Jack Del Rio: Complete Trilogy: Reservations, Betrayals, Endgames

by Richard Paolinelli

  Doyle and Johansen were alone with the President in the room, the rest of Arthur’s staff were scattered throughout the White House. There was press to deal with and numerous calls to make and take in a mad scramble for information. The President wanted answers and, so far, those answers hadn’t been very forthcoming.

  “I've got a meeting with the leaders of Congress,” Arthur raged at Doyle, both men looking haggard and drawn, “as well as the Joint Chiefs and my cabinet in thirty minutes, Director. I would like to be able to tell them what the bloody hell is going on around here!

  “Planes falling from the sky right and left and Vice-Presidents dropping dead faster than I can nominate them for the job is not the best way to start an administration. Well?”

  “Martial law is being enforced in the entire district,” Jeremy answered. “All law enforcement and military bases are on high alert. We're receiving conflicting reports on exactly what happened up on that rooftop after the shot was fired, as well as what type of weapon was used and who is capable of making such a shot. Right now it looks like it was a single assassin who fired his shot and blew himself to hell. We’ve uncovered nothing to indicate there is any connection to Cashman’s crash or the loss of Flight 219 at this time.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Johansen said from behind Doyle.

  Both Arthur and Doyle were shocked by the woman's statement. Before Doyle could turn around and face her he noticed Arthur's expression change from one of stunned disbelief into one of outrage. When Doyle completed his turn, his expression underwent a similar change.

  Johansen stood there facing the two men with her service weapon drawn and pointed right at them. There was a silencer attached to her gun and a second gun in her left hand with no silencer.

  Doyle immediately saw what she had planned. She was going to shoot Arthur, then him with the second gun, and claim Doyle was the assassin; that she’d shot him but was too late to save the President.

  “What the hell do you think you are doing, Agent Johansen?” Doyle asked when he could finally find his voice again.

  “Correcting a mistake, Director.” She replied coldly, turning to address Arthur. “You see Mr. President, Kellen Paxton wasn't supposed to die today, you were. I'm to see to it that you do.”

  “Do you really think you can get away with this,” Doyle asked, stalling for time as he tried to figure out how to stop his turncoat agent.

  “Of course,” Johansen said with absolute confidence. “Before the agents outside hear the shot that kills you I will see to it that the gun that kills the President is next to your body to be found by them. They will have no other conclusion to reach. You killed the President, Director.” Johansen cocked her head and one corner of her mouth turned up. “Unfortunately, you did so before I could stop you. I, in turn, killed you. I imagine they’ll promote me into your position. An added bonus.”

  The matter-of-fact cold-bloodiness of her tone struck Doyle speechless, but Arthur’s voice carried strong and clear. “Why are you doing this? Who are you working for?”

  “Patriots, Mr. President,” Johansen replied, her head lifting slightly with pride. “True patriots intent on making this country great again.”

  “By committing mass murder?” Arthur asked with enough contempt to draw a reaction from Johansen.

  “By whatever means necessary.” Her stare was beyond evil.

  “And how do your people expect to carry out their plans with Paxton dead?” Arthur asked. “You can’t just slip anyone through the door and call them President.”

  “There was always a contingency in place, if you hadn’t selected Paxton to replace Cashman. It’s been around for over two hundred years.” Johansen paused, smiling as she watched Arthur work it out.

  “Are you telling me,” Arthur asked, incredulously, “that the Speaker of the House is part of this too?”

  “She could never be elected to the office,” Johansen explained, “politics being what they are. But you could, and once you were in, whether or not you made the correct choice of running mate, she was in position to take the office by law, that is if something happened to you and the Vice-President.”

  “So Cashman died for nothing,” Arthur said, dismayed at his unintended role in his friend’s death.

  “Cashman died because you made the wrong choice.”

  “Agent Johansen,” Doyle said, making one last attempt to stop her before she opened fire, even though he already knew she’d reject what he was about to say. “I am ordering you to put down your weapon and surrender. We’ll see if we can work out some kind of deal in exchange for your cooperation.”

  “I don’t take orders from you, Director,” Johansen said with a cruel smile. “I never have.”

  “Who do you take orders from then?” Arthur asked. “You can at least tell me that much before you kill us.”

  “I work for Director Cavanaugh,” she replied, enjoying the look on Doyle’s face at her answer.

  Johansen raised her weapon and took aim at Arthur, her finger starting to tighten ever so slightly on the trigger. Knowing it was futile, Doyle hurled himself directly between his agent and his President, mentally chiding himself for having taken off his Kevlar vest and removed his gun. I thought we were safe inside the White House.

  He felt the pain of his ribs slamming into the desk even as he heard the quiet whiff of a shot from a silenced weapon. His hands automatically clutched at his chest, seeking to stem the flow of blood from the wound.

  But there was no blood, no wound, no pain of a bullet impacting flesh. He glanced back to see if the bullet had somehow gotten past him and struck Arthur, but the President was still standing obviously unhurt.

  Doyle looked back at Johansen, expecting a second shot. Her eyes and mouth grew wide as the gun tumbled from her hand. In terrible slow motion she fell to her knees, paused there for a second and tumbled forward face first, dead before she hit the carpet.

  Neither man moved or spoke for what seemed like a very long time before Doyle caught sight of movement from an area of dark shadow directly behind Johansen’s body. A ghost, armed with its own gun with a silencer, stepped out of that shadow and into the light.

  “Del Rio!” Doyle exclaimed in shocked disbelief.

  Jack stepped fully into the light, unscrewing the silencer to tuck it away in his jacket pocket before holstering his gun. He reached down to relieve the corpse of the two guns it carried. Stepping over the body he handed the two guns to Doyle, who was still trying to figure out if he was hallucinating or not.

  “Don’t make me get out my paint ball gun again, Jeremy,” Jack said with the devil-take-all smile of a man with his neck firmly in the hangman’s noose.

  The quip snapped Doyle out of it, as intended, and he quickly took possession of the weapons. To Doyle, Del Rio looked like he’d just walked through the gates of hell itself and back again. The Director had a feeling he was going to hear first-hand about the journey.

  “Are you here to kill me, too?” Arthur asked rattled by the latest turn of events as anyone would be.

  “No, sir, I am not,” Jack replied. “But up until just a minute ago, I wasn't sure that I hadn't shot the wrong man this afternoon.”

  “You killed Paxton?” Doyle exclaimed, wondering if he shouldn’t get one of the two guns back out and leveled at Del Rio. “But what about the body we found on the roof?”

  “A member of the same group of people that she and Paxton both worked for,” Jack replied, nodding his head at Johansen. “The same goes for the body they found in my car a few days ago. I'm sorry, Mr. President, but until she tried to kill you, I wasn't really sure if you were one of them or not.”

  “But who the hell are 'they'?” Arthur demanded, still a little pale from his brush with death but recovering. “For that matter, who the hell are you?”

  “This, Mr. President, is Special Agent Jack Del Rio of the FBI,” Doyle answered, “although he was supposed to have died in a fiery car crash three days ago.”


  “I got better,” Jack quipped, unable to resist, enjoying the sour look Doyle shot his way. “And as for who 'they' are, sir, I think this will answer all of your questions.”

  Slowly, so as not to alarm Doyle, Jack reached into his other jacket pocket and pulled out the thumb drive, which now carried everything he had uncovered as well as Karpov’s original data. He handed it to Doyle who quickly commandeered the laptop on the President’s desk and began looking over the information with Arthur reading over his shoulder.

  Jack walked over to the table where quite an impressive assortment of liquor was arrayed, along with glasses and some ice. After getting a permissive nod from the President, Jack poured himself a drink and wandered back to the desk, avoiding the corpse which was quickly becoming forgotten.

  He’d finished the drink by the time Doyle finished reviewing the drive, stepping aside to let Arthur catch up. Jack fished out the Secret Service ID Doyle had generated for him and handed it over to the Director.

  “I was wondering how you managed to get past all of our security,” Doyle remarked ruefully.

  “Sandbagged you, I’m afraid,” Jack said. “I left out one building from that list I gave you at the briefing. Be thankful you gave me that ID. Without it, we'd all probably be dead and Paxton and his fellow 'patriots' would be in power. The United States of America would have been lost.”

  “How long have you known about this?” Doyle asked.

  “Since about a day after I shot you with that paint ball at the mock parade,” Jack replied tiredly

  “That long,” Doyle exclaimed. “Why didn't you say something to me?”

  “Because for the last several days, I had no idea who was involved in this nor who I could trust. You saw the files. They had people everywhere.”

  Johansen’s body was proof of Jack’s statement. Doyle nodded sympathetically as he considered Del Rio's plight over the past week. Before he could say anything more, Arthur finished his own review of the drive and stepped away from the computer, deeply shaken by what he has seen. The information Jack provided would send shock waves throughout the government and beyond. The public’s faith in its government, which was already questionable, would be shaken to its very core.

  “I assume you have some idea of how to proceed from here?” Arthur asked Jack.

  “Actually, sir,” Jack replied firmly, “I think I do.”

  “Well, son,” Arthur said with his arms extended out, “don’t keep it to yourself. What exactly do you suggest?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  It had taken a few hours to put the pieces into place, mostly because Doyle grilled each agent thoroughly before briefing them and sending them out on their appointed tasks for the evening.

  Jack had counseled that, in a conspiracy like this one, the fewer people involved in each agency the less chance of discovery. He reasoned that Johansen was likely the only turncoat in the Secret Service with Cavanaugh being the lone CIA representative.

  “How about the FBI?” Doyle had asked.

  “Oh, don’t worry about the Bureau, Director,” Jack assured. “I have a pretty good idea who their man is over there.”

  “Care to share?” Doyle asked and was sorry he had. After Jack had identified the traitor, he asked to be allowed to deal with him directly and on his own terms.

  “Why?” Arthur had asked after being filled in on Jack’s relationship with the traitor. “Why not let Doyle and the Secret Service handle it?”

  “Because he might be able to get out of any charge we hit him with,” Jack replied. “He’s smart enough to cover his tracks and he’ll likely be able to deny everything. Besides, right now we don’t have anything solid to link him to this. But if we let him think he’s in the clear, that we haven’t a clue he’s involved, he just might slip up.”

  “How?” Doyle asked.

  “Because he knows me,” Jack replied confidently. “Once he knows I’m still alive, he’ll wonder just exactly what I know, then he’ll come to me looking for an answer. If it is just us, alone somewhere, where he thinks it’s safe, he might hang himself.”

  “He also might try to kill you,” Doyle pointed out.

  “If I’m right,” Jack replied, his voice so cold Doyle felt a chill of fear, “he’s already taken one shot at me. I won’t let him get a second one off.”

  Doyle didn’t have to ask what Jack meant he would do to prevent a second attempt.

  Once Doyle had assured himself that no more disloyal agents were to be found, he sent them out to collect several people from their homes for an emergency meeting with the President. The agents were not to tell their targets anything more than that, nor were they to allow their target to make any phone calls. They were to pick them up and immediately escort them to a building a few blocks from the White House.

  Cavanaugh, Collins, the Secretary of the Navy, the Director of the FBI and the majority and minority leaders of the House and Senate—Speaker of the House Nan Liposey among them —found themselves sitting around a large table in an otherwise vacant room on the top floor of a vacant building.

  The finishing touches of the building’s construction were expected to be completed first thing Monday morning, but for now it provided a perfect location for a high-level clandestine meeting that got underway just at the stroke of midnight, less than twelve hours since the assassination of Kellen Paxton. The President strolled into the room with Doyle in tow and quickly got down to business.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Arthur began, “please allow me to apologize for the hour and for the manner in which we're meeting tonight. But I am sure you will soon agree with me that the circumstances more than warrant it.

  “Within the last twenty-four hours,” Arthur scanned the crowd, “our country came perilously close to falling victim to a heinous plot, hatched by a former enemy and kept alive by its minions within its own borders and ours as well. Had this plot succeeded it would very likely have ended our country's existence as we know it.

  “You are all here tonight because I feel that it is vital that we have a plan of action in place to move forward, to keep our country safe and secure. But first, we have one piece of business to take care of. Two of the traitors who would have betrayed our country is at this very table tonight…and I cannot abide traitors.” The President’s voice had hardened in anger.

  The group of people at the table quickly glanced around at each other. Some asked, even demanded, to know the identity of the traitors. Others assured that it was not they who had betrayed their homeland. Three of them lied.

  All fell silent when a side door opened and Jack stepped into the room, walking directly up to the table to stand beside the President without looking at anyone else. Collins and Cavanaugh, along with the FBI’s Director, looked visibly shocked to see Jack, the others looked confused as they had no clue who this new arrival was.

  “I believe I can help you with that, Mr. President,” Jack said as he spared a searching look at every face at the table. He made no attempt to acknowledge Collins or the Director of the FBI.

  “This is FBI Special Agent Jack Del Rio,” Arthur said, introducing Jack to those in the room who did not already know his identity. “If it were not for his actions these past several days the plot to overthrow our government would have succeeded.”

  The room fell into a stunned silence and Jack’s searching glance lingered briefly on Cavanaugh before falling on the Secretary of the Navy.

  Jack shattered the silence. “Mr. President, using the information I showed you earlier along with data retrieved during a new computer search, we've been able to identify most of the low-level conspirators involved, along with two others who played a high-level leadership role in the plot on our side of the Atlantic.

  “Director Doyle’s agents have begun taking many of the lower level personnel into custody.” Jack walked around the table as he spoke. “A few remain unidentified at this point and are at large. But as you said, there are two traitors in this room and they are at t
he very top of the conspiracy.”

  Jack halted his tour around the table next to the Secretary of the Navy and looked down at the man as he handed him a slip of folded paper. “When you sent out the order to hunt down and destroy the Los Angeles, you were given information that convinced you beyond any doubt that the Los Angeles was threatening to launch its missiles at targets on American soil, correct?”

  The Secretary nodded confirmation as he took the folded paper from Jack’s hand.

  “Is the name on that piece of paper the name of the man who provided you with the information that convinced you to sink one of your own submarines?”

  The Secretary unfolded the paper and took a long, hard look at it. He glanced up in shock, first at the President and then at Del Rio.

  “Answer his question,” Arthur instructed.

  “Yes, that is the man’s name.”

  Jack resumed his trek around the table after reclaiming the paper. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “If it is any consolation, you had no way of knowing the information was false. I suspect even if you had not given the order, a false set of orders bearing your name would have been transmitted to the fleet and the result would have been the same.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Jack went on after getting an appreciative nod of thanks from the Secretary, “over fifty years ago, as the Second World War came to an end, certain members of the KGB planted new families within the large mass of refugees that came here…to infiltrate our country and become citizens. Their orders were simple. They were to raise families and train the children and grandchildren to become productive members of American society and to quietly work themselves into positions of political, economic, and military power and influence.”

  “You’re talking about Sleepers!” The FBI Director exclaimed.

  “Exactly, sir,” Jack replied. “And when they were all in their desired places, they were to help push America toward a more accepting tolerance of the communist empire. But when the Soviet Union fell, the plan changed. It transformed and became the merging of the two superpowers into one, or rather the capitulation of the United States to the new Russia. Once combined, the new superpower would branch out until it had encompassed the entire world under a communist umbrella.”