“I’d rather wear a dress,” Hawk said. “That would at least be a disguise.”
Alex giggled. “Just pretend like this is a Bollywood movie and flaunt it since you’ve got it.”
Hawk grunted. “If you would’ve told me that my life as a black ops asset would include playing the role of cabana boy, I would’ve never signed up.”
“Just get out there already,” Alex said before pulling his arm and then ushering him to the door.
Hawk surveyed the area, noticing not much more than a pool and scantily clad people in and around it. Madeline was lounging near the Sol Hotel Resort pool, sipping a piña colada. The glass was almost empty, and she studied it while chewing on her lip.
“Would you look at that?” Hawk said on his coms. “This is just disgusting. She’s trying to entice some man into buying her another drink.”
“And that man is going to be you,” Alex said. “Enough already and buy her a drink.”
Hawk cozied up to the bar and ordered a piña colada for the First Lady. While he would’ve preferred to walk up to her and have a conversation, he noticed a pair of guards tucked away in the shadows. He identified three and asked Alex to keep an eye out for them.
“I see them,” she said. “As if they don’t stand out here like a sore thumb. Everybody’s in bikinis and board shorts except for the hotel staff and her security detail.”
“Are you ready?” Hawk asked.
“Born ready,” Alex said.
“All right. Here it goes.”
He snagged a stray glass on a stand next to one of the lounge chairs and waited for his drink. After the waiter handed it to Hawk, he meandered around the pool and eased into the seat next to Madeline. She wore a white bikini with a see-through shawl. Her pink sunhat was pulled down just above the top of her sunglasses. If Hawk didn’t already know she was here, he never would’ve spotted her reclining in her chair like a common tourist.
She appeared to be halfway through the latest Jodi Picoult novel and didn’t exhibit any signs of nervousness, blissfully unaware that the past she was running from was about to confront her head on.
Hawk had selected an appropriate suitor while waiting at the bar, a distinguished looking man who had announced he was about to finish his drink and then leave. All Hawk had left to do was deliver the message.
“Senhora?” Hawk said.
“Yes,” she said, placing her book face down and then turning toward Hawk.
“Senhora, that man over at the bar in the white suit asked me to deliver this drink to you,” he said.
She looked him up and down. “I’d rather it be from you.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, senhora. I’m not allowed to interact with resort patrons on that level.”
“What exactly did you think I was suggesting?”
Hawk left the tray by Madeline’s table and walked off.
“Is she talking the bait?” he asked over his coms.
“She just stood and is navigating toward the bar,” Alex said.
“Phase two,” he said. “Are you ready?”
Seconds later, Madeline glided past the bar and headed straight toward the men’s restroom. One of her security team members left the shadows and started following her. She turned around and cast a leery eye toward him. Receiving the unspoken message, he spun around and returned to his post.
Hawk shot furtive glances at Madeline as she approached the door. She poked her head inside and looked around before slipping into the restroom.
* * *
EVEN BEFORE THE PHOENIX Foundation learned the truth behind the attack on the White House, Alex wasn’t the biggest Madeline Young fan. Alex found the First Lady’s humanitarian work little more than photo ops for the press to show what a compassionate woman she was. Behind the scenes, the Secret Service agents who worked Madeline’s details described her as monstrous and narcissistic, her elite roots shining through and standing in stark contrast to the president’s rural upbringing and authentic behavior. Madeline Young once sold the evening gown she wore to the Oscars with the caveat that it must be sold for more than she bought it for. She demanded the bidding start at two hundred thousand. From that moment on, Alex dreamed of connecting on one solid punch to Madeline Young’s face.
Alex’s big opportunity had arrived.
With the men’s bathroom completely empty, Alex took up a position in the stall at the far end. She placed a pair of Hawk’s shoes on the ground to give the impression that there was indeed a man behind the door.
The clicking of heels alerted Alex to the fact that the First Lady had finally arrived. Her reputation as a philanderer proved to be a simple target. Alex could only assume it was the thousands of miles of ocean between Madeline and the U.S. that lured her into a sense of false security. Or maybe she lacked self-control or was confident that Falcon Sinclair would soon control the world and help her navigate a way back to the public eye in a redemption story that would inspire a new generation. The reasoning was of no consequence as Madeline Young wasn’t taking any precautions to protect her identity on foreign soil.
Alex listened as Madeline approached the final stall.
“Boo, are you in here?” Madeline asked.
An amused Hawk who was standing just outside the door chuckled over the coms.
I wonder if that means Hawk wants me to call him Boo.
Madeline finally arrived in front of Alex’s stall. “There you are. The least you could do would be to give me a signal of some sort. Now, what do you say we go somewhere really private and—”
Madeline stopped mid-sentence and froze. Despite her strains, Alex couldn’t even hear the First Lady breathing.
After a pregnant pause, the door flew open and was followed by Madeline Young. As she realized that her Boo was another woman, the First Lady went slack-jawed. Alex seized her chance, leaping off the toilet and lunging toward Madeline. She put her hands up to protect herself from the onslaught of oncoming fury. The idea was to absorb the first few blows and then strike back.
But instead of fighting, Madeline spun around and raced to safety. But Alex didn’t fly several thousand miles to return home without a single answer, much less get outwitted by a woman she’d grown to loathe. Alex scrambled across the wet tile floor and dove at Madeline’s feet. Grabbing just enough of her heels, Alex tripped up the First Lady and sent her flying backward into the bank of sinks. She finally came to rest against the brick wall, her head slamming hard into it. Madeline moaned as she tried to get up.
“Keep it down,” Alex said, her gun trained in front of her as she walked over to Madeline. “I’d suggest not giving me any reason to shoot you either.”
“What do you want?” Madeline asked, placing her hands in the air.
“I want you to tell me about Falcon Sinclair,” Alex said as she brandished her weapon.
“Put the gun away. I’ll tell you what you want to know. There’s no need to get violent.”
Alex didn’t flinch. “Talk.”
“Okay, fine. He’s rich beyond your wildest dreams, though not quite as charming as he fancies himself to—”
Alex narrowed her eyes. “Tell me something I can’t know by reading the supermarket tabloids.”
“I’m not sure what you’re after, so I’m afraid you’re going to need to be a bit more specific.”
“What is he planning?”
The First Lady shrugged. “Beats me. All I know is that he told me to come here and eventually he’d return me to the public eye.”
“Did he give you any indication of when that might be?”
“He called me last night and said within the next week he’d have a better idea of when that would happen.”
Alex jammed her gun into Madeline’s temple. “What is he planning?”
“I swear I don’t know. General Fortner told me Sinclair was working on some weapon, but I never learned anything else about it, though that wasn’t for a lack of trying.”
“Fortner didn’t trust you,”
Alex said as she backed off.
“Yeah, and look where that got him. If you think you’re going to get me to cry about that, forget about it. Fortner was a means to an end for me. I needed to get out of the White House. The demands were suffocating. And Noah wasn’t about to let me live elsewhere because of how it would hurt his image.”
“I don’t believe this was just about a floundering marriage. What did Sinclair promise you?”
“Peace and prosperity, the usual.”
Alex glared at Madeline. “You’re lying.”
“Look, if you’re going to shoot me, get it over with. Otherwise, I’m leaving. I’ve told you everything I know.”
Madeline stood and tried to push her way past Alex. But she rammed the barrel of her weapon into Madeline’s chest.
“We’re not finished,” Alex said. “I could shoot you and nobody would ever know. You’re not leaving until I’m satisfied.”
Madeline held her ground. “You might shoot me, but you’ll never get away with it. I’ve told you everything I know, but if you insist on keeping me here, all I have to do is scream for my guards to rush in and kill you right here with no questions asked. So unless you’re into mutually assured destruction, I’d advise you to step aside and look elsewhere for your answers.”
“Let her go, Alex,” Black said over the coms. “We don’t need this to turn into a mess.”
Alex slid over, enabling Madeline to pass.
Once the First Lady disappeared around the corner, Alex holstered her weapon, tucking it in the back of her pants and out of sight.
“It’s clear,” Hawk said. “Let’s get out of here before Madeline gets any other ideas. We have what we need.”
“And what’s that?” she asked.
“Falcon Sinclair is developing a weapon.”
“We’ve known that for a while.”
“We’ve only assumed he was building something. Now we know. And we also know he’s planning on using it very soon.”
“That’s just a hunch,” she said.
“No,” Hawk said. “Falcon Sinclair isn’t the kind of man to patiently wait. The minute his weapon is operational, he’s going to use it. And if he’s going to have more information within the next week about when Madeline Young can return to life as normal, that means something is about to go down.”
“But what exactly?” Alex asked.
“That’s what we need to find out—and fast.”
CHAPTER 9
Washington, D.C.
BLUNT EYED THE BOTTLE of bourbon in the bottom of his desk and checked his watch. He deliberated whether it was too early to get into it. Despite the fact that it was 11:00 a.m., he felt tempted to imbibe. Anything to take the edge off from the pressure building from within and outside in the form of President Young.
Blunt chose to stay dry for a few more hours as his two agents were due to return at any moment with a more in-depth report about what happened in Cape Verde. The shortened version he’d already received painted a bleak picture, one where the First Lady knew the obvious but nothing beyond that. But the intelligence community needed more to act on if the government planned to be proactive to the events occurring both in the open and in the shadows. A half-hour passed, and he decided that he couldn’t wait any longer. He dumped a healthy portion of bourbon into his thermos and lumbered to the conference room. While waiting for Hawk and Alex, Blunt took a seat at the table directly across from the television and propped his feet up on the desk. He took a long pull before smacking his lips and screwing the top back onto the bottle.
After turning on the television, he surfed through several channels before coming to rest—against his better judgment—on a cable news program where a panel of various Washington insiders were discussing the news of the day. Blunt hated shows like this one, but the question on the screen caught his eye.
“This is what we’re talking about today,” announced Herb Kingman as he gestured toward the bank of screens behind him. “A Rasmussen poll released this morning showed that seventy percent of Americans don’t feel safe. Seventy percent. That’s an astounding number for this country, especially considering that the highest level since the 9/11 attacks was right around forty percent.”
“That’s right, Herb,” chimed in Samantha Hunt. “This is the first poll that’s been conducted since the White House was struck with a bomb, which makes some of the details even more eye-opening. Since terrorists first assaulted us on our own soil, fears about future attacks have been largely weighted along partisan lines. When a Democrat was in office, Republicans were more fearful and vice-versa. But under Noah Young, political affiliation made no discernible difference in how people felt.”
“This just goes to show you that people feel very unsettled right now,” Herb said. “And we still haven’t even received confirmation about who was behind this. Up until this point, Al Fatihin has been the terrorist organization that Americans have feared the most, but since they remained oddly silent about this latest event other than to celebrate it, we’re left to wonder if there’s another terrorist cell on the rise that we should be concerned with.”
“Yes, and we want to dive further into that topic with former Homeland Security Deputy Gene Pinkston,” Samantha said as she turned toward the longtime bureaucrat.
What a disaster! Pinkston couldn’t stop a four year old with a water pistol.
When Pinkston’s face appeared on the screen, Blunt had enough and turned off the television. He and Pinkston had gone round and round on policy, which Blunt felt was often detrimental to the country’s safety. Nevertheless, the two remained friends. But Blunt wasn’t about to waste his time listening to Pinkston’s fear mongering.
Blunt returned to the reports in front of him while waiting for Hawk and Alex to arrive. After fifteen minutes, Blunt’s phone rang with a call from CIA Deputy Director Randy Wood.
“Have you put together an op to track down Madeline Young?” Wood asked after the two exchanged pleasantries.
“I’ve got two agents about to walk into headquarters here any moment now and give me a full report,” Blunt said.
“And the abbreviated version?”
“Nothing that we didn’t already know,” Blunt said.
“That’s just as well because we’ve got something else that needs more immediate attention.”
Blunt chuckled. “The tyranny of the urgent. Isn’t that how it always is?”
“It’s no joke this time,” Wood said. “I know we get this a lot, but I was just in on a scathing call from the president, who’s up in arms about this new poll about how unsafe Americans feel. Have you seen that yet?”
“I just saw it. The merchants of fear are doing a great job of stirring up the people this time.”
“I agree,” Wood said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the people who really do the grunt work to keep Americans safe from outside threats are going to be summarily fired if the president carries through with some of his threats.”
Blunt stood and paced around the room. “I just spoke with him a couple of days ago and told him that I’d try to track down Evana Bahar, but she seems to have gone underground. I know Young is concerned with the optics of that attack on the White House and doesn’t want his poll numbers to take a nose dive as the next election cycle is getting ready to gear up, but there’s only so much we can do. The last report I read about her said that Al Fatihin was struggling to raise capital for more weapons. If she can’t fight, she’s not going to come out of hiding.”
“Agreed. But I’m afraid that’s not going to quell the president’s concerns. He said he wants to be able to address the American people to allay their fears and soon. And he wants to do it with the capture of someone prominent.”
“In that case, I need Orlovsky,” Blunt said.
“Define the word need,” Wood said.
“We need him physically in our possession to lure Bahar into the open.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Won�
�t or can’t?” Blunt asked.
“The president has been clear that Orlovsky is to remain in custody, utilized as an asset for information only.”
“What is the purpose of that?”
“From what I understand, he doesn’t want to risk losing him, much less anyone else finding out that he’s been apprehended. It works to our advantage that nobody knows he’s been compromised.”
Blunt sighed. “I get that, but if Young won’t let us utilize the best chance we have at drawing out Bahar, he’s tying our hands. He might as well parade Orlovsky on camera so he has something to thump his chest about.”
“Look, I hate the political side of this as much as you do.”
“It’s why I left the senate,” Blunt said. “I wanted to get away from this bureaucratic shit storm that always rolled downhill on me. And now it’s happening again, only it’s hurting our country’s security this time.”
“Unfortunately, we can’t get away from that.”
Blunt grunted and said nothing.
“What are you thinking, J.D.?”
“I need to at least speak with Orlovsky so I can set something up.”
“Talking with him is the only thing you can do.”
“I’m going to need to incentivize him, too,” Blunt said. “Give me the power to authorize something that would make his life more comfortable.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Wood said. “Just know that I’ll work as hard as I can to get you what you need. I just can’t give you Orlovsky.”
“I understand. We’ll adjust accordingly. But for the record, I don’t like it.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Blunt hung up and sat back down. He pushed Wood to see if he could set up the ideal situation with Orlovsky, but the roadblock wasn’t the end of the world. The situation would present more of a challenge without a doubt. However, Blunt was confident he could utilize a compliant Orlovsky.
A few minutes later, Hawk and Alex walked through the door and greeted Blunt. He glanced at his watch.
“You’re late,” Blunt said.
“It was a long trip back,” Hawk said. “But you’re not usually so concerned with how prompt we are. What’s eating at you?”
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