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Not Today

Mark Reasoner

    “Who are you? Where are you? What are you up to?” These thoughts ran through his mind as Special Agent Anthony Green reviewed the case files in front of him. All of them involved contract killings and the agent was convinced all of them were the work of the same person.
    “I will find you,” he said quietly to himself.
    “What was that, boss?” A voice came from his office door. Agent Green looked up at a member of his team standing there.
    “Nothing,” Green replied, “Just thinking about these.” He pointed to the folders on his desk.
    “That shooter?”
    “That shooter.”
    Green and his team had chased ‘that shooter’ for three years. They had many clues and bits of information, and they knew the shooter was responsible for several deaths. But there was never enough to lead them to the person’s identity or to build a case suitable for the US Attorney. All of the cases were still open, and the files were on Agent Green’s desk.
    The team had also built a profile of the shooter. It was their best guess of who the shooter was, or at least the type of person he was. Based on their information, they concluded the shooter was professionally trained, probably in the military forces of some country. He was likely unmarried and perhaps a loner as well. Depending on one’s definition, the shooter would most likely be called a psychopath or a sociopath.
    At least that was the conclusion from a profiler the team consulted. But these were just speculations. More evidence and more information would complete the picture and bring it into clearer focus.
    More evidence and information, though, would take time. Right now, they didn’t know enough. Not even a name. It frustrated Green and his team and he said so.
    “I know what you mean,” the other agent said, “The guy is good and it is frustrating. But don’t worry, we’ll catch him.”
    “I know we will,” Special Agent Green said, “But probably not today.”
    Like any group of law enforcement officers, looking for this shooter was only one case on their desks. Another one was coming to a conclusion, but somewhere in building that case it crossed paths with their investigation of the shooter. So perhaps this time might be different.
    Six months earlier, the daughter of a US Senator was kidnapped. When the ransom exchange went haywire, the young woman’s body was tossed to the curb in front of the Senator’s house. A hostage situation became a murder investigation.
    The investigation led to one John Dempsey. He was arrested and scheduled to go on trial within the next several weeks. Though the US Attorney now had jurisdiction over the next step in the process, and the US Marshals had custody of the accused, Agent Green and his team were not quite finished with the case. It might lead them to their shooter.
    One of the bits of information acquired during the investigation was that someone wanted the kidnapper/killer dead and had offered a contract for the killing. An anonymous tip told the agent their shooter had accepted the contract. The tipster backed it up with a phone number, supposedly a direct contact with the shooter.
    The number was a blind. Just a pre-paid and disposable cell phone. Still, it was something and the team was researching old files and cross-referencing the number to all the records from the other killings.
    “Anything more on connecting our shooter friend to the kidnapping?” Agent green asked as the two men moved into the team’s shared space outside his office.
    “Nothing,” the other agent replied, “We haven’t been able to piece together any call history for that phone number. Each time we find something, it ends up leading nowhere after a couple of steps.”
    “We might just have to try calling ourselves,” another agent said as the two men joined the group of agents around the two unoccupied desks they used as a work table.
    “Why not?” Special Agent Green said. There was little else to try, and this might push things along. He dialed the phone and after two rings, a voice answered.
    “I’ll get back to you,” it said and disconnected.
    “So much for that,” Agent Green said.
    Six minutes later, his own cell phone rang. The display showed a blocked number, but that was common and so the agent answered the call.
    “Special Agent Green,” said the voice from the phone, “What would you like to talk about?”
    The voice was the same as the short message he heard when he called the shooter’s alleged number. The agent immediately motioned for his colleagues to trace the incoming call before responding.
    “Oh don’t waste your time tracing the call,” the voice went on, “The phone’s a dead end and my current location won’t do you a bit of good.”
    Green motioned again to his colleagues. Even if they couldn’t trace the exact location, the exercise might provide additional information.
    “Besides, my dear sir,” the voice said, “I won’t be here any longer than it takes us to hang up.”
    “So why did you call?” the agent asked.
    “You called me. Apparently you want to talk.”
    “I would,” Green replied.
    “Excellent,” the voice replied, “I will be at the coffee shop three blocks from your office. You need to be there in ten minutes. If you’re not, I’ll be leaving in eleven.” The phone went dead.
    Special Agent Green looked at his colleague, but the shaking head told him there was no complete trace.
    “Why don’t we go get a cup of coffee,” he said to his colleagues. They left the office.
    Eight minutes and twenty-four seconds later, Green walked into the coffee shop three blocks away. His colleagues remained outside.
    If the man hadn’t looked up smiling over his glasses, making a shooting motion with thumb and forefinger, Agent Green would not have known who he was supposed to meet.
    He considered the man in the booth as he walked over. The shooter, as Green thought of him, was quite average in appearance with no outstanding facial features. He had medium brown hair, no beard or moustache and looked to be of average height and build. Of course, that was deceiving as the man was seated. Green approached the booth and as he drew even, the seated man motioned for him to take the other side.
    “Greetings, Agent Green,” the shooter said.
    “Hello, Mr.... What should I call you?” the agent replied.
    “Whatever you’d like,” the shooter said, “Or as the bard said, what’s in a name?”
    There was silence as the shooter refilled his mug from the full pot of coffee in the middle of the table. He pushed another mug over to the agent. Soon, both men were sipping the hot beverage.
    “So,” the shooter said, “What business do we have?”
    Green sipped his coffee silently. Finally, he spoke.
    “I could arrest you.”
    “For what?” the shooter asked. “Using too much cream in my coffee, in violation of the government’s anti-obesity initiative? Or maybe for unauthorized use of a cell phone?”
    “Or perhaps some other obscure federal rule I’m not aware of.”
    Agent Green said nothing.
    “You really should avoid empty threats,” the shooter continued. “It will make our conversation easier. You’re not going to arrest me.”
    “Are you sure about that?” Agent Green asked.
    “Reasonably,” the shooter replied, “if arresting me was your goal, you’d have done so already. But I don’t think you will. I think you have other ideas.”
    Again, Agent Green said nothing.
    “Perhaps you will have your colleagues follow me when I leave,” the shooter continued. He motioned toward the window at two men seated at a table outside the shop.
    “You should tell your friends windbreakers and ball caps don’t quite go with black dress shoes.”
    “They should have stayed with their usual Brooks Brothers look,” he continued.
     “I could bring you in just for being generally annoying,”
    The shooter laughed. “Really, sir, if that were a crime, there wouldn’t be enough people out of jail to arrest anyone.” He paused for a moment, sipping his coffee.
     “Okay,” Green said, “Why are we here? What do you want?”
    “I should be asking you that question,” the shooter said. “After all—you did call me. And you’ve been looking in my direction for some time.”
    “But you set the meeting,”
    “True.” The shooter paused, collecting his thoughts. After taking another sip of his coffee, he spoke again.
    “I suppose the first reason is research,” he said. “Just as I learn as much as I can about those I deal with, I also try to learn about those who pursue me.”
    “And,” the shooter continued, “you’ve been pursuing me for some time now, haven’t you?”
    Agent Green did not reply, though he did smile.
    “It’s important to know who or what one is up against, don’t you agree, Agent Green?”
    “Know thine enemy?” the agent asked.
    The shooter looked directly at Agent Green with raised eyebrows.
    “Something like that, but I don’t think of you as an enemy,” he said. “An opponent, possibly, or certainly an adversary, but not an enemy.”
    “Maybe you should rethink it,” Green said, “Because it’s how I think of it. And like any enemy, I will pursue you until the end.” He looked directly into the shooter’s eyes.
    “I will take you down,” he continued.
    “And the challenge is laid down,” the shooter said, “Still, though, I’m sure you’re not going to shoot me here, since that wouldn’t be sporting.”
     “So it won’t be today,” the agent said. “Still...”
    The shooter smiled silently and sipped his coffee. Then he said, “You know, this is a new experience for me. I am usually the hunter, but this time I’m the hunted. So I’m curious. We are much alike and I’m thinking there is something I might learn from you as to why we do what we do.”
    “I am nothing like you,” Green said, “I am not a killer.”
    “But you are a hunter,” the shooter said. There was no reply.
    “And you have killed, haven’t you?”
    When Green still did not reply to this, the shooter continued.
    “How many notches on your belt?” he asked.
    “It’s not the same,” Green said, looking away.
    “Isn’t it?” the shooter replied. Again, there was silence for a few seconds.
    “I do know a bit about you, Special Agent Green,” the shooter continued. “You are a former Marine sniper, and currently one of your agency’s top marksmen. You even instruct your colleagues in the fine art. And I’m sure you’ve taken out many targets.”
    “Only under orders,” the agent replied.
    “Yes,” the shooter said, “That’s one of the two differences between us. The sanction.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The governance,” the shooter said, “How we are justified. Who allows us to do what we do.”
    “You see, my friend,” the shooter went on, “You are allowed to do this by the recognized legal and social authority. Me? Something more basic.”
    Agent Green turned to the shooter. “What justifies what you do?” he asked.
    “A cornerstone of our capitalist system. Market forces, if you will.”
    Green looked at him.
    “The terms of the contract,” the shooter explained.
    “Not a contract I recognize,” Green said, “nor society.”
    “That’s just a line of demarcation,” the shooter replied, “Without it, we would be competitors, rather than adversaries, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
    “But I’m on the right side of the line,” Agent Green said.
    “According to whom?” the shooter asked, “The government? The courts? This is what I mean by the sanction, sir. You believe yourself allowed to do this.”
    “So does society,” the agent said.
    “I might grant you that,” the shooter replied and sipped his coffee.
    After considering this for a moment, the agent spoke again.
    “You said two differences, what’s the other one?”
    “Money,” the shooter said, “I’m somewhat better paid than you, though I’ll admit that your sense of job security makes up for a lot of the difference.”
    “Benefits are pretty good, too,” Green replied.
    Both men smiled and raised their mugs in a mock toast.
    The conversation paused while they refilled their mugs. The shooter motioned to the server at the counter to bring another pot. Once that arrived, Special Agent Green spoke again.
    “Okay, now it’s my turn. Here’s what I know about you.” The agent removed a small notebook from his coat pocket and laid it on the table.
    “You are most likely former military, probably trained as a sniper. Not our military, because if you were, I would know you. Not British either. They tend to take out their bad boys rather than let them go free-lance. How am I doing so far?”
    The shooter smiled and said, “I don’t have to say. But do continue; it’s quite interesting.”
    “Alright,” Green went on, “You probably left the service because of difficulty with authority or were sent packing when something happened with a mission.”
    “Or—you went out on your own because you decided you enjoyed the killing more than most people felt you should.”
    “And that’s a third difference,” Green said as he returned the notebook to his pocket.
    “How’s that?” The shooter asked.
    “I only kill for necessity,” the agent said, “Never for enjoyment and certainly not for sport. It’s just a job.”
    “I don’t kill for sport either,” the shooter said. “Nor for revenge, prevention, or any emotional reason, if I can help it. It’s just a job for me, too.”
    “There are other jobs,” the agent said.
    The shooter looked at the agent for a moment. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you cared.”
    “I don’t,” said Green. “It was just an observation.”
    “Well, you’re right,” the shooter said, “But what other job would allow us the opportunity to pursue our real passion like this one?”
    “What passion?”
    “You know what passion, sir.”
    Agent Green did not reply. The shooter leaned forward and spoke again.
    “Let me ask you,” he said to the agent, “What drives you? Why do you do what you do with such commitment? Why are you here?”
    “Because it’s my job,” Green said, “And I’m good at it.”
    The shooter leaned back with a smile, “To quote a wise man, ‘There are other jobs’.”
    Again, there was silence. After several seconds, and after refilling his mug, the shooter spoke.
    “Let’s be honest, sir,” he said to the agent, “We both have a drive, a passion—if you will—that keeps us going, keeps us doing the job we have chosen. It’s ingrained in us. It might even be genetic.”
    “And it’s rare and quite delightful,” he went on, “To actually meet someone who also has it.”
    “It’s a pleasure, sir, to look into the eyes of a fellow hunter.”
    “My only passion is justice,” the agent said. “It’s why I joined the agency.”
    “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” the shooter said. “How did ‘justice’ lead you to become a sniper? And a very good one at that?”
    “I was serving my country,” Agent Green said, “just like I do now.”
    The shooter laughed softly and sipped his coffee. “I’m sure you think so,” he said. “But that only justifies you. It’s not what drives you.”
    “No, my friend,” the shooter continued, “What drives you and keeps you pursing your goal is the same thing that drives me. It’s what gives us the thrill and the rush. It’s what makes us happy at the end of the day and forces us to wake up tomorrow morning willing to do it all again.”
    Agent Green did not say anything. After several seconds of silence, the shooter continued, “Tell me, Special Agent Green, how do you wish this encounter to resolve itself?”
    “I told you earlier,” the agent said, “I’m going to take you down.”
    “You’re going to kill me?” the shooter asked.
    “If needed,” Green answered. “Arrest you if possible. One way or another, I want to stop you, and I’m going to.”
    “And then what?” the shooter asked.
    “What do you mean?” the agent replied.
    “Just what I said,” the shooter continued. “And then what? What will you do next?”
    “Good God,” Green said, “I’ll do what I always do. Go on to the next case. I’ve got a stack of active files on my desk to keep me busy for the next year or so. And there are always new ones. You guys don’t quit, so neither do I.”
    “That sounds rather Sisyphus-like,” the shooter said, smiling.
    “Yeah, but it’s what I signed up for,”
    “But what do you get out of it?” the shooter asked. “What’s the point?”
    “I get the satisfaction of stopping guys like you. I get justice.”
    “But it never ends, does it?” the shooter said. “It’s a constant battle. And who knows if you’re winning or not?”
    “At least I’m fighting the battle,” Green replied, “And I’m on the right side.”
    “That’s subjective, sir,” the shooter said, “And it only answers one of my questions. You’ve only told me the point, not what you get out of it and why you keep doing it.”
    The shooter sipped more coffee and then refreshed his mug. “Think about it, my friend, it’s why you are pursuing me,” he said, “It’s why you agreed to meet me here.”
    “I only agreed to meet you out of curiosity,” Agent Green said.
    “That’s part of it,” the shooter said.
    “Part of what?”
    “The quest, the chase, the search for information,” the shooter continued. “The solution to the problem.”
    He paused for a moment to let the agent absorb this last statement. Then he continued.
    “The hunt!” he said, “That’s what drives us both, thrills us. It’s our true passion, why we are in this game.”
    For several seconds, neither man spoke. Agent Green refilled his mug and took a long sip. The shooter continued to quietly enjoy his drink. Then he went on.
    “You see,” he said, “the real reason we do this is because we love the hunting. Both of us are pursuing a goal. It doesn’t matter what we call it, just that we chase it. It could be your justice, it could be those general answers, or perhaps it could be a quarry. Like me.”
    “That’s what you call your victims? Quarries?”
    “I don’t call them anything,” the shooter replied. “What I meant by quarry is how you look at me. I’m your prey, your target.”
    “Aren’t I yours?” Agent Green asked.
    “Of course not,” the shooter replied, “I told you earlier, you’re my adversary. You are the opposing force trying to keep me from achieving my objective. It’s why I wanted to meet you, and why I thought you might want to meet me.”
    “So here we are,” he continued, “Both pursuing an objective. Yours appears to be stopping me from achieving mine. It’s a laudable goal. But it’s not important.”
    “And what is your objective,”
    “My objective is ... Well, I don’t have to say. And even if I did, I wouldn’t, for I do believe in confidentiality.”
    “That’s okay; I know what your objective is. I know you are planning on taking out the person who kidnapped and murdered Senator Baumann’s daughter.” The agent leaned forward.
    “And I know I will stop you, one way or another,” he said. “You can be certain of that.”
    “You’ll try,” the shooter replied, calmly. “I am certain of that.” He sipped is coffee some more.
    “Perhaps you’ll succeed, or perhaps, as they say in the beautiful game, you will fail nobly in the attempt.”
    “But either way,” he continued, “I am also certain of this. Not today.”
    Agent Green placed his mug back on the table and began to rise. “I’ve heard enough. It was nice meeting you, but next time, it will be on my terms.” He began to leave.
    “Oh, do sit down,” the shooter said, “We haven’t gotten to the best part yet. Besides, you’re starting to make a scene.”
    Green paused for a moment. “What more could we possibly have to discuss?” he said, still standing next to the table.
    “The thrill,” the shooter said. “And if you stay, I’ll tell you about it. First, though, I think we both could use a short break.”
    Each man in turn left the table and went back to the restroom. The shooter knew he would be followed if he tried to leave. But it didn’t matter; he was not ready to leave. He was still sizing up the agent and there might be more to learn.
    With his two colleagues outside, Special Agent Green knew he wouldn’t lose the shooter so he could take these moments to relieve himself and gather his thoughts. He was beginning to think the shooter was at least an interesting person, if not someone who understood what truly motivated him. At least he was learning things that might prove useful in resolving the matter.
    A fresh pot of coffee awaited the men as they returned to their seats and resumed their encounter.
    “Alright,” Agent Green said, “you still have my attention. Tell me about this thrill.”
    The shooter readjusted his body in the seat, turning to face Agent Green full-on.
    “I mentioned it earlier,” he said, “The hunt. You and I are hunters. We get our thrill from pursuing our objective, tracking the target, preparing the trap and then luring our subject in.”
    “And it all leads up to that final wonderful moment.”
    “You mean the moment you take the shot and end a life?” Agent Green said.
    The shooter looked at the agent for a moment and then shook his head.
    “I really thought you’d understand,” he said sadly, “But you just don’t get it.”
    “Taking the shot comes afterwards,” the shooter continued, “it’s the moment right before. That’s the payoff.”
    Agent Green said nothing.
    “It’s so simple, Agent Green,” the shooter said. “It’s what we work for, what thrills us and why we keep doing what we do. Good Lord, it’s why you’ll pick up that next file, no matter how this little scenario is resolved.”
    “Think about it. It’s all out there in front of us. We’ve followed our target, tracked their movements, learned their habits and then moved around in front of them. We’ve laid a trail for them to follow, or at least anticipated their next move, and then we’ve set up a scene where we control everything to come.”
    “And then they move into our field and into our range.”
    The shooter paused, letting the agent absorb this.
    “And that’s when it happens,” the shooter said. “That supreme thrilling moment when we have complete power over another human being.”
    “What are you talking about?” Agent Green asked.
    “When the target is centered in the cross-hairs,” the shooter replied, “The moment our fingers can move to the trigger and we have to let out half our breath. At that moment, we have absolute power. Their life is no longer theirs, it’s ours.”
    “And don’t you wish the feeling could last forever, sir?” There was silence for several seconds.
    “But, sadly,” the shooter continued, we must give it all away in the next instant. Poof.” He snapped his fingers.
    “How so?” Agent Green asked.
    “We take the shot.”
    “I’m not like that,” the agent said. He sipped his coffee
    “Of course you are,” the shooter said, “Think about when you have a suspect cornered and you’re facing him down. You have your weapon aimed at him, ready to shoot, and you call for his surrender. That’s the moment. His entire being is yours.”
    “Don’t you want that feeling to last forever? Isn’t that why you grab the next case when it’s done?”
    The shooter paused for a moment, sipping his coffee.
    Agent Green said nothing. The shooter had just described why every sniper, police officer, and maybe every hunter in the world pursued their craft. It was the thrill of the hunt.
    But then the agent had another thought.
    “So why take the shot?” he asked, “Why not hold onto the feeling?”
    “Have to finish the job.”
    “There are other...”
    “I know,” the shooter said, cutting the agent off, “Other jobs. But this is who we are.”
    The shooter rose from his chair and started to move for the door. As he opened it, he turned back to the agent.
    “It’s been a pleasure,” he said, “and an honor to meet a player on the other side. I hope our next encounter is as pleasant.”
    “I doubt it,” Agent Green said.
    The shooter chuckled. Then he opened the door and left the shop. Agent Green’s colleagues prepared to follow, but before they could, Green told them not to bother.
    “Not today,” he said.
     Two weeks later, U.S. Marshals prepared to transport John Dempsey from prison to the courthouse. While having no jurisdiction, Agent Green and his team asked to be involved. Given their connection to the case, as well as the potential for an attempt of Dempsey’s life, permission was granted.
    Three days prior to the transfer, Green set his colleagues atop all of the buildings in the area with line-of-sight on the street in front of the courthouse. This would give them complete coverage as well as deny the shooter any of these potential perches.
    He tried to contact the shooter, with no success. With only that original phone number to work with, it was a very long shot. They assumed the phone forwarded an alert or a message to the shooter’s actual phone. This turned out to be the case, though they were finding it went through several servers and providers.
    The trace was lost each time, but persistence brought them closer with every attempt.
    On the morning of the transfer, Green took his place atop the tallest building around the courthouse. He was set up with full sniper gear and accompanied by a spotter. This was it, he knew, if there was to be an attempt, it would have to be today.
    He also knew this would be his best chance—if not his only chance—to stop the shooter once and for all.
    With only two hours left, he tried once more to contact the shooter. This time, though, he did not stop calling. He began dialing the original message number over and over again. His trace team was ready, having noted each successive hub where previous calls were routed. Each was pinged every time the agent made a call so that the trace could pick up from that point.
    Over and over the trace was lost, but each time they went farther along. Finally, on the thirteenth attempt, the call went no farther. A fourteenth attempt confirmed this.
    “Ping that last phone,” Agent Green told his team, “Get me a direct number and a location.”
    They were down to twenty minutes when he acquired his information.
    “GPS shows that phone approximately two tenths of a mile southeast of your location,” Green heard through his earpiece.
    Special Agent Green turned that direction and began searching rooftops and building windows. He spotted what appeared to be the shooter’s most likely spot, a building just slightly shorter than his location. He radioed the agents atop that building to begin a floor by floor search for suspicious activity. It had to be done, but unless his colleagues were lucky, there wasn’t enough time left to prevent the attempt.
    That was his main thought. There just wasn’t enough time. He had to force the issue. He opened his phone and dialed the number. This phone allowed for a message. So he left one. Then he left another, and another.
    Each one left no doubt what his intent was and each became more insistent and more determined.
    “You know who this is, pick up.”
    “Don’t do this.”
    “I’m giving you the chance to walk away from this one.”
    No response.
    While he dialed and left messages, his spotter was searching every window on each floor of the building for some indication of activity. As the minutes ticked away, the agent had more spotters and agents on other buildings in the area join the search.
    The agent kept dialing and leaving messages.
    “It’s over, it’s done,” he finally said into the phone, “You don’t have the shot. This will not happen.”
    Down on the street, the minutes wound down to zero. Three U.S. Marshal SUV’s came down the street and stopped directly in front of the courthouse steps. Several men got out of the first and last vehicle and spread out. When they were in position, three more got out of the middle vehicle and opened the back door. A man in shackles extracted himself from the SUV and was quickly surrounded by Marshals.
    After what seemed to be a dozen different messages, his spotter tapped him on the shoulder.
    “There,” the spotter said pointing down at the building, “Sixth floor, three windows in from the left.” The agent re-aligned his scope to view the spot. He could see a figure through the window and it looked like a person lying prone behind some sort of apparatus.
    “Alpha and Bravo teams, redeploy to the Union Building, two blocks southeast of my location,” the agent radioed, “Join Charlie team on the sixth floor. All other units, target that location and report.” Each team sighting the target reported back that they had eyes on the target.
    “All teams—use your lasers and paint it.”
    Half a dozen light beams went through the window, and red dots danced over whatever was behind the glass. Green opened his phone for one last try at preventing a tragic occurrence. Before he could dial, his phone rang. The display showed the very number he had been calling.
    “It’s over,” the agent said without greeting, “Let’s stop this now.”
    “I do wish you would stop bothering me,” came the reply. “I am rather busy at the moment, and these red things are quite distracting.”
    “I mean really, sir,” the shooter continued, “I have never stalked you or tried to interfere with your job. I do believe you should afford me the same courtesy.”
    “Not happening,” the agent said.
    On the street, the Marshals began escorting their prisoner up the courthouse steps.
    “Of course it’s going to happen,” the shooter said, “It has to. I’ve got a contract to complete.”
    “Didn’t you tell me that the hunt—not the kill—is what’s important?” the agent said, trying to gain a few extra seconds. “Didn’t you say it’s what gives us the power and the thrill? That the shot is just a job?”
    “I also said we have to finish things.”
    “But that’s what makes us lose the thrill and give up the power. Why give it up?”
    “Because we must,” the shooter replied, “And now, if you’ll excuse me...”
    “NO!” Green shouted. He looked through his scope at the target window. He saw the red laser spots on the shooter’s prone figure. He focused on his target and moved his finger to the trigger. On the street, the Marshals and their prisoner were about half-way up the steps.
    “You told me something else, back when we first talked,” the agent said in one last attempt, “and now I’m telling you. I am not going to let you kill John Dempsey. Not today.”
    “Who’s John Dempsey?” The connection broke.
    In the next two seconds, two shots rang out and two targets went down.
    When the sound of the shot reached the street, the Marshals responded instantly. They crowded around their charge and carried him bodily into the courthouse building. Before they could move though, the bullet found its mark.
    The bullet struck its victim in the right front portion of the skull. Even though it was fired from a powerful sniper’s rifle, the distance dissipated much of its force and velocity. But it still had enough power to kill.
    It would be a few seconds before anyone noticed the young woman lying on the sidewalk.
    Four minutes after the shots, the three teams of agents entered the sixth floor office where one shot had come from. It was vacant, though a few items of forensic interest were found. There was a cell-phone, a spent shell casing and some fresh blood. There were also two bullet-resistant Plexiglas partitions angled away from the window. A small hole had been cut into the window where the shooter must have aimed his weapon.
    In the post shooting review by his agency, Special Agent Anthony Green was cleared of any wrongdoing. The board found his actions were unconventional, but within protocols, and he’d done everything possible to prevent the shooting.
    The review also concluded the Plexiglas deflected the agent’s bullet just enough so the target was injured rather than killed. Agent Green, however, would believe the shooter’s final question rattled him just enough to throw his aim off.
    John Dempsey would be convicted of the kidnapping and murder of Senator Baumann’s daughter. In the trial, evidence would show Dempsey had not acted alone. Dempsey himself would testify he did not kill the girl. Instead, his partner did while he was attempting to retrieve the ransom.
    John Dempsey is currently on death row awaiting execution.
    Years later, as he lay on his deathbed, retired Senator Donald Baumann revealed John Dempsey had a partner in his daughter’s kidnapping and murder. A former staff member named Melissa Cambridge admitted—bragged even—that she arranged for Dempsey to take the Senator’s daughter in revenge for Senator Baumann refusing to enter into an adulterous affair with her.
    While the ransom exchange misfired, Melissa Cambridge killed the girl and threw the body onto the street in front of the Senator’s house. She told the Senator there was never any other intention.
    Melissa Cambridge would never be arrested or tried for the crime. She died from a bullet wound to the head that morning in front of the courthouse.

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