withered brown leaves. They crisscrossed one another. Which ones had he and Lott taken? He pushed through the bushes and thicket of slender, limbless trees, guided only by his instincts. He tripped and slammed into the ground, scrambled to his feet again, and started running again.
Suddenly, he burst out of the woods and felt a breeze. The white Hyundai was only thirty feet away.
He yanked the door open and slid behind the wheel. Off in the distance, he heard a faint burst of gunfire from an assault weapon. He hit the gas pedal and the car bolted forward.
Behind him, the rear window of the Hyundai exploded. Pieces of glass sprayed the seat beside him. He yanked the steering wheel hard to right and the car skidded around the corner.
TWENTY-ONE
“Four-two-one.” The voice of a male officer.
“Go ahead, four-two-one.” A woman dispatcher’s weary voice.
“Shots fired in Forest Park! We are enroute.”
Sal Conti put down the St. Louis paper’s sports pages and turned up the volume on his scanner. He was sitting in a car parked across the street from the Stardust motel.
“Four-two-six.” A different male voice. “We’re in the park by the Art Museum. Those shots are over by the Jewel Box.”
“Okay, four-two-six. Ten-four.”
Conti waited expectantly for nearly a full minute.
“Four-two-one,” said the first voice, excited. “We’ve got a firefight over here where the President is!”
The dispatcher sprang to life. “All units, Code 2! We have a 10-39 in Forest Park!”
“Back off, back off!” Rick Swayse yelled.
He was lying on the President, trying to squirm out from beneath another Secret Service agent. “We can’t breathe, for Christ’s sake!”
Swayse, the Secret Service agent-in-charge, had been five steps behind Patrick. When the gunfire erupted, he threw himself at the President, trying to wrap his body around him. Now he could feel the President under him, coughing and gasping for air. He was afraid he’d hurt him.
“Give us some air!”
Three other agents huddled around them. On the road and the slope below them, other agents fanned out, trying to figure out where the shots came from.
Swayse wriggled free. President Colin Patrick was lying face down in the grass. “Are you all right, sir?”
Kneeling beside him, Swayze saw frothy blood streaming from his mouth. He turned him onto his side, raised his head, and pressed a handkerchief to his mouth.
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed an agent, gaping at the blood. The left side of the Patrick’s T-shirt was bright red. His chest was heaving in and out. The grass beneath him glistened.
“Holy, shit!” muttered limo-driver Tom Hitchcock, clutching a Uzi submachine.
“Let’s get him out of here,” Swayse shouted. “C’mon, let’s move!”
“The Mayor got it, too,” someone yelled.
“Somebody give us a hand!”
The limo and back-up car were already on the road below them. The drivers had moved forward as soon as they heard gunfire.
With two other agents providing cover, Swayse and Hitchcock carried Patrick like a sack of sand to the limo. Hitchcock fumbled with the handle of the door handle, got it open, and pushed Patrick onto the back seat. Swayse slipped into the car behind him. Kneeling on the floor, he propped up the President’s head.
Patrick looked bad. His face was gray, his skin clammy. He was still gasping for air, a panicky look in the famous blue eyes.
His appearance scared Swayse. “You’re all right, sir. You’re okay. Come on, get going, Hitchcock! Get the shit out of here!”
The limo shot forward.
“Barnes-Jewish Hospital,” Swayse yelled. “Get on the horn. Tell’em we’re en route.”
TWENTY-TWO
The intersection for the Hampton Avenue entrance to Forest Park was clear. Denny shot through the red light and sailed across the overpass.
On Hampton, traffic was light. He hit green lights all the way. Two minutes after he left the park, he flew up the ramp onto Interstate 44.
He was
Suddenly, he burst out of the woods and felt a breeze. The white Hyundai was only thirty feet away.
He yanked the door open and slid behind the wheel. Off in the distance, he heard a faint burst of gunfire from an assault weapon. He hit the gas pedal and the car bolted forward.
Behind him, the rear window of the Hyundai exploded. Pieces of glass sprayed the seat beside him. He yanked the steering wheel hard to right and the car skidded around the corner.
TWENTY-ONE
“Four-two-one.” The voice of a male officer.
“Go ahead, four-two-one.” A woman dispatcher’s weary voice.
“Shots fired in Forest Park! We are enroute.”
Sal Conti put down the St. Louis paper’s sports pages and turned up the volume on his scanner. He was sitting in a car parked across the street from the Stardust motel.
“Four-two-six.” A different male voice. “We’re in the park by the Art Museum. Those shots are over by the Jewel Box.”
“Okay, four-two-six. Ten-four.”
Conti waited expectantly for nearly a full minute.
“Four-two-one,” said the first voice, excited. “We’ve got a firefight over here where the President is!”
The dispatcher sprang to life. “All units, Code 2! We have a 10-39 in Forest Park!”
“Back off, back off!” Rick Swayse yelled.
He was lying on the President, trying to squirm out from beneath another Secret Service agent. “We can’t breathe, for Christ’s sake!”
Swayse, the Secret Service agent-in-charge, had been five steps behind Patrick. When the gunfire erupted, he threw himself at the President, trying to wrap his body around him. Now he could feel the President under him, coughing and gasping for air. He was afraid he’d hurt him.
“Give us some air!”
Three other agents huddled around them. On the road and the slope below them, other agents fanned out, trying to figure out where the shots came from.
Swayse wriggled free. President Colin Patrick was lying face down in the grass. “Are you all right, sir?”
Kneeling beside him, Swayze saw frothy blood streaming from his mouth. He turned him onto his side, raised his head, and pressed a handkerchief to his mouth.
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed an agent, gaping at the blood. The left side of the Patrick’s T-shirt was bright red. His chest was heaving in and out. The grass beneath him glistened.
“Holy, shit!” muttered limo-driver Tom Hitchcock, clutching a Uzi submachine.
“Let’s get him out of here,” Swayse shouted. “C’mon, let’s move!”
“The Mayor got it, too,” someone yelled.
“Somebody give us a hand!”
The limo and back-up car were already on the road below them. The drivers had moved forward as soon as they heard gunfire.
With two other agents providing cover, Swayse and Hitchcock carried Patrick like a sack of sand to the limo. Hitchcock fumbled with the handle of the door handle, got it open, and pushed Patrick onto the back seat. Swayse slipped into the car behind him. Kneeling on the floor, he propped up the President’s head.
Patrick looked bad. His face was gray, his skin clammy. He was still gasping for air, a panicky look in the famous blue eyes.
His appearance scared Swayse. “You’re all right, sir. You’re okay. Come on, get going, Hitchcock! Get the shit out of here!”
The limo shot forward.
“Barnes-Jewish Hospital,” Swayse yelled. “Get on the horn. Tell’em we’re en route.”
TWENTY-TWO
The intersection for the Hampton Avenue entrance to Forest Park was clear. Denny shot through the red light and sailed across the overpass.
On Hampton, traffic was light. He hit green lights all the way. Two minutes after he left the park, he flew up the ramp onto Interstate 44.
He was
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