Blacksnow Zero Read online

  “How are you feeling?” he asked. “You had a lot to drink.”

  “Just needed a couple of hours of sleep,” she replied, her hand massaging his abdomen.

  “What time is it?”

  She chuckled. “Time to screw.”

  “Have I ever told you that you use that word way too much?”

  “Constantly.”

  He laughed. “You’re a piece of work, Erica Blake.”

  She put a finger to his lips. “Did I ever tell you that you talk too much?”

  “Constantly.”

  She laughed at that, then slid her hand across his chest and then headed lower, grasping him firmly. “Look what we have here.”

  He groaned from her touch and pulled her body closer to his.

  “I love you, Erica,” he said, his breathing heavy now.

  She continued her ministrations and said, “Talk is cheap. Prove it.”

  Steve rolled on his side and gave her a kiss. She put her arms around him, kissed him back hungrily.

  Spreading her legs apart with his hand, he then straddled her.

  She let out a throaty laugh. “Come on in, cowboy, the water’s fine.”

  As he thrust inside her, she let out a low moan.

  Rocking over her slowly, he let the moment build. He wanted to postpone the ecstasy as long as possible.

  21 Days to Zero Hour

  Los Angeles, California

  Bobbie Garcia peered through the binoculars, caught a glimpse of the man as he went into the Chinese Consulate. Garcia was in an unmarked black cargo van with heavily-tinted windows. At the wheel next to him sat Sergeant Thomas. They were parked across the street from the consulate, which was located west of downtown LA, near Wilshire Boulevard.

  “It’s him,” Garcia said, placing the binos on the dash.

  “You sure, sir?” Thomas asked.

  “Yeah. He’s wearing civvies today instead of the uniform, but it’s definitely him. Army Lieutenant Jing Zhao, of the People’s Republic of China.” His handler had briefed him thoroughly on Zhao. The man was a military attaché to the consulate and possibly a Chinese spy. The perfect candidate. Unfortunately Zhao lived in a secure Chinese government compound in LA, so access to him was limited.

  “How do you want to play this?”

  Garcia glanced at his watch. “If he’s on schedule, he’ll be in there an hour, two at the most. So we just wait.”

  “Yes, sir.” Thomas began tapping the steering wheel with his fingers.

  “Nervous, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir...actually, yes. The next couple of days are going to be difficult.”

  “Relax. We’ve rehearsed it many times.” Garcia paused. “Trust me, it’ll be fine,” he added with more confidence than he felt. He would never admit it to his NCO, but this part of the op had him more than a little spooked.

  “Okay, guys,” Garcia said into the mike of his headset. “We’ll be sitting here for a while, so get comfortable.” In response, there was a chorus of ‘yes, sirs’ from the men in the cargo compartment of the van. A metal partition separated the front cab from the rear and the small window at the center of the panel was closed.

  The captain stretched his legs, but kept his eyes glued to the entrance of the consulate. Car traffic was heavy on the busy avenue, but the van was custom-made and its high sitting position gave a clear view of the building.

  ***

  At noon Lieutenant Zhao strode out of the consulate building, went through the front gate, and descended the wide steps to the sidewalk. He began to walk north. The man carried a satchel under his arm, and tugged at his suit, as if he wasn’t comfortable in the garment.

  Garcia turned to Thomas. “Let’s go.” Then he spoke into the mike. “Get ready guys.”

  The van took off, merged with the heavy flow of traffic and followed as Zhao crossed the next block. The man walked into a multi-story parking garage, and Garcia lost sight of him for a moment.

  “Step on it, Sergeant. We can’t lose him.”

  Tires squealing, the van went through the garage entrance and up a ramp. The building was full of parked cars and Garcia craned his neck to find the Asian man.

  He spotted him climbing into a blue Jeep Wrangler. The vehicle was parked nose out by one of the large concrete supports. “There!” he said. “Block his car.”

  The van shot forward, screeching to a halt moments later. It stopped right in front of the Jeep.

  Garcia banged on the metal partition and yelled into the mike, “Go! Go!”

  His adrenaline pumping, he scrambled out of the van, scanned the inside of the parking garage. There were no people about on this level and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  At the same time four of his men burst out of the back of the van and surrounded the Jeep. Like Garcia and Thomas, the four wore civilian clothing.

  Zhao leaned on the horn, the loud blast echoing in the parking garage.

  Garcia stood in front of the Jeep, held up a badge. “This is the police,” he said loudly. “Step out of the car, sir.”

  The Chinese man looked confused, then worried, but a second later he climbed out. “What is this about? I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Just a routine check, sir. Please put your hands on the hood and spread your legs.”

  “I’m with the Chinese consulate,” the man protested. “I have diplomatic immunity.”

  By this time, Garcia’s team had surrounded Zhao and drawn their weapons.

  “I apologize, sir,” Garcia said, his tone calm. “I’m sure we can clear this up in no time. I just need to see your ID.”

  Zhao seemed to relax a bit. “It is in my jacket. I will get it for you.”

  “Don’t move, sir. I’ll get it out for you.” As he approached the Chinese man, Garcia reached into his own pants pocket and pulled out a syringe. Two of his men grabbed Zhao by the arms, while a third slapped duct tape on his mouth.

  Garcia rushed forward, plunged the needle into the man’s arm and moments later the man ceased struggling. His body collapsed to the ground.

  “Carry him into the van,” the captain said. “Joey, get his keys and follow us in the Jeep.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The group hurriedly lifted the body and carried it into the vehicle, just before a family emerged from the elevator at the end.

  Garcia climbed in and the van raced off, the tires squealing all the way to the exit.

  ***

  Pushing aside a corner of the vertical blinds, Garcia peered through the binoculars at the plaza below. It was dusk and light was beginning to give way to night. From his vantage point on the twentieth floor of the steel-and-glass office building, the rectangular grassy area was clearly visible. The plaza was ready for the next day, with American flags and colorful bunting arrayed behind the temporary podium that had been assembled. Among the police officers who were setting up barricades, he spotted four of his team. As part of the plan, his men were assisting with security. His gaze shifted up, toward the roofs of the other office towers that bordered the plaza. Secret Service sharpshooters were already there, setting up.

  Garcia glanced left, saw Thomas was almost finished assembling the Chinese-made high-powered sniper’s rifle. Like the captain, Thomas was wearing Marine fatigues and disposable gloves. An official lanyard dangled from the sergeant’s neck, the anti-terrorism security clearance clearly displayed. The general had done a lot of work to make this possible, including the clearances and rifle.

  Garcia let the binos dangle from his neck, then sat down on one of the metal chairs. They were in an unoccupied office, filled with half-assembled cubicles and stacks of metal chairs. Vacancy rates were at all-time high in LA due to the depressed economy, and places like this were a dime-a-dozen.

  “All done,” Thomas said, standing up. The large rifle sat in a clear area of the floor, a heavy tripod supporting the barrel.

  Garcia got up, walked over and crouched by the gun. He caressed the finely-tooled steel, admired the
large, precision scope. “It’s a beauty, alright.”

  “Almost as good as our stuff.”

  Garcia nodded. “Pretty soon, their weapons will be better. You ready for tomorrow, Sergeant?”

  “I need to work on the sighting, but yeah, I’m ready, sir.”

  “Good.” He glanced at his watch for the thousandth time. “All we have to do now is wait.”

  20 Days to Zero Hour

  The Vice President’s office

  West Wing of the White House

  Washington, D.C.

  Vice President Taylor had just finished reading the latest budget proposal from Congress when he heard a knock at his door.

  His assistant, Alice, came in the room. “Sir, you wanted me to remind you. The President will be giving his speech soon.” In her late fifties, the matronly woman was prim but also very efficient.

  “Yes. Thank you, Alice.”

  She went to the wall-cabinet, opened it and turned on the large TV. Then she handed him the remote. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “No, Alice.”

  She left the room and he switched the channel to ZNN News.

  The image on the screen showed a large plaza filled with a crowd of spectators. Uniformed police were everywhere and barricades kept the public well away from the podium. Dozens of American flags decorated the area. Behind the podium, the mayor of Los Angeles was speaking and standing to his left were President Wilson and the governor of California.

  The image on the screen changed to a blonde female reporter standing off to one side of the plaza. “The Mayor is continuing with his remarks,” she said in a perky voice. “After his speech, the Governor will address the crowd, and lastly the President will speak. It’s an important event today, commemorating the new economic stimulus package that has been granted to the state of California.” She paused, her cheery demeanor dimming a bit. “As you know, the state is beset with a massive budget deficit, and this new package will alleviate that….”

  Taylor muted the sound.

  But he watched intently, not wanting to miss a moment of the event.

  ***

  Los Angeles, California

  Bobbie Garcia watched as two of his men carried the still unconscious Zhao into the office and placed his inert body a few feet from the tall windows. As before the blinds were still closed.

  One of the Marines tore off the duct tape from the Asian man’s mouth, then took off the binds on the hands and feet.

  In the center of the office, by the windows, Sergeant Thomas lay on the floor, cradling the large sniper’s rifle. The rifle was pointed out the window. A small hole had been cut on the blinds and the glass, giving Thomas a clear view of the plaza below.

  Garcia peeked out the window, scanned the area again with his binoculars. The mayor was still talking. The man had a penchant for long speeches and he was proving it again today.

  Turning away from the windows, he crouched by Zhao. Then Garcia removed a small pill from his own pocket. He pried open the man’s mouth and carefully inserted the pill by the back molars. Using both hands, he clamped Zhao’s jaw shut, heard a snap. The cyanide pill had cracked, he knew.

  He waited a moment, then checked the man’s pulse. There was none.

  Standing up, he studied the body, his thoughts racing over all the details. He wanted to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. Earlier, they had wrapped Zhao’s hands on the rifle’s barrel, stock, scope and even the high-powered rounds. When the event was investigated, it would be clear that the Chinese man was the culprit. And to avoid capture and questioning, he had committed suicide. It’s a good plan, he thought. He and his men just had to clear out of the office quickly after the event. Then, during the panic and bedlam that would ensue, they would rush out of the building and help the police and Secret Service secure the area.

  Garcia walked over to where Thomas was crouched. The sergeant was fiddling with the scope.

  “You ready?” Garcia asked.

  Thomas looked up. “Yes, sir.”

  “Shouldn’t be long now.”

  Garcia stepped to the windows, peeked out again. The governor was beginning his remarks.

  He glanced at his watch, then back out the window. His heart was thudding in his chest.

  ***

  Washington, D.C.

  Erica Blake was sitting on her couch in her apartment, idly watching news and munching on a sandwich. It was noon and she had decided to come home for lunch, skipping the cafeteria at the FBI building. She took another bite and washed it down with a sip of Pepsi. Leaning back on the couch, she set the bottle down and picked up the remote. Switching from the local news, she turned on ZNN. They were covering some type of event where President Wilson was speaking. The president droned on and she was about to switch channels when the man winced, then crumpled to the ground.

  Sitting up quickly, her gaze was transfixed to the screen. Men in dark suits rushed to the podium. She watched as these Secret Service agents formed a protective cordon around the president’s body. Their guns drawn, the men looked up and away, their mirrored sunglasses reflecting the bright sunlight.

  While several of the agents hurriedly carried the body away, screaming erupted from the crowd. People scattered, pushing and shoving their way out of the plaza.

  A woman’s voice came over the images. “Something has happened to the President,” she said in an agitated voice. “He appears to have fallen during his speech. We’re checking on his status.” She paused a moment, then continued, “One of our sources tells us that it appears the President has been shot….”

  Erica leaned forward on the couch, not believing what she heard. She picked up the remote, changed to Fox News.

  After watching for a minute, she realized with a sinking feeling that it was true. The president had been shot and badly wounded. It was unclear if the assassination attempt was fatal.

  19 Days to Zero Hour

  Zurich, Switzerland

  Senator Megan Lewis’s head was pounding from a massive headache. She rested on her back, naked, on the bed of her luxury hotel suite, her thoughts racing over the recent events. Mentally worn out, she hadn’t been able to get up and dress this morning.

  She rubbed her temples, her brain still trying the process what had happened.

  Yesterday morning she had been ecstatic – Director Mueller had informed her that the deal she proposed had been approved by his board of directors. The other approvals would take place, he said, faster than anticipated.

  Then later in the day she had learned the other news. President Wilson had been assassinated in LA, his corpse rushed back to Washington D.C. Vice President Taylor had been quickly sworn in as the new president.

  After the initial shock of the news wore off, her mind went into overdrive. What kind of impact does it have for me personally? Megan had been close to Wilson and was able to influence his decision making. She had been the architect of the Swiss deal. But now that Wilson was dead, would the new president support it? Her thoughts turned to Matt Taylor. She despised the man, recalling the many arguments they’d had over the years. Her past rocky relationship with him didn’t bode well. He would block her at every turn. Probably sink her own presidential ambitions.

  She kept massaging her temples, but it was no use – the damn headache wouldn’t go away. Rolling off the bed reluctantly, she shuffled to the bathroom and took three aspirins, washing them down with tap water.

  She was about to get in the shower when the phone in her room rang.

  Picking up the receiver, she heard a familiar voice on the other end. It was FBI agent Erica Blake.

  “Erica,” the senator said, a smile coming to her lips. “Haven’t heard from you in ages. How the hell are you?”

  “Sorry I haven’t kept in touch, Senator. But you know how it is.”

  “Yeah, I know. How’d you find me?”

  “I called your office, Senator. They gave me your hotel.”

  “So,” Megan said, as s
he leaned her bare bottom against the bathroom sink. “Is this a social call or business?”

  “Business, I’m afraid.”

  “Too bad.” Megan recalled their last meeting, how pleasant that had turned out. “So what’s up?”

  “I was assigned to investigate Senator Carpenter’s recent death. I found out some unusual things, then I was taken off the case.”

  “I see. What did you find out?”

  “I’d rather not say over the phone, Senator. I’d like to meet in person.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back in Washington today. We can meet then.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “I’ll be tired from the trip when I get in, so I’ll be going directly home. Why don’t you meet me there? I’ll call you when I land.”

  ***

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Erica Blake climbed the steps leading to the portico of the stately home. You could tell the place was expensive, but at the same time it wasn’t showy. Erica remembered something from the senator’s past – before going into politics, the woman had founded a high-tech company, then sold it to Microsoft for a sizeable amount.

  Erica rang the bell and waited.

  A thin woman wearing a maid’s uniform opened the door. “You must be Miss Blake. The senator is expecting you.”

  She was led into a large study, its walls lined with custom bookcases filled with old, probably rare books. The room was furnished with understated, but expensive leather couches that rested on Persian rugs. A marble fireplace dominated the far wall.

  Before she had a chance to sit down, Senator Megan Lewis walked in the room.

  “There you are,” Lewis said, giving her a mischievous smile. “You look lovely as ever.”

  “Thank you, Senator. Kind of you to say that.”

  They shook hands and sat down on opposite couches.

  She studied Lewis closely. The good-looking woman was wearing a casual, blue jumpsuit and her short blonde hair was still damp, as if she’d just come out of the shower.

  “How was your trip?” Erica asked.