by Sean Parnell
She’d fired all four shots in less than two seconds, with all the emotion of using a staple gun to tack a garage sale poster to a telephone pole. The men toppled back like bowling pins, the dog collapsed onto his paws. She leaned over the cop, because he appeared to still be gurgling, and she shot him once more, put the pistol away, clutched her typewriter case, and walked into the doorway that led to the Chapel of St. Joseph of Arimathea. . . .
“This is gonna be tight,” said Allie as she worked the Bell 212’s cyclic and collective like a teenage competition video-gamer and swung the big machine onto the grassy knoll at the rear flank of the cathedral. The distance between the flagpole and that bank of lights looked like more than fifty feet, but she wasn’t sure, and she figured she’d either stick it or clang the pole, shatter her rotor blade, and dice everybody nearby into bloody meat slices. “Five seconds, boys, and we’re either heroes or zeros.”
Steele, Goodhill, and Ralphy braced themselves in the back. Steele had told Smokey not to call in anything to his counterparts there on the ground, because if his instincts were wrong and Lila wasn’t there, it would be like shouting “Fire!” in a crowded theater, and everyone inside the funeral service would go screaming and sprinting for their armored cars.
“Let’s play it out,” he shouted to Goodhill as the helo yawed, pitched, and rolled.
“Roger, kid,” Goodhill shouted back. “But if she’s here, we better find her fast.”
Ralphy just moaned.
The bird whipped the surrounding trees like a giant eggbeater and cops’ caps flew off as they stared, but the helo was marked as Metro PD, so they figured it all was kosher. The cargo door opened and the trio spilled out and started running as they waved their federal IDs from their wallets. Goodhill would circle around to the far side of the cathedral and search the café and support buildings. Ralphy would go in through the tourists’ entrance and hunt for a woman he’d never seen before—and he was unarmed and scared shitless because he’d left his Glock at home.
Steele would flank the building and come in through the back.
He ran across the circular drive, waved his ID, broke past the cops and into the fountain enclave. He heard the thundering chorus through the cathedral’s vibrating stained glass windows. He saw the three dead men and the dog lying in pools of muddy blood behind the buttress. He pulled out his Sig, press-checked the action, yanked the wooden door open, and went inside.
The long marble hallway was muted and dark. He moved along the left-hand wall, gripping the Sig two-handed, and some instinct told him she wasn’t in the Bethlehem Chapel, but he swept the open doorway anyway and briefly scanned the pews, then kept on going. He checked the marble stairway on the right that led down to the crypts from the cathedral above—saw nothing, felt nothing—kept on going, and without his pulse rate rising more than a beat, stepped over the legs of another dead uniformed agent sprawled in the hallway. He was on cold, autopilot fury.
Then he arrived at the Chapel of St. Joseph of Arimathea. He took a breath, released it, and sliced the pie as he entered the wide-open arch and the slab stone stairs that led down to the chapel’s floor. His gunsight swept the rows of wooden chairs, the identical staircase and arch on the opposite side, and settled on a concrete bier, shaped like a small child’s coffin, which sat on the priest’s pulpit just beneath the medieval wall mural.
A brown cloak of some sort was lying on the top of the bier, carefully folded, and inside out. Its lining was ordered with ten bricks of dull red clay, but he knew they weren’t clay. On top of those bricks sat an old typewriter case with the lid closed. A crumpled nun’s veil lay on the floor.
He took one step into the space. A gun barrel slammed against his left temple.
“You should know when you’re beaten, Steele,” Lila said.
He slowly lowered his pistol, with only his right hand. And at that moment, in one of those strange compressions of time—which lasted perhaps only half a second—he thought about all the times he’d seen those stupid cinematic confrontations between heroes and villains, those ridiculous climaxes of verbal jousting where opposing philosophies were shouted and challenges hurled before the final gunshots, which always ended the very same way.
And he knew he wasn’t going to say one damn thing to Lila Kalidi.
He dropped the pistol, and before it hit the floor, he shot his left palm straight up, smacked the right side of her pistol as he gripped it and pushed, jerked his head back as she fired and the round missed his nose by a millimeter, flashed his right hand inside his jacket, yanked Lila’s stiletto from his belt, spun to the left, and plunged it into her heart, hilt deep.
He was still gripping her smoking handgun. Her fingers released it, and she stared at him, and her full lips parted like a fish. She was wearing a black, full-body leotard, with her own knife hilt vibrating like a tuning fork in her chest. She slumped to her knees and her head dropped forward.
Steele reached down, grabbed a handful of her short blond hair, jerked her head back up, looked into her glazed-over eyes, and said, “You look much prettier dead,” and dropped her onto her back.
He picked up his handgun, but he didn’t touch hers. His nerve endings were vibrating like strings on a steel guitar. He walked down the stairs, heading for the bomb, because he knew that’s what it was. Then something moved behind him on the right and he spun with his pistol and his finger curled in the trigger.
It was Meg Harden. She was dressed for a funeral, in a dark blue suit jacket with a matching skirt and white blouse. Her raven hair was piled up on her head, and when she saw him she lifted her palms, just like she’d done at the range.
He almost shot her, for the second time that week. The chorus above them started singing “Amazing Grace.”
“If you’re looking for your bosom buddy,” he said, “she’s right over there on the floor.”
“Eric . . . what are you talking about?” Meg said. “And your face . . . what happened?”
“You told me Kalidi was gone, Meg, but she just killed four men and a dog. Drop to your knees, hands on your head.”
“Eric, wait,” Meg started to plead.
“Do it fucking now!”
She dropped to her knees.
Then Ralphy stumbled into the right side of the opposite archway, from the direction of the gift shop, which was dark and closed. He was breathless and had to lean on the jamb.
“I couldn’t find her, Steele,” he gasped, then he realized he was looking at Stalker Seven, about to shoot Meg Harden, and there was a female corpse behind Steele’s left shoulder with a black knife sticking out of her chest.
“That’s okay, Ralphy,” Steele said. “I found them both.”
“Both?”
The chorus above them was growing louder. The audience of family mourners, friends, and statesmen and women had begun to join in.
“’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear . . . and grace my fear relieved . . .”
“Put the gun down, Eric.”
Steele flicked his eyes to the left, past Ralphy, where Mike Pitts had just limped through the same arch on the other side. He had his cane in his left hand and a Glock 42 in his right, a sub-compact pistol in .380 Auto. But the weird thing—besides the fact that he was pointing the gun at Steele—was that he was dressed in his Army Service Uniform, dress blues, with all his service ribbons, his major’s ranks, and his mess dress cap on his head.
“Mike,” Steele said through clenched teeth, “you got some ’splainin’ to do too. You stood me up for dinner, and this corpse over there almost ate my lunch.”
“I thought she was gone, Eric,” Meg bleated. She almost had to shout above the thundering voices above. “Ask Pitts! He’s the one who told me that.”
Steele heard a shotgun racking a shell. He flicked his head around for a second and saw Goodhill standing two stairs up to his left. He was aiming his sawed-off twelve gauge across the chapel at Pitts.
“A Mexican standoff,” Goodhill growl
ed. “I love those.”
“Oh my freaking God,” Ralphy moaned.
“Pitts, you’re aiming a piece at my Alpha,” Goodhill said. “I’ll give you three seconds to put it up, and the first two don’t count.”
“I didn’t know Kalidi was still here, Eric.” Meg was starting to cry. “I swear!”
“She’s right,” Pitts said. “She didn’t. I sent her a phony Red Notice.”
Everyone turned and looked at him. His face had gone chalky, his cheeks were trembling, and he was no longer gripping the Glock like he meant it.
“It was me, all the time.” Pitts’s eyes clouded over and he wasn’t looking at any one of them really, just off into some sort of horrific vision in his head. “I tried to get out of it, but they wouldn’t let me. They had me, and once they did, they had Katherine and the girls and the baby too, and then I was done. It was me . . . all the Alpha setups, the backdoor into Q Street. It’s all here in a letter.” He patted his uniform pocket. “I’m sorry. I really am.” He lifted the Glock barrel and twisted it under his chin. “The National Cathedral,” he whispered. “No better place to die.” And he pulled the trigger, the gunshot muffled by his throat and his brain, and he toppled backward onto the floor.
Meg slumped over her knees, weeping. Ralphy slid down the jamb of the archway, both hands covering his eyes. Steele tucked his Sig into his waistband holster and turned to Goodhill, who had lowered his pump gun.
“Take her and get out of here,” Steele said.
“Okay, kid.” Goodhill walked over to Meg and pulled her up. She slumped against him and sobbed, and he half dragged her up the stairs. He turned to Steele at the top. “Sure you don’t wanna come?”
Steele pointed up at the ceiling. “Amazing Grace” was roaring into a gorgeous crescendo. Goodhill nodded and left with Meg.
Steele walked over to the coffin bier and Lila’s typewriter case. He took a breath and opened the top. There was an old Olivetti inside, but nestled between the two black ribbon spools was a digital timer. Below that, through the strikers that held the metal letters, Steele could see a large block of plastic explosive nestled around a battery pack. Three thick wires—blue, red, and green—led from the timer to the pack, and from there, he knew another pair led to an embedded detonator. He smiled, shook his head, walked over to Ralphy, hauled him up off the floor, and dragged him over to the bomb.
“Get to work on this, Ralphy,” he said. “We sent you to that EOD course for a reason.” And he left him there, shaking and staring at the device, and he walked over to Lila’s corpse, yanked the stiletto from her chest, wiped it on his jeans, and came back.
“But, Steele.” Ralphy groaned. “The timer. Did you see this?”
“Yeah.”
“The numbers aren’t ticking down, Steele. They’re ticking up!”
“I know.”
“That means, we don’t know how long it’s set for. . . .”
“That’s right, so you better hurry up.”
“But, Steele.” Ralphy slumped to his knees in front of the bier. His hands were trembling and sweaty. “I . . . I don’t know which, there’s too many, it’s not binary . . . I can’t.”
Steele put his right hand on Persko’s shoulder and squeezed it with something like affection. Then he placed the stiletto in his sweat-soaked palm, squeezed his hand closed around it, and bent to his ear.
“Ralphy,” he said. “The president of the United States, the First Lady, and the entire Free World are upstairs. Just cut a fucking wire.”
Epilogue
Neville Island, Pennsylvania
There were some feathery wisps of smoke rising from the foundation of Eric Steele’s house, but this time they were from the hot dog grill of the construction guys working on the renovations. They’d soon be taking a break for supper.
Slab by slab, the reinforced concrete walls were going back up. He’d had them shipped in from the same company that made T-walls for Bagram Airfield in Afghanistan, because he figured if they were good enough for Taliban rockets, they’d do for a remote forest fortress out here. The roof wasn’t on yet, but the doorways and windows were cut, and the new Krieger level-four blast doors were lying nearby on their pallets. Brand-new kitchen appliances, security cameras, and motion sensors had all been delivered. Ralphy was coming up soon to help install all that stuff. The steel slabs for his armory were on the way. He liked welding, so he’d do that himself.
There’d been a battle with his homeowner’s insurance company over paying for the loss of the house—a destructive assault by Russian terrorists wasn’t listed in the policy. Then someone from the IRS had made a discreet phone call to the insurance company, and lo and behold, a bank check arrived. It paid to have friends in low places.
Winter falls hard in Pittsburgh. There was snow on the ground, ice in the long gravel driveway, and Steele was wearing his navy peacoat again and a black watch cap, and wondering how his niece was doing out at sea. Dalton Goodhill’s Harley was kick-standed over on a slab of wet plywood. They were standing elbow to elbow, watching another wall go up and smoking cheap Macanudos.
“Heard anything from Meg?” Blade asked. “It’s been a month.”
“Negative.”
“Well, kid. Put a gun to my head, shove me down on my knees, and call me a traitor, might take me a while too.”
“Yup.” Steele wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but guilt wasn’t on his radar.
“I actually thought it was Lansky,” Goodhill said.
Steele looked at him. “Really?”
“Yeah. Never trusted anybody above the rank of E-8.” Goodhill grinned and blew out a cloud of cigar smoke mixed with lung steam.
“Mike Pitts was the last on my list,” Steele said. “Until he wasn’t.”
“Poor bastard. Just goes to show you, never go to confession.”
They’d both read Pitts’s letter. It was sad, and tragic for Katherine and the kids. But the White House had covered it up. Pitts had been buried with full honors at Arlington.
“Lansky called me yesterday,” Goodhill said. “President Rockford wants to give you and me some sorta medals.”
“Can we decline?”
“Snub the boss? Sure, if you never want the Program stood up again.”
“Think there’s a chance of that?” Steele asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted it. A job where your best friends didn’t get killed all the time might be better.
“Maybe. But don’t worry, our honors’ll probably be pinned on us in the White House kitchen.”
“Okay, but only if Ralphy gets one too. And Frankie.”
“Agreed.”
Goodhill dropped the last inch of his cigar in the snow, where it hissed under the crush of his motorcycle boot.
“I’m gonna go see the family,” he said.
“Somebody loves you?” Steele smirked.
“I didn’t say that. I just said I was gonna go see ’em.” Goodhill shook Steele’s hand, hard, then walked to his bike, kicked it over, and rumbled off down the driveway. He wasn’t wearing a helmet.
Steele watched as his mother got out of his parked GTO, hugged herself in the cold, picked her way through the construction debris, and came over. She was wearing a paisley scarf on her head and a pair of stylish sunglasses. Steele thought she was the most beautiful woman of her age he’d ever seen—maybe of any age. She stopped and smiled up at him.
“Can we go now, Eric? I’m getting hungry.”
“Sure, Mom,” he said. “There’s some stuff we need to discuss.”
She cocked her head and wagged a finger.
“No family therapy today. If you promise to shut up, I’ll buy you dinner.”
He laughed, and she took his elbow, and they walked off back toward his car.
“By the way,” she said, “something came for you in the mail today.”
“Yeah? What was it?”
“A postcard.” She smiled. “From your father.”
Acknowledgments
Stories are always collaborations. It takes a village. One True Patriot would not have been possible without the steadfast dedication and contribution of several people. David Highfill, my editor, is flat-out incredible. I’ve worked with him for eight years now, and every day I’m grateful. He’s the best in the business. Dan Conaway is my agent. He took a chance on me and I’m thankful for it. He strikes the perfect balance between career mentor, story consultant, and editor. Dan, thank you for your time and attention.
Next up is my battle buddy Steve Hartov. Thanks for being in the trenches with me, brother. You’ve become a wonderful friend, and you made this book better through your association with it. John Rokosz, my old friend, thank you. You are a fantastic writer and a talented storyteller. Your involvement in this story helped to elevate this book.
Melanie. As you say in your Twitter bio, you’re my number one supporter! Thank you for always being there for me. I’m so lucky and blessed to have you in my life.
Ethan, Emma, and Evan. My three children. Being your Dad and watching you grow has been the privilege of a lifetime. You are the reason for all of this!
About the Author
SEAN PARNELL is the author of the bestselling memoir Outlaw Platoon and the novels Man of War and All Out War. He is a retired U.S. Army infantry captain who served in some of the heaviest combat of the Afghan War. He recounts those battles in vivid detail during his leadership presentations for the nation’s most successful teams and corporations. He is also the cofounder of the American Warrior Initiative, a charity that honors and empowers our veterans, and a 2020 candidate to serve Pennsylvania’s Seventeenth District in the U.S. House of Representatives. Parnell lives with his three children near Pittsburgh.
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