“OK people. We know what we have to do. The Secret Service is in charge, and we’re here to do their bidding.”
“Yeah, right!” one anonymous agent called out, to laughter from the rest. Quince ignored the heckling and continued.
“The ground level team will be carrying automatic weapons and will be on voice activated communications on channel 1, that is a multi service channel so no comments about our colleagues in the CIA, Secret Service or Homeland Security.” There were murmurs as the ground team dispersed. The SAIC was now addressing just four people holding sniper rifles. All were armoured and helmeted. They each wore green and grey camouflage paint to dull the sheen from their cheeks and noses. All four were expert marksmen. Only one was a woman; Special Agent Gillian Miles.
***
It had been a hard year for Gillian. Despite being the daughter of a future Presidential candidate, she had endured hours of grilling over what Fox News had called ‘The Junk Yard Shoot Out’ and the unexpected demise of Barry Mitchinson. Nonetheless, she had been cleared for work on a consultancy basis for those Law Enforcement Agencies who needed a sniper. After rigorous training with the FBI at Quantico, and much to the distress of Steve Post, pressure from the DoJ, Department of Justice, gave Gil Miles a shot at an agency probation. The probation period ended with top marks and glowing recommendations from everyone who thought Denton Miles III might be the next President of the United States.
So it was that six months earlier, Gillian Miles stood proudly to attention as the Director of the FBI pinned her badge on her lapel in the presence of her proud father and Elizabeth Chase Miles. The passing out parade gave way to a boozy celebration, and Special Agent Gillian Miles had a photograph taken holding her personalised and embossed leather wallet, which when opened showed her shiny new badge below her commission.
***
There were only three high buildings with a true line of sight to the podium, and Gillian was stationed on the highest. In the week before the address was to be given, an anonymous email had been received by the Secret Service saying that Omar Al Madawi, a Syrian sniper loyal to President Assad, had sneaked into the USA by ship. It was immediately dismissed by the CIA, who claimed to know where he was, but despite their claims the tall buildings were emptied and FBI snipers occupied their rooftops.
“Rules of engagement are as follows,” a senior secret service agent read out to the snipers.
“Unless the life of the President is in clear and imminent danger, you must first seek voiced authority to fire. Acknowledge.”
“Yes, sir!” the agents barked in unison.
“Take your positions and radio in.”
***
Gillian’s perch was ideal. She could cover the roofs of the other two buildings, and she could see all windows facing the podium except the ones in her own building, which were covered by others.
“Skybird in position,” Gil said into the throat radio as she held it to the surface of her skin.
“Roger that, and position secured, radio silence in five minutes. Switch to emergency channel if necessary,” a distant voice responded.
Gillian had been delighted when she discovered that her favoured M107 Snipers Rifle was also the preferred tool of the Richmond Field Office. She secured the bipod and traversed the square, looking the whole time through her sights. The cross hairs on this model were different from her own scope; hers had a simple cross with a small circle in the centre. These cross hairs had one vertical line bisecting two horizontal lines. The target was to be placed on the central vertical cross hair between the two horizontal lines.
“We are live.” An anonymous voice chirped through the radio static as Hail to the Chief rang out from below; it was played well by the National Guard Band, as far as Gil could tell from this distance.
The President took the podium and was raising and lowering his hands, palms down, in an attempt to quieten the applause. Eventually the noise died down and the President began to speak, praising the good people of Virginia, telling them how they had helped bring America out of recession.
There was no apparent threat from the lower buildings, and so Gillian Miles sighted on the President. She turned a thumbscrew ever so slightly to adjust focus, and the President came into focus. Even from this distance, Gil could sight the cross hairs over her President’s throat. Securing the rifle in position, she tore off her microphone and threw it across the roof.
Gillian Miles smiled as her finger traced the hair trigger, the cross hairs still set on the President’s Adam’s apple.
“The Chameleon is back in business!” she said out loud, just before a loud retort echoed around the square.
THE END
J Jackson Bentley writes both fiction and non-fiction books and has been a published author for over sixteen years. He now works as a Legal Consultant in the UK, the USA, the Middle East and the Far East. His spare time is spent writing at home in the UK and in Florida. Married with four grown children he is currently writing a new thriller set in Dubai and he is compiling a book of short stories.
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Excerpt from:
Shadow of the Burj
An Emirate of Dubai Thriller
J Jackson Bentley
CHAPTER 1
Oxfordshire, England, February 10 th , 6.00 am GMT.
The black custom painted motorcycle coasted into a clearing in the trees and its rider shut down the engine. The ground crackled as the rider rolled the big bike over the frozen mud. It was still early and the frost was thick on the ground.
The Harley Davidson looked dated but was in fact a recent model. The Sturgis Dyna FXDB, like all Harleys, looked a little old fashioned because it was low slung and the rider sat upright but close to the road. The bike appeared dirty and neglected on the surface but beneath the film of road salt and mud it was a powerful and well maintained road machine. The white and red decals on either side of the six gallon petrol tank declared it to be ridden by a “Warrior”, the Warriors being a violent offshoot of the British Hell’s Angels.
The rider maintained his distance from the shabby trailer park that was home to the Warrior’s Oxford Chapter. He didn’t want to wake anyone in the camp, at least not yet. He removed a thick leather glove and raised his left hand to look at the cheap gothic styled watch on his wrist. On each knuckle was a letter crudely drawn in blue ink, the letters spelled out the word HATE. His hand was grubby and unwashed, black oily deposits outlined his long fingernails. It was almost 6am and the camp across the clearing was silent.
Bricko, a nickname name derived from a crude comparison of his build to a sturdily constructed outside toilet, reached into his battered leather jacket and retrieved the tabloid newspaper he had purchased just minutes ago. He unfolded the red top newspaper and reread the headline; “Bikers Underage Sex Ring Exposed”, the words and pictures were credited to a journalist called Max Richmond. The sordid story was accompanied by grainy pictures and it claimed to expose the activities of the “Warriors, a notorious motorbike gang who modelled themselves on the “Hell’s Angels”. The big biker did not need to reread the article, which started on the front page before continuing over four more pages in the centre of the paper. He knew what it said by heart.