American Terrorist Trilogy

by Jeffrey Poston

  He’d spent the entire trip eastward trying to form a mental picture of what his nemesis would look like. He pictured a balding man of medium height with dark beady eyes, maybe sixty years old, with the physique of a former special ops soldier—bulky and muscular with maybe a bit of a gut from good eating and drinking in his advanced years. He imagined McGrath as a man who now fought his covert wars from behind a desk, doling out death and destroying lives from the comfort of a leather chair behind a huge mahogany desk. Maybe the man wore large bifocal glasses with metal rims.

  Carl stepped into the foyer and followed the aroma of his favorite coffee—toasted almond crème. It occurred to him that McGrath must have checked all his financial records and found that every month he ordered that particular flavor of coffee online. He thought it was pretty gutsy of the man—waving the power of government resources in his face. Or perhaps he was trying to offer some kind of truce.

  He left the front door open because he knew Agent Palmer was right behind him. As he walked leisurely up the hall he had a bizarre memory of his mother from forty-five years ago that almost made him smile.

  Close the door, Carl! I’m not paying to heat the outdoors!

  He turned to his left, into the living room, to confront the man who had used his son as bait, but the man looked nothing like he expected. He looked like...

  ...a woman!

  He saw her in profile as she dropped two sugar cubes and a dollop of cream in a black coffee mug. Then she turned toward Carl and held out the mug.

  “I hope you like cream and sugar,” she said.

  Carl’s jaw dropped to the shiny honey-oak wood floor.

  “Madam President?”

  Chapter 48

  0653 EST Wednesday

  McLean, VA

  Carl had spent fifteen hours and two thousand miles contemplating what kind of reception he would receive when he found Aaron McGrath—everything from arrest and more torture to witnessing a distraught man falling to his knees begging for the life of his child. Being served his favorite coffee by the president of the United States, though, didn’t even crack his list of the top one thousand possibilities.

  There were three comfortable-looking couches of tan leather arranged in a square-U facing a huge stone fireplace opposite the arched entry into the living room. President Shirley Mallory stood inside that U, and behind her an impressive fire roared in the fireplace. Next to her was a massive granite coffee table on which sat a steel coffee thermos and a porcelain tray with the sugar and cream bowls. Two spoons and another black mug completed the set.

  Carl stepped into the room and walked cautiously toward the president. The room was comfortably warm, but as he got closer to the fireplace, he realized the raging fire was putting out a tremendous amount of heat. He peeled off his gloves and pocketed them, then shrugged out of his overcoat. He laid the coat across the back of the nearest sofa, then swiped off his black head glove and set it on top of his overcoat. Then he stepped through the space between the two couches on the right and faced Mallory.

  “Mr. Johnson, they tell me you’re insane, that I shouldn’t be alone in a room with you.”

  Carl grunted at her. “Obsessed perhaps. And since Agent Palmer allowed me to enter, I assume she’s not in the camp that thinks I’m insane.”

  “She thinks I should reach out to you. She thinks that might defuse the path of escalation that you and Director McGrath were on.”

  He looked at her for a moment. “I’m going to decline the coffee, but thank you for the thought.”

  Mallory nodded and took a slurping sip from the mug. At least, now he knew there was no poison in it.

  “You know,” she said. “There’s sort of an old custom from back in the Old West days about sharing coffee over a frontier fire.”

  Carl nodded. He knew that custom well. He’d written about it in one of his historical westerns, which she had clearly read, likely in the few hours since Anita Chapman’s broadcast.

  Get to know your enemy and all that.

  Still, his respect for the president just ratcheted up a good amount.

  “It was a frontier man’s way of sharing a drink when there was no saloon nearby.”

  “Frontier women too.” Mallory reached out the cup to him again. “A way for adversaries to have a truce while seeking common ground.”

  “Adversaries,” Carl said. “Now that’s an interesting word choice coming from you, Madam President.”

  He took the proffered cup and sipped. She picked up the other cup and sipped also.

  “Mmmm.” He closed his eyes and savored the flavor. The coffee had a smooth, creamy texture with a strong, nutty after-flavor. “Perfectly brewed too.” He cupped the mug with both palms and turned to face the raging fire.

  He said, “A black military officer, turned engineer, turned historical western novelist, turned real estate agent, turned terrorist. Now that’s got to be some kind of world record for career changes.”

  He paused for a moment and looked at the woman beside him. For some reason he couldn’t identify, he felt comfortable standing beside her, but he also felt a strange anxiety. He gripped the cup tighter to prevent his hands from shaking. He was actually standing in the presence of the president of the United States.

  “Why are you my adversary, and why are you here?” he said softly as he turned his gaze back to the fire. “In Aaron McGrath’s house. In this room with a terrorist.” He paused. “What is your involvement in...”

  Mark’s murder.

  He couldn’t even say the words without the tears threatening to cloud his eyes. Couldn’t think the thought without seeing his dead son. He closed his eyes and bit his lip to keep it from trembling.

  Finally, he regained his composure and sipped again. As he stared into the fire and waited for the president to respond, he found it was easy to become mesmerized by the dancing flames. Smoke billowed from the top of the pile of burning wood and was sucked up into the chimney. Occasionally, a pocket of sap popped with a burst of sparks, so he knew there was some soft pine mixed in with the hot-burning hardwood.

  “Aaron’s daughter and her family are important to me. We’re…very close.”

  The simple statement hit him like a brick, and he nearly gasped. He was at war with the president’s boyfriend, the head of a covert agency that had his son killed, and now she was upset because Carl threatened to kill the man’s daughter.

  “I’m sure they are important to him also,” Carl said. “And he has a few hours remaining to save them.”

  “What is it you want, Mr. Johnson? Revenge? Money? Power?”

  “I want that mu’fucker to—”

  Carl stopped took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. He set the coffee mug down on the coffee table. It made a loud clinking sound, the echo of porcelain on stone. He turned his gaze on the president.

  “I want my son back, Madam President. Barring that, I want Aaron McGrath to feel my pain. Or die.”

  President Mallory had a reputation of being old-school, a country girl, whenever she wasn’t in Washington. She stood an inch taller than Carl, and at the age of 62 she was a stately figure. She was neither slender nor frumpy, but she did look her age. He assumed the stress of her job contributed to that. She was attractive in a matronly sort of way.

  Today, she was dressed in denim pants and the white collar of her blouse was visible at the top of a thick pull-over knit sweater patterned with deep blue-green colors. Her short silver hair accented her light blue eyes, giving her an air of provocative wisdom. Dress her in an expensive suit and she’d certainly look the role of CEO of any company—or any country.

  “I won’t allow that.”

  “Your influence in the outcome of the matter is limited solely to a conversation between you and him. I came here today to see him dead, or he sees his daughter and her family dead. It’s a simple choice for a father to make.”

  He could feel the anger boiling inside him again and decided it was time for him to
leave before he did something that caused hidden Secret Service agents to rush the room. He’d lost track of Agent Palmer after she followed him up the driveway, but he figured she was inside the door or in the foyer.

  He stepped back away from President Mallory and walked around to the back of the couch on which he’d laid his gear. As he put on his overcoat and thin head glove, it occurred to him that now that the president had lost her appeal to his humanity, Agent Palmer likely wouldn’t allow him to leave the house. He retrieved his gloves from his coat pocket.

  Hell, maybe they’d strap him to the table again. What more could they do? He had no more kids for them to kill, and he was pretty sure he could hold out under torture longer than Anita Chapman could hold her breath.

  “Thank you for the coffee,” Carl said as he turned to leave. It was at that moment the president dropped the bomb on him and he froze in mid-step.

  “The girl who was kidnapped is Melissa, my daughter. We’ve told the country that she’s ill, bed-ridden. Alfonso Reyes is holding her for ransom. She’s still alive.”

  He turned slowly and faced Mallory. Suddenly, everything was clear to him.

  Then she said, “I know I’m responsible for your son’s death. I wish I could…undo things.”

  Carl felt a jolt of electricity shoot up his spine. After a few seconds, he stepped back over close to her. He cocked his head a bit to the right and stared at her, as if seeking the real truth. His gaze danced between her eyes, but her gaze didn’t falter.

  Mallory spoke softly, almost in a whisper. “We thought you were him.” She paused and took a step toward him. “I authorized Aaron to use any means necessary to save my daughter.”

  “Did you authorize him to use my son as bait?”

  “He thought...we thought Mark could be useful as leverage against you—against Reyes—in exchange for Melissa.”

  “Leverage,” he mumbled.

  Her gaze faltered for the first time. “Because of my daughter’s kidnapping, I’m personally involved in this entire affair. In all the...mistakes. I have already decided not to seek a second term. I’ll go on record with a personal and public apology to you, Mr. Johnson. I promise you that.”

  “Your apology won’t bring my son back.” Carl paused and Mallory remained silent. “You all were so convinced I was Alfonso Reyes and that I didn’t break on that table after eleven days of torture.” He grunted at her. “Did you see the videos of my interrogation? Did you see what they did to me?” She said nothing, but he could see in her eyes she had.

  “Hell, they broke me on the first day. They broke me in the first goddamn minute!” A sap bubble popped in the fireplace, and he looked over her left shoulder into the dancing flames.

  “They never considered the possibility that they had the wrong man and that my son and I were never involved at all.” He closed his eyes for a moment as a shudder shook his body. “I just wish some of those bullets had taken me too.”

  He took a deep breath to recover his composure. “Your boyfriend fucked it up, Shirley.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “And he knows.”

  “That’s why he’s going to die. Or his daughter will. His choice.” Carl started to turn away, but hesitated. “Tell me, Madam President. Who is the real terrorist here? The drug lord who kidnapped your daughter, or Aaron McGrath who tortured me, or me for avenging my son’s murder?”

  He shook his head sadly. “I wouldn’t stop now, even if I wanted to. Not after what that man has taken from me.” He looked President Mallory in the eye. “I’m committed to seeing this through. You folks are welcome to do whatever you feel you need to do to me after he or his daughter die. I don’t give a damn.”

  “Mr. Johnson. Carl. I’m sorry about your son.” He saw genuine regret in her eyes. They were the eyes of a mother, not a politician. “You’ve paid a terrible price for my mistake, and I’m so sorry.” She reached out to touch his shoulder.

  “Don’t...you...even...think about it.”

  Her hand froze inches from his shoulder for a moment, then she withdrew it. Carl took a step back and realized his fists were clinched and he was trembling. Finally, he forced himself to relax and he shook his head.

  “It wasn’t your mistake. No mother would ever use a child as bait, not even an adult child. That just isn’t human nature. Only a man would do something like that. Only a man could be that despicable.”

  “Are you that kind of man, Mr. Johnson?”

  “A month ago I wasn’t. Now I am.”

  “Will you murder an innocent family?”

  “Madam President, the question you should be asking is whether or not Aaron McGrath is the kind of man—the kind of father—who would die for his family. Only he can save them now.” He pivoted and started for the entry hallway.

  She said, “Mr. Johnson, I understand how you feel, but—”

  “No, Madam President, you don’t.” He stopped and looked back at her. “You have no idea how I feel.” He paused. “Not yet, anyway.” He saw a momentary flash of rage in President Mallory’s eyes.

  “But when that piece of shit druggie kills your daughter, and you know he will, then you will understand exactly how I feel. And—” His voice caught in his throat. “And you’ll have to wake up every morning and feel your heart ripped open again and again when you realize your child is gone forever.”

  Mallory stepped forward. “Tell me what I can do to make this right. Please!”

  “I think I’ve made my position perfectly clear.” Carl Johnson turned to leave. “I want Aaron McGrath’s head.”

  Chapter 49

  0715 EST Wednesday

  McLean, VA

  Carl Johnson walked past Agent Palmer in the foyer without making eye contact, but he could feel her gaze on the side of his head. Strangely, she took no action against him. He turned the doorknob and pulled the door open, then she called to him softly.

  “Help us get Melissa back.”

  He stopped and looked at her. “Excuse me?”

  She didn’t immediately respond, so Carl said, “After what you’ve done to me, after what you’ve taken from me, you want me to help you? You must be fucking kidding me.”

  “She’s only sixteen,” Palmer said.

  “You know where she is, don’t you?” It was a question to which he also wanted the answer.

  “You look like him. You look exactly like him.”

  “So what do you want me to do, pretend like I’m him? Become a commando at age fifty-three and sneak in there? Maybe go all Rambo on them, or something? Hell, I haven’t even fired a gun in almost thirty years.”

  “You could do recon for us. Get eyes on the package so we can retrieve her.”

  “Don’t you have Army Rangers or Delta or SEAL Team Six for ops like this? Aren’t they the baddest of the bad asses?”

  “We can’t send a military unit in unless we’re absolutely certain it’s her, because we’ll only get one opportunity. If we tip them off or if she’s not there, she’s dead. Or we’ll start a war with our closest ally.”

  Neither of them said anything for a long while. Finally, Palmer said, “Why didn’t you kill Lisette Cummings?”

  He looked away for a moment, then turned slightly toward her.

  “I didn’t need to,” he said. “Special Agent Cummings felt it. When she thought I was going to kill her girl, she felt my pain.”

  There was more to that event, he knew. He broke that woman fast and hard. He destroyed her future. Of that he had no doubt. He could have killed her daughter, but the damage he sought was already done. He could see it in the agent’s eyes. She’d never be the same, and looking back on the event, he wasn’t happy with what he’d done.

  And then there was Anita McGrath Chapman. A part of him had been hoping that McGrath wouldn’t yield so Carl actually could kill her. He wanted to feel the satisfaction of revenge. He envisioned witnessing the man’s capitulation and savoring his agony when his child died. He wanted the man to hurt forever.


  And what he almost did to that little girl, Lisette, was unspeakable. He was going to cut that girl open to punish her mother. He could still see her slender body trembling as he almost plunged the blade into her chest. What if that little girl was emotionally scarred for life? What if she couldn’t find a way to deal with what had happened to her? What if she got hooked on drugs or committed suicide?

  Oh, Mark. What have I done?

  As he reviewed his conversation with the president, he felt a bitter disappointment in leaving McGrath’s house not having met his nemesis. He wanted, needed, to see the man’s face and feel his fear and revel in his desperation, vulnerability, and pain. Now he realized he would never get that satisfaction, not with the president running interference.

  Suddenly, an overwhelming feeling of frustration and despair overcame him. Up to that moment he’d had a purpose, a mission of revenge that prevented him from accepting that he’d have to live forever without his son. Now the floodgate to those raw emotions threatened to blast wide open. He knew those emotions could cripple him without a new mission on which to focus his energy.

  Find the girl and bring her home. Find a way to atone for the lives I’ve wrecked.

  Agent Palmer stepped close and hesitantly reached out her hand to his shoulder, and Carl surprised himself by not objecting. Her touch was oddly comforting, and her eyes were suddenly not devoid of emotion, as they’d seemed out front. He sensed her loss even before she spoke.

  “My sister,” she said. “Five years ago.”

  She gave no further details, and they looked at each other until it became awkward.

  Finally, she said, “You just have to live with the pain until you learn how to put it away in a safe place you can get to when you’re ready.”

  Carl grabbed her hand, and he fought against his sudden impulse to pull it away. So he just held her hand for a moment. His voice cracked and all he could manage was a hoarse whisper.