Capitol Danger

by J. D. Tyler

  “Including President Warren? She’s supposed to make an appearance tonight.”

  “Especially that conniving, corrupt, milk-faced bitch,” Pohl sneered. He made a gun with his thumb and forefinger, mimicked shooting it. “I get her in my sights tonight, I’ll be glad to pull the trigger myself.”

  There. A direct threat against the president. He could arrest the man now, but he wanted Methan and the others as well. If Pohl was taken in, the rest of the group would go to ground. The charges leveled against them would be even stronger once the group made a move.

  “Her secret service agents will take you out before your weapon finishes discharging,” Dalton said. “You’ll be dead before you hit the floor.”

  The other man’s eyes were cold, serious. “Doesn’t matter, because there are a thousand more Red Mantle soldiers like me who will make sure the mission is carried on. My death means nothing compared to the travesty I will have saved this country from suffering under the farce of her leadership.”

  And that, right there, was what made this group so very dangerous. Like members of Al Qaeda, the men who made up the Red Mantle were willing to sacrifice themselves for their fanatic beliefs. That sort of hive mind was difficult to defeat.

  “What about you?” Pohl asked, expression hard. “You willing to die for the cause?”

  “I am.” Just not the cause you’re referring to, you asshole. I’m willing to die to see you and your buddies behind bars—or six feet under.

  “Good, because you just might.”

  Ignoring that jab, he asked, “After we split off, where will you be?”

  “Near the ballroom, directing the action. Don’t you fuckin’ worry about that, just concentrate on your task.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “You’re going to be backup for our men inside on the ballroom level. Davis and some others will be disguised as waiters, mingling with the crowd. Scoping out our targets. You’ll assist them when time comes.” He paused, and Dalton waited for him to continue.

  “At nine-thirty, Davis and the others will take a break and retrieve their heavier weapons from where they’ll have been stashed in the tunnel’s entrance. Twenty minutes later, the president is set to arrive, and that’s when we’ll make our move. Take down every one of our enemy we possibly can.”

  The gleam of excitement in Pohl’s eyes made Dalton shiver inwardly.

  “And if we survive, we exit the by the same route?”

  “Exactly. We’ll lay low for a few days, meet up when the heat dies down.”

  If the president or anyone else in an important government position was killed, the heat would never die down, but he didn’t say that. Anyway, he wasn’t going to let any harm come to her or any of the guests, if he could help it.

  “All right. I’m ready,” Dalton told him. “Where will I meet you?”

  Suddenly he was anxious for the bastard to leave. He needed to dig the second burner phone out of the mattress, make sure Noah and the local FBI, SAC Haskell and Special Agent Maitland, knew what was going down in case the hidden transmitter behind his ear hadn’t picked up his conversation with Pohl. They would get the ball rolling with Homeland and the president’s detail.

  “You’re not meeting me, you’re coming with me. Right now.” The other man gave him a searching stare, as though waiting for him to argue.

  Fuck! They still didn’t trust him—as well they shouldn’t.

  Dalton shrugged, mind scrambling for a way to make sure Noah knew what was happening tonight. “Whatever. Let’s go.”

  He followed Pohl outside to the man’s plain silver Camry, and rode shotgun. The vehicle was far from the stereotypical black SUV one might expect a bad guy to drive, but that was the whole point. The group was good at blending in.

  Parking in D.C. was a bitch, so he knew they’d leave the car in a random lot and walk to the metro. Wouldn’t do for them to have all the getaway vehicles in one place, anyhow.

  As they rode in silence, Dalton stared out the window and mulled over everything he’d learned about the Red Mantle’s sick agenda. They wanted women out of power, and back in the kitchen. On their backs servicing their men and then popping out babies. Forcing himself to think rationally, he asked himself, to what end?

  Who, ultimately, was going to benefit the most from taking out the most important figurehead in the United States? Because someone would.

  And the most obvious answer caused a cold chill to snake down his spine.

  Turning his head, Dalton studied the other man’s profile. “When the president is terminated, Vice President Manning will be sworn in to take her place.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Red Mantle approves of his leadership simply because we admire him?” He paused, but Pohl’s expression remained neutral. “Or is Manning a member of the Red Mantle? That’s it, isn’t it? He’s one of us.” His mind reeled. “That’s how Methan learned exactly when the president is coming tonight.”

  A smile kicked up the corner of the other man’s mouth, there and gone so fast Dalton might’ve imagined it. “Now you’re getting with the program,” he said. “You might not be as stupid as I thought.”

  Holy mother of God.

  The vice president was one of those nutbags. Why in hell hadn’t he considered that possibility before? Why, indeed. When people found out, half the country wouldn’t believe it and the other half would go into a frenzy, claiming the VP had been framed and shit.

  Stunned, Dalton sat back in his seat and struggled to appear relaxed, when everything in him screamed to find a secure phone. Now.

  But if his fellow agents had picked up the conversation between him and Pohl, the group would have a big surprise waiting for them in the steam tunnels. Dalton could only pray the transmission had worked.

  If it hadn’t, he’d need more than luck and the Glock tucked into his jeans to not only bring down Methan, but get out alive.

  He’d need a fucking miracle.

  * * * * *

  Excitement crackled in the air outside the Fierenze Hotel. Attendees were arriving in droves, laughing, exchanging banter, discussing politics and the new president, the mood festive.

  Jolie smoothed the front of her gown and gripped the microphone, forced the noise into the background, and tried to quell an unfamiliar bout of nerves. This wasn’t some rookie assignment back home in Dallas reporting the events at the State Fair, or informing the public about the latest city scandal.

  A plum assignment in D.C. covering an inaugural ball for the much-celebrated first female president of the United States could make her career. She needed this, especially after her brush with the serial killer, Samson. One she’d barely survived.

  She absolutely couldn’t let her boss, or herself, down.

  Taking a deep breath, Jolie nodded at her cameraman, counted to three in her head, and began, flashing her best smile.

  “Spirits are high tonight and excitement is in the air here at the inaugural Stand Together Gala for Women at the Fierenze Hotel in downtown D.C. As you can imagine, the guest list of those who’ve come out to celebrate President Warren’s victory reads like a who’s who of not only Washington, but of her supporters from Hollywood as well. Everyone here is looking forward to the celebration, not to mention the possibility that the president could decide to surprise the guests with a visit later tonight. Will she show? Who knows what other fun surprises are in store? One thing is for sure, this evening promises to be completely unforgettable, and we’ll be here all night bringing you updates. Reporting live from the Fierenze Hotel in Washington, D.C., this is Joelle Montfort, Channel Eight News. Back to you, Chad.”

  Grinning, her cameraman gave her a thumbs-up, and they were off the air. “Great job as usual, Jolie.”

  “Thanks, Bill.” With a sigh, she handed her microphone over to an assistant. “This is all so exciting.”

  “It’s a huge fucking waste of taxpayers’ money, if you ask me,” he muttered, glaring at the hotel as t
hough the building were personally responsible. “But hey, nobody asks us little people about those kinds of things before they swill our money down their throats along with their fancy champagne.”

  “Jeez, tell me how you really feel, Bill,” she teased.

  The older man flushed a bit, giving her a lopsided grin. “Seein’ the waste in action just gets me a little riled up. I haven’t seen so many fake puppets since my wife and I took the kids to Disneyland.”

  She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Well, you’re right about that. But this version of la-la land could very well mean my big break, so I’ve got to get in there and play nice. You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Smiling, she shook her head at her grumbly cameraman and headed up the wide steps, toward that coveted big break.

  This would indeed be a night to remember.

  * * * * *

  Following behind Pohl and the other members of the Red Mantle as they crept along the dark, dank tunnel, Dalton couldn’t help but wonder whether he was heading toward his own death.

  So far, no team of FBI agents had swarmed in to intercept and arrest the terrorists, and it was looking unlikely they would at this point. Which meant Dalton’s surveillance team hadn’t heard a word of the all-important transmission. Something had gone wrong, and now he was in the deepest shit he’d ever been, without a single lifeline to hold on to.

  In spite of the cold, beads of sweat ran down his back, sticking under his dark shirt and flak jacket, and tracing a path from his hair to his temples. So, he wasn’t going in totally blind, and he wasn’t stupid. He’d studied the basic layout of the hotel and its surrounding buildings in the event he ended up inside. The gala was taking place in there, after all, and Methan hadn’t chosen this week for their group to hang around town for no reason.

  Beyond the plan, at its heart, he couldn’t help but pin this as a suicide mission. The men had to realize that even with the steam tunnels as an escape route, a great many of them wouldn’t make it out alive. But they were willing to pay the price. Pohl’s words had confirmed that.

  The closer they got to their destination, the harder Dalton’s heart pounded in his chest until he was certain the men nearest him would hear. He was almost sure of it when he glanced to his right and saw one of them staring a hole in the side of his head.

  Dalton stared back. “What the fuck are you looking at?”

  “Some dumb hick who’ll probably get his ass shot before he’s any use to the mission, that’s what.” The bastard turned his head and spit into the darkness.

  He gave the asshole his best sneer. “Think so? I’ve killed things with my bare hands that were tougher than you—then skinned and eaten them raw.”

  Of course he’d never done anything like that, and the only thing he’d ever tasted raw was sushi. But his words had the desired effect. The other man blinked at him, moved a couple of steps away, then proceeded to mind his own damned business.

  Let them think he was half crazy, who cared at this point? With a healthy dose of luck, he’d be walking away from the real lunatics at the end of this night, and going back to his life in Texas none the worse for wear.

  After an interminable walk in the gloom, not to mention a few twists and turns he committed to memory, they came to a narrow corridor. Each of them was forced to go single file until finally their progress halted. Craning his neck, Dalton could barely make out a gaping hole in the concrete wall just ahead.

  One by one the group filed through, and as Dalton’s eyes adjusted to the space, he noted they were in some sort of storage room. A dim light filtered from around a crack in a door across the room, and one of the figures slipped up and eased it open, peering out.

  “Clear.” Pohl’s voice. “Davis, you and the others get changed and ready for your performance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clearly, they’d been prepared. A group donned waiter’s uniforms that had been hidden beforehand. They’d blend in to the crowd with ease, barring a complication, right until show time.

  “Let’s go.”

  Dalton’s gut knotted. Closing the last of the distance between them and the unsuspecting hotel guests and staff was the longest walk of his life. Knowing he couldn’t help these people, agony. He could only try to alert his superiors to the situation, hunt Methan, take him down.

  When they reached the end of the hallway, noises reached his ears. Talking, banging of pots and pans. An occasional burst of laughter. Please, stay away from these people. They’re just doing their jobs.

  Turning, the so-called leader scanned over the group. “The group dressed as waiters, come with me. And you, too.” He indicated Dalton with a smirk.

  As if that was a surprise.

  “The rest of you, take care of things down here. You all know the drill. At nine-thirty, we’ll return and retrieve the heavy weapons.”

  Dalton went along with the group, including Davis, who was far from the innocent-looking kid he appeared to be. To remain out of sight for as long as possible, they used the service passageways and back stairwells used by the staff. There was risk of discovery literally around every corner, but their luck held until they were almost to the ballroom level.

  From a level or so above them, a door slammed, the noise echoing in the stairwell. Footsteps clanged on the metal stairs coming down, and one of the men closest to Pohl moved forward, pistol in hand, fitted with a silencer.

  Oh, shit! Go back.

  Dalton started pushing his way forward, thinking maybe he could get to the unsuspecting victim first, knock the person out. Anything but what happened, much too fast for him to stop it.

  A pair of legs became visible first, clad in black pants. Then a white shirt, and finally the startled face of an older male hotel staff member.

  “What the hell—”

  The poor man barely uttered those words before a hole appeared in his forehead. His eyes widened as he staggered backward, against the wall, then slumped to the metal grate flooring, dead.

  Dalton’s head swam and he fought down a surge of bile. A senseless death, and he’d been unable to do a damned thing to prevent it. And this was just the beginning.

  “Does someone need to hold your hand?” Pohl snapped.

  Dalton realized the asshole was speaking to him, watching him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Carefully, Dalton schooled his expression. “I don’t believe in waste, that’s all. You want to hold my hand, tough. I don’t swing that way.”

  A few of the men snickered. For a second, he thought the man might put a bullet between his eyes, but then Pohl just snorted and motioned them forward.

  Dalton stayed wary and alert, though. He didn’t trust that his smartass remark would go unpunished, that the asshole wouldn’t order that silencer pointed at his head next. He should’ve just kept his mouth shut—but he’d never been very good at that.

  Finally, their ascent ended and they waited tensely for the green light. The faint noise of partygoers could be heard beyond the door, in the distant ballroom and hallway outside of it.

  Pohl gestured to the door. “The general public can’t see this door, but use caution anyway. Once you go through here, you’ll be close to the ballroom and able to filter in without attracting attention. Questions?”

  There were none.

  “Nine-thirty. Retrieve the big guns, and execute. If there’s a problem, we move up the time frame and I’ll give Davis the go-ahead. You see him moving, it’s on.”

  That caused a few uneasy glances between the men, but no one argued. Dalton had to agree it wasn’t a solid plan, and left way too much margin for error. But that error might be his salvation, so he kept quiet, too.

  Slowly, the “waiters” exited into the hallway and vanished. To Dalton, it was like watching poison enter an artery and not being able to do a damned thing to stop the infection.

  Pohl turned to Dalton and another man, who was also in disguise, gesturing to them both. “You two will stay here, ou
t of sight. You’ll provide any backup necessary when the plan goes down.”

  “Yes, sir,” the other guy said.

  Dalton only nodded. Of course, the suspicious leader wasn’t about to leave him to his own devices. He hadn’t yet proven himself—and after tonight, he had a feeling it wouldn’t be an issue.

  After Pohl was gone, the silence became a bit unnerving. “So, what do you like to do for fun?” he asked. “When you’re not blowing people up, that is.”

  “Why don’t you shut the fuck up?”

  And that was the end of the polite conversation.

  The tension in the stairwell was so thick, he could’ve spread it on his toast. The wait seemed forever, and it was still minutes until nine-thirty. He had to find a way to ditch this guy. No, taking him out altogether would be best. Then he could make his way back down to the basement or kitchen, find a phone and call in reinforcements.

  That thought had no sooner crossed his mind than the distinct, awful pop-pop-pop of gunfire reached his ears.

  * * * * *

  The party was in full swing, and it was a success.

  Jolie hadn’t stopped smiling, laughing, and rubbing elbows, all the while gathering wonderful tidbits of information to use in her coverage. She’d been told some pretty good stories from some of the politicians, too, from human interest angles, to run by her boss later.

  “Things were sure different when I was a young man,” Senator Blevins was saying pleasantly, swirling the champagne in his glass. “You didn’t have all these women in office, taking men’s jobs.”

  She blinked at the gray-haired, portly man. Surely he hadn’t meant that the way it sounded? “I’m sorry?”

  Blevins chuckled as though he’d been making a joke—seemingly unaware it was a particularly unfunny one. Not to mention the fact that he was talking to a woman. “Oh, yes. They occupy every seat now from the most lowly city council position to, well, president.” With a laugh, he raised his glass of champagne in a gesture of making a toast.

  They, as if he was referring to an alien life form. She let her tone cool. “You don’t approve?”