MARSHA GRAY RAISES her scoped Remington, nodding with satisfaction. Dead center to the back, and the bonus is that she isn’t using a standard .308 cartridge, but rather what’s known as a frangible round, something designed to break up easily upon striking, like the cartridges the air marshals use, so any gunfire in an airliner won’t puncture the hull and cause a sudden depressurization.
Plus, this round is carrying the same type of poison that she used the other day against that poor kid Carl, back at the Hay-Adams Hotel. Any forensics testing will show that this overworked and pressured government employee had died from sudden heart failure.
She works the bolt of the rifle, ejecting the spent cartridge, and then grabs the brass and runs up the dirt road, her battle-rattle gear jostling along, not wanting to leave any evidence behind. Marsha knows she only has a handful of seconds before those Secret Service clowns back there figure something is amiss after hearing a rifle shot blast through the morning air.
Marsha gets closer. The dead agent is sprawled over the First Lady, who’s struggling to get out from underneath the taller and heavier dead woman. She brings up her rifle, doesn’t even bother using the scope, because at this range, she can’t miss. She’ll make the shot and then get the hell out, and leave behind the mystery of how a Secret Service agent and the First Lady both died of apparent heart attacks at the same time in the same place.
So what, she thinks. Folks still can’t figure out how and why Jack Ruby nailed Lee Harvey Oswald back in the day, and this will just be one more mystery for the ages.
The First Lady is talking, pleading, mouth moving, and Marsha just ignores the sounds, starts squeezing the trigger—
As the agent rolls over, brings up an automatic pistol, and shoots Marsha three times in the chest.