Murdock grinned when Agent Feinstein shot another Secret Service agent as they climbed the handful of stairs leading to the platform. Feinstein put two rounds in his chest before shifting around and firing three more into the escaping crowd.
People fled in all directions, screaming and crying, begging and blubbering.
They were ants under a magnifying glass to Murdock. The helpless fools ran around him like chickens with their heads cut off. The sounds of approaching sirens only meant more kindling for the fire.
He stood in place, focusing all of his attention on the armed men by the stage.
A shot to the temple disabled one of the agents Murdock controlled. He moved onto another, forcing the president’s detail to turn against their colleagues. Their numbers dwindled rapidly as they shot each other in quick succession.
Thomas pushed himself to a seated position behind the podium. His ruined knee was in front of him, leaking like a faucet. All the blood had drained from his face, making him look as if he’d aged ten years since he’d started his speech.
He applied pressure to his thigh, just above his knee, in an attempt to slow the blood loss. His eyes darted around the carnage before him. The men hired to protect his life at all costs had turned on each other.
The agent closest to Thomas had shot him in the leg.
The pain and torment and panic saturating his mind pleased Murdock even more than he could have imagined. He allowed President Thomas to stay in control of himself for now, wanting him to believe he still had a chance to escape.
Police officers pushed their way through the crowd, shouting unheard orders at one another. Officer Jones, the first to arrive, knelt by the stage and aimed at the nearest Secret Service agent.
“Freeze!”
Instead of complying, the agent swung his pistol toward the officer. Jones didn't hesitate, putting a bullet through the agent's left eye, sending him crashing from the stage. Leaping up beside the podium, Jones reached for the wounded POTUS.
He was shot down by two agents flanking from the left.
Another cop stumbled and fell into the grass by a line of lights. Exit wounds bled from his back. He twitched twice and was still. Three more officers arrived and returned fire, dropping one of the agents standing by the front of the stage.
Murdock released another mind as the body fell under a hail of bullets. He latched onto a cop running through the crowd. The man held a Remington pump-action shotgun.
He blasted two officers in the back before tilting the shotgun under his own chin. He painted the grass red.
One of the president’s staffers ran toward his boss. Mascara streamed down her cheeks. Half of her white blouse was still tucked into her black skirt.
“Sir, are you—?”
A soupy redness blossomed in her shirt. She stumbled back and fell to a seated position in the middle of the stage. Her mouth worked as she looked around, eyes squinting in confusion.
A shot to the forehead snapped her neck back.
President Thomas cried out.
Murdock laughed. He reached for Thomas’ mind.
You shouldn’t have left me to rot in that hellhole.
Thomas flinched at the sound of the intrusive voice in his mind. Murdock? But you’re dead! You have to stop this! Please! You’re killing good people!
You’ve killed them, Mr. President. You’ve killed them all.
Murdock peered around the courtyard, searching for a new toy to wreak havoc with. He spotted the president’s black limousine idling by the rear of the monument. He focused on the man sitting behind the wheel.
The engine revved as the driver pulled the transmission into gear.
Spewing sod from the wheels, the limousine lurched forward. It turned into the courtyard and accelerated around the monument. Cutting past the audio and video equipment setup by a series of tents, it drove straight for the panicked crowd.
People crunched under the grill, their limbs shattering, blood coating the hood and windshield. Mangled bodies ran under the tires. The limousine plowed on. The fenders dented and crumpled under the repeated blows against them.
Through the driver’s eyes, Murdock spotted two cameramen standing amidst the crowd, snapping pictures of the anarchy. He forced the driver to press the gas pedal to the floor and steer toward them.
One of the photographers turned toward the sound of the roaring engine just as the bumper met his legs.