The Denali Deception

by Ernest Dempsey

"Unfortunately," Emily said. "But we're sure your Secret Service men aren't in on it. There may be police and some other advisers, though we have no way of knowing right now. A full investigation will begin in earnest as soon as we make sure you're safe."

  "I'm not leaving the White House," Dawkins said. "The last thing I can do right now is project weakness. We shot a press conference earlier. It looks just like our press room above ground. As far as the American people are concerned, I'm still here and doing my job as normal. If I venture out, that might send the wrong message."

  "I'm more worried about your safety than a message, Mr. President."

  He sighed. "You don't have to call me that, Emily."

  "We're at work, Mr. President."

  "Is that work Emily or personal Emily that's worried about my safety?"

  "It's both, sir. If you're not going to leave, then I am staying with you."

  He smirked at the threat. "If you think that's going to get me to go with you, you may want to rethink your strategy. Besides, we will be going back up top in the morning. All the security sweeps have detected no danger. The White House will resume normal business first thing tomorrow."

  "Fine. Just promise me you won't let Foster near the building. He's a snake in the grass. He already struck once. Don't give him another chance."

  "Very well," Dawkins said with resignation. "I'll alert security."

  "There's more, sir."

  "More?" Dawkins said as his eyebrows lifted.

  "Yes, sir. Someone redirected the calls coming into Axis from Sean's number as well as areas where he was known to be operating, such as western New York. The phone they were sent to is most likely a burner. I doubt we can connect it to anyone on paper. Our cameras, however, were able to help us ID the person who put the device on the lines outside our building."

  "You have a positive ID?"

  "Yes, sir. His name is Mark Pinkton."

  "Never heard of him."

  Adriana and Emily exchanged a knowing glance. Emily pulled a folder out of her bag and passed it to the president.

  He opened it and looked at the images at the top of a stack.

  "That is Pinkton standing next to a CIA operative named Drew Porter."

  "And look who they're standing behind," Adriana added.

  Dawkins lifted the image a little closer so his eyes could focus. It looked like the image had been taken somewhere in Europe. The buildings in the background looked familiar. Moscow, perhaps? The two men were standing in a group of security personnel, slightly in front of the rest. They were clearly protecting the man at the front of the picture as he gave a speech behind a podium.

  The speaker was Kent Foster.

  The president's face turned pale. "Get me the head of the Secret Service. And call Langley. Someone's going to have some explaining to do."

  "We've already made the calls, sir," Emily said. "Porter and Pinkton are missing. They've gone rogue."

  Chapter 32

  Washington

  "How did this happen?" Foster raged.

  "I'm not sure, sir," Porter answered. "I told him to hang back, to keep his distance from Wyatt. He insisted on trying to apprehend the two marks."

  "Those were not his orders."

  "Yes, sir. I know. I have no idea why he decided to go against what you wanted. Now he's dead, and Wyatt and Schultz are on the run."

  Foster wiped his cold nose with a finger. He glanced out the car window and saw the airport fast approaching.

  "What happened to the body? The last thing I need is someone finding a dead CIA agent lying around. If anyone at Langley were to find out, there would be an inquisition like the world hasn't seen since the actual inquisition."

  Porter knew the ramifications. He didn't care if the CIA investigated the murder. He wouldn't be touched by it. No one would even think to ask if he was involved. Foster—on the other hand—had plenty of reasons to worry. The secretary of state had been cautious with Porter and his men, always meeting in secret, paying in cash for each assignment, and never using the same burner phone from month to month. That didn't mean there was no evidence that could link him to Steve's murder—or to the president's for that matter.

  Porter didn't want to pull that particular string. He knew that if he threw Foster under the bus, the man would retaliate and take down everyone else who worked for him.

  Spending the rest of his life in prison—or worse, being executed—didn't sound appealing to Porter. He'd worked too hard, come too far to turn back now.

  So, he kept Foster on the line like a striped bass nibbling at a rubber worm.

  "No one is going to find the body, sir," Porter said. "And if they do, we'll put it on Wyatt. He's a loose cannon. Every airport and border agency in the country is on the lookout for him. Now we have one more reason to put his face on those wanted posters."

  Foster's silence told Porter the man had liked the idea—and the assessment of the situation.

  "I'm curious," Foster said, "how did you escape? Were you or your men injured?"

  "No, sir. We're okay. I guess Steve was in a hurry to make a name for himself. He rushed Wyatt and Schultz. Tried to ambush them as they sat next to the river a few miles outside of Clinton. He approached the two men, kept his weapon on Schultz, and then Wyatt shot him in the side of the head."

  Foster didn't care about Steve on a personal level. He was an asset, an expendable resource. Types like those were easy enough to find. What he did care about was whether or not Porter was telling the truth. He'd already shown he wasn't dependable. The fact that Wyatt was still alive was a testament to that. There was also no question that Porter was not to be trusted. Any person who was willing to sell out their position for a chance at money and power was a snake. Snakes had to be handled with care.

  There was no way to know Porter's true ambitions. The man always kept things close to the vest, which incited a small amount of admiration in Foster. It reminded him of his own way of handling things.

  Now, however, Foster was in a tight spot. He didn't have time to call in more help. He was on his way to the airport. A plane waited to take him to Alaska. Interruptions and distractions could wait. This, however, was different. He needed Wyatt and his friend dealt with immediately.

  "What did Wyatt find?" Foster asked.

  "We're not sure, sir. He went into the old Surratt Museum. When they came out, neither he nor Schultz was carrying anything that we could tell."

  "That you could tell?"

  "No, sir."

  "What is that supposed to mean?" Foster boomed. "You should have taken them down right there."

  "Have you ever been to the Surratt Museum?"

  Foster didn't answer, so Porter continued. "I take that as a no. That place is surrounded by busy roads, gas stations, shopping plazas, you name it. I've been operating under the assumption you'd prefer us not draw any undue attention. Perhaps I was wrong about that."

  Foster fumed, but he couldn't argue the point. He'd never been to Clinton. Based on what Porter was telling him, it sounded like his men made the right decision—well, right up to the point Steve was killed.

  "No. You did right," Foster said.

  He didn't trust Porter. For the time being, though, he had to—until he could eliminate the asset.

  "What's your status now?" Foster asked.

  "We're tailing Wyatt and Schultz. Looks like they're heading to an airport."

  Foster let a "ha" escape his mouth. "Are they stupid? They'll be taken into custody on sight."

  "Not at a smaller airport, sir. There's one not far from here. Best we can figure, they've made arrangements for a plane to fly out of here."

  "To where?"

  "That part we don't know."

  "Then you better find out."

  "Actually, sir, the plan is to take them down before they board. If they took something from the Surratt House, we'll find it. The question is, what do you want us to do with it if we find something?"

  Foster didn't have to thin
k long. "Destroy it. Everything. Burn it all. I don't care how you do it. Just make sure there is no evidence of whatever it is those two have."

  "Oh. I thought you would want us to bring it to you. I guess that means we don't have to be careful if things get messy."

  Foster considered the last statement. Perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone.

  "No need to be cautious anymore," Foster said. "Use any means necessary to take out Wyatt and Schultz. Same goes for whatever they might have discovered. I don't care if you have to burn their plane. Get rid of them and the evidence."

  "Yes, sir."

  He ended the call and slid the phone back into his suit pocket. His driver pulled through a side entrance to the airport and steered the car toward a row of private hangars to the right.

  Directly ahead, a shiny white Gulfstream G650 sat on the tarmac. A few men in black peacoats and matching pants stood at the foot of the steps leading onto the plane. To protect their ears from the cold, they wore matching beanies.

  Foster's driver brought the car to a stop fifty feet away from the plane. As soon as he shifted it into park he hurried to get out and open the back door for his employer. Foster stepped out onto the runway and looked around the airport, taking in the smell of jet fuel exhaust, the tarmac, and the chilly city air.

  The man to the right of the plane's steps approached the car's parking spot before it stopped so that he was there and ready to greet Foster the moment he left the vehicle.

  "Sir, the plane is fueled and ready to go." He spoke in a near-shout due to the engines whining as they warmed up.

  "Thank you. We are to take off immediately. Notify the pilot."

  "Yes, sir," the man said and took off toward the plane.

  Foster strode across the asphalt. When he reached the steps, he took a look around, surveying the airfield. Off in the distance, the lights of the Capitol shone bright in the night. The Washington Monument's red warning lights radiated atop the illuminated obelisk.

  The nation's capital always stood for power, at least in Foster's mind. It represented strength over everything else. His predecessors knew that, going all the way back to the waning days of the Civil War.

  He climbed the steps and turned into the luxurious cabin filled with plush beige leather, black stitching, polished oak armrests and tables, and a fully stocked bar in the back.

  There were no attendants on this flight. From time to time, Foster would request a high-end escort to accompany him on the plane. This trip, however, was all business. Things were dangerously close to unraveling, and he had to make certain everything was in order.

  He walked to the back of the plane and opened one of the doors that housed the rocks glasses. He set the glass on the counter and picked out one of his favorite bourbons. The bottle cost over $600 for most people. For him, it was a gift from a Kentucky senator—a small token of gratitude for a favor no one else could perform. The amber liquid splashed into the glass. He stopped his pour when it was half-full and then put the bottle back in its place.

  The engines revved higher, and the captain's voice came over the speakers.

  "Sir, we are ready to taxi. When you're in your seat, we'll get moving."

  Foster took a conservative sip of the whiskey, letting the smoky flavor splash over the tip of his tongue before turning to vanilla, then pepper, as it trickled down his throat.

  He took a seat on his right and nodded to one of his men, who immediately went to the front of the plane to let the captain know he was ready.

  Foster drew in a long breath through his nostrils and then took another sip.

  Staring out the window at the historic landmarks of the capital brought back more reflections of his secret order: the Knights of the Golden Circle.

  So many people had dubbed them a hate group, an evil organization bent on chaos. Foster snorted at the thought. There was nothing hateful about them other than when someone tried to interfere with their profits. They were a business, like anything else. Sometimes, Foster considered them more of a union—at least in the group's early days. After all, that's why they'd been behind the killing of Abraham Lincoln. He'd meddled with the profits of the South and ended up paying the ultimate price.

  The other guard closed the door to the plane, and a moment later it started lumbering forward.

  Foster's mind drifted to the first time he'd seen the incredible structure in Alaska. The previous chairman and leader of the KGC had taken him there and shown him. Foster had done his best to temper his surprise and wonder. If he hadn't seen it himself, he wouldn't have believed it.

  It was Foster who figured out how to take the anomaly and use it to produce power. Up until then, his predecessors merely stripped it and the surrounding area of as much gold as they could find, storing it in giant vaults they built underground.

  He didn't blame them. The KGC used the massive quantities of gold to fund wars, political candidates, and diplomacy whenever it was to their financial advantage. In that regard, the men who came before Foster were brilliant. What he'd done, however, was far more important.

  Gold, after all, was a finite resource. The ability to perpetually create free energy—that was something far more valuable.

  In an age where green energy was the new trend, his organization had capitalized in a way no one else could. They had a limitless source of power and could provide it to anywhere in the country so long as the infrastructure was in place.

  Delivering to the Pacific Northwest, California, and the Southwestern regions had been an easy enough sell. With the proper amount of funding and enough palms crossed with silver, there wasn't anything Transcorp couldn't accomplish.

  No one knew that under it all—the branding, the public relations, the good will—was the secret society that had been responsible for the death of one of the most beloved American leaders in history.

  Lincoln, of course, wasn't the only one. Foster snickered at the thought. The public had no idea. They went about their lives, happily chasing their meager dreams, hoping to someday get a scrap from the table. Foster didn't pity them. It was their own fault. They chased the dream of money. Money fades. Power outlives mere mortals.

  The plane turned onto the runway and paused for a moment while the pilot got the final go-ahead from the tower. In less than 15 seconds, Foster's head and back pressed against the seat as the plane jolted forward.

  He looked out the window again at the lights passing by outside. Soon, he would be controlling the energy that powered those lights—and in every other city on the East Coast and everywhere in between.

  Chapter 33

  Clinton

  Sean peered through the windshield at the white airplane. It sat alone on the tarmac outside one of the larger hangars at Washington Executive Airport. There were no sounds of big jet engines or planes taking off and landing. Everything was still save for the pilot double checking a few things on the aircraft.

  The Cessna had twin turboprop engines and a range of over two thousand five hundred nautical miles. That meant they'd have to make a stop or two along the way since Alaska was almost twice as far away.

  While it wasn't as fast as Tommy's private jet, which was still being watched by the feds in Atlanta, the Cessna would get them there a good deal faster than any other means of transportation.

  "Looks like Emily came through," Tommy said. "Those are good planes."

  "Yeah," Sean said. "I just hope we don't run into any other snags."

  "I know that worrying about stuff like that is kind of one of your things, but just this once, can you let it go? We're going to be fine."

  Sean nodded as he surveyed the airfield, keeping his eyes open for trouble.

  "Come on," Tommy said. "Let's get our stuff and climb aboard."

  "Yeah."

  His paranoia was on full alert as he got out of the car and walked to the back to get his bag. His head swiveled one way and then the other, constantly watching the darkness surrounding the airfield.

  H
e hated it when things were this quiet, though he didn't dare say that to Tommy. His friend's reaction would be something along the lines of, "Well what would you prefer? An angry mob of henchmen rushing after us?"

  Sean knew better so, he kept his mouth shut and picked up his bag.

  He'd already tucked his pistol inside his jacket beforehand in case something happened while they were waiting.

  When Tommy finished collecting his things, Sean closed the trunk and started marching across the asphalt toward the plane. They left their car next to one of the hangars a few hundred feet away. It was out of the way and wouldn't draw attention, not that it mattered too much. The plates were fake, and the registration belonged to a false identity, a cover in case of a random traffic stop by the police.

  Halfway to the plane, a bright light flashed in the corner of Sean's eye. He spun around as the sound of a car's engine accompanied it.

  Two headlights were roaring toward them. The vehicle had come, seemingly, out of nowhere and was closing fast.

  "Friends of yours?" Tommy asked.

  "I was going to ask you the same question."

  "Looks like they're going to run us over. Thoughts?"

  Sean wasn't the type to shoot first and ask questions later. Initially, he hoped the car might be Adriana or Emily. That thought changed in an instant as the car picked up speed.

  "Wait for it," Sean said. "Dive clear at the last second."

  "Or maybe run for it now?"

  The two friends stood their ground, staring down the headlights racing toward them. The car was only a hundred feet away now and closing quickly.

  "Hold!" Sean said as he pulled out his pistol and took aim at the oncoming vehicle. "One more second..."

  Sean lined up the windshield where he thought the driver would be seated. At fifty feet, he fought his nerves to keep the weapon steady. Then his finger twitched, and the muzzle erupted.

  The slug smashed through the windshield, sending a web of cracks through its left half. The car jerked hard to the left and careened toward the hangar before coming to a sudden stop.