on Independence Avenue, just opposite the James Forrestal Federal Building. The vehicle was legally parked, with sixty minutes remaining on the meter, and the tint in the windows was not of such a degree to cause suspicion among any unusually attentive traffic officers. The man had extensive experience in such matters, and although he recognized the inherent danger of his occupation, he was not one to leave the elements he could control to chance.
Adhering to this principle, he had carefully selected the place in which to position his vehicle. From the intersection with L’Enfant Promenade, Independence Avenue ran west for almost 3 miles. From his location, he had a clear view of two traffic lights. The closest was approximately 65 meters away. The second light was at least another 200 meters down the road, which placed it well beyond the range of his weapon and his ability.
The traffic signals held his interest for only a moment, as his preparations were more reliant on the rush-hour traffic and the inclement weather than anything else. He couldn’t depend on the lights to work in his favor, as his proficiency with computers was not so extensive as to allow him to break into the Department of Transportation’s signal grid undetected. At the same time, the other two variables were natural occurrences that never failed to bring D.C. traffic to a near standstill.
His cell phone beeped and he looked down at the numbers. The target was less than two minutes out.
“So, what are you doing this weekend?”
Megan Lawrence lifted an eyebrow and turned in the seat to look at her partner, Frank Benecelli. They had been paired together for three months, and she had been getting the feeling that he was working up the courage to ask her out.
“Why? You have plans for us?” she asked with a grin. Benecelli blushed and muttered something under his breath. Megan thought it was amusing that an Italian American could be so introverted and awkward in conversation, but she couldn’t deny that she found him reasonably attractive. It was a moot point anyway, as she did have plans for the weekend; Sarah was celebrating her sixth birthday on Saturday, and both mother and daughter were excitedly looking forward to spending the day together.
Sweeping her long red hair back from her face and into a haphazard ponytail, Megan focused her sparkling green eyes on the vehicles she could see ahead and in her peripheral vision. Silently, she rebuked herself for letting her thoughts wander. There was no room for that in this job. Besides, she had the next two days off and would soon have plenty of time to relax.
“God, look at this weather. It’s days like this that remind me Washington used to be a malarial swamp,” Aidan complained. Senator Levy was distracted, staring out at the wind-rippled surface of the Capitol Building’s reflecting pool. His stomach pains had not receded since the hearing adjourned, and he wondered if he should move his doctor’s visit up to next week. Better yet, he thought, maybe I should just quit this job altogether. Although he was aware that his retirement would devastate his ambitious chief advisor, the senator knew that nothing would please his wife more. Lately Elizabeth had been dropping hints about moving to the estate they had recently purchased in the rolling hills of Virginia, the state that had elected him to his lofty position, and her wishes seemed to be taking the form of demands with each passing day.
Still, Levy could not begrudge her this desire, as she had faithfully stood by him through a turbulent political career spanning nearly three decades. The house just outside of Charlottesville was in need of extensive remodeling, and a warm glow spread throughout his body at the thought of making a home there with his wife, and how much she would enjoy the process.
“Senator?” He broke from his thoughts and turned to peer at Kevin Aidan. “We need to talk about your meeting with the governor next week. He’s going to ask you about school funding, so I think we ought to—”
“Later, Kevin. Let an old man rest for a moment,” Levy joked as he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. The light drum of the rain on the roof of the vehicle dulled his senses as he drifted back into fantasies of retirement. He took no notice when the vehicle splashed through a miniature lake of rainwater as it made the sharp right turn onto Independence Avenue.
From the moment he received the second call, the man in the black Tahoe worked quickly but efficiently. His hands were steady as he peeled away the threadbare blanket covering the object on the seat next to him. Lifting the awkward rectangular weapon onto his lap, he flipped a latch to move the optical sight into place, then swung the firing-pin mechanism down into position.
What he held in his hands was known as the M202A1 66mm launcher, also designated as the Flash launcher by the U.S. military, for whom it was specially manufactured. This particular weapon had been conveniently lost during a live-fire training exercise at Fort Bragg the previous spring with a full complement of three M74 rockets. The semiautomatic launcher was actually capable of firing four rockets in four seconds, but it was only issued with three, and the army’s investigation would have been far more extensive if ammunition not assigned to the missing weapon had also disappeared.
As the launcher was already loaded, he had twenty seconds to spare. He used this time to move himself and the bulk of the weapon simultaneously into the passenger seat. After extending the trigger into the firing position, he scanned his mirrors and peripheral visibility. Through the rain streaking down his rear windshield, he saw the first of the two Suburbans approach.
The man took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Looping the strap into the crook of his right arm, he cracked the passenger side door and waited to see if fate would spare the life of Senator Daniel Levy.
As luck would have it, the first light was green. He breathed a soft curse as the convoy began to roll through the intersection, and so it was with a slight pang of relief that he watched as an errant motorcycle swerved directly in front of the lead Suburban. The driver braked hard to avoid clipping the bike, and the man holding the launcher in his lap heard a brief squeal of tires when the following vehicle stopped. In a quiet show of impiety, he thanked God with a fervent whisper and pushed out onto the sidewalk.
“Weapon! Move, move, move!” Heads snapped up as the shouted words came over the radio. The agents in the first vehicle swung frantically in their seats to search for the threat. Senator Levy was jolted awake from a light sleep, and he turned to his advisor with a confused expression. Reading panic in Aidan’s face, he immediately turned to look out of the rear window. The world around him was blocked out by sheets of rain. It was only then that he felt the first wave of paralyzing fear.
Spurred on by a surge of adrenaline, the young driver of the second vehicle broke protocol and attempted to maneuver around the first, but the sudden stop had left the vehicles too close together. He clipped the rear bumper of the lead Suburban, forcing the heavy SUV to grind to a halt. It was all the time the man needed. The weight of the launcher kept it steady on his shoulder as his eyes found the primary target. He squeezed the trigger and the first rocket screamed toward the second vehicle, its deadly path marked by a thin contrail of white smoke.
The senator saw a brief flash through the driving rain and closed his eyes as the agents screamed into their radios.
The man immediately adjusted his aim after he saw the projectile slam into the back end of the second Suburban. The M74 rocket was filled with 0.61 kilograms of a thickened pyrophoric agent, known as TPA, with chemical properties similar to those of white phosphorus. The results were devastating to behold. Another rocket tore into the lead Suburban just seconds after the vehicle carrying the senator was reduced to a heap of smouldering metal. The particles expelled from the warhead’s casing ripped into nearby vehicles and passersby. One agent managed to get the rear door open just before the impact and was thrown 20 meters from the vehicle, his scorched body writhing on the damp pavement until he expired a few moments later.
The chaos was unimaginable on Independence Avenue, as the street was filled with people returning to work from their lunch hour. The screams of terrified onlookers were lost on the man as he turned his attention to the chase vehicle that had initiated the first warnings over the radio. The fact that he had fired two rockets within five seconds had given the agents in