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Gunshots!
Thunderous, scary noise in the confined space. No thud of a bullet to my chest
or head, thank God.
I saw Jeanne Sterling leaning out of the window of her station wagon. She had
a semiautomatic clutched in one hand. I pushed myself up again.
Take her alive! my brain screamed as I ducked out of sight.
I had seen something else in the car. She had her youngest daughter with her.
Her three-year-old, Karon. She was using Karon as a shield. She knew we
wouldn't shoot with the girl in the way The little girl was screaming loudly.
She was terrified.
How could Jeanne Sterling do this to a child?
I crouched behind the oil tank in the darkened, cramped space.
I was trying to think straight.
I shut my eyes for a beat. Half a second at most.
I drank in a huge breath of cold air and gasoline fumes. Tried to think in
absolutely straight lines. I made a decision and hoped it was the right one.
When I came up again, I fired. I carefully aimed away from the little girl.
But I fired.
I went down in the crouch again, hidden behind the dark tank.
I knew I hadn't hit anybody My shot had only been a warning, a final one.
Andrew Klauk had been right when we'd talked in the Sterlings' backyard. The
CIA "ghost" was the one who told me all I needed to know right now -- the game
is played with no rules.
"Jeanne, put the goddamn gun down!" I called to her. "Your little girl is in
danger."
No answer came back, just terrifying silence.
Jeanne Sterling would do whatever it took to get away. She had murdered a
president, ordered it done, helped plan every step.
Would Jeanne Sterling really sacrifice her own child, though?
For what? For money? A cause she and her husband believed in?
What cause could be worth the life of a president? Of your own child?
Take her alive. Even if she deserves to die here in this garage.
Execution-style.
I popped up again. I fired a second shot into the car windJack and shield --
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the driver's side, far right. Glass shattered all over the garage. Glass
fragments sprayed against the ceiling, then rained back down again.
The noise was deafening in the closed space. Karon was sobbing and screeching.
I could see Jeanne Sterling through the mosaic of broken windshield glass.
There was blood all over one side of her face.
She looked startled and shocked. It's one thing to plan a murder, quite
another to be shot at. Io be wounded. To take a hit. Io feel that deadly thud
in your own body I took three fast steps toward the Volvo station wagon.
I grabbed the car door and yanked it open. I kept my head down low, close to
my chest. My teeth were gritted so hard that they hurt.
I grabbed a full handful of Jeanne Sterling's blond hair. Ihen I hit her. I
popped Jeanne with a full, hard shot. Same as her husband got. The right side
of her face crunched as it met my fist.
Jeanne Sterling sagged over the steering wheel. She must have had a glassjaw.
Jeanne was a killer, but not much of a prizefighter.
She went out with the first good punch. We had her now. I had taken her down
alive.
We finally had Jack and Jill.
Her little girl was crying in the front seat, but she wasn't hurt.
Neither was the mother. I couldn't have done it any easier, any other way We
had Jack, and now we had Jill. Maybe we would hear the truth. No -- we would
hear the truth!
I grabbed the little girl and held her tight against me. I wanted to erase all
this for her. I didn't want her to remember it. I kept repeating, "It's all
right, it's all right. Everything is all right."
It wasn't, though. I doubted it ever would be again. Not for the Sterling
children, not for my own kids. Not for any of us.
There are no rules anymore.
THE NIGHT of the capture of Jeanne and Brett Sterling, the television networks
were filled with the powerful, highly disturbing story. I did a brief
interview with CNN, but mostly I declined the attention. I went home and
stayed there.
President Edward Mahoney delivered a statement at nine.
Jack and Jill had wanted Edward Mahoney to be president, I couldn't help
thinking as I watched him address hundreds of millions of people around the
world. Maybe he was involved with the shooting; maybe not. But someone had
wanted him to be president instead of Thomas Byrnes, and Byrnes had distrusted
Mahoney.
All I knew about Mahoney was that he and two Cuban partners had made a fortune
in the cable business. Mahoney had then become a popular governor of Florida.
I remembered that there had been a lot of money behind his campaign. Look for
the money.
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I watched the dramatic three-ring TV circus along with Nana and the kids.
Damon andJanelle knew too much to be excluded from the big picture now. From
their perspective, their daddy was a hero. I was someone to be proud of, and
maybe even listen to and obey every now and again. But probably not.
Jannie and Rosie the cat cuddled with me on the couch as we watched the
nonstop parade of news features on the assassination and the subsequent
capture of the real Jack and Jill. Every time I appeared in a film sequence,
Jannie gave me a kiss on the cheek. "You approve of your pop?" I asked her
after one of her best, loudest smackers.
. "Yes, very much so," Jannie told me. "I love seeing you on TV.
So does Rosie. You're handsome, and you talk real nice. You're my hee-ro."
"What do you have to say, Damon?" I checked on his royal majesty's reaction to
the strange goings-on.
Damon grinned ear to ear. He couldn't help himself. "Pretty good," he
admitted. "I feel good inside."
"I hear you," I said to my young cub. "You want to give me a hug?"
He did, so I knew Damon was happy with me for the moment.
That was important to me.
"Mater familias?" I asked for Nana's opinion last. She was propped up in her
favorite armchair. She hugged herself tightly as she watched the traumatic
news coverage with rapt attention and a snide commentary
"Not familias enough lately," Nana offered a quick complaint.
"Well, mostly I agree withJannie and Damon. I don't see why the white Secret
Service man is taking most of the credit, though.
Seems to me that the President got shot on his watch."
"Maybe he got shot on all of our watches," I said to her.
Nana shrugged her deceptively frail-looking shoulders. "At any rate, as
always, I am proud of you, Alex. Has nothing to do with the heroics, though.
I'm proud of you because of you."
"Thank you," I told Nana. "Nobody can say anything nicer.
Not to anybody."
"I know that," Nana got the last word in; then she finally grinned. "Why do
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