THE LIGHT BREEZE that allowed for low scoring was perfect not only for golf and kites, but also the flying of drones.
Russ had assembled his lethal death machine, and the remote-controlled marvel was now soaring high over the treetops so as to not arouse suspicion. He monitored the flight’s progress on his iPhone, maneuvering the craft like a pro.
Just like a video game, he thought to himself. He could almost hear a commentator describing each hole as the machine passed over the scenic course.
CONFIDENT THAT HIS birdie was as good as secured, Arman waited patiently for his fellow competitors to putt out. He waved to Jessie, who had followed him from start to finish.
There was polite applause as the last of his partners finally holed out.
Arman had replaced his ball and was about to tap in his short gimme when the buzz of a thousand bees filled the air. He looked up, sighted the object, and pointed.
“Can you believe it?” he asked his brother.
As the drone descended and got close to its target, the police dog began to bark frantically.
With no time to spare, the officer yelled, “Hit the ground! It’s a bomb!”
Farjaad grabbed Arman’s right arm. “Run!” he yelled into his ear.
Panic sent some running while others huddled into masses, forming human shields over their loved ones.
Through the chaos, Arman heard Jessie cry out his name. Time was literally captured in a freeze frame as he beheld the horrified expression on her face.
He pulled free from Farjaad’s grasp and tossed his putter at the flying foreign object, watching helplessly as his club crashed into the device.
Best shot I’ve had all day, he thought.
Fearful cries of desperation echoed in his ears as scattered pieces of broken plastic showered the gallery. The police dog was locked into a rabid frenzy, his bark growing hoarse as the collar tightened around his neck.
Jessie tried to reach Arman but was thwarted by the panicking mob.
Instinctively, Arman raced toward the object before the main body crashed. One of the blades was still whirling when it hit the ground, rocking back and forth like a wounded animal writhing in pain. The eye of the cycloptic GoPro scanned the landscape as if trying to find its bearings.
Without a second thought, he hurled himself on top of the explosive device. The drone dug deep into his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped for air like a fish out of water and lay there for what seemed like an eternity, wondering if this whole incident was one colossal misunderstanding. He would feel like such a fool if some thoughtless knucklehead had simply pressed his harmless toy into action.
A peculiar thought entered his mind as the rotating blade cut into his side: Hope this doesn’t ruin my shirt.
He raised his head and saw Jessie standing nearby with a hand over her mouth. And then it happened.
The deafening blast was powerful enough to throw his body high into the air. His lifeless corpse landed face up, exposing the cavernous hole in his chest. Abject confusion and mayhem ensued as the gallery stampeded, fanning out in every direction from the epicenter.
Jackson helped Bugoni to his feet. “You okay?”
Bugoni took a quick survey to make sure he still had all his extremities. “Think so,” he said while racing toward the victim.
Jessie was the first to reach Arman. Kneeling by his side, she could see the innocence in his lifeless eyes as they stared blindly at the sky.
Bugoni helped the shaken woman to her feet, consoling her with a tight embrace as she wept on his shoulder.
After an off-duty nurse led the severely traumatized woman away, he respectfully covered Arman’s broken body with the suit jacket he was wearing.
“Let’s get to that parking lot!” he barked at his partner.
THE AGENTS ARRIVED at the scene of a standoff where the SWAT team had already formed a safe perimeter around the van.
Bugoni and Jackson joined Captain Belmont behind an armored vehicle.
“Is he in there?”
The captain nodded. “Yeah, the cowardly bastard’s in there all right.”
“Have you tried talking to him yet?”
“No, we secured the area first.”
Bugoni grabbed a megaphone. “Russell, we know you’re in there. Come out peacefully so we can talk things over.”
There was a scraping noise inside the van, which rocked ever so slightly.
As the driver’s side door slowly creaked open, dozens of handguns and rifles were trained on the former Marine decked out in dress blues.
He slowly exited the vehicle and stood unsteadily on his artificial legs, holding an object in his hand.
“I’m going to need you to lie prostrate on the ground with both hands behind your back,” Bugoni ordered.
Russ only laughed. “That’s not gonna happen. If I’m gonna die, it’ll be with me standing upright as a loyal American.”
“Who said anything about dying?”
The vet waved the trigger device in his hand. “The C-4 I have strapped to my body will certainly have, shall we say, a devastating impact on the outcome.”
“Put down the device and let’s talk about this man to man. I’m sure there are extenuating circumstances surrounding your actions.”
“The time for talk is long over. It is only through action that things get done. Our ineffectual puppet government is mired in bureaucratic quicksand. It’s time for the people to regain their voice and be heard. As Nathan Hale so eloquently stated, ‘I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.’”
The proud infantryman’s body stiffened as he stood at attention. He gave one last salute and pressed the button. The ensuing blast shook heaven and earth.
Bugoni and Jackson emerged from their shelter after the dust settled.
“Goddammit! I fucked up, Lamar.”
Jackson shook his head. “No, we both screwed up, partner.”
“I had him—had him by the short hairs, I tell ya, and I let him off the hook.”
“There’s only so much you can do. Beating yourself up isn’t going to change what happened.”
“Guess you’re right. I’ll leave that task to our illustrious leader.”
SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE Charles Forman eased back into his chair, working a coin up and down the back of his knuckles. He rested the other hand on a thick file labeled “Russell Fox.”
Bugoni and Jackson exchanged cautionary glances as the oppressive silence grew louder with each turn of the quarter.
“Well, gentlemen, what do you have to say for yourselves?”
Bugoni raised his head slightly. “What’s there to say besides ‘We’re lucky there weren’t more casualties—thanks to the heroic actions of Yasin.’”
Forman abruptly stopped working the coin. “Who was, curiously enough, the man you were there to protect. Am I right so far?”
Bugoni’s head dropped almost between his knees.
Forman sighed. “How do you think this makes us look when a terrorist not only calls his shot beforehand but is able to circumvent the tightest security we have available and execute a plan any fifth grader could hatch.”
Jackson felt like the whipping boy of one of his enslaved ancestors. “We used every precaution we could, given the time constraints and shortage of personnel.”
“If you had replaced the entire gallery with FBI agents, would the outcome have been any different? I think not. The problem was twofold. Number one, you already had this guy pegged as a prime suspect, yet you both failed to follow up on it. And number two, it’s obvious the security you provided at the entrances leaked like a sieve. Now, I ask you gentlemen, ‘If you were in my position, how would you view your performance?’”
“We did the best we could. The only thing left is to analyze what went wrong, learn from our mistakes, and then move on,” Jackson boldly stated.
“Kind of like inspecting the barn door after the horses have escaped. Is it as simple as that? By all rights, I should have the two of you doing short-arm inspections at the Quantico training academy but due to a ‘shortage of personnel,’ as you have so eloquently pointed out, that will not be happening. Sadly, you are two of my better agents, which doesn’t reflect well on our organization. I want a weekly report from both of you detailing what you’re working on and the progress that’s being made. You will be under my close supervision until you can demonstrate the ability to perform your duties in a satisfactory manner. That’s all. Get out of my sight before I change my mind and send you to Quantico.”
Bugoni’s legs were heavy as lead when he tried to stand. He thought the best way to exit may be the cowardly method—simply crawling on his belly or slithering out with his tail between his legs.
Jackson slapped him on the back after they left the boss man’s office. “Despite our differences and the failed outcome, I thought we formed a pretty solid partnership overall.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think Forman or Arman Yasin would share your sentiments.”