The First Lady

by James Patterson

  “Hoyt,” he says.

  “Gray,” she whispers. “I’m on station. I’m near the house, and I see Grissom chatting it up with some old buck. What now?”

  Hoyt sounds like he’s in a good mood. “Everything’s all set. You’re just backup, all right? And backup only if I call you. You understand?”

  “That I do,” she says.

  It looks like the discussion over there is getting more heated. Marsha says, “What’s your backup going to be? A lightning bolt from the heavens?”

  Damn, Hoyt even laughs. “You could say that.”

  And he hangs up.

  In the distance, Marsha hears the familiar thump-thump of an approaching helicopter. She wiggles back and unzips her duffel bag further, taking out the same rifle she used overseas, which will be just as good here.

  The only difference is the type of ammunition she will be using, and when it comes right down to it, that won’t make any difference at all.

  CHAPTER 67

  THE OLD MAN doesn’t even blink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent Grissom.”

  “Mr. Fuller,” I say, “I’m not sure how or why the First Lady ended up here, or how she injured her finger, but I can tell you that she’s in danger, and we need to get her out of here as soon as possible.”

  He stays quiet, and I’m going to move past him but I’m still concerned about that shotgun. He’s older than me by thirty or so years, but he still looks to be in pretty good shape, and if he were to move fast and sure, he and that shotgun could easily cut me in half.

  Leaving my Amelia an orphan.

  I’m beginning to regret my decision to come up here alone. He stares at me with contempt. “What do you know about my daughter?”

  “I know a lot,” I say. “I know of her service at the side of Harrison Tucker in Ohio and here. Her charity efforts. Her devotion to—”

  “You know crap,” he says. “Grace … she was our only child. Maureen and I, we gave her what we could, but we made sure she fought and earned her own way. And she did. Grace had a head for numbers, for business, and she had the compassion and heart to take care of the forgotten ones. Grace could have joined my company as a young lady … be president of it now, running our hospitals and our medical device companies. But she tossed it all away to stand by that … slug.”

  “Mr. Fuller, I appreciate—”

  “My daughter! The First Lady, strong, pretty, a cancer survivor and fighter … and what does her idiot husband do? Does he remember his marriage vows? Does he fight to make their marriage work? Does he behave like an honorable man? No … not on your life. Not only does he toss her aside, he humiliates her. Publicly. And for what? Some younger tramp …” He shifts in his seat, wincing as if he’s in pain somewhere in his upper torso. “I … I even tried something to hurt that woman, I did. To make her feel some of the pain she and Harry had given to my daughter. To make it right. To make it all right.”

  I step closer, thinking if I get a bit nearer, I can tug that shotgun away from him and get into that house.

  “Mr. Fuller, please, is she here?”

  “Go away.”

  “Mr. Fuller, your daughter’s in terrible danger. We’ve got to get her out of here.”

  He makes to speak and there’s a creak as the door to the small farmhouse opens up.

  Mr. Fuller doesn’t turn, or take notice.

  But I take notice.

  Grace Fuller Tucker, First Lady of the United States, Secret Service code name CANARY, steps out onto the porch. She looks tired. She has on black stretch riding slacks and a gray, shapeless sweatshirt, and her left hand is heavily bandaged.

  “Agent Grissom,” she says, voice tired. “What kind of danger am I in?”

  CHAPTER 68

  PAUL MOODY LOVES flying, loves being in control, and especially loves hugging the terrain as he roars over the Virginia farmland, heading to the target farmhouse. To fly an aircraft or a helicopter several thousand feet above the ground takes little talent, about as much as driving a truck. But this … being alert, getting that adrenaline rush, sensitive to changes in the landscape and elevation, that takes skill.

  He follows his instrumentation, looks up through the windshield, and—

  Yep, there it is.

  One practice swoop and then he’ll be back, scorching the farmhouse and sending the ISIS terrorists inside to whatever hellish afterlife awaits them.

  He and his Kiowa sweep over the farmhouse and then he goes into a wide curve, turns on the switches arming the two Hellfire missiles, and, remembering his job, he toggles the microphone once more and says, “This is GSS Tango Four, on target, weapons hot.”

  The nice female says, “GSS Tango Four, acknowledged.”

  His thumb gently caresses the button on top of his cyclic handle that—once armed—will send the two appropriately named Hellfire missiles on their way.

  Not long now.

  CHAPTER 69

  PARKER HOYT STARES and stares at his special phone, waiting to hear back from Munson at Global Strategic Solutions, who quickly agreed to cooperate with his earlier request. In his mind’s eye he can see how this morning will unfold. First, that black ops helicopter from his past company will attack the farmhouse where, almost certainly, the First Lady is hiding out with her father.

  Boom.

  When that’s done, he’ll leak to the news the report of her missing finger and the ransom demand, conveniently leaving out the second part of the demand, a national weep-fest on television by the President, apologizing for his sins against his frigid wife.

  With that whipping up the news media to a froth, eventually some fire department is going to respond to that burning farmhouse and extinguish the blaze. At some point they will find two bodies in the rubble, along with evidence that a propane tank— used to heat the building—had unexpectedly exploded.

  Time for them to identify the bodies? Not too long, especially since one will be a female of a certain age, missing part of the pinky on her left hand.

  And with more leaks coming from a shocked White House, the narrative will be established: Grace Fuller Tucker, First Lady of the United States, had been kidnapped and held for ransom at this remote farmhouse, owned by her father, and her father had been kidnapped as well.

  For who would expect the FBI—in searching for the First Lady, a kidnap victim—to go to a property owned by her father?

  And after the payment was made, no doubt the kidnappers went to some place with public internet access to verify the transfer of funds, just as the house exploded.

  What a horrible, terrible thing to have happened to the President of the United States.

  And as for Munson and the helicopter pilot, well, of course they’ll keep their mouths shut. They were expecting to eliminate a terrorist cell. Mistakes were made. Happens all the time.

  There will be a funeral—the First Lady and her poor, dead father, interred together, either back home in Ohio, or if Parker Hoyt has his way, in Arlington National Cemetery. Parker is sure there are rules for who gets interred at Arlington, and he’s also confident he can find a way to either break the rules or get around them.

  And a couple of weeks after the funeral, the bighearted and gracious voters of the United States will send Harrison Tucker back to the White House for a second term.

  That’s what Parker Hoyt is imagining.

  That’s what Parker Hoyt is anticipating.

  If only the damn phone would ring.

  CHAPTER 70

  THE FIRST LADY looks exhausted and it’s apparent she’s in pain from her severed finger, but I have no doubt she’s still in control. She takes one more step onto the porch and says, “I know you. You’re Agent Grissom.”

  “Yes, thank you, ma’am,” I reply, “but we don’t have time for this. I need to get you out of here as soon as possible. You’re in terrible danger.”

  She looks over me and says, “Are you alone?”

  “I have an SUV waiting for us at the
bottom of the road.” I step one more time closer to the porch and say, “Ma’am, I really must insist. The chief of staff, he—”

  “The chief of staff is a pimp,” she says. “Did he send you here? Does he know where I am?”

  “Ma’am, my agents and I, we’re here by ourselves,” I say. “As far as I know, Mr. Hoyt doesn’t know you’re here. But he means to do you harm. He’s agreed to make the ransom payment, but he won’t allow the President to make a national statement on his … indiscretions. And if that means causing you harm, I don’t doubt he’ll do it.”

  She looks to her father and says, “Dad, I told you that was too much.”

  “Don’t care,” her father says. “I wanted to hurt the son of a bitch as much as he hurt you.”

  Enough is enough. I jump up on the porch, nearly stumble, and I grab the shotgun by the barrel and fling it onto the gravel behind me. Mr. Fuller is so surprised he just sits there, and I grab the First Lady by her good arm and say, “Ma’am, we’re leaving. I’m responsible for your safety, and I don’t know how he’s going to do it, but I know the chief of staff doesn’t want you around. He sees you as an embarrassment.”

  I manage to propel her down the wooden steps, and she tries to wriggle out of my grasp. “Dad! Come along! Please!”

  He shakes his head, stands up. “No politician or lackey is going to run me off my own property. You two get along. If somebody shows up, well, I won’t be defenseless. I intend to get my shotgun back.”

  “Please, ma’am,” I say, and I half-shove, half-drag her down the driveway. I swivel around, and true to his word, Mr. Fuller is easing his way down the porch steps to retrieve his shotgun.

  The First Lady doesn’t put up much resistance and I bring my left arm up to my mouth, toggle the radio. “Scotty, Scotty, this is Grissom. Can you hear me?”

  I push and drag. I repeat myself. “Scotty, Scotty, this is Grissom. I need you up here, with the Suburban. Now.”

  Still no answer.

  We move about six or eight meters when I hear the sound of an engine, and I think, good, Scotty’s heard me and he’s on his way.

  The First Lady says, “What’s that over there?”

  I look and see it’s a helicopter, a Kiowa by the looks of it, and it’s armed with a weapons pylon on each side.

  “Scotty, Scotty, this is Grissom! I need you now!”

  Still no answer.

  I look up at the approaching military-style helicopter and think, damn, too late.

  CHAPTER 71

  PAUL MOODY NOTES the closing distance to the target farmhouse when he spots something else: two figures racing down a dirt driveway.

  Damn.

  Members of the ISIS cell escaping?

  His priority is striking the house, but he wants to get a good view of these two figures so he can supply a description later, help the Feds or whatever law enforcement agency is in charge, so these two can be scooped up later and maybe be sent to the tropical prison paradise that’s Gitmo.

  There’s a small video screen in his instrument dashboard, and with the onboard surveillance equipment pod stored over the rotors, he instantly gets a good view of the two figures.

  Women, he thinks.

  How about that.

  It doesn’t make much difference, for he has had sharp experience with old women, young women, girls who weren’t even into their teens yet, and all of them were capable of firing off an RPG-7 or an AK-47, or coming at you, smiling and holding up a cold bottle of Coca-Cola while hiding a suicide bomb vest under their robes.

  But these women …

  They’re no longer running.

  They don’t look armed.

  They’re waving at him.

  Like they’re happy to see him!

  He slows his approach to the farmhouse, part of him thinking it’s a trap, that they want him to hover so that somebody in the woods can fire off a rocket-propelled grenade and take out his main rotor, but the woman on the left … she looks …

  Familiar?

  He toggles another switch.

  Zooms in the camera.

  The military-grade technology is about a year or so out of date, but it’s still good enough that he can make out the facial features of both women, and the one to the right, the taller of them, is waving frantically and—

  He recognizes the woman on the left.

  Recognizes her really well.

  Good God, what has he gotten himself into?

  CHAPTER 72

  MARSHA GRAY SEES the Kiowa swoop in over the house and knows from experience what the pilot is doing—just prepping a dry run so there’s no surprises when he circles back to turn that farmhouse into charcoal and cinders.

  Good ol’ Parker Hoyt sure is escalating things. She has no doubt the flying death machine up there is operating under his direction, and if it looks like he’s taking a Gatling gun to a knife fight, so be it.

  She feels some satisfaction that this job is coming to a conclusion, but she’s not pleased that she isn’t the one wrapping things up. In some jobs you’re the lead, and in others you’re backup, and if playing second fiddle was going to be her destiny today, well, she and her bank account will be all right with it.

  The helicopter is coming back, racing along, just above the treetops, and with her binoculars up to her face, Marsha is admiring the man flying that Kiowa. Those guys are legendary for being nuts and loving a good fly and a good fight, and she’s sure this job is going to be packed away in just under a minute.

  The Kiowa gets larger, larger, and then—

  It flares up, stops.

  Just like that.

  What the hell?

  For a brief moment Marsha thinks the pilot is going to get up close and personal. She knows at least twice over in Afghanistan that crazy Kiowa pilots and crews would go up in the air with M4s across their laps, so they could shoot at the Taliban from inside their cockpits, very face-to-face—and very forbidden!— but she can’t believe this pilot would be doing this.

  What’s he doing?

  A few seconds pass.

  Then the Kiowa … it wiggles back and forth, like it’s waving, and then it roars off.

  Damn it!

  Marsha tosses her binoculars aside, grabs her Remington rifle and iPhone, and starts running.

  The Kiowa pilot broke off for some reason, and now Marsha is no longer the backup, she’s the primary. Parker Hoyt earlier said not to move unless she got a call from him, but there’s no time. From here she can see the Secret Service agent and the First Lady are running down the driveway, but she doesn’t have a clear shot.

  She needs to haul ass and cut them off.

  Marsha starts to run.

  She’s on the hunt.

  She loves it.

  CHAPTER 73

  AFTER CONFIRMING WITH his own mind that the First Lady is actually standing there in front of his Kiowa, Paul Moody is done for the day. He gives the women a good-luck wave by going side-to-side with the rotors, and with that, he’s outta there.

  With the target farmhouse and the two women behind him, now it’s time to pass on the news. His finger hits the radio switch and he says, “This is GSS Tango Four, GSS Tango Four.”

  The cool and professional woman replies, “GSS Tango Four, go.”

  “GSS Tango Four, mission aborted. Repeat … mission aborted. Coming home.”

  His faceless contact is not impressed. “GSS Tango Four, return to target area. Complete your mission.”

  God, what a beautiful morning. “Sorry, darlin’, ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Those are your orders!”

  “Ma’am, I’m no longer in the employ of Uncle Sam. I’m under contract to you-know-who, and I’ve just ended my contract.”

  She continues to sputter, and he switches the radio to another frequency.

  Women.

  He checks the fuel gauges, sees he has a number of hours of flying time available to him, but knowing how pissy Global Strategic Solutions can be, he bette
r put this bird on the ground before his former employer sends up a couple of other birds to take him down. Unofficially, he’d die with a missile up the exhaust port or a close-in strafing with a thirty-caliber chain gun, but officially, he would die in a training accident, and that would be that.

  Paul steers his Kiowa northwest. Up there outside of Rockville, Maryland, is a strip belonging to one of Global Strategic Solutions’ competitors, Tyson International Services.

  He wonders if they’re hiring.

  Only one way to find out.

  CHAPTER 74

  SO ONCE AGAIN I’m running away from danger with a protectee at my side, like the hundreds of drills and training exercises I’ve participated in, except this one is no drill, and I’m running, panting, so scared that I’m going to lose it all in the next sixty seconds or so.

  I wish I had taken a couple of agents along with me, so we could be running with a protective screen around CANARY, but it’s too late for regrets or recriminations. I just want to run and drag her down the driveway, get her into the relative safety of our Suburban, and then get the hell out of here. Get someplace safe. Like Pennsylvania or Delaware, anyplace miles away from here and the District of Columbia.

  “Agent … please … not so fast … please … not so fast …” Fast? I feel like we’re running in sloppy mud up to our knees, and I swerve around, looking for that military helicopter, knowing deep in my bones that it hadn’t been out here for a sightseeing trip.

  But the helicopter has sped off.

  Ordered off?

  Or sent away because something else is coming in our direction?

  I move as fast as I can dare, not wanting the First Lady to stumble and fall, wasting precious seconds in our fast exit. So many questions I want answered—from how did she end up here, to who had kidnapped her and severed her finger, and did she write that possible suicide note but—