Term Limits

chapter Fifteen
Easing the car between two semi trucks, he slowed down to sixty-five miles an hour and stayed there for about ten minutes. When he reached Highway 424, he took it south. The clock on the dashboard read 8:10 P.M. He checked the rearview mirror often and began crisscrossing his way down county roads.

Several times, he sped ahead and then pulled off the road, waiting in a patch of trees with his lights off, making sure he wasn't being tailed.

After having left D.C. almost an hour earlier, he turned onto a narrow, unmarked dirt road. The gravel made a popping noise as the wide touring tires of the BMW rolled over it. The road was lined with trees and thick underbrush. It traveled down a slight hill and cut between two ponds. A thin layer of fog stretched across the gravel, and for a brief moment the BMW was surrounded by a white mist. The car pulled back out of the cloud, ascended another small hill, and then as it crested, the lights of a small cabin could be seen less than a hundred yards away. The car rolled down the gradual slope and stopped in front of the old log cabin.

Coleman got out and looked around. Pausing, he listened for the noise of another car that might have followed him down the gravel road.

Gently, he closed the car door and walked up to the porch. The floorboards creaked as he walked across the porch, and a dog barked from inside the cabin. Without knocking, he opened the door and stepped inside. His bright blue eyes stared across the room at the man standing in front of the fireplace. MICHAEL O'ROURKE HELD HIS .45-CALIBER COMBATMASTER IN ONE HAND and his digital phone in the other. Coleman looked at the gun and remained calm as Duke scampered Over to greet him. The former Navy SEAL squatted down to meet the yellow Lab. Coleman looked at the bandage on Michael's forehead and asked, "What happened to your head?" Through clenched teeth Michael replied, "I was hit with something when Erik's limousine blew up."

Coleman's eyes opened wide. "You were there?"

"Yes."

Michael stared at Coleman's bright blue eyes and said, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't call the FBI right now." Coleman stood and started to walk across the room. Michael raised his gun and said, "Don't take another step." In a calm voice Coleman replied, "I know you'll never use that thing on me, so put it away and we'll talk."

"I wouldn't have used it on you before today, but now I wouldn't be so sure. I'll repeat myself one more time. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't turn you in to the FBI." Coleman folded his arms. "I had nothing to do with what happened today." Michael gave him an incredulous look. "What do you mean you had nothing to do with what happened today?"

"I didn't kill Erik. I had nothing to do with it."

"Bullshit, Scott. I was there.

I saw the whole thing." Michael took several steps to the side to put an armchair between him and Coleman. Michael was no match for Coleman at a close distance. Even with a gun the young Congressman wasn't entirely confident. Recon Marines were some of the best soldiers in the world, but Navy SEALS were in an entirely different class. Add to that the fact that Michael had been out of the Corps for close to six years and Coleman was obviously still at the top of his game, and Michael was outmatched. "You told me to warn Erik, and I did. He was ready to expose the President's plan as a sham, and then you had to come wheeling in and screw everything up!"

"Put the gun down, Michael. I had nothing to do with what happened today."

"Bullshit!" Michael yelled. "You're just trying to save your ass!

How in the hell could you kill those Secret Service agents?" Michael extended the gun as far as he could. The sights aimed right for the center of Coleman's forehead. "You killed five good men today and sent another two dozen civilians to the hospital. I should put a bullet in your head right now and end this whole thing." Michael thought he heard a noise, and then without further warning the door to the cabin flew open.

Michael dropped to a knee and wheeled toward the door as Duke started to bark. Coleman did the same, retrieving his 9mm Glock from underneath his jacket. Seamus O'Rourke stood in the doorway steadying himself by placing one hand on the frame. He was wearing the same suit  he had had on at lunch minus the tie. Seamus looked at the two guns and growled, "Put those damn things away before you two hurt someone."

Coleman did so on command, but Michael was a little more hesitant.

Seamus admonished him with another look and said in a softer tone, "Michael, put your gun away." Michael lowered the gun but did not put it away. "You're supposed to be in the hospital."

"I am very aware of that, but knowing that this meeting would take place, I decided that my presence was more needed here than in bed."

Seamus shuffled over and dropped his body into one of the old tattered leather chairs by the fireplace. Rubbing his forehead, he said, "Scott, would you please fix me a glass of Scotch, and, Michael, for the last time put that damn gun away!" Michael looked down at his grandfather.

"I'm not putting this thing away until he explains what in the hell he was doing today."

"He wasn't doing anything today. Someone else killed Erik."

"What?" asked a disbelieving Michael. "Someone else killed Senator Olson. Scott and his boys had nothing to do with it." Coleman handed the eldest O'Rourke a glass of Scotch on the rocks and took a seat on the couch. "How would you know?" asked a confused Michael. Seamus  took a big gulp of the drink and sat back in the chair. "I know, because I helped Scott plan the first four assassinations." Feeling his legs weaken, Michael decided to sit down while he still had the control. "You what?"

"I helped Scott plan the first four assassinations." With a look of exasperation Michael asked, "Why didn't you say something at the hospital?"

"In front of all the nurses and doctors?" Seamus frowned. "I told you not to do anything until we had a chance to talk." Seamus shook his head. "I knew with your damn temper you would demand a showdown with Scott. I called your house to check on you, and Liz told me you left to meet someone. When she got all nervous and flustered I knew you had told her." Seamus shook his head. "Why in the hell did you do that?"

Michael looked at his grandfather for the first time in his life with real anger. "I don't think you are in any position to criticize me.

I'm not the one who has been running around staging a revolution."

Seamus's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't an easy decision. I decided to' keep you out of this for your own good."

"I can't believe you're involved in this. Does Tim know?"

"No."

Seamus shook his head. "No one knows about it with the exception of Scott, two of his men, myself, you, and now Liz." Michael glanced over at Coleman. "I understand why he's doing this. If half of my men were blown out of the sky because Senator Fitzgerald shot his mouth off, I would have probably killed him, too ?? . . but Seamus . . . for God sakes I can't believe you're involved in this." Seamus set his drink down.

"You said you understand why Scott is involved with this-because he lost eight men. By the time I was done island-hopping around the Pacific, five hundred and thirty-six Marines had died under my command.

Five hundred and thirty-six men who climbed down cargo nets into little tin cups and then flung themselves onto some little sand strip all in the name of democracy and freedom. I didn't watch all those men die so I could see idiots like Koslowski, Fitzgerald, Downs, and Basset send this country in the tank." Seamus leaned forward. "Those men sit in their little ivory towers and play their petty games of partisan politics while people like your parents and Scott's brother are killed.

While our so-called leaders are spending billions of dollars on weapons systems the military doesn't even want, while they throw billions of dollars into the department of education that doesn't educate a single child, while they waste their time debating whether or not we should have prayer in school, people are dying. They are dying because these idiots don't have the common sense to keep violent criminals behind bars. And to make things worse we have the proverbial eight-hundred-pound gorilla sitting in the corner-a five-trillion-dollar national debt. These clowns ran up the tab, and they're gonna stick my grandchildren with the bill.

It's wrong, it's immoral, and somebody had to put a stop to it."

Michael looked at his grandfather, but said nothing. While the two O'Rourkes were locked in an icy stare, Coleman looked on. He cleared his throat and said, "You two can sort this out later. Right now we have a much bigger problem on our hands." With raised eyebrows Coleman asked, "Who has decided to join the fight?"

Nance sat across the coffee table from Arthur as the fire burned brightly, casting a dark shadow of their figures against the far wall of the large study. They were both smiling, holding their warm snifters of cognac gently in their hands. The grandfather clock in the far corner started its first of twelve chimes, and Nance swirled the glass under his nose. They were both wearing their standard dark  Brooks Brothers suits. Nance took a light sip and let it rest on hispalate before swallowing. "The FBI has no idea," said Nance.

"But the President has ordered the CIA and the NSA to get involved in the investigation." Arthur lowered his glass and raised an eyebrow.

"Really . . . that surprises me. How did you advise him?"

"I said nothing. Stu is trying to get him to rethink the situation, but he's having a hard time getting him to calm down. He's extremely upset about Olson." Arthur tilted his head back and reflected for a moment. "I don't think it will affect us. After tomorrow we will be done." Arthur smelled his cognac but did not drink it. "How is Garret holding up?"

"He's nervous." Arthur raised his left eyebrow. "Please, don't tell me he's feeling guilty."

"No, he says he doesn't care what we do just so long as he isn't caught." Arthur smiled and said, "I read him right from the beginning.

He'll keep his mouth shut."

"If he doesn't have a nervous breakdown in the process."

"Don't worry, after tomorrow he can relax, and we'll both have what we want. Remind Mr. Garret to push the President toward taking a tougher stance against these terrorists. It will help him look better in the polls. The people are yearning for security right now, and after one more assassination they'll greet a suspension of rights with open arms."

Arthur gracefully stood and opened the cherry-wood humidor on the table, offering a cigar to Nance. "Let's step out on the veranda and continue this conversation over a nice cigar, some good cognac, and a majestic view." The two stood, gently cradling their snifters, and moved from the study into the dark night.

Tuesday Evening, Fairfax, Virginia Congressman Burt Turnquist's century-old, plantation-style house sat on a beautiful two-and-a-half-acre, wooded lot in an exclusive but low-key neighborhood. A single narrow, winding road cut through the rolling hills with no streetlights to show the way. In late fall, darkness fell on the Eastern seaboard around 5:30 P.M. The moon was finishing a cycle and was showing only a slight sliver of white. The towering old trees and a lack of moonlight gave the neighborhood a deep, dark look.

The Congressman was in his second-floor study, feeling alone and isolated.

His wife was on a business trip out of town and wouldn't be back until tomorrow. His closest colleague had been blown to bits the previous afternoon, and he had four complete strangers standing watch over him.

In all his years as a United States Congressman, he had never felt threatened. Even after Downs, Koslowski, and Fitzgerald were killed, he thought he was safe. Turnquist didn't tell anyone other than his wife, but he could understand why someone would want to kill them. He had thought about it many times since arriving in Washington eighteen  years earlier. In short, they were not good men. They had their petty personal agendas and were more concerned with holding on to their positions of power than doing what was right. Year after year they said they were for benevolent change, and then behind the closed doors of their committees they blocked the very reforms they had espoused while running for reelection. Turnquist was not sad to see them gone, but Erik Olson was a different story. Olson was a good friend. They had fought so many battles together, working behind the scenes trying  to bring the two parties to a middle ground, Olson in the Senate and Turnquist in the House. Olson had been a source of strength, always helping him steer a safe course through the often dangerous game of politics, prodding him not to give up, advising him on professional as well as personal issues.

Turnquist had warned Olson against helping the President form the new bipartisan coalition in the wake of the assassinations. Turnquist told him that although the deaths of Koslowski, Fitzgerald, Downs, and Basset were a tragedy, maybe some good could come from them. Maybe they could finally pass the reforms they had worked so hard for. The always principled Olson told Turnquist there was no room for anarchy in a democracy. Turnquist had reminded his friend of the obvious historical fact that America had come into existence through a bloody revolution.

Turnquist looked down at his journal and struggled to record his thoughts. He was trying to think of what to say at Olson's funeral.

Writer's block seized him, and he looked out the window, wishing his wife were home. He couldn't see the U.S. marshal standing watch in his front yard, but he knew he was there. They had guarded him day and night for over a week, and the Congressman couldn't decide if they made him feel secure or nervous. Four U.S. marshals were currently on watch at the Turnquist house. They were two hours into a twelve-hour watch that had started at 5 P.M. Three of the four marshals were outside: one by the back door, one by the front porch, and the third sitting in a sedan at the end of the Congressman's long driveway. The fourth marshal was posted inside the house at the foot of the stairs that led to the second floor. They were more alert than they had been during the previous week's watch. The fiery deaths of the four Secret Service agents the day before reminded them that they were also targets. The neighborhood that the Congressman lived in hadn't changed much in the last fifty years.

The lots were woodsy and large. Separating the Congressman's land from his neighbor's behind him was a small creek that ran between the two properties. Just on the other side of the creek, about fifty yards from the house, a man peered out from behind a tree with a pair of night-vision goggles. The goggles cut through the dark forest and focused in on the marshal standing guard by Turnquist's back door. The ominous watcher was covered from head to toe in black, and his face was painted with camouflage makeup. Slung across his back was an MP-5 sub gun with a twelve-inch silencer attached to the barrel, and gripped firmly in his hands was a 7mm Magnum sniper's rifle, also with a silencer affixed to the barrel. He whispered into the microphone hanging in front of his mouth, "Omega, this is Alpha. I'm moving into position, over." Holding the rifle across his chest and pointed upward, he stepped out from behind the tree and moved laterally until he put another tree between himself and the marshal standing guard by the back door. Alpha moved across the forest floor, gliding between the underbrush with a cautious, catlike manner. When he reached the creek, he put one foot slowly into the water, then followed it with the other, checking his footing before transferring his weight from one foot to the other. Upon reaching the other side he scanned the ground for any fallen branches or twigs and pulled himself up the eroded bank.

Pausing behind a tree, he checked the position of the guard and then his watch. Methodically, he glided from tree to tree, carefully picking his path. About twenty yards from the edge of Turnquist's yard, the assassin got down on his belly and started to crawl. He picked out a pine tree at the edge of the yard and slid under it, the low-slung branches of the tree making his presence impossible to detect. Alpha nestled up against the trunk and checked his watch. It was 7:19 P.M. The assassin pulled his night-vision goggles down around his neck and waited. If the marshals stayed with their routine, they would be rotating posts in about ten minutes. Out in front of the house, the sniper's partner lay in the ditch across the street from the end of Turnquist's driveway. Covering his black tactical jumpsuit was a sniper's blanket. The strange piece of clothing consisted of a mesh netting with strips of camouflage cloth attached to it. It had taken him over forty minutes to crawl into position, slowly squirming through the tall grass and bushes on his stomach, his MP-5 cradled between his chin and elbows. He poked his head up slightly and moved the branch of a small bush in front of him. His face was painted with dark streaks of green and black makeup. Through squinted eyes, he looked at the white sedan sitting at the end of the driveway. Crouching back into the ditch, he pulled the sniper's blanket off his body, wrapped it into a tight ball, and placed it in his backpack. He checked all of his equipment one last time, and then, just after 7:30 P.M the sedan across the street backed up the driveway to the house. Checking the road quickly, Omega jumped to his feet and darted across the road.

When he reached the other side, he jumped into a clump of bushes not more than ten feet from where the car had been. While taking deep breaths to keep his heart rate low, he said, "Alpha, this is Omega, I'm in position, over." The car returned less than a minute later with a different driver behind the wheel. Omega squatted on one knee and blinked away a drop of sweat that was forming on his brow. The muzzle of his silencer was extended to the far end of the bush, pointed straight at the head of the man behind the wheel of the car. Only a thin green leaf concealed the lethal black cylinder. The contrast between the dark green and black paint on his face and the whites of his eyes gave him a reptilian appearance. Under the pine tree in the backyard Alpha checked his watch again, and then, reaching forward, he flipped the protective caps off the rifle's sight. He hugged the butt of the rifle close to his cheek and eased his right eye in behind the sight. Moving his hands slightly, he placed the head of the man standing watch at the back door in the middle of the sight's crosshairs. The plan was to wait another minute or so, giving the marshals ample time to check in and get relaxed. The man by the back door brought his radio up to his mouth and said something.

The sniper was too far away to hear, but he knew what was said. When the guard lowered his radio back to his side, the sniper whispered into his headset, "Omega, this is Alpha. I'm ready to start the game, over."

Alpha flipped the safety switch into the off position and brought the sniper's trigger back one notch. The crosshairs marked a lethal intersection on the temple of the marshal's head. The killer squeezed the trigger and a spitting noise popped from the end of the thick, black silencer. Without waiting to see the outcome of the shot, the sniper let go of the rifle and rolled to his right, out from under the low branches of the pine tree, leaving the rifle behind. He didn't need to check to see if his bullet had hit the mark. He knew it had.

Springing up from the ground, he broke into a sprint for the right side of the house, whispering into his headset, "One down, three to go."

Reaching over his head, he pulled the silenced MP-5 off his back and flipped off the safety. Nearing the front corner of the house, he slowed for a step and then spun around the edge of the porch. Dropping to one knee he swept the gun from left to right, searching for his next target. The movement of the black shape coming around the corner caught the attention of the marshal standing watch at the foot of the porch steps, and he instinctively reached for his gun. Before he could get his hand to his hip, the assassin fired three quick rounds, two hitting the marshal in the face and the third striking him in the neck, the impact of the bullets throwing his head backward and sending the rest of his body with it. With his machine gun aimed at the front door, the killer ran toward the man he had just killed and whispered into his headset, "Two down, two to go." Upon reaching the marshal, he opened the dead man's jacket and yanked the radio from his belt.

Ducking under the edge of the porch, he waited and listened to the marshal's radio. At the end of the driveway the man in the bushes leapt forward and unloaded four quick bursts into the driver's seat of the sedan. The window broke into thousands of pieces, the bullets slamming into the side of the marshal's head. Without pause, the hired killer approached the car, shoved the barrel through the shattered window, and pumped a final round into the driver's head. Turning on the balls of his feet, the killer sprinted up the driveway toward the house. With the adrenaline rushing through his blood he barked into his headset, "Three down, one to go." Five seconds later, he joined his partner at the foot of the porch, his breathing controlled but heavy. Alpha was listening to the marshal's radio to see if the man inside the house had been alerted. He pointed and sent Omega to check the windows to the right of the front door, and he went to check the ones on the left. They peered over the railing of the porch and looked through the windows. Omega saw him first, sitting at the foot of the stairs reading a magazine. "I've got number four," he whispered into his mike. They met at the stairs of the porch, and Omega pointed at the window. "It's a clear shot from the first window on the right."

Alpha nodded and said, I'll crawl under the window and take up position on the other side. When I give you the signal, pump two rounds into the window, and I'll take him out." Omega nodded his confirmation and they started up the steps. Alpha got down on his stomach and crawled to the far side of the window. Switching his gun from his right side to his left, he peeked through the window to make sure his target hadn't moved.

Stepping away from the window he gave his partner a nod and hugged the butt of the MP-5 tight against his cheek. Omega stepped back and pointed the muzzle of his silencer toward the middle of the tall window and fired two shots. A split second later, Alpha stepped into the new opening and trained his gun on the startled marshal. Pulling the trigger, Alpha sent three bullets crashing into the center of the man's head. With robotlike precision the two men slammed fresh clips into their weapons and stepped through the jagged window frame. They trained their guns in opposite directions as they moved to the foot of the stairs. Footsteps sounded from upstairs, and they looked up at the ceiling. A deep voice called out from the top of the stairs, "Is everything all right down there?" Without pause, Alpha called back, "Sorry, sir, I dropped a glass. Can I get you anything?"

"No, that's all right, I'll come down. I'm getting a little hungry."

Turnquist started down the staircase, and Alpha pushed his partner back and out of the way. When the Congressman reached the middle landing, he turned and froze, staring at the man dressed in black. Alpha squeezed the trigger and the barrel jumped. A stream of bullets popped from the end of the silencer and slammed into Congressman Turnquist.

The impact of the bullets sent the Congressman reeling backward and into the wall, where he hung for a moment, pinned by the bullets slamming into his chest. The assassin took his finger off the trigger and Turnquist's body slid to the ground, leaving a bright red streak on the white wall.

AT ABOUT 7:55 P.M A FAIRFAX POLICE SQUAD ROLLED THROUGH Congressman Turnquist's neighborhood. It was part of his regular patrol route, but since the recent flurry of assassinations his duties had shifted from spending his nights writing speeding tickets and nailing drunk drivers to checking up on the various Congressman and Senators who lived in his part of the city. He was getting to know most of the marshals who were assigned to protecting Congressman Turnquist and looked forward to stopping by every hour or so to talk with whoever was sitting in the car at the end of the driveway. As he approached the white sedan, his headlights passed over the car. No one was visible in the front seat, so he shined his spotlight on the car.

The police officer put his squad in park and got out, thinking that whoever was on watch must have fallen asleep. He could appreciate how boring their jobs must be. There were nights when after a full thermos of coffee he could barely stay awake, and he was on the move. These poor guys sat in one place all night. He strode up to the window and looked in. Just as he'd thought, the marshal was lying across the front seat. The cop brought his flashlight up and turned it on. It took him a second to process what he was seeing. His eyes opened wide as he froze in shock at the sight of the bloody body.

After several seconds he grasped the severity of the situation and ran back to his squad to call the dispatcher. Upon receiving the call from the officer at Turnquist's house, the dispatcher sent two additional squads and an ambulance to the scene. Her next call was to the Fairfax  police chief, who directed her to call the FBI. Within two minutes of the patrolman's finding the marshal's body, Skip McMahon was on the phone asking for a chopper. He came into the task force's main conference room and started telling agents whom to call and what to do.

Then, grabbing Jennings and Wardwell, he headed for the roof of the Hoover Building. Once in the elevator, he pointed at Wardwell and said, "Get ahold of the Fairfax Police Department and have them patch you through to the officer at Turnquist's. Kathy, call the marshals' office and make sure they know what's going on and then. no, call the marshals' office second. First call the Virginia State Patrol and tell them if they spot any cars with multiple males, twenty-five to forty-five, to pull them over for questioning and approach with extreme caution. Have them pass the word on to all the local police departments." Both agents pulled their digital phones out and started punching away at the number pads. By the time they reached the roof, the blades on the helicopter were just starting to spin. Wardwell tugged on his boss's sleeve. "Skip, the cop is waiting for backup. He says he hasn't heard a thing since he arrived." Wardwell shouted as the helicopter grew louder and louder. "He wants to know what he should do."

"Tell him to wait for backup and then proceed with caution .... And tell them not to touch anything." McMahon had an empty feeling in his stomach that they weren't going to find any survivors at Turnquist's house. The rotor wash of the props became intense, blowing their hair and ties in every direction. A man in a bright orange jumpsuit waved them toward the open door of the chopper, and with McMahon leading the way, they hustled up the five steps and onto the helipad. Keeping their heads low, they ran under the spinning blades and climbed into the backseat. The chopper lifted off and arched northward before turning back to a southwesterly course, leaving the bright lights of Washington behind. As they raced toward Fairfax, Virginia, McMahon turned to Jennings. "How often were the marshals checking in?"

Jennings shouted into McMahon's ear, "Every half hour.

They made their seven-thirty check-in and were scheduled to check in again at eight."

"How many marshals were assigned to the Congressman?"

"Four."

"What's the ETA for the Quick Response Team?"

"When the call went out, most of them were in the lab working on the evidence collected from the bombing yesterday. We've got choppers coming in to pick them up on the roof, and their mobile crime lab and heavy equipment should arrive around eight forty- five." McMahon couldn't get the vision of a team of commandos assaulting Turnquist's house out of his mind. The thought made him think of Irene Kennedy and General Heaney. He grabbed the digital phone out of his jacket and dialed the direct line to Roach's office. "Brian, I need you to do me a favor. Get a chopper over to the Pentagon and have it ferry General Heaney and Irene Kennedy out to Turnquist's."

"Consider it done. I just activated the Hostage Rescue Team. They'll be airborne and en route in under five minutes. They should be arriving right behind you. If there's the slightest sign of these terrorists, I want you to hold tight and wait for them to handle it."

McMahon doubted the killers were waiting around, but knew Roach had to do things by the book. "Have the HRT stay airborne. if I need them, I'll call them in."

"You're running the show. Have the Fairfax police been in the house?"

"Not yet. I'll call you as soon as I get there.

We're only a couple of minutes out." McMahon hung up, and the next several minutes were punctuated by a nervous silence. The chopper came in at about three hundred feet and circled the neighborhood looking for a place to land. Three police cars with their lights flashing marked the end of Turnquist's driveway. The chopper pilot knew enough not to land near the crime scene and have his rotor wash send evidence flying.

He flew about fifty yards down from Turnquist's house and checked the area with his spotlight for wires. He found a spot where the trees weren't a problem and set the bird down in the middle of the road. The three agents again crouched as they ran away from the chopper. Halfway down the street they were met by a woman with grayish black hair carrying a flashlight. She looked at McMahon and said, "FBI?" Skip stuck out his right hand. "Yes, I'm Special Agent McMahon and these are Special Agents Jennings and Wardwell."

"I'm Police Chief Barnes. Follow me, and I'll show you the way." All four started down the street. "Have you been in the house, Chief?"

asked McMahon. "No, I just got here."

"Have any of your officers been in the house?"

"No." As they walked up to the white sedan, Barnes pointed her flashlight down and illuminated several brassy objects. "Watch your step, we've got some shell casings on the ground."

She led them to the window of the sedan and shone the light on the dead marshal. The man lay slumped over the middle armrest with shards of glass covering his body. Three bullet holes were clearly visible on the left side of his head. McMahon noted the distance from the shell casings to the car and then looked at the marshal's hands. They were empty.

"Let's go look at the house." The chief told her two officers to stay put and then led McMahon, Jennings, and Wardwell up the driveway. As they neared the house, another body could be seen on the ground in front of the porch. Barnes shone her flashlight at it and illuminated the dead marshal. When they neared the body, McMahon stuck his arms out and stopped everyone from coming any closer. "Chief, may I borrow your flashlight for a second?" Barnes handed it to him, and Skip stepped closer to the body. Putting the flashlight under his armpit, he put on a pair of gloves and bent over the body. He looked at the bullet holes in the center of the man's face and then the one in his neck. The marshal's hands were open and lying away from his body.

Skip looked at his holstered pistol and closed his eyes. Standing back up, he said, "Everyone stay here for a minute. I'll be right back."

He started for the porch steps, and Wardwell shouted at him, "Skip, you're not going in there alone."

"Yes, I am. Just stay put. The less people we have traipsing around here the better." Jennings pulled out her gun and flipped off the safety.

"I'm going in with you!" Without looking back McMahon said, "No, you're not!"

"What if someone's still in there?"

"What do you think. the people that did this are waiting around to get caught? Just stay where you are, and I'll be back in a minute."

McMahon walked up the steps and tried the front door. It was unlocked.

Swinging the door inward, he saw the next marshal lying on the floor with one leg still up on the chair. Standing over the body, McMahon's eyes were drawn to the three red dots marking the dead man's face and then down to his holstered gun. Sighing, he looked up to shake his head and saw the bright red streak on the wall at the top of the stairs. Only a pair of shoes were visible, and McMahon started the slow climb to the first landing. He'd seen the Congressman on TV before but wasn't quite sure the body he was looking at was Turnquist's. Unlike the other bodies, this one was riddled with more than a dozen bullets. It has to be him, he thought to himself.

McMahon's phone rang, startling him slightly. He reached into his jacket and answered it. "Hello."

"What did you find?"

It was Director Roach on the line. "Well, I'm standing over what I'm pretty sure is Congressman Turnquist's body."

"Could you be more precise?"

"The man has a half a dozen bullet holes in his face and chest, but it has to be him."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." McMahon stared down at the body by his feet and waited for Roach to speak. "Any sign of the people that did it?"

"I'd better tell the President before the media catches on. What else do you need from me?"

"Nothing right now."

"All right, call me if there are any developments."

"Will do." McMahon hung up the phone and looked down at the body, contemplating the precision of the wounds in Turnquist's head.

Scarlatti and O'Rourke were sitting in the corner booth of a new and yet to be discovered Italian restaurant.

It was located in the basement of a building about two blocks from Dupont Circle. The booth was a dark-stained wood, and the table was covered with a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. The only light in the restaurant was provided by a candle at each table sticking out of an old Chianti bottle. O'Rourke looked around and thought he might enjoy the place under a different set of circumstances. His mostaccioli tasted good and the wine wasn't bad. Michael had told Liz that Coleman wasn't responsible for the death of Senator Olson and his four Secret Service agents, but he had neglected to mention Seamus's involvement in the first four assassinations. He didn't quite have the stomach to tell Liz that her future grandfather-to-be was an anarchist or revolutionary or whatever the term would be. Liz was attempting for the third time in twenty-four hours to convince Michael that he should go to the FBI.

"Michael, I know you and his brother were best friends, but the man killed the Speaker of the House, two Senators, and the chairman of the House Appropriations Committee."

"Keep your voice down." Liz moved closer. "You have to turn him in.

I don't care if he had nothing to do with Erik's death."

"For the last time, Liz, I am not going to turn him in."

"I don't understand you." Michael looked at her for a long while and then answered, "I don't expect you to understand why I feel the way I do."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Liz said defensively. "You have no reason to think those men deserved to die. You have lived a very nice life." Liz shot him a scowl and Michael said, "I'm not saying you haven't worked hard, I'm just saying you've had a nice life. Your parents are still alive. Your brother and sister are alive. Nothing has happened to you that would cause you to look at our political leaders with a truly critical eye."

"So, just because I haven't lost someone close to me"-Liz folded her arms across her chest-"I'm not fit to judge my political representatives?"

"I didn't say you weren't fit to judge.

I'm only trying to say that I don't think you understand why I feel the way I do."

"Oh, I understand why you feel the way you do. Despite you not letting me in, I understand. The death of your parents and Mark is a horrible thing, but I don't think these bizarre assassinations are going to solve anything. You have got to let go of the past and move on with your life." Michael placed his anger in check, but even so his voice became a little louder. "Liz, it's easy to say you understand something when you haven't experienced it, and it's even easier to tell someone to get over something when you've never been through it. You can say you understand, but you will never really understand until you've lived it."

"So what? Do you want me to lose my parents so I can empathize with you?"