Coyote spent a moment surveying Giovanni. The interloper was as different to him as two human beings could be, gender notwithstanding. The man was dressed to the nine and heavily armed; Coyote had a sense of every piece of hardware he was carrying, and the degrees to which it exceeded what one would find common. "Do I know you?" He asked
"I doubt you'd follow the media outlets that discuss me, but the name's Giovanni,” said the man in black. He knew the name.
"You attacked the Pentagon this morning."
"Correction, I took control of the Pentagon this morning. Only one was hurt, through sheer stupidity. The rest of us enjoyed some fine pizza." Giovanni radiated satisfaction, a smug sense of accomplishment earned from his morning activities.
"A bloodless coup, then.” Coyote was already looking past him to his intended route. The little witch had scorched a deep fissure into the North Lawn like a Glasgow smile on the capitol’s face. Its heat still rippled the air above it. Just on its far side lay the glowing atomic waste that used to be her familiar, and Sheena herself, looking oddly satisfied in her blue prison. He had an idea why; a good magician recognizes his competition’s acumen.
"Tastiest way to do it." The arms dealer clearly had a rosier view of his handiwork. Coyote let out a small sigh and revved the Victory, its engine sound like a dog’s growl.
"You’re thinking too small," he said and rocketed off before Giovanni could respond, ripping a grisly divot into the turf with his rear wheel.
Coyote hit the trench at good speed, aimed at a section where its singed lip snarled upwards and launched into the open air. The crater yawned beneath; it was deep and a lot wider than it looked on the approach. Two-thirds of the way across the bike’s front wheel bowed groundways and Coyote left the machine to be hauled into the earth. He covered the final degrees of the arc in a single leap from the saddle, landing in a roll a foot from the edge.
Snipers posed on the roof opened up the second he touched down. They zipped by so close that Coyote could tell what caliber they were by their sound. With muted slaps they lodged into the turf on either side of him as he rose erect and marched determinedly across the green. The marksmen reloaded and fired again as he trudged through the fountain; the rounds struck the water around him like raindrops, splintering its marble basin but leaving Coyote untouched. He stepped thoughtfully over the red tulips circling the perimeter, and as he paused to shake the water from his cowboy boots (Justins, brown with snake patterns) and blue jeans (True Religion, Relaxed Straight Cut) four more rounds fired past, striking the gray brick path that circumscribed the fountain. He felt his phone buzzing and he checked it.
BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE DC BOSS. WATCH YOURSELF, I'M COMING!
He thumbed his reply as more bullets impacted the scenery around him, each shot wider and more frustrated than the last, and closed his phone.
negative. i have things covered here. occupy the mall.
Coyote muscled through the hedges that served as the final barricade to the executive mansion and rounded the columns preceding its grand entrance and ascended the stairs and laid a hand on the knob of the double doors.
He twisted it, working at it like the a safe dial.
Two seconds later the tumblers fell into place and the huge titanium bars threaded through the reinforced gateway meant to hold the door in the face of artillery bombardment smoothly receded. Coyote swung open both doors and entered, arms spread wide to embrace his thunderous welcoming present.
Gunfire choked the normally stately atmosphere of the entrance hall, with its checkerboard floor tiles and its marble columns and crystal chandeliers. Coyote’s objective was the door directly across from where he now stood, over which hung the presidential seal—the portal to the Blue Room, the Oval Office. What stood between he and it were a dozen men in black suits and bullet proof vests and their artillery, trained as a single unit against him. Half fired over what looked like steel jersey barriers bolted to the floor or leered out from behind the pillars, while yet more flanked him out in the open and fired conventional handguns. Their collective firepower swarmed like hornets around Coyote, some passing so close that he could feel the heat from their friction on his skin. The fusillade demolished the White House entrance, shattering the reinforced glass and hammering swaths of smashed lead in long, sweeping arcs across the armored north wall like rivets pounded into iron. Their noise was not just deafening but blinding, obliterating every sense with its intensity.
All the while Coyote stood calmly in the maelstrom’s eye, unshot, untouched, ungrazed and wholly poised. As the security agents loosed half their total ammo on him he reached inside his jacket and produced from a holster his own sidearm. A Colt 1911 semiautomatic, with chrome nickel plating and a pearl grip. It was 100% stock—he’d made no modifications, and in fact bought it from a pawn shop in Kansas City, with money he had stolen from a pair of brothers he had killed in a town called Widow on the south end of the Oklahoma-Texas border. It was in every physical way unremarkable. But in Coyote’s hand, it was a magic wand.
He swept the gun clockwise, first shooting the unarmored Secret Service men at his left then dropping the five half-hidden by bulletproof barriers. He calmly reloaded in middle of the bulletstorm, its density now sharply reduced, then shot another four guards. It was effortless. He pointed at his target and fired, and that person died. No sighting, no breathing exercises, no preternatural sense of ballistics, no real skill on his part at all. He didn’t kill those people, the gun did. The ultimate hustle, a trick so good the universe bought it, and its prestige reshaped the laws of the gunfight into a point-and-click interface.
Coyote walked past the steel barricades and to the door in the center of the now silent entry hall, save for the sound of a dying man thrashing against the floor as he grabbed uselessly at his uncoupled right carotid artery. There was one last security agent unkilled, huddled in terror behind one of the pillars that announced the Blue Room and clutching his now empty submachine gun like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. Coyote passed the pillars, stopped and turned, and looked down at the thunderstruck agent, who reflexively triggered the empty gun at the Indian’s presence. He was just a kid, maybe 23, blue eyed. Coyote kicked him in the chest to knock him prone and planted his boot on his neck. The kid tried to organize his blubbering into coherent begging but Coyote shot him inches from his face before he could do so and everything that he had ever known or thought or loved drained into a red pool on the gray and white tile of the White House floor.
There was a metal firebox mounted on the wall with a wire reinforced glass window. Coyote unlocked it as he did the front door and took out the metal fire ax it held. He tested its weight with a few swings, and felt satisfied. He turned to the Blue Room door, unlocked it and kicked it in with a cracking thud.