The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,27

the engine, wondering why in hell it was always Suburbans, Suburbans, and more Suburbans.

Didn’t Ford have any vehicles usable for the Secret Service? Now she sees the parked Suburban by the river and moves along, keeping herself concealed, noting there are only four of them out here.

Four agents?

Looking for the missing First Lady?

Marsha had seen the news that morning about the President and the lobbyist he had been banging. Maybe POTUS really dislikes FLOTUS.

Why else would there be such a weak response?

Two women agents stop by the fast-moving river. One wades in, and the other stands back.

No boots, no real outdoor gear. Like they were sent here in a hurry, no prep, no planning.

What’s going on?

She takes the rucksack off her shoulder, gets to work, unzipping it and quickly assembling the experimental Remington sniper rifle she has used so well over the years in dark and dirty places overseas. She thinks it will be nice to use her weapon at least once in a land that has running water and flushing toilets, the true and only sign of civilization. Once the sling is in its place along with the telescopic sight, she finds a good hiding area within some low brush and takes a look.

No, not the time to shoot, a scolding voice inside of her speaks. Just information gathering.

And what is she gathering?

All she knows is that the First Lady has gone missing somewhere on these horse grounds, and something has brought these agents to the river.

But what?

The agent in the water seems to be senior, and she’s wearing a black wool coat and a thick red scarf around her neck. She’s got a mop of frizzy brown hair and one determined look, and she picks up something … white?

Yeah, white.

Movement on the other side of the riverbank. Two other agents, a young man—barely a man—and an African-American woman. They stop as they observe the movement in front of them.

Marsha moves her scope over to the near riverbank, checking out the other agent, another woman, this one skinny and blond. This agent is focused on her boss in the water, oblivious to anything else that’s going on. Poor situational awareness. If she had the intent and the orders, with four quick squeezes of the trigger, and three quick movements of the rifle’s bolt action, she could cut down these four agents in less than a minute.

Marsha takes a deep breath.

Boy, wouldn’t that be fun.

The agent in the water climbs out, the young blond agent helping her, and it looks like the older agent has retrieved a soggy piece of paper.

Marsha shifts the scope, but she’s too far away and the scope isn’t powerful enough to make out what was found.

The two agents huddle together and examine the paper. The older woman’s red scarf falls to the ground and she tosses it back over her shoulder.

Damn poor clothing choice, Marsha thinks. If that agent had to run or chase down someone, or toss a protectee in the back of a moving Suburban, that scarf would get in the way.

Marsha checks out the two agents on the other side of the river. They’re looking, examining, and the young man halts.

My word, such an easy job, to take all four of them out.

So easy.

She checks the near two agents again, thinks of the dark secret that all good snipers contain, deep inside that special part of someone’s soul that’s rarely examined and never talked about in polite company.

And that dark secret is …

It’s so much fun.

Because consider it, she thinks again, eyeing the two agents on the other side of the fast-moving water, where else in the world could you have the power of life and death not in your hand, but in your finger?

That’s all!

One slow motion of her finger and that young male agent, now wading into the water, would be dead. All of his dreams, hopes, aspirations, and plans for the next half-century or so snuffed out.

By her.

By Marsha Gray, poor daughter of an even poorer Basque sheepherder in Wyoming and his silent, dutiful wife, both dead and forgotten, and now their poor, overlooked child is out here, with the power to kill someone with just the tiniest tug of her finger.

Somewhere inside of her are the jumbled memories of her past missions in Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Nigeria, and other places … and she knows that publicly and in books and documentaries, her fellow snipers have talked about feelings, emotions, of just getting the job done despite the guilt