Parrish pulled free of the agents, stood, and said simply. “It is.”
Marrs’s face split in a triumphant grin. “If it’s answers you want, Mr. Chairman, then look no further.”
The chairman frowned but gestured for Parrish to come forward. The newcomer strode to the table and took a seat beside Duncan.
Marrs quickly took charge, ignoring the standard introductions and protocols. “Mr. Parrish, we’re all eager to hear what you’ve discovered.”
Parrish leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. “Thank you, Senator. Mr. Chairman.
“I’ll begin with my personal involvement in this affair. Yesterday, Senator Marrs approached me and asked me to look into rumors of a secret paramilitary group operating on foreign soil—specifically, an operation against the El Sol drug cartel in Mexico, undertaken without official sanction, but with the support of the military. I quickly discovered evidence to support these allegations and identified President Thomas Duncan as one of the key players.”
Parrish glanced sidelong at Duncan and nodded. It was a curious gesture that was lost on neither Duncan nor Marrs.
“I’d like to see this evidence,” the chairman said.
“I’m sure Senator Marrs can provide you with that,” Parrish answered. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
Marrs’s face creased in apprehension. He leaned into his microphone. “Mr. Chairman, perhaps we should recess—”
Parrish spoke over Marrs. “Senator Marrs instructed me to coordinate with Hector Beltran, the leader of the El Sol cartel, to arrange a trap for the paramilitary force.”
Duncan thought he had misheard, but the sudden buzz of low conversation in the room told him otherwise.
“That’s enough,” Marrs said sharply, but Parrish kept talking.
“With the Senator’s blessing, Beltran abducted a bus full of American tourists to lure the paramilitaries back onto Mexican soil. Our plan was to isolate them by destroying their transport—a military stealth aircraft—using a TOW missile, which Senator Marrs provided, and then kill or capture the team on the ground. We were partly successful. The plane was destroyed and the crew aboard was killed.”
Because he was sitting next to the man, Duncan heard every word Parrish said, but it was impossible to know if the rest of the committee had heard. Marrs kept shouting for Parrish to shut up, and when that accomplished nothing, the senator turned to Taits. “Arrest him. Shut him up.”
Duncan grabbed the table in front of him, wondering if he was losing his grip on reality. Was this really happening?
“I later learned that the hostages Beltran had taken were also executed,” Parrish went on. “Ritually murdered and eaten by—”
Screaming a string of curses, Marrs leapt from the dais and rushed toward the table. Time seemed to stand still. None of the FBI agents had been prepared for it, and their disbelief left them stunned into paralysis. No one realized what Marrs intended until it was too late.
There was a flurry of movement, and then suddenly Marrs had an agent’s gun in his hands, aimed at the table.
Duncan made a desperate attempt to pull Parrish down, out of the line of fire, but as he reached out, someone grabbed him from behind and dragged him back.
Parrish was still talking when the noise of the shot filled the room. Duncan felt something warm and wet on his face. More shots were fired, but as the room descended into total pandemonium, Duncan was hauled back through the exit door. The chaos had not yet extended to the corridor outside Room 226, but Duncan’s savior kept going, as if he intended to drag Duncan all the way to the street. It wasn’t until they rounded a corner that the agent stopped and helped Duncan stand on his own.
“Well, that didn’t quite go according to plan,” the man said.
After everything that had happened, it took Duncan a moment to process the voice. He turned to look his savior in the face, but could not reconcile the unrecognizable visage with the very familiar voice. “King?”
The man standing in front of him looked nothing like King, but as Duncan scrutinized the face, he realized that he wasn’t actually looking at a face at all. It was a projection, a reproduction of a face on a flexible liquid crystal display worn as a mask to hide King’s true appearance.
“Here.” King thrust a piece of the same material into Duncan’s hands. “Put this on. We don’t have much time.”
“A chameleon suit? How is that possible? The quantum computer was destroyed.”
“Aleman figured out a way to program them with static images. Virtual faces are the best we can manage right now. They’re great as long as nobody looks too closely.”
“That’s how Parrish got in? He was working with you?”
“It didn’t take as much persuasion as you might think. He loathes Marrs. Maybe I should say ‘loathed.’ I guess the feeling was mutual.”
Duncan stared into the unfamiliar eyes. “Is everyone…?”
“Dinged up, but alive.” He gestured at the mask in Duncan’s hands. “These things burn through batteries fast, so the rest of the explanation will have to wait until we’re out of here.”
Duncan breathed a sigh of relief. He took the mask in his hands and prepared to roll it down over his head like a stocking cap. “What’s the plan?”
“Still working on that. Getting you back was priority one. Taking down Marrs was just gravy.”
Duncan froze and then lowered his hands without donning the mask. “I can’t go with you.”
“What? Don’t be stupid, Tom.”
“It’s not stupid, Jack. If I run, they’ll never stop looking for me, and you and the others will never be safe. I can’t let you destroy your lives.”
“That’s our decision, and it’s already been made. Unanimously.”
“And this is mine.” Duncan thrust the mask into King’s hands. “Walk away. Live your life. Chess Team is finished.”
He walked away, and did not look back.
67
King stared in disbelief at Duncan’s retreating form. Of all the possible outcomes to his crazy scheme for springing his old friend from custody, this was one he had never contemplated. He considered running after Duncan, subduing him with a chokehold or using some other means to compel him to go along with the plan, but the opportunity to do so had already slipped away. FBI agents were swarming around him, uncertain whether to arrest or protect, but they were certainly intent on making sure that the former president did not also become a casualty.
An electronic ping warned King that the battery powering his chameleon mask was down to a twenty percent charge. It was time to go. When the team had a chance to regroup, they could come up with a better plan. Hopefully, Duncan would be more responsive the next time around.
King headed down the stairs, wincing as every step brought a twinge of pain to his injured ankle. He headed for the exit doors just as a parade of police cars and fire trucks arrived outside. The FBI jacket he had earlier appropriated was probably more effective than the mask at getting him past the security checkpoint. The guard at the station was too busy keeping track of who went in to give him more than a passing glance. Once outside, he removed both the jacket and the mask, and headed for the National Mall, where he would be able to disappear into the crowd.
“Sigler!”
The shout caught him off guard. He hesitated, ever so slightly, but kept walking.
“Damn it, I know it’s you, Sigler. Stop.”
The pounding of feet warned that someone was giving chase. King tensed his body, ready to fight, but when the man caught up, he simply fell into step beside King. Out of the corner of his eye, King visually confirmed what his ears had already told him. “Admiral Ward. What a surprise.”
“I was pretty sure you’d put in an appearance here. When I heard the sirens, I knew I was right.”
“I can honestly say that I had nothing to do with that. Senator Marrs had a breakdown and started shooting. That’s all I know.” He quickened his pace, wondering exactl
y how he was going to ditch the admiral.
“What about Duncan?”
“What about him?”
“That’s why you came here, right? ‘Leave no man behind.’ We all live and breathe those words. So, where is he? Why didn’t he come with you?”
King had no answer, so he kept walking.
Ward walked in silence beside him for almost a full minute. “You went off line so fast, I didn’t get a chance to tell you. You and your team did… Well, ‘outstanding’ hardly seems to cover it. I understand why Duncan picked you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Ward uttered a short humorless laugh, then stepped in front of King, blocking his path. “I’m only going to say this once, so pay attention.”
King folded his arms across his chest. “You have my undivided attention. Sir.”
“There are things that I can do to protect you. But there are also limits to what I can do. That’s the way things work in the military. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Not exactly,” King answered.
“Then let me put it another way.” Ward made a point of locking stares with him before continuing. “In thirty-six hours, you and your people need to report to my office at Fort Bragg to discuss the future of Chess Team. Consider that an order. If you don’t show up, I’ll have no choice but to declare you AWOL. Do you get me? Thirty-six hours.”
Ward executed a precise right-face and strode away without another word, leaving King dumbfounded. He shook his head and started walking again. Because of the unexpected encounter, as well as the ominous threat that accompanied it, he did not go immediately to the safe house Aleman had set up for them. Instead, he roamed the Mall, stopping frequently to give his wounded ankle a break and to check his six, to make sure Ward did not already have men shadowing him.
If he was being followed, though, he would probably never know. As the commander of joint special ops forces, Ward had at his disposal the very best the military had to offer.
The walk gave King plenty of time to think about what had happened. Duncan believed that by sacrificing himself, the rest of them could maintain the status quo, or at the very least, return to the life they had had before joining the team. King understood that kind of thinking, because every single one of them would have been willing to do the same… In fact, they were all willing to do that for Duncan.
Ward had been right about that much. ‘Leave no man behind’ was not an empty slogan. King would not rest until Duncan was free, and he had no doubt the rest of the team would feel the same way. The more he thought about it, the more he understood what Ward had actually been trying to tell him.
As darkness began to settle over the city, he boarded a random metro train, transferred half a dozen times, and then finally arrived at the safe house, where the rest of the team was waiting, along with Aleman and Boucher.
They had taken the boat north to Virginia Beach, and there parted company with Ellen and Sara. The latter was eager to get to work on researching a counter-agent to the wendigo pathogen. Beck’s injuries, while not life-threatening, had required hospitalization, so they had made the difficult decision to leave her behind as well.
Upon arriving in D.C., they had met with Boucher and Aleman, and learned of Marrs’s plan to crucify Duncan and launch a witch-hunt that would eventually take down President Chambers. The senate hearing had been the perfect place to make the rescue attempt, and Parrish had volunteered to create a diversion by exposing Marrs’s involvement with Beltran and his culpability in the destruction of Crescent II.
“You know you’ll be incriminating yourself,” King had warned.
Parrish had been unconcerned. “It shouldn’t be too hard to swing an immunity deal with what I know.”
Parrish obviously hadn’t considered how far Marrs would be willing to go to silence him.
Bishop met King at the door, a look of alarm on her face. “Where is Thomas?”
He motioned her back inside. “I only want to tell the story once,” he said.
They gathered around the table. Knight hobbled in on a sprained ankle. Bishop was covered in abrasions and bites. Everyone was moving gingerly, with too many scrapes and bruises…except for Queen. Somehow, she had come through the ordeal almost unscathed, aside from a red welt on the back of her hand, which evidently itched furiously.
“Stop scratching,” Rook warned her. “You’ll just make it worse.”
Her eyes shot daggers at him.
King recounted what had happened at the senate meeting. What ought to have been the climax of his story—Marrs’s violent breakdown—was overshadowed by King’s revelation that Duncan had refused the offer of escape, and by Admiral Ward’s ultimatum.
Rook spoke up. “You told him to go to hell, right?”
“Does everyone feel that way?”
“The decision is made,” Queen said, and everyone else nodded.
King studied their faces to make sure the sentiment was shared by all. It was. “Admiral Ward doesn’t actually expect any of us to show up. It was a warning. He’s giving us a head start.”
When King had finally realized exactly what Ward was telling him, his estimation of the man had increased ten-fold. Ward, like Keasling before him, was the kind of officer that inspired soldiers to greatness. It was a pity that fate had cast them in the role of antagonists.
“In thirty-six hours…make that thirty-three…we will all be declared AWOL, and Ward will release the hounds. That’s how long we have to say whatever good-byes we have to say and then disappear.”
“Then what?” Bishop asked.
“Then? We get our friend back.”
68
The President of the United States closed his eyes, shutting out the hyper-active news pundits and the seizure-inducing graphics of the cable news channel, as he pressed his fingertips to his temples.
“…confirming reports of a shooting in the capital that left one man dead. Police say the shooter is in custody, but are not yet releasing any names.”
He was tempted to cover his ears as well, to block out the audio, to fully retreat from what was, without question, the worst day of his presidency, but that kind of escape simply wasn’t possible. His job was to weather the storm, keep it together in the darkest hour, and inspire the nation to believe that things might get better.
It was hard to imagine them getting worse.
More than a thousand people were dead or missing in the Outer Banks. The entire island chain would probably be uninhabitable for years to come. Worse, there was no way to suppress the stories of people transforming into flesh-eating monsters or the rumors that the food supply had been tainted with human remains. And now? Someone had been killed in a meeting of the Senate Judiciary Committee, and rumor had it that the meeting had been called for the purpose of initiating impeachment proceedings.
His enemies were circling like sharks. His friends and allies were distancing themselves with ambiguous support. The best thing for him to do would be to resign, dump the mess in Nicholas May’s lap. He’d never wanted May for VP anyway; the party had pressured him into the selection. He seriously considered it for a moment, but he was not convinced that would be the best thing for the country.
The audio abruptly cut off, plunging the room into silence. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see that he was not alone in his private office.
“Well,” he said, after overcoming his initial surprise. “I guess I should have expected a visit from you.”
“Yes,” the visitor replied. She was a tall woman, dressed in a tailored skirt and jacket, which accentuated her slender physique. With raven-black hair framing high cheekbones, full lips and dark smoldering eyes, she might easily have been mistaken for a fashion model. She turned those eyes on him now. “Actually, you should have called me.”
He endured her reproof without comment, straightening in his chair to face her.
“Fortunately,” she continued. “We just might be able to salvage this, thanks to Se
nator Marrs.”
“Marrs? He’s been a thorn in my side since the day I took office.”
“No one told you? The senator from Utah won’t be a problem anymore.”
President Chambers quickly connected the dots. “The shooting? He was the victim?”
“Even better. He was the shooter, and the man he shot was in the process of exposing Marrs’s dealings with the Mexican drug cartel that killed those American tourists, shipped tainted meat to fast food restaurants and probably engineered the bio-terror attack in North Carolina.”
“Marrs is responsible for…all of this?”
“Only peripherally, but his involvement, not to mention the fact that he murdered a man in front of a roomful of FBI agents and his fellow senators, will take the heat off you.” She paused a beat, making sure that she had his attention. “There is a wrinkle however.”
“A wrinkle?”
“Marrs was planning to make the case that you conspired with former-President Duncan in the creation of an illegal paramilitary force that carried out foreign policy initiatives, and that you diverted tax-payer funds and military equipment to pay for it.” She avoided asking him if any of it was true. In fact, a denial was on Chambers’s tongue—there was no conspiracy. He had asked Domenick Boucher for a couple of favors, nothing more—but she did not give him the opportunity to speak. “Duncan has been arrested, and it was Marrs’s intention to question him before the committee. Marrs may be out of the picture, but the allegations are still in the open. Whether or not Duncan implicates you is irrelevant. He cannot be allowed to testify before that committee.”
“I’m not sure what I can do to stop that from happening.”
She leaned forward, placing her palms flat against his desk. Her pose would have been provocative if not for the fact that he was truly afraid of this woman. “The Consortium believes in you, Mr. President. We are invested in your success, and I am prepared to send a very clear message to that effect. But first, there’s something you have to do.”
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