Silent Threat

by Jeff Gunhus

  With new air, she let go of the wall and resumed her swim. Her eyes were shut as they wouldn’t do any good in the silted water, so she kept a track of her direction by dragging a hand or a foot periodically against the embankment.

  After the third time she’d stopped to use the straws, she heard a motor approaching. It was a steady, methodical sound, not the high-pitched whine she’d expect from a police boat or jet skis she knew they had available. She leaned against the dark, mossy riverbank and risked slowly rising to the surface for a look.

  She was happy with the distance she’d made in the short amount of time. The current had carried her much farther than she expected. The motor was from a rusty barge carrying construction materials. Exactly what she wanted. Taking a deep breath, she dove back underwater and swam out toward it, using the sound of the motor as her guide. She chanced one more look as she got closer, worried that a misjudgment might put her into the motors.

  Her timing was good and she crossed the bow of the barge just as it slid past her position, putting the hulk of metal between her and the Tribune Tower, where she figured all hell was breaking loose.

  She dragged her hands along the hull just under the water line until she found an eyelet for a rope line, something that would be above the water when the barge wasn’t weighted down. She clung to it and hitched a ride downriver, still using her straws to keep hidden from view. There was no way they were finding her now.

  She just hoped her dad’s exit had gone as well. Not only did she want him safe, but she still wanted answers from him. The talk with Townsend had raised so many more questions. She replayed the exchange between Townsend and her dad in her mind, trying to sort out what it all meant. She wanted to believe that her dad wasn’t responsible for her mother’s death, but she’d seen the footage. Heard him confess to it. She couldn’t reconcile that with what she’d seen in his interaction with Townsend.

  And then there was Omega. What was this organization that could infiltrate the highest levels of government? Had they really played both her and her dad so well that they’d almost assassinated Townsend on their behalf? The number of variables that had been at play was staggering, and yet whoever had masterminded the operation had almost been successful.

  A sudden insight hit her. The Agency hadn’t tried to kill her. And they hadn’t taken Joey. It was Hawthorn. Working for Omega and using Agency assets, employing who knew what kind of disinformation and lies about her to explain why she had to be eliminated.

  The thought gave her hope. The Agency had been her home for the last four years. They’d taken her in after Afghanistan and been her family after she’d lost her parents. Hawthorn specifically had taken her under his wing and given her a chance to redeem her name after her dad’s betrayal.

  His friendship had all been a lie. But it was clear now who the enemy was. It wasn’t the Agency. It was Omega and Hawthorn.

  As she clung shivering to the barge, doing her best not to ingest what was one of the most polluted rivers in America, she knew that one question was what stood between her and getting Joey back. She needed to figure out who was responsible, find them, and put them in the ground.

  CHAPTER 13

  Asset flinched when the fire alarm turned off. He liked it better when it blared throughout the building. The noise added anxiety and panic, two emotions that made people easier to manage, turning as they did to anyone in a uniform to tell them what to do.

  His Chicago Police Department uniform had made it easy for him to infiltrate the building. Part of it was the uniform, but the other part was knowing how to look like you belonged. Asset knew how to blend in. He knew how to carry himself so that the keen eyes of the Secret Service didn’t pick up on him trying to be too casual, or too stiff, or too anything. He was under no illusions that Townsend’s detail was the second string. He knew these men rotated through. Any of them could be guarding the current U.S. president on his next duty.

  Well, depending on how the day turned out, maybe not.

  Asset had heard the calls go out on the communications line used by the Service. It was supposed to be isolated and unhack-able, but it’d been easy enough for him. Not that he was any kind of tech genius. It was just that his current employer provided him with the best field gear money and espionage could acquire. It made up for the constant sense that the end of his contract would come with a bullet instead of a severance package.

  He’d heard the sounds on the com-link when the attack happened in the elevator. It was subtle and hard to hear over the blaring fire alarm. But he’d been crouched down with his hand to his ear, knowing the alarm was only a cover for whatever Roberts had planned. When he heard the muffled coughs and thumps in his ear, he knew they’d taken Townsend on the elevator.

  A brilliant move. Stunning really. A one- or two-person team abducting an ex-president was not only impressive, but Asset was unsure he could have pulled it off had the assignment been sent to him. He felt a pang of professional jealousy mixed in with a grudging respect for Roberts and his daughter. They’d accomplished the near impossible and made it look almost easy. But whether they would leave the building alive was another matter. Certainly Roberts couldn’t have hoped to get Townsend off-site. And if he’d wanted to kill him, he would have left his body in the elevator. No, Roberts wanted to question the man.

  But where?

  While the remaining Secret Service detail engaged their operating protocols and called in reinforcements, Asset considered the options. There was no way they could hope to get Townsend out of the building. That meant either kill him in the elevator and then egress, or take him somewhere in the building. The new construction zone in the rear was the perfect choice. Abandoned. No surveillance cameras. It was a no-brainer.

  It didn’t take long for him to make his way over, instructing scared workers as he went in his official capacity as one of Chicago’s finest. Whenever someone tried to slow him down, he barked orders at them and shoved them toward the nearest stairwell. Worked perfectly every time.

  Now the fire alarm was off. Based on the chatter on the com-link, SWAT was on scene and outside the building had been turned into a holding pen for people streaming out, each one of them a suspect in the eyes of the Secret Service. He didn’t have much time.

  It took him three floors before he spotted what he was looking for. A barely discernible smudge in the thin coat of dust on the floor leading from the elevator.

  He pulled his gun and followed the trail, entering the construction zone in the new building addition. The signs were harder here, mixed in with the footsteps of dozens of construction workers, but the occasional long streak looked like someone being dragged. He was guessing that was Townsend being none too excited by the idea of alone time with Scott.

  The trail ended at a closed metal door. He leaned against it and listened. Nothing.

  He turned the handle, expecting it to be locked, and surprised when it wasn’t.

  Asset flung the door open, counting on catching whoever was inside off guard.

  The small room, a closet really, was empty except for rows of stack shelving, five-gallon buckets of paint, and the most recent leader of the free world. Townsend sat on the floor, his back against the bare concrete wall, his head lolled to one side like he was taking a nap. Blood trickled from his nose and lip, and his right eye was swollen, already darkening.

  Asset thought he might be too late, although it wouldn’t change his compensation package if Townsend was killed by Scott instead of himself. But the ex-president’s eyes opened, glazed and disoriented. Asset realized they’d drugged him, but left him alive. Looked like he was going to have to earn his pay after all.

  Townsend’s eyes focused a bit, perhaps the uniform a powerful enough symbol to cut through his drug-addled mind, because he smiled and raised a weak hand toward him. Asset enjoyed the thought that the man would have some false hope at the end. He tended not to care about the marks he was hired to dispose of, but he’d voted for Townsend, using
an alias of course, and the son of a bitch had given false hope to an entire country. It was a fitting end.

  Asset raised his gun and aimed at the man’s head. Townsend’s eyes grew wide. His lower lip trembled and a line of drool slipped out, covering his chin. Pathetic.

  “Lower your weapon!” a man shouted in the hallway to Asset’s right.

  More shouts followed.

  Asset gritted his teeth. Ten seconds earlier and his job would have been done and he’d have been on his way. He figured the cop uniform had just saved his life. Without it, SWAT would have shot first and asked questions after.

  He raised his hands over his head, making his voice shake as he called out. “I’m CPD. The president. He’s in there.” Asset carefully turned. The last thing he wanted was some overeager SWAT guy putting one in his chest. There were three of them, all in full tactical gear. He could have finished them off, even though they had weapons trained on him, but more men were visible down the hallway. In his ear, he heard the call for all men to converge on their location. There was no way he was shooting his way out of this one.

  “Step away.”

  He did as he was told, moving slow and easy. “Room’s not clear yet,” he warned. I . . . I . . . don’t know if someone else is in there.”

  “We’ve got it, fall back.”

  Asset did just that, leaning up against the wall opposite the SWAT team, pretending to hyperventilate from the excitement. A SWAT guy gave him a disapproving look, but then they rushed past him into the room.

  “The president’s secure,” came the call in his headset. “Lock down the building.”

  Time to leave. He grabbed his chest and kept huffing. He grabbed the new SWAT guy who’d just arrived on the scene. “Gotta go down. You got this?”

  The SWAT guy looked him over. “You injured?”

  Asset looked embarrassed. “I get these . . . attacks . . . like a panic.”

  The SWAT guy had a disgusted look on his face. He waved him away. “Yeah, get the hell outta here.” He called out down the hall. “Let this guy through.”

  Asset holstered his gun and stumbled past the row of SWAT in the hallway. Once he made a few turns, he stopped his hyperventilating and felt his pulse throbbing in his neck. It was high, but only because of the fake breathing. He didn’t feel stress from his situation, although he knew he couldn’t underestimate the cordon he needed to break to get out of the building. A legitimate attempt on an ex-president meant every law enforcement official in the city was likely en route. If the criminals in Chicago were smart, the next hour was the time to do anything they wanted. Asset just needed to get out of the building before the cops got organized. And then he had to contact his employer to see what she wanted done next.

  He’d nearly gotten his pulse down to his resting rate when he thought of having to report his failure to her. His heart sped up at the thought before he willed it back under control. Asset, who could kill women and children without feeling a thing, hated the prospect of making that call. Few people in the world rattled his cage, but his employer had the uncanny ability to do exactly that.

  He pushed that inevitable conversation out of his mind and focused on the matter at hand. Seconds later, Asset removed his hand from his carotid artery, satisfied he was calm and mentally ready to execute his egress plan.

  He just hoped Scott and Mara Roberts had successfully escaped. They’d shown themselves to be worthy adversaries in a world filled with cheap imitators. He relished the thought of tracking them down and matching skills with them. He wanted the pleasure of killing them both himself.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Jesus, what a mess,” Hawthorn whispered. His deputy, Shana Brooks, a young up-and-comer, a dangerous mix of genius and unbridled ambition, stood next to him.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “A complete clusterfuck if there ever was one.”

  Hawthorn cocked an eyebrow at the language, but Brooks was focused on the scene playing out in front of them and didn’t see it. He didn’t say anything. Mostly because she was right.

  The comms center was silent as the dozen or so staffers looked up from their stations at the images on the front wall. The screens were set up in a six-by-four grid, each of them able to either display an individual image or work together to create different sizes. Hawthorn wasn’t allowed near the controls because he inevitably messed it up. Brooks typed away on a tablet. The display broke into four sections. Two of them were news channels, CNN and Fox News. One was the body cam of someone running down a hallway; the label on the bottom said: SANCHEZ, TEAM LEADER. The last screen was another body cam, labeled FRANKLIN. On this one, Hawthorn spotted Townsend in a room, sitting on a chair and being seen to by a doctor.

  “That one,” Hawthorn said.

  “On it,” Brooks said.

  The entire wall turned into the body cam image. At that size, the resolution suffered, but it gave them a clear shot of Townsend’s face. There was still dried blood under his nose, but it was his right eye that got Hawthorn’s attention. It was red and so puffy that it was nearly swollen shut.

  “That’s going to hurt in the morning,” Brooks said.

  “And you’ll see it on every channel.”

  “Of course, this is big news.”

  “No, I mean you’ll see him live on every news channel. Starting tonight, probably. If there’s one thing Preston Townsend loves, it’s a chance to be in the spotlight playing the martyr.”

  “You don’t like him much, do you?”

  “Does anyone?” Hawthorn asked. He felt a pang of guilt at the comment. He’d once thought himself to be a surrogate for Townsend’s father once his good friend had passed away. But that feeling had long since passed. Unless an overwhelming sense of disappointment could be considered part of the natural paternal relationship.

  “Good point,” Brooks said. “This might get him some sympathy points, though. People even came to like George W. Bush after he’d been out of office long enough. Americans like ex-presidents. If this was ISIL or some Al Qaeda–inspired attempt, then shit will get real in a hurry.”

  Hawthorn arched an eyebrow in her direction. When she’d started working for him six months earlier, she would have passed out from embarrassment if she’d cussed in front of him. She noticed the look this time.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “I think I’m rubbing off on you. That’s not always a good thing.”

  She shrugged. “Not all bad either.”

  Hawthorn smiled. He liked Shana. She was intelligent and had good instincts, two things you couldn’t teach. Her petite frame and round face with a tiny nose that barely kept her glasses from sliding off made her look like someone from the accounting department, but she used her looks to her advantage. Being underestimated could often be as powerful a tool as being physically imposing. She was career CIA and knew nothing about his involvement in Omega. He liked to think that if he went down, the people he’d shielded from his actions would survive in their careers, but it was a fiction. Anyone close to him would be forever under suspicion, no matter the evidence. Their careers would be over. It was a shame, but such a small sacrifice compared to what was at stake. “About what you said, you don’t think this was ISIL or AQ, do you?”

  “No way. If it was, Townsend would be dead. But one of the dumb bas . . . one of these splinter groups might miscalculate and take credit. Hell of a recruiting video to say your guys smashed up the face of a U.S. president. Only problem is that Americans get angry when you mess with our top guy. We can hate him, but others better keep their hands to themselves.”

  “So, if not Islamic terrorists, then who?” Brooks didn’t know about Scott and Mara. He’d purposefully left her out of the loop. Partially because he didn’t know her well enough to trust her, but also to protect her career. Where he needed to go, she didn’t want to follow.

  “Issues group? Someone domestic. Trying to raise a cause profile. Watch it be PETA. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “I sup
pose the president will be able to tell us.” He gathered up his bag. “Monitor things here. Contact me with significant developments. I’m going to make sure our guys are whacking the weeds to shake loose whoever was responsible for this.”

  “If DCI Lewis finds out we’re active on this, he’s going to hit the roof.”

  Hawthorn winced. The reminder that he was no longer DCI hurt. Not that he missed the politics of the role. He was more than happy to be out of that rat race. And he was thankful Marty Lewis had, albeit reluctantly, accepted his request to create a small Special Operations Group within the existing framework of the Special Activities Division. A SAD/SOG in the alphabet soup of Washington jargon. But still he chafed under the idea of being beholden to Lewis.

  He thought about the DCI, an ex-congressman on the Intelligence Committee who everyone in Washington knew was out of his depth. Not a bad man, but less than the country needed during these trying times. Hawthorn couldn’t let such a man slow him down. “Probably not. But when did you think I started to care about what Director Lewis wanted?”

  “Go get ’em, boss.”

  Hawthorn smiled. Scott had called him boss throughout their relationship. Even when things had gone sour between them, he’d used it as an epitaph. As he left the room, he found himself wondering whether his old friend had made it out of the Tribune Tower alive. He also couldn’t help but recall the last time Scott had met the president of the United States had resulted in Townsend looking just about the same way.

  Four years ago

  “Get him out of here!” Townsend screamed from inside the Oval Office.

  Hawthorn had Scott by the arm and neck as he shoved him into the anteroom that housed the president’s personal secretary. Scott didn’t resist. He allowed himself to be pushed across the room toward the door to the hallway. Before they reached it, a Secret Service agent burst in, gun drawn.