An envelope. Sealed. With his name on it.
He glanced at his watch. 6:17 PM.
Where was Stephanie?
He heard the shrill of sirens from outside.
With the envelope in hand, he stepped to one of the room’s windows and glanced down fourteen stories. East 42nd Street was devoid of cars. Traffic had been cordoned off. He’d noticed the police outside when he’d arrived a few minutes ago.
Something was happening.
He knew the reputation of Cipriani across the street. He’d been inside before and recalled its marble columns, inlaid floors, and crystal chandeliers—a former bank, built in Italian Renaissance style, leased out for elite social gatherings. Just such an event seemed to be happening this evening, important enough to stop traffic, clear the sidewalks, and command the presence of half a dozen of New York City’s finest, who stood before the elegant entrance.
Two police cars approached from the west, lights flashing, followed by an oversized black Cadillac DTS. Another New York City police car trailed. Two pennants rose from either side of the Cadillac’s hood. One an American flag, the other the presidential standard.
Only one person rode in that car.
President Danny Daniels.
The motorcade wheeled to the curb before Cipriani. Doors opened. Three Secret Service agents sprang from the car, studied the surroundings, then signaled. Danny Daniels emerged, his tall, broad frame sheathed by a dark suit, white shirt, and powder-blue tie.
Malone heard whirring.
His gaze found the source.
The contraption had come to life.
Two retorts banged and the window on the other side of the room shattered, glass plunging downward to the sidewalk seventy-five feet below. Cool air rushed inside, as did the sounds of a pulsating city. Gears spun and the device telescoped through the now empty window frame.
He glanced down.
The window’s shattering had attracted the Secret Service’s attention. Heads were now angled up, toward the Grand Hyatt.
Everything happened in a matter of a few seconds.
Window gone. Device out. Then—
Rat-tat-tat.
Shots were fired at the president of the United States.
Agents smothered Daniels to the sidewalk.
Malone stuffed the envelope into his pocket and raced across the room, grabbing hold of the aluminum frame, trying to dislodge the device.
But it would not budge.
He searched for and spotted no power cords. The thing, apparently a remote-controlled, high-powered weapon, kept firing. He saw agents trying to maneuver their charge back to the car. He knew that once Daniels was inside, armor plating would provide protection.
The device spit out more rounds.
He dove out the window, balancing himself on the frame, and grabbed hold of the aluminum box. If he could yank it from side to side, or up and down, at least he could deflect its aim.
He managed to force the barrel left, but motors inside quickly compensated.
Below, with incoming fire momentarily deflected, agents stuffed Daniels back into the car, which wheeled away. Three men remained, along with the policemen who’d been waiting at Cipriani.
Guns were drawn.
His second mistake now became evident.
They started firing.
At him.