Term Limits

by Vince Flynn

  Stansfield adjusted his mouth mike and asked, “Delta Six, how do things look in your area?”

  “Everything is clear with the exception of the dogs,” crackled the pilot’s voice.

  “All right, we’re coming over to join you.”

  The pilot of the medevac turned the chopper 180 degrees on a dime and worked his way back to their original position. From there they continued south toward Delta Six’s position. As they neared, Stansfield pointed at a patch of trees that were fifty yards to the north and another two hundred yards away from the house. The pilot brought the chopper in behind the trees and announced, “Delta Six, we’re about six hundred feet back at seven o’clock. Do you copy, over?”

  The pilot of the Black Hawk craned his neck around and spotted the heat signature of the medevac’s engines. “I copy. I’ve got your position marked, over.”

  Stansfield looked through a pair of night-vision binoculars. He concentrated on the large wing to the north. Lights were on, but the shades were drawn. “Delta Six, did you say you marked four signatures in the room at the far north end of the house?”

  “That’s affirmative, sir.”

  “All right,” announced Stansfield. “Everybody pay attention. I am going to make one phone call to the occupants of the house. I am not going to announce our presence. I repeat, I am not going to announce our presence. Depending on how the call goes, I will either give you the green light, or we will stand down. If I give the green light, this is how it’s going to go. When I tell Delta Six to move, I want the dogs taken out. Delta Six will then move into a hover position just above the north end of the house. Team One will then fast-rope to the ground and enter the house. The estate has pressure pads and motion and tremor sensors. The second you hit the ground, you are going to have to move fast. The best point for entry will be the French doors at the southern end of the north wing. I repeat, the southern end of the north wing. I have used the doors before, and they are operational.

  “We have a potential hostage situation, so your rules of engagement are as follows. If you are fired on, you may return fire. If any of the men in the room attempts to kill one of the other men in the room, you are to prevent that from happening. Are there any questions?”

  No one had any. The two teams were well versed in what they were about to do.

  “Team Two will back up Team One. Team One, are you ready to move?”

  The leader of Team One replied, “Give us thirty seconds, sir.” The team commander banged his fists together and then pointed his thumbs at the doors. The long, dark doors of the Black Hawk were yanked open and into the locked position. Each man secured his rappelling rope to special hooks located above the door and kneeled at the ready position. The two men who carried the shotguns were the first men on each side. They were the entry men, and their job was to get the doors open. The entry man on the left tapped his partner on the shoulder and then stabbed himself in the chest with a finger. He then pointed up and then straight ahead, signaling that he would blow the top and middle locks on the French doors. His partner nodded and signaled that he would take out the bottom lock. The next three men in line were in charge of clearing the room. They entered the room, literally on top of each other, with each man taking a third of the room and sweeping it for hostiles. The sixth and seventh men covered the left and right flank of the landing area, and the eighth man covered their “six,” or their “ass” as the men referred to it. The team leader looked at each of his men, and one by one they flashed him a thumbs-up. The leader radioed back to Stansfield that they were ready.

  Stansfield pulled his headset off his left ear and dialed Nance’s number. After several rings, Nance’s assistant answered. “Hello.”

  “Mike Nance, please.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s not in right now. May I take a message?”

  “No. Tell him Director Stansfield is on the line, and I need to speak with him immediately.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize your voice. Mr. Nance isn’t in right now, but I will pass a message on to him if you would like.”

  Stansfield stared through the darkness at the house not more than a thousand yards away. “I know he’s there. Go get him now!”

  The assistant on the other end cleared his throat and said, “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  O’Rourke had taken the brunt of the most recent electric jolt, but Jarod did not come out of it unscathed. As soon as the electricity had faded from Jarod’s body, the mercenary delivered another gloved chop to the bridge of O’Rourke’s bleeding and broken nose. Michael, having absorbed most of the electricity, was still incapacitated when the karate chop landed. The pain that was delivered to O’Rourke’s already broken nose was unlike anything he had ever felt. Wave after wave of nausea and agony washed over him.

  O’Rourke began to wonder how much more of this he could take, but the thought of getting half of his brain fried from some truth serum was motivation enough to push on. Michael sat up a little straighter in his chair and eyed Jarod, who looked more than a little uncomfortable himself. O’Rourke attributed his pained expression to the kick in the groin.

  Michael spit some blood on the floor and looked up at Jarod. “How do your nuts feel?”

  Jarod took a step forward and raised his fist. Michael kicked his legs in an effort to keep his torturer at bay. Mike Nance yelled, “Enough! He’s only trying to postpone the inevitable.” Nance put a hand on Jarod’s shoulder and told him to relax. “Now, Congressman, let’s get down to business. What is your association with the people who are trying to blackmail Mr. Garret and myself?”

  “Nothing. I got up this morning and a package was on my front step. I don’t know who in the hell is behind any of this. All I know is that you and your sick dead friend had Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist killed!”

  Nance shook his head. “I don’t believe you. I don’t think these assassins just picked you out of the blue. I think you know who they are.” Nance looked at Michael for a response. “Don’t you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Fine, I guess we’ll have to use the drugs.” Nance walked over to a steel gun safe in the corner and dialed the combination. “If you aren’t going to cooperate, we’ll have to help you.” Nance pulled down on the lever and opened the heavy door. An array of shotguns and rifles occupied the bottom twothirds of the safe, and on a shelf near the top was a tray. Nance pulled the tray out and set it on the bar. Michael could see two clear vials and a syringe.

  Nance picked up one of the vials and held it out for Michael to see. “You would be amazed what kind of things people will say when you pump just the smallest amount of this into them. No secret is safe. The only problem is you never know what it will do to their brain. Some people come out of it a vegetable, some people have massive memory loss, and others go through the rest of their life suffering from severe migraines. Some doctors claim they can administer the drug without leaving any permanent damage, but I’m not an experienced doctor.” Nance smiled. “Now which is it going to be, Congressman? Would you like to tell me what you know on your own, or would you like me to help you?” Nance picked up the syringe and waved it in the air. Michael was about to tell Nance where to stick the syringe when there was a knock on the door.

  Nance turned around and asked, “What is it now?”

  A muffled voice from the other side replied, “Director Stansfield is on the line. He wishes to speak with you.”

  Nance yelled at the closed door, “I told you I did not want to be interrupted!”

  The timid voice responded, “He said that he knows you’re here. He wants to speak with you immediately.”

  Nance angrily stomped to the door and opened it only a foot. “Tell him I’m busy and that I’ll call him back in ten minutes.” With that Nance slammed the door.

  Nance’s assistant walked across the large foyer, punched a blinking red light, and picked up the handset. “Director Stansfield, Mr.
Nance says he will call you back in ten minutes. Is there a number where he can reach you?”

  Stansfield looked over the dark countryside at Nance’s house and tightly squeezed the handset of his phone. Instead of replying to the man’s request for a phone number, he simply hung up and pulled his headset over both ears.

  Wasting no time, he asked, “Delta Six, are you ready?” The reply came back a positive, and Stansfield turned to look at the leader of the second team. The man gave him a thumbs-up. Stansfield adjusted his mouth mike and said, “Delta Six, commence the operation.”

  Team Two’s sniper squeezed the butt of his rifle a little tighter and centered his crosshairs on the head of the rottweiler closest to the helicopters. The two dogs were roaming the area due west of the house about a hundred yards out. The sniper squeezed the trigger and the rifle recoiled slightly. The bullet hit the dog dead in the ear and sent it to the ground. The second rottweiler snapped its head around to see what the noise was, but before he could investigate, a bullet smashed into its large, block head. Five seconds later the ominous dark helicopter passed over the dead canines and toward the house.

  All eight members of the tactical team were standing and leaning out the doors of the chopper. Their grip on the rappelling ropes was the only thing keeping them from falling to the ground. Their weapons were slung in the frontal ready position. Just before reaching the house, the tail of the helicopter dipped like that of a bird coming in for a landing, and the four large rotor blades braked the machine into a midair stop. The helicopter leveled out ten feet away from the house and twenty feet above the roof. The team leader yelled, “Go! Go! Go!”

  In unison, all eight men kicked away from their airborne platform and loosened the grip of their black leather gloves on the ropes. They dropped forty feet in the blink of an eye and squeezed the ropes again at the last second, breaking their descent. Landing like cats, they yanked the extra few feet of rope from their assault harnesses and grabbed their weapons. The Black Hawk cleared the area while floodlights sprang to life all around the team.

  They ignored the lights and went to work. The two entry men were on the door two seconds after hitting the ground. The man on the left blasted away the top of the door, and the man on the right started at the bottom. The Shok-Lok rounds thudded into the wood, splintering the locks from the frame. With the locks taken care of, the entry men stepped to the side to make way for the room clearers. The point man stepped forward with a flashbang grenade in one hand and his MP-5 in the other. He kicked in the door from the center and rolled the grenade into the house. “Flash-bang away!” rang out through all of their headsets, and every man closed his eyes.

  The deafening bang sounded, and a bright flash of phosphoric light lit up the area. The three room clearers flooded through the blown doorway, their thick, black silencers sweeping from right to left while they screamed, “Hands up! Hands up!”

  Nance had been waving the syringe in front of O’Rourke’s face and giving him one last chance to answer the questions without the aid of drugs when the commotion started. Jarod, who was standing next to Nance, had just enough time to react. He stepped backward and dropped to one knee behind a chair and an end table. As he was drawing his gun, he saw the flash grenade roll across the floor. Knowing what it was, he ducked behind the back of the leather chair and kept his gun trained on the door. As soon as the grenade exploded he began squeezing off rounds. His first shot hit nothing, but the second shot glanced off the side of the lead man’s helmet and hit the next man in the shoulder. The lead man saw the flash of the pistol and let go a five-round burst at Jarod’s head. All five shots were on the mark and sent Jarod’s semidecapitated body to the floor with a thud.

  The smoking MP-5 snapped up from firing on Jarod and instantly found Nance and O’Rourke. “Down on the floor! Right now!” The man repeatedly screamed the phrase at the top of his lungs as the tip of his barrel closed to within ten feet of the two men. His partners were at his side training their weapons at the other two sectors of the room. The second man, who had been hit in the shoulder, ignored the pain and followed through with his assignment. Four of the other five men ran into the room and began checking behind furniture and closet doors. One man remained outside for cover while the rest of the team worked. They continued their sweep with amazing speed and precision. After just twenty seconds, every man had called “Clear.” The team leader instructed four of the men to check the rest of the house and informed Stansfield that the room was secure.

  The second helicopter came in and landed on the front lawn. Stansfield got out of the chopper, and his bodyguard followed. The director stepped over the broken glass and splintered wood. His eyes immediately fell on the bloody O’Rourke. The always composed director of the CIA fought with all his might to control his anger toward Mike Nance. He took several steps forward and looked at the dead man on the floor. The marks left by the bullet holes made recognition impossible. Next his eyes fell on the young congressman’s bound wrists. “Cut him free,” Stansfield directed the nearest man. The man slung his shotgun over his shoulder and cut O’Rourke’s wrists loose with a knife.

  The team leader approached Stansfield. “Sir, one of my men took a hit to the arm, but he should be all right.”

  “Thank you. Please take your men outside and leave us alone for a moment.” The black-clad commandos exited the room, but Stansfield’s bodyguard remained, his Uzi drawn and ready. Stansfield walked over to the bar and examined the two vials of clear liquid and the syringe. “I can’t believe the mess you’ve created.” Stansfield tossed the syringe back onto the tray. “What were you going to do, drug him?”

  Nance ignored the question. Garret rose from the couch and approached. “Thomas, I told him this was a crazy idea. I pleaded with him, but he ignored me.”

  Stansfield pointed toward the shattered door. “Go wait outside. I’ll talk to you later.” Garret looked at Nance meekly and left. Stansfield looked at O’Rourke. “Are you all right, Congressman?”

  Michael stood and wiped some more blood from his nose. “I’ll survive.”

  Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Stans-field handed it to O’Rourke and looked back at Nance. “What in the hell were you thinking?”

  Nance ignored the question and walked over to a humidor that was sitting in the middle of a large oak coffee table. Stansfield’s bodyguard aimed his machine gun at Nance’s head and took a step forward. The national security adviser looked up and frowned. “Thomas, call off your dog.”

  Stansfield replied, “Carl, if he makes a wrong move, kill him.”

  Nance ignored the statement, retrieved a cigar from the box, snipped off the end, and lit it. He blew several clouds of smoke in the air and smiled. “Thomas, you would have done the same thing if you were in my shoes.”

  “I would have never gotten into your shoes.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Do you want to even attempt to explain this?”

  Nance shrugged his shoulders. “No. I can see when I’m beat. I’ll announce my resignation in the morning.”

  “It might not be that simple.” Stansfield looked at his watch.

  “Why not?” asked Nance in between puffs.

  Nance’s cocksure attitude was infuriating. With sarcasm Stansfield replied, “Oh, I don’t know, Mike. Perhaps your kidnapping of Congressman O’Rourke may have changed things a bit.”

  Coleman stopped his truck at the main gate of the Naval Academy. A U.S. Marine stepped out of the guard booth and approached the car. Coleman rolled down the window and said, “Good evening, Corporal. I’m here to see Sam Jarvi.”

  The Marine held out his hand and asked, “Identification, please?” Coleman handed over his driver’s license. The Marine studied it briefly and then handed it back. “Sam just called, Mr. Coleman. Do you know where to find him?”

  “Yes.”

  The Marine stepped away from the car and motioned for Coleman to proceed. “Have a nice evening, sir.”


  “Thank you. You, too.” Coleman drove onto the campus and grinned, thinking of the surprise the feds were in for.

  * * *

  Two blocks back, Skip McMahon had pulled over. The other three cars were waiting several blocks back. He watched Coleman pass through the gate and then got the bad news over his walkie-talkie. “What do you mean you can’t follow him?” he yelled over the radio.

  The pilot of the helicopter elaborated, “It’s restricted airspace.”

  “Damn it. Can’t you call someone and get clearance?”

  The pilot had come across this problem before and knew it was not an easy obstacle to overcome. “I could try, but it will take a lot of time and they’re going to ask more questions than you’re gonna want to answer.”