The Serpent's Kiss

36

Mary Linzey stood frozen, watching as literally dozens of people with guns opened fire. Steve Shay nearly dropped the microphone, then seemed to catch on to the notion that he was standing on top of a major career-maker, got a grip and turned to Ed and said, “Focus on the guy they’re shooting.”

But Ed was already on the move, trying for a better angle. And he wasn’t the only one, Mary thought, watching as the other stations’ cameramen jockeyed for position. With a grimace she watched a cameraman from CNN sprint toward the battlefront. Cowboy, she thought.

Steve Shay raced after Ed, microphone to his mouth, keeping up a running commentary as Ed took in the carnage.

“…as a man ran across the street from the direction of the Scott Building, shooting broke out. The figure, presumably the man calling himself The Serpent, returned fire. But the entire area… Ed! Over here!”

Ed ducked down behind a parked car, aiming the camera to where dozens of cops and other people were firing at the lone man, who fired back…

Shay continued, “The Serpent is returning fire… oh God!”

A high-velocity round fired by one of the snipers struck Frank McMillan in the side of the head. The entire opposite side of his skull exploded outward in a spray of scarlet blood, white bone and gray brain matter.

“Ed, did you catch that? Oh God!”

Ed looked away for a moment, about ready to vomit. “We’ll never be able to use that,” he said. He looked a little green. “I had it on close-up.”

“Start practicing your Pulitzer acceptance speech, Ed. This is fucking fantastic!”

Ed stared at Shay. “We’re still hot, Shay.”

“Oh… sorry. We’ll edit it out.”

Silence abruptly dropped over the area. The only sound was the rotors of the helicopters beating the air.

Steve Shay turned so he was again in front of the camera. “This is Steve Shay, Channel 7 Action News Reporter in Detroit, Michigan. Just behind me you can see that the alleged terrorist calling himself The Serpent has been brought down in a hail of bullets by the Detroit Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Mary Linzey appeared at their side. Quietly she said, “You get all that, Ed?”

“Yeah. Every bit of it.”

“Let’s get the feed going. CNN’s…” She trailed off. “Something’s wrong.”

They ran toward the scene, just like all the other journalists in the area. Mary let Ed shoulder his way through the crowd that was gathering, leading the way.

Steve Shay stuck his microphone toward a man she recognized as Matt Gray, the SAC.

Shay said, “Is this The Serpent, Agent Gray?”

Gray stared blankly at him, his eyes dull, expression perplexed. “No comment.”

“Special Agent Gray,” shouted a reporter from FOX News. “Is this case over? How did you know—”

An FBI agent in blue coveralls had been kneeling next to the figure of Frank McMillan. “Oh Jesus! Oh no! Jesus Christ!” The agent looked up at Matt Gray. “It’s Frank McMillan! It’s McMillan!”

The reporters started shouting questions, but Gray’s face turned the color of moldy cheese. Suddenly he said, “We’re clearing the area! This is a crime scene! I want everybody here but essential Bureau personnel to clear the area. Samuelson, Tittaglio, Johannsen. Get them the hell out of here. Get everybody the hell out of here!”

The three FBI agents began coordinating the movement of everybody away from the body of Frank McMillan. Mary Linzey scanned the crowd, looking for someone, anyone, who might be able to give her a clue as to what had just happened. She looked for Roger Kandling, who had been so forthcoming about Derek Stillwater, but he was nowhere in sight. Then her gaze landed on another agent she had occasionally dealt with, Simona Toreanno. Toreanno, in a gray pantsuit, seemed to be wandering aimlessly away from the site of the shooting, her expression shocked.

Mary ran over and tapped her on the arm.

“Agent Toreanno. Simona.”

Toreanno turned. She was relatively young for an FBI agent, in her mid-thirties, with dark curly hair she wore to her shoulders, an oval face with large brown almond-shaped eyes, long black eyelashes and a dash of ruby lipstick on her full mouth. Her eyes were filled with tears.

“What?”

Mary held up her hands. “I don’t have a camera or tape recorder on me, Simona. I’m not taping. This is off the record. Who’s Frank McMillan?”

Simona blinked and shook her head. She seemed to take in the crowd with a little more focus, looking for somebody.

“Who’s Frank McMillan, Simona? Who was he?”

“FBI,” Simona whispered. “One of ours.”