The Last Election (20 page)

The broadcast van was right behind the first two police cars that arrived at the scene of the Kaczmarek murders. As the officers stepped cautiously out of their vehicles, the first thing they saw was a bleached blonde prostitute running erratically toward them and screaming hysterically.

“It was the Black Family Mafia! I know them gang punks anywhere! The Black Family Mafia!” Agent Schroeder yelled using her best bimbo voice. “They shot that poor old white man and that poor old lady straight in the head. I saw the whole thing!”

As the police officers approached the Kaczmarek vehicle, Agent Schroeder kept on frantically screaming about the two dead white people while the DMBC crew captured it all on tape. At the DMBC studio, Darius Robinson watched the event unfold on the control room monitors. He knew that a report of black gang members killing an old white couple from Hamtramck would certainly piss off the white viewers, which is just what he wanted. He looked at the nearest assignment editor and said, “Get this ready for air, this story is up next.” He pushed the microphone button that connected to Reaves’s earpiece. “Dean, we got another racial incident. It’s coming your way.” Robinson released the button and chuckled, knowing that Reaves would over-sensationalize the story just like he always did when there was breaking news.

McGraw had switched to speakerphone and was now listening intently to the directions being given to him by the Ontario Provincial Police superintendent on the other end of the line. “Take plenty of extra time checking passports before the trucks reach you. We need you to stall them to give us enough time to set up,” said the superintendent. McGraw followed the order as he anxiously awaited the arrival of the first truck.
 

Agent Torgersen’s front seat companion Keith Dixon turned to Torgersen and asked, “What if they decide to search us, Erik?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied calmly. “Since we stashed all the weapons back at the safe house near the train tracks, there is no reason for them to hold us even if they search us. We just play it cool.” Torgersen pulled forward to the booth, ecstatic that he had finally gotten there.
 
“Took you long enough, Canuck,” he yelled sarcastically at the booth. McGraw made no eye contact with Torgersen as he examined the passports and handed them back, then waved for him to proceed.
 

As the truck pulled forward, Dixon looked at Torgersen and said, “What the hell was that? I thought you said play it cool?”

“I was just playing the obnoxious American. It would have aroused suspicion if I had been polite,” Torgersen laughed.
 

Torgersen impatiently tapped his hands on the steering wheel as the traffic inched its way through the gridlock at the base of the bridge. His cell phone beeped, so he pulled it from his shirt pocket to see who had sent him a message. An unusual look came over his face as he read the message.
 
Dixon asked, “What is it?”

Torgersen looked at Dixon and smiled. “Gisela had two kills tonight! She says she’s almost to the bridge.”

“Way to go, G!” exclaimed Dixon.

“Oh man, Gisela gets really horned up after a kill,” Torgersen said. “I’m
gonna
get my lobster boiled tonight!”
 

His truck continued to inch along, but as he looked ahead he saw a row of Customs agents standing where the traffic pattern bottlenecked, rerouting vehicles in several different directions in an effort to alleviate the congestion.
 
“Thank God,” he whispered.

When Torgersen reached the chokepoint, a Customs agent gave his whistle a loud sharp blow and pointed his flashlight toward the far right lane. Torgersen checked his rear-view mirror and was relieved to see that his second truck was directed to the far right lane as well. For the first time in hours, Torgersen was able to drive faster than five miles per hour. He pulled ahead, but traveled only a couple hundred feet before he came to another checkpoint. A Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer stepped between the roadblock barrier and the front of the truck and raised his hand until Torgersen pulled to a stop. Torgersen nearly barfed as he viewed the officer’s bright scarlet tunic, round tan hat, and knee-high leather boots. He rolled his eyes in exasperation and said, “For the love of God.” Dixon laughed as he watched Torgersen become frustrated, and then Torgersen started to laugh as well. He beeped his horn twice and yelled, “Get out of the road, Dudley, or I’ll run your ass over!” causing Dixon to laugh even harder.
 

The Mountie lowered his head so his eyes were hidden behind the brim of his hat as he approached the driver’s side door. When he reached the open window, he looked up quickly and in an instant placed the barrel of his 9mm Smith & Wesson against Torgersen’s left temple. Before Torgersen even realized what was happening, twenty Ontario T.R.U. members stormed the trucks with their sub-machine guns drawn and ready. The Mountie cocked the hammer of his weapon and said, “Welcome to Canada.”
   
 

Chapter 50

Clark and Martineau had been so deeply involved in a conversation about the assassination attempt on the president that they didn’t even realize they were coming up on Detroit. The Secret Service agent had returned from the cockpit and said, “Have you ever seen anything like this?” Clark and Martineau quickly turned their attention to the port side window and gazed at Detroit below. “It’s as if the Tigers, Lions, Pistons, and Red Wings won their respective championships on the same night.”

The flashing lights of hundreds of police cars and emergency vehicles could be seen racing along the streets. Fires dotted the city landscape below, their flames illuminating the night sky. The agent leaned over Martineau, pointed toward Cobo Hall and said, “Look! It looks like half the cars in the rooftop parking lot at Cobo are on fire.”

Clark again yelled to the cockpit, “Stryker, take us low over the riverfront.”

Stryker swung the helicopter back around and dropped low over Milliken State Park, then flew southward on a course following the riverfront toward Cobo Hall. Clark and Martineau could see the Renaissance Center coming into view to the right, its buildings illuminating the downtown area. The beautiful, shining complex seemed out of place as fires lit up the sky in the surrounding area.
 

As they flew closely by the high-rise tower of the Detroit Marriott, bullets ripped through the side of the helicopter.
The agent who was leaning over Martineau took a bullet to the throat that killed him instantly. His body snapped back against the other side of the helicopter and then slammed to the floor. As the helicopter spun around wildly, Stryker yelled out, “We’re going down! Hang on!”

From their location on the roof of the Marriott, Jorge Delgado and his men laughed heartily as Delgado unloaded a clip of pot shots from his machine gun at the passing helicopter. They cheered in unison as heavy black smoke poured out of the engine and the helicopter spun out of control. Ironically, Delgado didn’t even know whose helicopter he had just shot.

Delgado turned to his men and said, “Let’s get going,” then he and his men continued placing C-4 plastic explosives across the roof of the Marriott.

Clark, Martineau, and the other agent were knocked to the floor as the helicopter abruptly pitched to the right.
 
The agent moved over and shielded Martineau’s body with his own. “Stay down, ma’am!”

Clark slid over to check the pulse of the agent who had been shot. “He’s dead!” Clark called out.

The helicopter started to drift away from the river and head toward the area surrounding the RenCen. Stryker was doing everything he could to regain control, but nothing was working. “We have lost all oil pressure! I’m going to try to put us down in the river!”

Clark and Martineau were now lying face to face. Clark took Martineau’s hand and said, “Crashing into the river will be much better than crashing on land!”

“Well now that’s very reassuring, Sam,” said Martineau, as she buried her face under the agent’s shoulder.

Stryker pulled hard on the cyclic stick and managed to turn the helicopter around, but he continued to lose altitude rapidly as he flew low and fast toward the Detroit River. “We’re not going to make it!” he warned. A moment later the landing skids slammed into the pavement of Hart Plaza and the helicopter slid forward, bright white sparks spraying into the air. It slid over a hundred feet directly toward the river and then flipped over the embankment wall, sending the passengers and pilot down into the icy cold waters of the Detroit River.
 

Delgado and his men saw none of this as they were making their way out of the Marriott. They ran quickly to their truck and sped away from the towering hotel, heading down New Street. At the first intersection Delgado’s driver pulled a quick U-turn and stopped the vehicle in the middle of the street.

Delgado opened the passenger side door and stepped out, looking down the center of the street from where they had come. He grabbed the sides of the opened door and placed his foot on the floorboard, then boosted himself up and onto the hood. From there he climbed onto the roof of the truck as he continued to gaze down the street. A block away stood the Marriott.

A rescue team that was in the RenCen area witnessed Clark’s helicopter slide into the Detroit River, and they raced toward the riverbank. Within minutes the rescue team members were pulling the occupants of the helicopter crash to safety.

The surviving Secret Service agent onboard had received a strong blow to the head. The rescue squad wrapped him in blankets and stabilized him while they waited for an ambulance to arrive. Stryker was holding on to his forearm to elevate his right hand. “I think I broke my wrist,” he said nonchalantly. Clark and Martineau were battered and bruised, but on the whole both were feeling quite blessed that that was the worst they had suffered.

Clark, Martineau, and Stryker stood shivering next to the rescue vehicle even though they were wrapped in blankets. “Man, that water sure was cold, wasn’t it?” said Clark.

Martineau looked up at Clark. Her hair was matted down around her face, which was streaked with wet eyeliner. Her clothes had been torn in multiple places. She was shivering uncontrollably and her teeth were chattering. “We were just in a helicopter that was shot out of the sky and the most troubling part of that for you was the temperature of the water?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, Kenna,” said Clark as he looked toward the Renaissance Center. “I think those shots came from the Marriott.”

“You’re probably right,” replied Martineau as she too looked toward the RenCen.

Clark walked over to Stryker, placed his hand on the pilot’s shoulder and said, “That was some amazing flying. You saved our lives.”

“Whoever shot us was using some heavy firepower, sir, ” said Stryker. “It takes a lot to bring down a helicopter of that size. It scares me to think that there are people out in the city with weapons that have that capability.” He looked at the Marriott and said, “And you’re right, sir, the shots had to have come from the Marriott.”

Chapter 51

Thomas stepped back to the couch and said to Daniel, “A helicopter just crashed into the Detroit River. Witnesses are telling reporters that it looked like it had been shot down.”

Daniel was busy tending to Ixchel and Thomas’s words barely registered in his mind. “Here, let’s sit her up,” Daniel said. Together Daniel and Thomas gently lifted Ixchel so she was sitting upright on the couch. Daniel and Thomas had both taken a knee and were now facing Ixchel. Daniel kept brushing Ixchel’s hair out of her eyes.

“Daniel, what happened?” cried Ixchel. “What happened?”

“Don’t you remember? You saw President Bonsam and heard the shots, and you screamed. I think you fainted after that.”

The sound of Daniel’s voice started to fade as Ixchel once again felt her world slip into slow motion. Her vision focused like a laser on the television but everything else in the room was a blur. Her mind became flooded with the images of the symbols on the Maya tablet.