Killer Conspiracy
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Lena Diaz
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Chapter One
Gage Bishop knew that protecting the former president of the United States, especially this former president, wasnât likely to go according to plan. Two-termer Earl Manning preferred his own counsel to that of others, including his security detail. That was why he and his family were in a boisterous, drunken crowd of potentially dangerous Fourth of July revelers on a Sunday morning in the middle of downtown Gatlinburg, Tennessee. If something happened to Manning because of this foolishness, it wouldnât keep Bishop awake at night. But he did care if something happened to Manningâs family, even though heâd tried for years not to. Most days, Harper Manning didnât even enter his thoughts. But today, seeing her father, her stepmother, and two younger siblings again, after all this time, meant he couldnât stop thinking about her.
Itâs been six years. Sheâs not even here. Focus on your job.
The former president and his entourage entered a gift shop fifty yards away at Bishopâs nine oâclock. Adjusting his dark shades, he took the opportunity to scan the sidewalks and street from his slightly elevated vantage point on the other side of the road. Thatâs when he spotted him: a lone male with a laser-like fascination with the façade of the store Earl Manning and his family had just entered.
He spoke into the mic at his wrist. âZone three, suspicious white male near aquarium entrance heading north on River Road, blue shorts, white T-shirt, dark brown hair, thirty-five to forty years old.â
Bishop began weaving his way through the crowd, zigzagging to keep the subject in his line of sight.
A click sounded in his ear. âSuspicious male just passed me. Iâm on his six,â a voice announced.
âIâm on his eight oâclock, ten feet away,â another voice said through the earpiece.
Bishop spotted the two Secret Service agents whoâd spoken, angling in on their target like border collies herding sheep. He stopped and surveyed the crowd in their vicinity. About forty feet back, another man seemed far too interested in what was happening. He also stopped, his head swiveling as he eyed the agents. Reversing direction, he hurried away.
Manning and his family stepped out of the gift shop. Half a dozen agents were with them, including Randy Faulk and Jack Thompson, two men Bishop had worked with years ago when heâd been with the Secret Service. Backing them up were three of Bishopâs current coworkers, fellow Justice Seekers hired to augment the security for this high-profile event in their town.
Static sounded in his ear. âSuspicious male escorted away for questioning. Zone three secure.â
That didnât mean the former president was secure, not if the feeling of dread in Bishopâs gut was any indication. He reacquired a line of sight on the second suspicious male and started forward. The man wasnât close to Manning and wasnât moving toward him. But that didnât reassure Bishop, given the manâs earlier interest. Something was off.
Bishop increased his speed, jogging as he worked to catch up. His prey was now solidly in zone five, the farthest from the former president and the least protected since the security risk had been deemed the lowest.
âZone five,â he said into his mic. âWhoâs covering zone five?â
There should have been at least one Secret Service agent covering that zone, per the plan. But no one responded.
The subject hiked up an incline then disappeared between two shops perched on the hill.
âZone five! Repeat, suspicious white male.â
A click sounded. âDisturbance in the red zone, zone one. Converge. All available agents.â
Bishop had just started up the hill but stopped to look over his shoulder. Red zone meant the area directly around the former president. What appeared to be drunken brawls had broken out at two different locations on the street, both in close proximity to Manning. Agents were running toward the scene like ants at a picnic. Bishop ignored the call. He didnât feel compelled to blindly follow their protocol anymore. Instead heâd follow his instincts, instincts that told him those drunks werenât the true danger.
He turned back as the man he was after ducked into the doorway of a two-story building halfway up the street. Bishop took off running.
âZone five,â he repeated as he sprinted. âRequest assistance. White male, green Hawaiian shirt, blue jean shorts, sandy-blond hair, approximately fifty years old.â He gave the address of the building where the man had disappeared, two doors away. âNeed assistance.â
âOn my way,â one of his fellow Seekers answered. It sounded like Dalton, but they didnât use names in transmissions. âIâm in zone three. ETA one minute.â
No one else answered the call. Bishop had a sinking feeling that Daltonâs one minute was going to be about a half minute too late. He burst through the doorway into the shop. No customers, no one there to greet him, which had him even more concerned. A thump sounded overhead. He drew his pistol and sprinted for the stairs along the back wall.
âComing up the hill,â Dalton announced, his voice choppy as he ran.
The sound of glass breaking sent Bishop into overdrive. He topped the stairs, sweeping his pistol out in front of him. He checked one door, another, before heading into the last room.
The man in the Hawaiian shirt was on his knees in front of a high-powered rifle on a tripod, aiming it out the window heâd obviously just broken. Bishop shouted for him to stop and aimed his pistol at the guyâs torso. The man ignored him.
Bishop was about to squeeze the trigger when he saw movement in a window in the building cater-cornered across the street. A child, probably three or four years old. Too close. Too risky. He couldnât take the shot.
He barreled into the man with the rifle, knocking it skyward just as it fired. The man screamed as Bishopâs momentum carried both of them through the window into open air.
