"Make me," Hidell said in a self-effacing tone.
"I didn't catch that," the agent said, leaning forward.
"I said, 'Make me.'"
The agent's face gathered around the edges of his Ray-Ban Aviators like a wet rag wrinkling up. He stepped into the greenhouse, his right wrist lifting to his mouth. He never got a chance to speak into the flesh-colored wrist mike.
Alek Hidell whipped the rifle from the concealing shelf and shot the agent square in the nose. The slug came out the back of the agent's head. He stumbled back and when he hit the tile, Hidell finished him off with a second shot to the throat.
When he stepped from the greenhouse roof, he was wearing the agent's blue windbreaker with SECRET SERVICE stenciled on the back in white block letters, sunglasses, and belt radio and earphone.
Hidell stood on the eastern coping of the roof and looked down at the starkly abstract black-and-white compound of the Kennedy Library poised on the brink of Columbia Point, where the Atlantic lapped gray and cold.
The press was already gathered. Microwave TV vans spilled miles of thick cable everywhere. Satellite dishes pointed to the winter sky. And, of course, Secret Service agents, unmistakable in their Ray-Bans, moved about with brisk authority.
Rifle at his feet, Alek Hidell waited patiently, the cold breeze off the Atlantic worrying his faded hair, listening to Secret Service communications.
"Point of entry secure."
"Roger."
"Access road is now clear of traffic."
"Roger."
"Library roof checks out."
"Countersniper?"
"Science roof okay," said Alek Hidell into his wrist mike.
"Okay. Stay sharp. Stagecoach is turning onto access road. Repeat, Stagecoach is turning onto access road."
"About time," Hidell muttered under his breath.
A minute later three black Lincoln Continental limousines came up the perimeter road to the entrance to the Kennedy Library. The waiting crowd grew still. A wintry wind seemed to pick up.
And Alek Hidell lay down on the edge of the roof and cradled his rifle in his arms. He put his right eye to the cheap Japanese scope, his finger on the trigger, and tracked the middle limo-the one flying the presidential flags-with cool confidence.
When the three limos eased to a stop before the entrance, his earphone crackled, "Get set. Big Mac is about to step out. Repeat, Big Mac is about to step out."
"Make it easy for me," Hidell muttered, putting the cross hairs of his scope on the dead area where the rear curbside door would open.
Then it opened.
"Big Mac stepping out now. Watch your zones."
A familiar helmet of thick steel-wool hair lifted into the cross hairs and Alek Hidell squeezed the trigger carefully.
The helmet of hair erupted in a pink-and-gray flower of exploding blood and brains.
"He's been shot! Alert Mass General!"
"Sniper on roof! Repeat, sniper on roof! Everybody get down! Get down now!"
Everybody got down on the plaza, fearing another shot.
But there was no second shot. Just the echoes of the single rifle shot reverberating between the great buildings of the University of Massachusetts, and the answering cries of disturbed scavenger sea gulls.
"For the love of God!" a shocked Secret Service voice said over the air. "It's Dallas all over again!"
"You can say that again," said Alek Hidell, leaving his rifle on the roof as he quickly and quietly reentered the Science Center.
On the roof a single shell casing lay smoking. And scratched into the shiny brass were two letters: RX.
Chapter 2
His name was Remo and he stifled a yawn as the agent at the Mavis Car Rental counter tried to assure him that yes, while the city of Furioso, Florida, is as safe as can be, prudent tourists took precautions before driving into the city.
"What kind of precautions?" Remo wondered, hoping to cut off the droning spiel.
"For one thing, we suggest that our customers do not dress in touristy garb when driving into the city."
Remo looked down at his clothes. He was wearing a black T-shirt and matching black pants. Italian loafers enclosed his sockless feet.
"This," he asked, "is touristy?"
"Actually you're fine in the garb department, sir."
"I always thought so," Remo said good-naturedly.
"We also suggest you store all luggage in the trunk of your rental vehicle. No stacks of conspicuous luggage piled in the rear seat where they might be spotted by urban predators."
"Is that what they call them down here?"
"That's what the City of Furioso safety brochure calls them," said the rental agent, pulling a pastel-colored pamphlet from a plastic holder and offering it to Remo.
"The salient points are inside," he added.
"So why are you running them down for me?" asked Remo.
"Company policy. A lot of adults can't read these days. Lawsuits, you know."
"Lawsuits I know about," said Remo, opening the brochure.
It was festooned with palm trees and pastel bikinis. The Sorcerer's Castle and other famous attractions belonging to the nearby theme park called Sam Beasley World were splashed around the twenty points of safety.