Michelle Maxwell has just wrecked her promising career at the Secret Service. Against her instincts, she let a presidential candidate out of her sight for the briefest moment and the man whose safety was her responsibility vanished into thin air. Sean King knows how the she feels. Eight years earlier, the hard-charging Secret Service agent allowed his attention to be diverted for a split second. And the candidate he was protecting was gunned down before his eyes. Now Michelle and Sean are about to see their destinies converge. Drawn into a maze of lies, secrets, and deadly coincidences, the two discredited agents uncover a shocking truth: that the separate acts of violence that shattered their lives were really a long time in the making-and are a long way from over...
Split Second
By David BaldacciTime Warner AudioBooks
Copyright © 2003 David Baldacci
All right reserved.ISBN: 9781586215811Chapter One
EIGHT YEARS LATERThe motorcade streamed into the tree-shaded parking lot, where itdisgorged numerous people who looked hot, tired and genuinelyunhappy. The miniature army marched toward the ugly white brickbuilding. The structure had been many things in its time andcurrently housed a decrepit funeral home that was thriving solelybecause there was no other such facility within thirty miles and thedead, of course, had to go somewhere. Appropriately somber gentlemenin black suits stood next to hearses of the same color. A fewbereaved trickled out the door, sobbing quietly into handkerchiefs.An old man in a tattered suit that was too large for him and wearinga battered, oily Stetson sat on a bench outside the front entrance,whittling. It was just that sort of a place, rural to the hilt,stock car racing and bluegrass ballads forever.
The old fellow looked up curiously as the procession passed by witha tall, distinguished-looking man ceremoniously in the middle. Theelderly gent just shook his head and grinned at this spectacle,showing the few tobacco-stained teeth he had left. Then he took anip of refreshment from a flask pulled from his pocket and returnedto his artful wood carving.
The woman, in her early thirties and dressed in a black pantsuit,was in step behind the tall man. In the past her heavy pistol in thebelt holster had scraped uncomfortably against her side, causing ascab. As a solution she'd sewn an extra layer of cloth into herblouses at that spot and learned to live with any lingeringirritation. She'd overheard some of her men joke that all femaleagents should wear double shoulder holsters because it gave them abuxom look without expensive breast enhancement. Yes, testosteronewas alive and well in her world.
Secret Service agent Michelle Maxwell was on the extreme fast track.She was not yet at the White House detail, guarding the president ofthe United States, but she was close. Barely nine years in theService, and she was already a protection detail leader. Most agentsspent a decade in the field doing investigative work before evengraduating to protection detail as shift agents, yet MichelleMaxwell was used to getting to places before other folks.
This was her big preview before almost certain reassignment to theWhite House, and she was worried. This was an unscheduled stop, andthat meant no advance team and limited backup. Yet because it was alast-minute change in plan, the plus side was no one could know theywere going to be there.
They reached the entrance, and Michelle put a firm hand on the tallman's arm and told him to wait while they scoped things out. Theplace was quiet, smelled of death and despair in quiet pockets ofmisery centered on coffins in each of the viewing rooms. She postedagents at various key points along the man's path: "giving feet" asit was called in Service parlance. Properly done, the simple act ofhaving a professional with a gun and communication capabilitystanding in a doorway could work wonders.
She spoke into her walkie-talkie, and the tall man, John Bruno, wasbrought in. She led him down the hallway as gazes from the viewingrooms wandered to them. A politician and his entourage on thecampaign trail were like a herd of elephants: they could travelnowhere lightly. They stomped the earth until it hurt with theweight of the guards, chiefs of staff, spokespersons, speechwriters,publicity folks, gofers and others. It was a spectacle that if itdidn't make you laugh would at least cause you considerable worryabout the future of the country.
John Bruno was running for the office of president of the UnitedStates, and he had absolutely no chance of winning. Looking faryounger than his fifty-six years, he was an independent candidatewho'd used the support of a small but strident percentage of theelectorate fed up with just about everything mainstream to qualifyfor each state's national ballot. Thus, he'd been given SecretService protection, though not at the staffing level of a bona fidecontender. It was Michelle Maxwell's job to keep him alive until theelection. She was counting the days.
Bruno was a former iron-balls prosecutor, and he'd made a greatnumber of enemies, only some of whom were currently behind bars. Hispolitical planks were fairly simple. He'd tell you he wantedgovernment off the backs of the people and free enterprise to rule.As for the poor and weak, those not up to the task of unfetteredcompetition, well, in all other species the weak died and the strongprevailed, and why should it be any different for us? Largelybecause of that position, the man had no chance of winning. AlthoughAmerica loved its tough guys, they weren't ready to vote for leaderswho exhibited no compassion for the downtrodden and miserable, foron any given day they might constitute a majority.
The trouble started when Bruno entered the room trailed by his chiefof staff, two aides, Michelle and three of her men. The widowsitting in front of her husband's coffin looked up sharply. Michellecouldn't see her expression through the veil the woman was wearingbut assumed her look was one of surprise at seeing this herd ofinterlopers invading hallowed ground. The old woman got up andretreated to a corner, visibly shaking.
The candidate whirled on Michelle. "He was a dear friend of mine,"Bruno snapped, "and I am not going to parade in with an army. Getout," he added tersely.
"I'll stay," she fired back. "Just me." He shook his head. They'dhad many such standoffs. He knew that his candidacy was a hopelesslong shot, and that just made him try even harder. The pace had beenbrutal, the protection logistics a nightmare.
"No, this is private!" he growled. Bruno looked over at thequivering woman in the corner. "My God, you're scaring her to death.This is repugnant."
Michelle went back one more time to the well. He refused yet again,leading them all out of the room, berating them as he did. What thehell could happen to him in a funeral home? Was the eighty-year-oldwidow going to jump him? Was the dead man going to come back tolife? Michelle sensed that her protectee was really upset becauseshe was costing him valuable campaign time. Yet it wasn't her ideato come here. However, Bruno was in no mood to hear that.
No chance to win, and the man acted like he was king of the hill. Ofcourse, on election day the voters, including Michelle, would kickhis butt right out the door.
As a compromise Michelle asked for two minutes to sweep the room.This was granted, and her men moved quickly to do so while shesilently fumed, telling herself that she had to save her ammo forthe really important battles.
Her men came out 120 seconds later and reported everything okay.Only one door in and out. No windows. Old lady and dead guy the onlyoccupants. It was cool. Not perfect, but okay. Michelle nodded ather candidate. Bruno could have his private face time, and then theycould get out of here.
Inside the viewing room, Bruno closed the door behind him and walkedover to the open coffin. There was another coffin against the farwall; it was also open, but empty. The deceased's coffin was restingon a raised platform with a white skirting that was surroundedwaist-high with an assortment of beautiful flowers. Bruno paid hisrespects to the body lying there, murmuring, "So long, Bill," as heturned to the widow, who'd returned to her chair. He knelt in frontof her, gently held one of her hands.
"I'm so sorry, Mildred, so very sorry. He was a good man." Thebereaved looked up at him from behind the veil, smiled and thenlooked down again. Bruno's expression changed and he looked around,though the only other occupant of the room was in no condition toeavesdrop. "Now, you mentioned something else you wanted to talkabout. In private."
"Yes," the widow said in a very low voice. "I'm afraid I don't havemuch time, Mildred. What is it?" In answer she placed a hand on hischeek, and then her fingers touched his neck. Bruno grimaced as hefelt the sharp prick against his skin, and then he slipped to thefloor unconscious.
Continues...
Excerpted from Split Secondby David Baldacci Copyright © 2003 by David Baldacci. Excerpted by permission.
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