on the congressman’s calendar for a 2:30 interview. But now her cardboard-covered reporter’s notepad and pen slipped from her hands. Her heart raced. Tears streamed down her checks as she watched the Greenport Rescue Squad ambulance roll up onto the
CHAPTER
4
T here was no sound at street level and hardly anything audible in the hotel room. The silencer on McAlister’s SAR suppressed it. No one really knew what happened right away. The bullet just did its job, with deadly indiscriminate force.
The Fire Commissioner reacted first. Was it the heat? A fainting spell? Then he noticed a small hole two inches above the eyes, squarely in the middle of the forehead. A trickle of blood in front; a red, wet burst in the back.
“Oh my god,” he said too softly to be heard. “Oh my god!” he yelled.
Everything began to move in slow motion. People spotted blood oozing down. Police Chief Marelli rose out of his chair and drew his .357 magnum. It was a more than adequate “manstopper” that he’d never actually used in the line of duty. Maybe today. He also keyed his radio and ran down a litany of orders to his men on the perimeter. They pulled their fully-loaded light-weight Arasaka LEH-451’s. The smaller size and comfortable feel delivered lethal force at handgun range. Each officer carried two speedloaders with hyper-penetration rounds. But like Marelli himself, no one on his squad had ever aimed and shot at a human being
“Down. Everybody down!” Marelli shouted. Banks ignored him. But soon he realized it was too late.
The police scanned the crowd for guns. Onlookers ducked down covering their heads. People quickly realized the magnitude of what had happened. Children were the first to cry, then the adults. All of this took a half a minute to unfold. All of it was caught on Chuck Wheaton’s tape.
McAlister began to disappear in one smooth motion. He had timed it all, rehearsed his moves, considered each variable and left no margin for error. He didn’t believe in mistakes. In his business, the people who made mistakes never had the opportunity to make another one. They were dead.
He quietly rested his weapon on the floor. Better it should be found. There was too much danger in trying to hide it. The serial numbers on the Galil would not give him away. He had milled them off, then for good measure, burned them. He did the same to the numbers on the scope and the silencer. The latex gloves assured that he’d leave no fingerprints. But the assassin even made certain to wipe down the gun stock. His cheek could give him away. A faint impression, some perspiration. The same was true of the Colt scope atop the rifle. McAlister knew that the FBI labs would drill down to the microscopic degree.
Next, he surveyed the room one last time, which was unnecessary. He’d already burned all but the clothes he wore in the Berkshires, 30 miles away. By now his car, a used clunker, was rusting in the Hudson River. Two nights ago, McAlister drove it off the side of the road near Stuyvesant, fifteen minutes up the line. So with nothing left except the Israeli rifle, McAlister quietly walked to the door, unfastened the chain lock and left.
The commotion hadn’t started outside yet. He’d only pulled the trigger 12 seconds ago. Once in the hallway he stopped, listened for any sign of another hotel guest or staff member. None. Everyone was outside. He continued down the hall for 18 fast steps to his destination, room 315, belonging to the antique dealer from New York, Roger C. Waterman.
Outside shock turned into pandemonium. Police fought to control the crowd, searching for gunmen. But they were unprepared.
The mayor took the microphone, “Please be calm. Please stay where you are.” No one listened. In the midst of all the chaos was a cute blonde 15-year-old sophomore from Hudson High. Madelyn Schecter. She’d gotten the amazing assignment to cover the speech for the high school newspaper. She was even on the congressman’s calendar for a 2:30 interview. But now her cardboard-covered reporter’s notepad and pen slipped from her hands. Her heart raced. Tears streamed down her checks as she watched the Greenport Rescue Squad ambulance roll up onto the
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