by Sean McFate
All eyes turned toward the president, awaiting a decision. The man slumped forward, his eyes narrowed, then looked up at Holt.
“I’m declaring a national emergency. I want to know everything earthly possible about Apollo Outcomes and the Wagner Group. Everyone connected to them, where they operate, their financials. Everything. Treat it as a counterterrorism operation, and not a legal case.” President Anderson turned to the attorney general, who remained stoic. “Make arrests, disregard civil rights—I don’t care, just find those nukes. When they’re all accounted for, we move against Apollo and Wagner. Moscow be damned! You have seventy-two hours,” he said to Holt, and then turned to General Butler. “And I want options. One shot, one kill.”
Holt nodded, and Butler smiled.
Chapter 47
Three black Chevy Suburbans sped around the outer rim road that encircled Dulles Airport. A rusty chain-link fence was the only thing separating the potholed road from the runways where 747s took off. There was no traffic since only utility vehicles used the road, and rarely even then.
Inside the middle vehicle, Winters checked his watch and frowned. Every second on the ground was a second too long. The battle last night left clues that would lead to his identity, and at some point this morning, he expected all of American law enforcement to crash down upon his head. Even he could not escape that nightmare. He was surprised they were not on him already.
I need to be in the air, thought Winters, before it’s too late.
“Driver, how much longer?” he asked, leaning forward from the backseat.
“Five minutes, sir.”
Winters slumped back and twirled his antique cane. The morning sun spread warmth across the yellowed grass patches in between the runways. Winters scowled at the sun for being so bright. It was irritating.
Your move, Jackson, he thought. Last night was a surprise. He did not expect Jackson to make the mistake of attacking him in the open. For that, Jackson was punished. The Apollo forces had done devastating work. However, it left Winters exposed, and that was nearly as bad. Apollo had won the battle but muddled the war. Now he had to flee the country and manage his clients, who would soon ask difficult questions.
What will I tell them? thought Winters. His clients were even less patient than he was. How can I turn this fiasco into a win? Nervously, Winters checked his watch again.
“Driver, how long?”
“Less than two minutes.”
Too long, he thought, twirling his cane faster. The small convoy came to a stop in front of a gate in the chain-link fence. A man from the lead vehicle got out with a large pair of bolt cutters and snipped the padlock, then swung open the gates. The convoy passed through. Normally they would have driven through the front gate to Dulles’s corporate executive jet terminal, but these were not normal times. Precautions were vital.
“Sir, the pilots say they are ready to go.”
“Excellent,” mumbled Winters absentmindedly. His thoughts shifted from managing his clients’ expectations to exploiting the situation. Unexpected turns of events always produced opportunities, but he could not see any good ones now. The battle on the Mall would surely expose him.
I’ll frame the other half of Apollo for the battle, he thought with satisfaction. A few phone calls with media executives should do the trick, but he knew it would not be enough. The spotlight of the federal government would fall on all of Apollo, including him, and it was the last place he wanted to be. Like all creatures of the dark, Winters abhorred the light.
Damn you, Jackson! he thought bitterly. He reviled being cornered, especially on the cusp of his plan’s fulmination. Now everything was in jeopardy. What a fool Jackson is. Or was. There was a good chance the man would be cashiered. However, Winters preferred dealing with the devil he knew rather than what could follow.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, the president will appoint an academic to replace Jackson. They were the easiest to fool since they thought they knew everything but, in reality, comprehended nothing. Winters smiled at the prospect.
“We’re almost there, sir.”
“Good. Confirm with the crew that the package is already on the plane,” said Winters. The driver radioed the plane.
“The crew confirms the package is on the plane.”
Excellent, thought Winters. It will be my day of days yet! But first, he had to get airborne and out of the country. It was his most vulnerable moment of the operation, and it made him neurotic.
The convoy raced down the tarmac, passing lines of parked private jets, and pulled up to one sitting alone. It wore Apollo’s corporate colors: black underbelly and gray top. It had no other markings. Winters had commandeered one of Apollo’s Gulfstream Vs and a faithful crew; he found money went a long way toward inspiring loyalty.
“Sir, we’re arriving,” said the driver as he stopped in front of the aircraft’s stairs. A man rushed to the passenger door and pulled it open with a grunt. It was laden with several hundred pounds of bulletproof armor. Winters carefully extracted himself from the vehicle and hobbled his way up the stairs. In the distance, a car with flashing blue lights accelerated toward them.
“Take care of it,” said Winters as he climbed the stairs. The convoy commander nodded and gave a sharp whistle to his men. They jumped back into the SUVs and sped off to intercept the airport security vehicle. Winters smirked, knowing how it would end. The aircraft stairs retracted the moment Winters was inside the fuselage, as he was its only passenger.
“Care for coffee or tea, sir?” asked the steward.
“Show me the package,” demanded Winters. The steward pulled out an aluminum briefcase. It was slightly bigger and thicker than a standard case, and it was badly scuffed and dented, in contrast to the faultless interior of the Gulfstream jet. Winters smiled.
“Good. Now give it to me, and get us off the ground,” he said, as he belted himself into the nearest seat.
The steward turned and gestured to the pilots, and tucked the case next to Winters’s feet. The turbines roared and the plane lurched forward, making the steward stumble. Winters could hear the airport radio chatter emerge from the cockpit, which still had its door open, and watched as they taxied for the runway. Out the window, he saw the three large SUVs block in the airport security vehicle and his men get out. They were not armed, a smart move. However, Winters had no doubt they would get the job done.
Good men are hard to find, he thought. The plane swung onto the runway without slowing and immediately went full throttle. As it nosed up, he could see his men get back into their vehicles and drive away. The jet climbed at a steep angle and hit some turbulence passing through a cloud bank. The blue sky shimmered in the beyond, and they banked east, toward the Atlantic and international airspace.
Free at last, thought Winters, his hand affixed to the aluminum brief case.
Chapter 48
“It’s mission impossible,” I declared, and tossed my pen at the pad. “There’s absolutely no way we can get inside Apollo’s headquarters. No way!”
Jen was taking a shower. “What?” She insisted on leaving the bathroom door open so we could converse, but so far it wasn’t working well. And it was distracting. Very, very distracting. I tried to be a gentleman and not look. A Fort Benning obstacle course would have been easier.
“I said: no way in!” I repeated, louder. Her shower was going on ten minutes, and steam perforated the minuscule hotel room. Even my pad of paper felt damp.
“Not a winner’s attitude,” she scolded. I peeked around the door and saw her feline silhouette moving behind the shower curtain, her long black hair falling to one side. She made shadows and vinyl curtains sexy.
We rented a cheap room off Highway 50 on the outskirts of DC. It was all we could afford with our shared cash on hand. When we checked in, the Indian guy at the counter asked if we wanted the room by the hour. Jen blushed and I said no. The place was a fleabag brothel, but it eschewed surveillance cameras and cops, making it a perfect safe house f
or one night.
The water turned off, replaced by a drip-drip. Next came the rustling of towels, not the fluffy, gigantic ones at the Four Seasons but the skimpy, puny ones.
Focus, Locke. Focus! I know I shouldn’t have, but I did. I could see her vague reflection in a fogged-up wall mirror attached to the bathroom door, the kind that’s four feet tall. Long, jet-black hair tumbled down her naked back as she dried off. Fog could not conceal her toned body. Jen could have been a swimsuit model.
“Tom? Did you hear me?”
I snapped out of my trance, not knowing what I missed. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
Jen emerged wearing nothing but two towels: one for the hair, and the other for everything else. In street clothes, she was attractive; now she was molten hot. However, she was also inscrutable. I was always awkward around women I was truly attracted to, and I was never sure how to proceed. To be a gentleman in this day and age is a quandary. If she was interested, she would let me know. At least I hoped that was how it worked.
She grinned slightly. “Everything OK with you, Tom?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. No problem.”
She discarded the towel around her head, and wet hair billowed out. Strands fell to her waistline. I tried not to gaze at her glistening legs or anything higher. It was frustrating.
“You seem . . . off,” she said.
“No, I’m fine. Just frustrated.”
“Frustrated?” she asked coquettishly, as she sat next to me on the bed’s edge, crossing her legs. She was still wet, and the remaining towel was waterlogged and semitransparent.
“Very frustrated,” I muttered, starring at her naked thighs. Focus, Locke! Snap to. I looked away, and collected my thoughts. “I can’t figure out a weak point in Apollo’s defenses. It’s very frustrating.”
Jen giggled. “Oh, is that what’s bothering you?”
“Yes,” I lied. I thought she could tell.
“Maybe there’s something I can do to help?” she smiled devilishly. Jen reached across me and I leaned back to make room. Her towel slackened as she stretched over my lap for the pad of paper, her wet hair cascading on my legs. I wanted to rip off the thin towel, but couldn’t. Look away! I told myself. Once she grabbed the pad, she sat back up, leaving my pulse sprinting.
“Tell me what you know,” she said professionally, preparing to take notes as she saddled up next to me, hip to hip. The towel was meagre, like a miniskirt.
“Uh, OK,” I said, trying not to seem distracted.
“From the top.”
“All right.” I told her what I knew. In a past life, I had spent countless hours at Apollo’s corporate headquarters at Tysons Corner in northern Virginia. It looked like any other banal people warehouse, but inside it was an electronic and physical fortress. Its security was tighter than the CIA. I ended with: “I don’t see a way in.”
Jen stared at the floor layouts I had sketched out, to the best of my memory. “Could we pose as building inspectors or something? I still have one friend at the FBI who might be able to arrange a legal reason for us to be there.”
“Don’t bet on it. Apollo’s lawyer will meet us at the front door. Then they will recognize me, and nab us both.” I groaned. “I’m telling you, the place is worse than Fort Meade meets Terre Haute.”
Somewhere in the background, a headboard was banging furiously, which we tried to ignore.
“There’s always a way in, Tom, we’re just not seeing it,” she sighed, tossing aside the pen and paper. She leaned back on her arms. “I need you to help me clear my head.”
“Sure,” I mumbled.
Holding the remaining towel with one hand, she slunk across the bed. There wasn’t much towel to go around as she maneuvered herself against the headboard. It was revealing. She patted the spot next to her, and I lay back, too.
The headboard banging got louder.
“Real classy place you found us,” she said coyly, poking a toe into my calf.
“They don’t ask questions at establishments like this,” I replied, fixated on her toe. “Or have cameras. Drives off business . . .” My sentence trailed off as she squirmed to get into a more comfortable position, her towel relaxing along the way. It seemed to shrink across her body.
The headboard banging stopped. Someone must have gotten their money’s worth. Jen and I looked at each other; her expression exuded raw power, like during a dock fight. My body tensed reflexively, but she ran her fingers through my hair tenderly. Then she kissed me, a peck at first and then vigorously. I reached around her waist and ejected the towel, my enemy. My hands traced up and down her smooth body as we kissed.
Jen was as passionate a lover as she was a fighter, and as physical, too. An hour later, we lay together entwined. She was perfectly asleep on me, while I felt I had gained a bruise or two. Best bruises of my life. I lay in reverie with Jen’s naked body against my side, her head on my shoulder and my hand on her ass.
Riiinnnggggg. Riiinnnggggg. The hotel telephone jolted us awake. Riiinnnggggg. Riiinnnggggg. Under a pillow on the floor lay a decades-old phone with push buttons and annoyingly loud bells.
I felt Jen’s body tighten and her hands grip my sides with each ring. “Should we answer it?” she whispered.
“No one knows we’re here. Wrong number,” I said, reaching down and hanging up.
Jen started giggling and nuzzled her face into my shoulder. “Gosh, I can’t believe how jittery I am!”
“I know a cure for that,” I offered, but she was already on top of me. I felt her thighs wrap around my waist, as she reached down.
Riiinnnggggg. Riiinnnggggg.
Argh!! I thought, scanning the room for a club, bat, bazooka, or anything else that would silence the phone.
“Hello?” It was Jen, the phone’s receiver to her ear as she lay flat on my chest.
What are you doing?! I thought.
“It’s for you,” she said in a stunned tone. I shook my head no, while she nodded yes. Then she put the receiver to my ear, and started kissing the other. It was very persuasive.
“Hello,” I said. Lin’s kissing swelled in intensity and her hot breath in my ear hijacked my brain. The enchantress was distracting me for her pleasure.
“Dr. Locke?” said a garbled voice on the other end, its sound digitally altered to conceal someone’s identity. My hand grabbed her hips to cease their mischievous wiggling, but she put my hand in a joint lock, paralyzing me while still kissing.
“Aaahhh!” I cried in pain.
“Is this Tom Locke?” asked the voice again.
“Who is this?” I managed in a hoarse whisper.
“We wish to meet with you.”
“Who is this?”
“We have much to discuss—”
Jen surprised me, and I gasped.
“—much in common.”
With focused concentration, I mustered: “W-w-why should I?”
“All will be revealed when you arrive.”
It could be a trap. Must ask one more question, I commanded myself as Jen became electrified. I summoned all my strength to form the words: “How can I trust you?”
There was silence. “You cannot. But we want Winters, too, and we know where he is. Do you want a piece of him?”
Jen collapsed on me, her hair covering my face and phone. She lay motionless, and I could feel her heartbeat race against mine. But my next words took no effort. “Absolutely.”
Chapter 49
Jackson sat in his living room, watching the news unfold in his bathrobe and drinking twenty-five-year-old scotch from the bottle. It was 10 a.m., he was drunk, and it felt good. His plan to enmesh the president in his cover-up had failed spectacularly. Now he watched the news with a vacuous expression, like a German soldier after D-Day. He gulped another swig of whiskey.
News choppers circled the Mall, showing the burning wrecks of aircraft and vehicles. It was Yemen with a reflecting pool. The news anchor was recalling what was known: the bridge explosion, the unsolved VP assassin
ation, the mysterious battle on the Mall, a White House in pandemonium, loose nukes, and a country under attack. He stopped talking midsentence, listening to something coming in through his earpiece.
“We have breaking news,” it began, but the news banner said it all: national security advisor fired! B-roll footage of Jackson took over the screen.
“Ah, come on!” yelled Jackson and switched channels.
“. . . sources say National Security Advisor George Jackson was fired . . .” said another newscaster.
“Shut up!” said Jackson, changing the channel again.
“. . . breaking news, the president has fired Jackson . . .”
“No, no, no!” screamed Jackson as he flipped through the news channels.
“. . . Jackson fired . . .”
“. . . fired . . .”
“. . . terminated . . .”
“. . . blamed . . .”
“. . . his fault . . .”
“. . . treason?”
“No, no, no, no, no-o-o-o!” yelled Jackson. He stood up on the couch and threw a cushion at the monitor.
Then the news changed again, under a different breaking news banner. It showed a SWAT truck and police cars pulling up to an elegant Georgetown mansion. The truck’s back doors swung open and SWAT poured out, turtled up in paramilitary gear. The cameraman shook the lens as he tailed the SWAT team toward the house’s front door. A trailing SWAT member turned around and waved him to stop following, which the cameraman did.
Jackson froze and stared at the screen in a drunken haze. That house. It was—
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!!!!” Jackson screamed and tripped off the couch and smashed his head into the coffee table, scotch spilling everywhere. A crash of wood and steel came through his front door.
“FBI! FBI! HANDS UP! GET ON THE FLOOR!”
The SWAT team surrounded him, some aiming tasers while others held MP5 submachine guns. Jackson held up trembling hands and blood trickled down his forehead, where he hit the coffee table. Jackson’s eyes darted around the room like a caged animal, and he began hyperventilating.