“My God,” she whispers.
The gate reverses itself, and she sits back in the seat in relief.
Okay. Another minute or two and she’ll be safe at home, and—
“What?” She leans forward, looking ahead, and she can’t believe what she sees.
This is a private, gated community, with only residents or invited guests allowed inside, and holy God, there’s another knot of news media in front of her condo.
Her home!
Her cabdriver sees the smaller crowd and turns to her. “No worries, missy. I’ll take care of you. Stay with me, all right?”
Before Tammy can answer, he stops the cab, jumps out, reaches for her carry-on bag, and sprints around to her door. She releases the seat belt and Jamal opens her door, and turning, with her bag held up to his chest like a battering ram, he pushes his way through the mess of reporters. She follows right behind him, like a ship following an icebreaker, opening the way, and she ignores all the shouts.
Then she’s in the foyer of her condo, breathing hard, front door closed, ignoring the ringing bell and the pounding on the door. Jamal smiles. She’s not sure of the fare and just hands him a wad of bills, and he nods, scribbles a receipt on the back of a business card, and then, shyly, asks her, “Excuse me, have I seen you before?”
Tammy says, “No.”
When he leaves she turns and starts up the carpeted stairs. Her unit is on the second floor, and after going up three steps, she’s had it. She lets go of her carry-on bag and it tumbles to the tile floor. To hell with it. It’s too heavy and she’ll get it later. She needs a bath, a glass of wine, some ibuprofen, and as she unlocks the front door and walks in, something else is seriously wrong.
Smoke.
Is something burning?
Is her condo on fire?
Tammy goes through the entryway, now realizes she’s smelling burnt tobacco, and someone is here, someone has broken in, and this person is smoking!
In her home!
She walks into her living room, and something heavy seems to hammer against her back.
An older woman is sitting in one of her comfortable chairs, a lit cigarette in one hand, her fingernails painted bright red, wearing a short black skirt, an ivory blouse, and a black jacket with pearls around her neck. Her face is perfectly made up and she has a prominent nose, with short bright-red hair.
“Well?”
Tammy stands still, breathing hard. This woman is Amanda Price, one of the partners in her lobbying firm, and her boss.
“How … how did you get in?”
Amanda smiles with her sharp white teeth. “Don’t ever underestimate my negotiating skills, Tammy. Your property manager … he’s an easy mark.”
Tammy tries to think of what to say, and Amanda taps the ash from her cigarette into one of her prized teacups, part of a set that once belonged to a distant aunt when she had been on the embassy staff in Beijing in the early 1980s.
“So you’re screwing the President,” Amanda says. “Care to tell me what that’s all about?”
CHAPTER 22
SNEAKING THROUGH A forest once more in her life, Marsha Gray moves quietly and efficiently through the woods—which are part of this prestigious and oh-so-precious horse farm in Virginia—a rucksack over her back, dispatched by Parker Hoyt, heading to where she’s sure the Secret Service unit looking for the First Lady has been going.
She had spotted a black Chevrolet Suburban going out of a parking area and into the woods, and she had trotted along past the trees and low brush, hearing the growl of the engine, wondering why in hell it was always Suburbans, Suburbans, and more Suburbans.
Didn’t Ford have any vehicles usable for the Secret Service? Now she sees the parked Suburban by the river and moves along, keeping herself concealed, noting there are only four of them out here.
Four agents?
Looking for the missing First Lady?
Marsha had seen the news that morning about the President and the lobbyist he had been banging. Maybe POTUS really dislikes FLOTUS.
Why else would there be such a weak response?
Two women agents stop by the fast-moving river. One wades in, and the other stands back.
No boots, no real outdoor gear. Like they were sent here in a hurry, no prep, no planning.
What’s going on?
She takes the rucksack off her shoulder, gets to work, unzipping it and quickly assembling the experimental Remington sniper rifle she has used so well over the years in dark and dirty places overseas. She thinks it will be nice to use her weapon at least once in a land that has running water and flushing toilets, the true and only sign of civilization. Once the sling is in its place along with the telescopic sight, she finds a good hiding area within some low brush and takes a look.
No, not the time to shoot, a scolding voice inside of her speaks. Just information gathering.
And what is she gathering?
All she knows is that the First Lady has gone missing somewhere on these horse grounds, and something has brought these agents to the river.
But what?
The agent in the water seems to be senior, and she’s wearing a black wool coat and a thick red scarf around her neck. She’s got a mop of frizzy brown hair and one determined look, and she picks up something … white?
Yeah, white.
Movement on the other side of the riverbank. Two other agents, a young man—barely a man—and an African-American woman. They stop as they observe the movement in front of them.
Marsha moves her scope over to the near riverbank, checking out the other agent, another woman, this one skinny and blond. This agent is focused on her boss in the water, oblivious to anything else that’s going on. Poor situational awareness. If she had the intent and the orders, with four quick squeezes of the trigger, and three quick movements of the rifle’s bolt action, she could cut down these four agents in less than a minute.
Marsha takes a deep breath.
Boy, wouldn’t that be fun.
The agent in the water climbs out, the young blond agent helping her, and it looks like the older agent has retrieved a soggy piece of paper.
Marsha shifts the scope, but she’s too far away and the scope isn’t powerful enough to make out what was found.
The two agents huddle together and examine the paper. The older woman’s red scarf falls to the ground and she tosses it back over her shoulder.
Damn poor clothing choice, Marsha thinks. If that agent had to run or chase down someone, or toss a protectee in the back of a moving Suburban, that scarf would get in the way.
Marsha checks out the two agents on the other side of the river. They’re looking, examining, and the young man halts.
My word, such an easy job, to take all four of them out.
So easy.
She checks the near two agents again, thinks of the dark secret that all good snipers contain, deep inside that special part of someone’s soul that’s rarely examined and never talked about in polite company.
And that dark secret is …
It’s so much fun.
Because consider it, she thinks again, eyeing the two agents on the other side of the fast-moving water, where else in the world could you have the power of life and death not in your hand, but in your finger?
That’s all!
One slow motion of her finger and that young male agent, now wading into the water, would be dead. All of his dreams, hopes, aspirations, and plans for the next half-century or so snuffed out.
By her.
By Marsha Gray, poor daughter of an even poorer Basque sheepherder in Wyoming and his silent, dutiful wife, both dead and forgotten, and now their poor, overlooked child is out here, with the power to kill someone with just the tiniest tug of her finger.
Somewhere inside of her are the jumbled memories of her past missions in Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Nigeria, and other places … and she knows that publicly and in books and documentaries, her fellow snipers have talked about feeli
ngs, emotions, of just getting the job done despite the guilt … which is pretty much crap, Marsha thinks.
Now the young man is knee-deep in the water, shouting and holding something up.
The truth is, for her at least, that she loves it. Loves the viewing, the hunting, the anticipation, and most of all, the killing.
She loves it more than life itself.
Marsha shifts the sniper scope once more to the young man. He’s holding up … what?
A piece of jewelry.
That’s it.
A gold necklace with some sort of brooch dangling from one end.
Belonging to the First Lady?
Perhaps.
Marsha settles in, sighs.
Times like these, she wishes she had spent just a bit more time learning something other than the best way to kill someone.
Like lip reading, so she’d know why these four Secret Service agents are so excited.
CHAPTER 23
TAMMY DOYLE DROPS her purse on the near couch. “You’re smoking.”
“Very observant,” her boss says, gently tapping another length of ash into her aunt’s priceless teacup.
“You shouldn’t be smoking in here, Amanda.”
Amanda Price shrugs. “I didn’t see a sign. I needed a smoke. There you go.” She leans forward and says, “You’ve got a hell of a bruise on your cheek. What happened?”
A wave of exhaustion and the need to bawl comes over her, and Tammy struggles to push it back. Besides still being freaked out over what just happened, she’s sweaty, her clothes are a mess, and she just wants to be left alone.
“Car accident,” she says. “My taxi … a pickup truck hit the trunk … could have killed us if it was just a few feet in the other direction.”
Amanda shakes her head. “Interstate Sixty-six … what a horror show that can be. Are you okay?”
“Just … shook up.” She touches the tender side of her face. “Why are you here, Amanda?”
Amanda takes a deep drag from her cigarette. “How long has it been going on?”
“Put the cigarette out.”
“Tammy, you—”
“The cigarette goes out or I keep my mouth shut.” The side of her face is really throbbing and she wants to take a couple of painkillers now, but Tammy’s not in the mood for showing any weakness in front of Amanda.
A few seconds pass as her tougher-than-titanium boss locks eyes with her, and Tammy stares right back. Then Amanda widens her sharp smile, stubs out the cigarette in the teacup, and puts the cup down on a coffee table. “Sharp lady,” she says. “I’ve always liked your style.”
“You want to talk style, or you want to tell me why you’re here?”
Amanda says, “You and the President. Tell me what’s going on.”
“None of your business,” Tammy says.
“None of my business? Ha.” Amanda crosses and recrosses her long legs. “Tammy, m’dear, anything and everything you do, on the clock and off the clock, reflects on Pearson, Pearson, and Price. Clear? If you were pulled over for drunk driving, well, that’s a manageable problem. But you’ve been caught banging the leader of the free world. We need to talk, or you’re going to be unemployed and no lobbying firm in the Western world will hire you. Unless we have … a satisfactory conversation.”
Tammy waits and the hard look from her boss returns, and Tammy knows she won’t win this staring contest.
“We’ve been together about eight months, since a fund-raiser in Denver,” she says, feeling like she’s surrendering to the older woman. Her boss nods in satisfaction, knowing she’s won this one.
“You in love with him?”
Something thuds in her chest. “God, yes.”
“Is he in love with you?”
“Yes.”
“He make promises?”
“I—”
“Tammy, what the hell did the President say to you?”
“He …” Damn it, tears are starting to pool in her tired eyes. “Yes, he promised me that after the election, after the inauguration, he would separate from his wife, and that … eventually … he’d introduce me to the American people … and bring me publicly into his life. That we would get married during his second term.”
Amanda chuckles, a dry, scary sound. “Leaving the First Lady and marrying you later? That damn ship has sailed and is now circling the Cape of Good Hope, on its way to the Pacific. Nope, those plans have been blown out of the water.”
More silence, except Tammy can now make out the low buzz of the news media talking among themselves, out on the street. Amanda says, “Expect rough times ahead. He’ll probably dump you publicly, to save his bacon.”
She says the words without thinking. “No, he won’t.”
Amanda looks like she is going to laugh again, but doesn’t. “Perhaps … I could be wrong. It’s been known to happen.”
Tammy says, “I’ve answered your questions. Now it’s my turn. Do I still have a job?”
Amanda’s inked-in eyebrows rise. “Of course. You’re one of our best, Tammy, and your notoriety is going to get our phones ringing with new business. But please don’t do anything more to embarrass the firm. Got that? The work you’ve done with Gideon Aerospace and Romulus Oil has fast-tracked you to a partnership. Even if you’re a Harvard girl and a Red Sox fan, which I’ve never held against you.”
Tammy manages a smile. “There are three pastimes in Boston: sports, politics, and revenge.”
Amanda gets up. “A good trio to learn. All right. Be at the firm at your usual hour tomorrow. Stroll in like you don’t have a care in the world. And for God’s sake, don’t even think of talking to the press. Or your neighbors. Or anyone else, for that matter. You could talk to your best friend tonight, under a cloak of secrecy and Häagen-Dazs chocolate ice cream … and she’ll turn around and sell your story to the National Enquirer in a heartbeat. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do,” she says, glad to think that her boss is leaving her home.
“Good,” Amanda says, walking to the door. “Now I need to start working our potential client list, including that rube from Oklahoma, Lucian Crockett.”
Tammy waits a second and calls out to her, “Just so you know, I’m getting a cleaning company in here as soon as I can, and I’m going to bill it to the firm.”
That brings an amused nod of the head from Amanda. “You do that. And just so you know … and this isn’t for distribution either—the First Lady appears to be missing. At least that’s the rumor I’ve heard.”
Tammy can’t smell the old tobacco smoke anymore. “Missing?”
“Yes, as in she’s disappeared. Not for public information, but I hear that she was so pissed at the President that she ducked out from her Secret Service detail and is on the lam.” Another dry chuckle from her boss. “If I was her, I’d be on a one-way trip to Reno, to get divorced and laid by some twenty-year-old stud, just … because.”
She leaves and the door shuts behind her, and Tammy rubs her tired face.
Holy God.
What now?
Tammy lowers her hands, picks up her purse, takes out her iPhone.
Usually it’s her favorite object, enabling her to communicate with anyone on the planet, but now … it looks and feels like an unexploded hand grenade.
She almost puts it back in her purse … but she has to know something.
Tammy turns on her phone, slides through a couple of screens, and—
Holy shit.
One hundred and twelve missed calls.
A hundred and twelve!
She skims through them, seeing familiar networks and the names of familiar reporters, skim skim skim, and no, there’s no familiar number, not the one she’s looking for.
Tammy jumps when her phone starts ringing.
The caller ID function on her phone says 202-456-1414.
The White House main switchboard.
She gingerly answers it. “Hello?”
“Miss Doyle? This is the White H
ouse. Please hold for the President.”
CHAPTER 24
AFTER BRIAN ZAHN finds the First Lady’s untriggered panic button, I make a phone call to Parker Hoyt. He starts arguing with me, until I say, “Mr. Hoyt? This particular pile of shit is mine until the President takes it away. I’m not asking permission. I’m just telling you what I’m doing. Have a nice afternoon.”
I then make one more phone call, to an old friend who’s now working for the enemy. Luckily I have his private number, and when I tell him what I need, I still have to repeat myself three times before he reluctantly agrees.
“All right, Sally, you’ve got it,” he says, “but if I have to, I’ll throw you under the bus so fast that only your pistol and shoes will be recognizable.”
“Randy,” I say, speaking to a very handsome and very capable ex–Secret Service agent whom I briefly dated prior to marrying my soon-to-be ex-husband, and with whom I spent many a lonely hour standing watch in hotel basements or empty rooms. “Trust me, that will be one very fair and happy exchange.”
After I hang up, we’re all together, sopping wet from just above our knees to our soggy shoes. I’ve taken the wet piece of stationery and slid it into a plastic envelope for later examination by our forensics section, just to make sure it’s CANARY’s handwriting. In another plastic envelope is the panic button pretending to be a piece of jewelry. I walk around in a big circle with my arms folded before me and see the three agents are staring at me. I shrug. “Now we wait.”
“How long?” Brian asks.
“As long as we have to,” I say, and then I check the setting on the Motorola XTS 5000 radio attached to my belt—along with a set of handcuffs, pepper spray, my SIG Sauer P229 pistol, and ASP expandable baton—and then I toggle the microphone at my wrist and say, “Scotty, Sally calling.”
This is an encrypted channel, and I don’t like fooling around with code names that can be forgotten under pressure. “This is Scotty, go.”
I say, “We’re going to have visitors coming shortly. Send them along.”
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