Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [138]
“Not me, him!” Jack told them, trying to point toward the jacket with the red stain.
A ripple went through the crowd, caused by the commotion in their midst. Several Secret Service agents assigned directly to the President sensed something wrong and started toward the podium, first at a fast walk and then at a trot.
Just ten yards from the podium, the man with the red-stained jacket realized this was as far as he’d get. He stopped and shouted, “Allah Akbar!” as he ripped open his jacket, spinning around to show the crowd a vest full of C4 with an LED timer attached—
—the timer ticking down from ten seconds.
Jack stared. It wasn’t Hassan Haddad at all. It was a twentysomething-year-old kid.
“Allah Akbar!” the man cried again, his face turned toward the heavens, as the entire place descended into pandemonium.
Jack struggled with the men who had grabbed him, their grip loosening as they began to see that he wasn’t the problem. Wrenching free, Jack jumped toward the Arab as the President was rushed from the venue and guests screamed in terror as they scrambled for the exit.
Jack was fighting against a human tide as he watched the timer tick down—
—eight, seven, six, five, four—
A shot cracked, tearing a bloody hole in the side of the bomber’s head. Brain splattered on the guests as the force of the impact spun him around.
—three, two, one—
The kid dropped to the floor, lost in the panicked mob, and Jack knew it was too late, knew that nothing could be done to stop it as—
—nothing happened.
39
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
Jack felt his heart thumping in his ears, as the crowd continued to rush for the doors, most of them unaware of what had just transpired. Jack himself wasn’t quite sure as he joined Forsyth and his men and a handful of Secret Service agents as they pushed through the thinning crowd to the bomber.
Sirens blew in the distance and Jack knew that half the city’s law enforcement and emergency services were already speeding in their direction.
One of the agents shouted, “Stay back! This thing could still blow.”
The agent crouched over the dead man. He ran his fingers over the C4-laden vest with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Then an odd, almost comically quizzical look crossed his face.
“What the hell?” he said, then looked up at the others. “This thing is a fake. It’s a goddamn fake.”
Forsyth pushed toward him, Jack right behind him.
“What are you talking about?” Forsyth asked.
“These detonators aren’t even wired. This thing was never meant to go off.”
“Are you sure?” Jack asked.
“Positive,” he said.
They all looked at one another, trying to comprehend this new information, when suddenly, without warning, the LED counter beeped loudly and the words PRAISE ALLAH scrolled across it in bright red letters.
They all fell back, waited for something, then looked at one another in complete surprise.
“What is this, Hatfield?” Forsyth demanded. “Some kind of sick goddamn joke?”
“What are you talking about? This isn’t me. I didn’t have anything to do with it!”
Jack was still trying to process the moment because it made absolutely no sense. No sense at all.
“You were the one screaming about a bomb, and now we’ve got a dead man wearing a goddamn joke. The way I see it, this is all on you.”
Jack’s head was spinning. The emergency sirens were drawing closer, their shrill whine swirling through his brain like an invading army.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Jack said. “Do you think I’d set a man up to be killed to make a joke?”
Forsyth didn’t answer. His boss was on the radio and the agent was trying to talk to him as the Secret Service moved in to take charge of the dead man.
Jack backed away slowly, sinking in confusion. Why would Soren and Zuabi and Swain and Hassan Haddad go to all this trouble, all this planning, just to have it end like this? Jack thought about everything he’d been through, the threats, the torture, the deaths—Copeland in that Dumpster,