Split Second

Michelle paced in the hallway, checking her watch and listening to the somber music wafting over the sound system. If you weren't sad, depressed or perhaps even suicidal before coming in here, you would be after five minutes of listening to this brain-numbing tripe, she concluded. She was livid that Bruno had closed the door, but she had let it go. You weren't supposed to let a protectee out of your sight, but the realities of life sometimes trumped the rule book. Still, she looked at one of her men and asked for the fifth time, "You're absolutely sure it's clean?" He nodded.

After waiting a bit more she went over to the door and knocked. "Mr. Bruno? We need to get going, sir." There was no answer, and Michelle let out an inaudible sigh. She knew that the other agents in her detail, all of them her senior in years with the Service, were watching her intently to see how she'd handle herself. Only seven percent of the approximately 2,400 field agents were women, with very few in positions of authority. Yes, it was not easy.

She knocked again. "Sir?" Another few moments passed, and Michelle felt her stomach muscles start to tighten. She tried the doorknob and looked up in disbelief. "It's locked."

Another agent stared at her, equally perplexed. "Well, he must have locked it, then."

"Mr. Bruno, are you all right?" She paused. "Sir, either acknowledge me or we are coming in."

"Just a minute!" That was Bruno's voice; it was unmistakable.

"Okay, sir, but we need to get going."

Two more minutes went by, and she shook her head and knocked on the door again. No response. "Sir, we're already late." She glanced at Bruno's chief of staff, Fred Dickers. "Fred, you care to try?"

Dickers and she had long ago reached a mutual understanding. Basically living together twenty hours a day, the detail leader and chief of staff had to get along, at least mostly, for things to work. They still didn't see eye-to-eye on everything, nor would they ever, but on this issue they were in agreement.

Dickers nodded and called out, "John, it's Fred. We really need to get going. We're way off schedule." He knocked on the door. "John? Do you hear me?"

Again Michelle's stomach muscles tightened. Something wasn't right here. She motioned Dickers away from the door and knocked again. "Mr. Bruno, why did you lock the door, sir?" No answer. A bead of sweat broke on Michelle's forehead. She hesitated for an instant, thinking rapidly, and then suddenly yelled though the door, "Sir, your wife is on the phone. There's been a serious accident involving one of your kids."

The response was chilling.

"Just a minute!"

She barked at the other agents with her, "Take it down. Take it down!"

They put their shoulders to the door, once and then twice, and then it gave way and they swarmed into the room.

A room that was empty except for a dead man.

3

A funeral procession had started off. There were only about a dozen cars in the column as it headed out along the tree-lined drive. Before the last car disappeared down the road, Michelle and her team had burst out the front door of the funeral home and spread out in all directions.

"Lock this whole area down," she shouted at the agents stationed by Bruno's motorcade. They raced to carry out her orders. She spoke into her walkie-talkie. "I need reinforcements. From where I don't care, just get them. Now! And get the FBI on the horn." Her gaze fixed on the rear end of the last car in the funeral procession. Heads would roll over this. Her head would roll. Right now, though, all she wanted was to get John Bruno back, preferably living.

She saw reporters and photographers pouring out of the media trucks. Despite the nice photo op it would have made and Fred Dickers's entreaties that he should allow it, Bruno had shown some backbone and refused their request to come inside the funeral home. They hadn't taken the news well. Now they were erupting with full journalistic force as they sensed a story of far greater magnitude than a candidate's visit to pay his last respects to an old friend.

Before they could get to her, Michelle grabbed the arm of a uniformed officer who had come running up, apparently awaiting instructions.

"Are you security here?" she asked.

He nodded, his eyes wide, his face pale; he looked like he might either faint or wet his trousers.

She pointed down the road. "Whose funeral procession is that?"

"Harvey Killebrew's; they're taking him to Memorial Gardens."

"I want you to stop it."

The man looked dumbly at her. "Stop it?"

"Somebody has been kidnapped. And that"-she pointed at the procession-"would be a great way to get him out of the area, don't you think?"

"Okay," he said slowly. "Yeah."

"Then I want you to search every vehicle, in particular the hearse. Got it?"

"The hearse? But, ma'am, Harvey's in there."