The Jefferson Key Read Free Page B

arrived by military transport three hours ago at JFK , waiting on the tarmac for Air Force One to touch down. Breaking with procedure, no other vehicles had been flown in. Usually several support cars came along.
    He cut a glance at the two antsy agents, who held their position.
    Not to worry
, he thought.
Soon you’ll both join the fray
.
    He returned his attention to his dinner, a delicious Cobb salad. His stomach bubbled with anxiety. He’d waited a long time for this.
Camp by the riverside
. Advice he’d received years ago—and as true as ever. If you waited by the river long enough, eventually your enemies would float by.
    He savored another tangy bite of salad and washed it down with a sweet red wine. A pleasant aftertaste of fruit and wood lingered. He supposed he should show some interest in what was happening, but no one was paying him the slightest attention. And why would they? The president of the United States was under fire and the shocked people around him had a ringside seat. Several of them would shortly find themselves on CNN or Fox News, becoming, for a few precious moments, celebrities. They should actually thank him for the opportunity.
    The two agents’ voices rose.
    He glanced out the window as Cadillac One roared from the curb.
    The defenders in front of Cipriani sprang to their feet, pointing upward, toward the Grand Hyatt.
    Guns appeared.
    Aims were steadied.
    Shots were fired.
    He smiled.
    Cotton Malone had apparently done exactly what Wyatt thought he would do.
    Too bad for Malone things were about to get worse.
----
    MALONE HEARD BULLETS PING OFF GLASS PANELS TO HIS LEFT and right. The aluminum bronco he straddled was still firing. He yanked the mechanism again, but internal gears whirled the gun barrel back toward its target.
    He should retreat inside.
    Daniels was in the car and about to speed away. Calling out would be useless. No one would hear him over the gunshots and the discordant wail of New York’s street opera.
    Another window exploded, this one at the opposite corner of the Grand Hyatt, a hundred feet away from where he was perched.
    Another aluminum box extended out into the evening.
    He immediately noticed that its barrel was wider than the one he was trying to tame. This was no rifle. Some type of mortar or rocket launcher.
    The agents and police firing at him spotted the newcomer and directed their attention toward that threat. Instantly he realized that whoever had planted these devices had counted on Daniels being herded back into the car and driven away. He’d wondered about the accuracy of some remote-controlled, automated rifle—how good could it be?—but saw now that hitting anything didn’t matter. The idea had been to drive the target into something that could be more easily acquired.
    Like an oversized black Cadillac.
    He knew the presidential limousine bore armor plating. But could it withstand a rocket attack from a few hundred feet away? And what type of warhead was the projectile equipped with?
    Agents and police below raced down the sidewalk, trying to obtain a better firing angle at the new threat.
    Daniels’ limousine approached the intersection of East 42nd and Lexington Avenue.
    The rocket launcher pivoted.
    He needed to do something.
    The rifle he straddled continued to fire, one shot after another, every five seconds. Bullets pinged off the opposite buildings and the street below. Stretching his body out farther on the aluminum superstructure, he wrapped an arm around the container and wrenched the assembly left. Gears inside strained, then stripped, as he forced the barrel parallel to the hotel’s exterior.
    Bullets now whirred through the air toward the rocket launcher.
    He adjusted his aim, searching for the right trajectory.
    One round found the mark, spanking off the aluminum.
    The box he grasped felt thin, the aluminum pliable. He hoped the other was made of the same.
    Two more high-powered rounds found the target.
    A third bullet