“You go in using these.” He handed each of them a ticket printed on fancy card stock. “Those will get you into the box seats. And these”—he gave each of them a laminated security badge—“will get you in without attracting much attention and let you move around the off-limits areas.”
“Have you had any luck tapping into their security network?” asked Morgan.
“It’s about to come online. As soon as it does . . . There.” He brought up a map of the stadium on the screen, and a few dozen red dots appeared, moving jerkily like a squadron of fleas. “Each of those is a member of the event security team. There’s a small delay, but I can pinpoint each man’s location within a few feet.”
“You’re the man, Lowry!” said Conley.
“I am, aren’t I?” He turned back to his computer and flicked through windows faster than Morgan could keep up.
“Uh-oh,” said Lowry.
“That’s not a good sound. What is it?” asked Morgan, alarmed. Lowry leaned back to let them see the screen. On it was a photograph of Morgan. He looked slightly younger in it, but it was no more than five years old. “What the hell is this?”
“I guess someone knows you’re coming,” said Lowry. “This is on the network. Says here it’s supposed to be distributed to all security personnel. They’re going to be on the lookout for you, Cobra.”
“Shit.”
“Maybe you should sit this one out,” said Conley.
“There’s no way in hell I’m hanging back,” said Morgan. “But we go in separately. That way, if I get caught, you still have a fighting chance.”
“If you’re sure . . .” said Conley.
“Yeah, I’m sure. Let’s do this.”
“All right, fellas,” said Lowry. “It’s showtime. Earpieces in!” Morgan popped the little device snugly into his ear.
“Just like old times, eh, Dan?” said Conley, looking at him.
Morgan looked at Conley and grinned. “Ready?”
“Let’s go.”
Natasha was outside the stadium again, walking toward the same service entrance she had used when she walked in with Poole earlier that day. This time, she was wearing a business-casual outfit that concealed a skintight black catsuit underneath. A strap over her shoulder supported a heavy black bag, and around her neck hung the event staff ID she had swiped, now with a picture of her. She flashed it to the security guard at the gate, who waved her in stiffly but did not ask to check her bag or frisk her.
Once inside, she took a left and walked briskly down the long corridor that earlier had been so busy with scrambling staff but now was empty. A right turn up ahead led to the locker room and the senator, but
Natasha’s destination was straight ahead and up. She pressed on, approaching the turn, when she heard echoing footsteps. She looked back, unsure of where they were coming from, and ran bodily into a man who had just rounded the corner. She raised her eyes and saw that she was face-to-face with Dennis Poole.
“Vera?” he exclaimed, befuddled. “What—”
Before he could say any more, she wrapped her hands around his head and snapped his neck. He stopped talking midsentence and collapsed like a hunk of meat on the floor of a butcher shop. His lifeless eyes stared up at her, frozen in an expression of utter astonishment.
She looked around and found a narrow broom closet a few yards ahead. She drew an automatic lock pick from her pack and in seconds opened the closet door. It was cramped, but it would do. She dragged Poole’s limp carcass across the dirty concrete floor. Dragging corpses was always heavy and cumbersome, and for all her training, her frame was still not cut out for it. With a great deal of effort, she managed to heave the corpse inside and shut the door, locking it again. It was a hasty hiding place, but the closet should keep its secret long enough. As she turned away, a small part of her felt a twinge of remorse. Perhaps it was whatever aspect of Vera that still existed in her. But in any case, it was short-lived. Her attention was soon drawn to the applause that had erupted from the stadium. The event was about to begin, and she needed to get into position.
CHAPTER 41
In a few minutes, the rally would start, and all the VIPs had apparently already been seated, judging from the absence of a line at the gate for the luxury boxes. Morgan knelt between two cars and waited for Conley to go in ahead of him. Two alert security guards were working the entrance, however, and Morgan decided there was no way he could make it past them with a gun. He unstrapped his ankle holster and tossed it under one of the nearby cars. Someone would be surprised to find it later that night, but by then it wouldn’t matter anymore.