President Grant stepped out of the bathroom, bumping into the door frame, and back into the bedroom, where Tess was stirring.
“You look beautiful this morning, darling.”
“And you are still a handsome old klutz,” she said as she sat up smiling. “Come here and let me fix that tie. You can’t go anywhere looking like that.”
President Grant shuffled over to the bed and sat down. He let Tess straighten the Windsor before he reached for her hands.
“Pray with me, Tess. This meeting is going to get heated. Fast.”
The seriousness was not lost on his wife. She held his face in her hands and said, “Calvin, you are the most God-honoring man I’ve ever met. You have been blessed by the Lord with this position. You and I both know that He has ordained this. Whether this guy from last night is a crazy person or for real, you are the right man to be in this office right now.
You just go in that room and lead those men. Trust that God will give you wisdom. And at the end of the day, God’s will most definitely will prevail. Now, let’s pray.”
Holding his wife’s hands in his, he bowed his head.
CHAPTER 5
Megan Taylor sat in her green Volkswagen Bug on the DC beltway in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Not even seven a.m. and already traffic was backed up as far as the eye could see. Oh well, that’s what she got for living outside the city. Sure, rent was a lot cheaper, but some days she wondered if it was worth sitting for over an hour each way in this mess.
It wasn’t like it truly mattered, though. She had no personal life. What life she did have, she spent losing countless hours of sleep, poring over data that was supposed to keep things like what happened last week with the CIA Black-Ops list from happening.
Megan had known from the age of thirteen she wanted to be an FBI agent. She had read several novels depicting a heroine FBI agent who somehow always seemed to save the world right at the last minute. She was hooked after the first novel. She spent her teenage years learning everything she could about the Bureau. She became heavily entrenched in team sports. Lacrosse, swim team, and Softball were all favorites. But it was soccer that won her the most attention. And it was soccer that landed her a full ride to Harvard, where she took advantage of the free education. Somewhere along the line, Megan realized she had a knack, a gift actually, for computers. And it was this gift that got her noticed by the same agency she had set out to conquer in the first place. They took notice, all right. Just not the way she had intended.
Megan had opened her door one night to a sorority sister who looked like she’d been up all night crying. It seemed that the friend’s ex-boyfriend, a computer savant himself, had taken it upon himself to share with the entire Harvard faculty a few photos her friend had never posed for. The pictures had been doctored to look like she was stealing and then copying student records from the records office. Once Megan had identified the program the hacker had used, she turned it around on him. But in her version, not only was he the one who now seemed to be the thief, but some of the people he seemed to be selling to were known drug dealers and criminals in the area.
Typically, the two students would’ve found themselves being dragged before some committee that would decide their fates. However, the fact that the ex-boyfriend was the FBI director’s son gathered a little more attention than she had planned for. But in the end, she had impressed the man so much with her skills that he offered her a job. Two weeks after graduating, she took him up on his offer.
That seemed like a lifetime ago. It was mind-blowing how quickly eight years could pass, she thought, as the traffic slowly began to move. She had just put her turn signal on to make her way to the exit lane when her phone rang.
“Taylor,” she said, wedging the phone between her shoulder and her ear. The little stick shift was fun and convenient to drive in almost every case, except in traffic and on the phone.
“Pull over,” Bill Preston, director of the FBI ordered.
“On the Beltway, sir?” she asked confused. “I’m about to get off the exit for the office.”
“Not anymore,” Preston said.
She immediately felt uncomfortable. “Sir, I don’t understand. Is something wrong? Am I in trouble for something?”
Preston laughed into the phone. “No, you’re not in trouble.”
“Then what? I mean, is there something going on at the office?”
“No. Everything’s fine. Just pull over to the side of the road.”
“Director Preston, I really have a lot going on this week. I have a deadline for that job over in Georgetown.”
“Yeah … you can maybe get to that in a little while. Right now, change of plans. Your presence is requested at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in fifteen minutes.”
“Ha! First of all, that’s funny! I mean, really. That’s cute, sir. But even if it weren’t a horribly bad joke, it would take me an hour at best to get to the White House. And why the White House, anyway?”
“Can you see behind you in your rearview?”
“Yes, sir. Why?”
“Keep watching.”
Megan stared into the mirror and saw two black SUVs approaching from the shoulder of the road at a quick clip. They were about half a mile back.
“You see them?” Preston asked again.
“I see two Bureau trucks coming down the shoulder. Coming up fast.”
“Good, I want you to pull your car onto the shoulder and wait for them.”
Megan laughed. “You’re kidding, right? I’m seriously going to the White House?”
“Agent Ross will take your car. He’ll drive it to work for you. You get in the second truck. I’ll brief you on the way.”
The conversation was over because the line went dead. No matter. She was at a loss for words anyway, so she just followed orders and pulled onto the shoulder of the road and turned her flashers on as the SUVs pulled in behind her. The passenger door on the second truck opened; Preston stuck his arm out to help Megan in then closed the door. The big truck was already moving.
“So, you’re serious?”
“He asked for you by name,” Preston said.
“But I’ve never even met the president.” Megan shook her head.
“Well, I might have had something to do with that,” Preston nodded to her.
CHAPTER 6
The driver of the lead SUV flashed his credentials out the window as the two-car motorcade entered the grounds of possibly the most secure facility in the world. The armed security guard looked them over and motioned him on through. Jennings lowered the window knowing they were next.
“Director Jennings,” the guard nodded. “Good morning, sir.”
Jennings nodded back. He thumbed at Keene and said, “He’s with me. Grant is expecting us.”
“Yes, sir. You know the way.”
The guard stepped aside and motioned their driver to move ahead. The big truck carried on for a few feet before coming to a stop. Keene immediately fell in behind Jennings as they moved through the security check into the West Wing. Chief of Staff Lewis Hardy met them in the hall passing the Rose Garden.
“Lewis.” Jennings shook the man’s hand.
“Kevin.” And then to Keene, “And that would make you Jon Keene.”
“Nice to meet you.” Keene offered his hand.
“This way, gentlemen. President Grant is expecting you.”
Keene shot his boss a sideways glance when they continued on past the Oval Office. Jennings shrugged his shoulders as if to say, I don’t know. As if reading their minds, Hardy looked over his shoulder and said, “Your meeting will be taking place in the residence this morning, gentlemen.”
This time it was Jennings who gave the bewildered look. Keene shrugged it off. What’s the difference, he thought. It’s his house. He can hold a meeting wherever he wants, right?
The three men turned the corner and entered the elevator that would take them to the private residence. The doors opened and they stepped out. Down the hall and
through a door they found President Grant sitting, sipping what smelled like a fresh cup of coffee. Immediately he stood and greeted his guests.
“Kevin. Thank you for coming. And you must be Mr. Keene.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President,” Keene said taking the firm handshake.
“Please, call me Calvin. In here, I’m Mr. Tessania Hall.” He smirked and laughed.
“I heard that, Calvin.”
“I know you did, dear. I said it for you!” Then in a hushed voice to the men standing with him, “Key to a successful marriage: always let her think she’s the boss.” Again he let out a small snort.
Tess came around the corner and gave him the what-for look. “I heard that, too, Mr. Tessania Hall.” She entered the room and said her hellos to everyone. Then, giving her husband a kiss on the cheek, she dismissed herself.
“Kevin, Mr. Keene,” President Grant turned his attention back to his guests, “you two make yourselves at home. Can I get you a coffee or something while we wait?”
“Uh, I’m fine, Mr. President,” Keene said. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t understand, we’re waiting for someone else to join us?”
“Three, actually,” the President replied.
“Three … other people?”
“Yes, Mr. Keene.” As if on cue, the door to the private office opened up, and in walked the director of the FBI followed by someone Keene had never seen before. “And here are the first two now.”
“Gentlemen,” President Grant said to Jennings and Keene, “I believe you all know Director Preston of the FBI.” The men exchanged greetings. “And this,” Grant continued, “must be Megan Taylor. Computer software technician extraordinaire.”
Keene watched as the woman introduced herself to the president and Jennings. She was very attractive—seemed to be in her late twenties, early thirties. Her shoulder-length brunette hair was feminine, yet business professional. She had the look of someone who didn’t have a hard time getting what she wanted—and at the same time, she had that don’t-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-put-you-in-your-place-quickly look. He thought she looked to be somewhat athletic, for a computer nerd. Not the typical horn-rimmed glasses and braces on the skinny beanpole frame of a girl. He noticed that she didn’t wear any jewelry other than a small pair of earrings in the shape of a cross. No wedding ring. That didn’t surprise him, given his assessment of her. She looked like she could be a royal pain in the—
“Hello, I’m Megan Taylor.” She stuck out her hand and was waiting for Keene to shake.
He took her hand and immediately regretted underestimating the woman’s grip. Definitely a pain in the—
“If you all would,” President Grant interrupted, “please go ahead and take a seat. Our final guest should be arriving any second.”
The others sat down as the door to the private office opened again. And again, someone Keene had never seen before entered the room.
The man looked to be in his early forties. He had a quiet demeanor but a strong gait to his walk. He was casually dressed, wearing a pair of khaki pants and an untucked button-down shirt. He had boots and a watch that said military, but Keene was sure it was formerly, not currently. He knew the type. Glad to be out, but somehow just couldn’t let go of that fashionable military look. He took note of the ink that peeked out from under the man’s rolled-up sleeve. He’d seen tattoos like that before. Had one himself, though slightly different: Special Ops, no one he’d crossed paths with. And that made this man even more intriguing.
President Grant opened his arms and embraced the new guest. They stood together in a big, manly bear hug for several seconds. Finally Grant let the man go and said, “Boz, I’m so glad you’re hear.”
“Glad I could make it, Calvin.”
“Everyone, this is Bozwell Hamilton. Boz. He is a very dear friend of mine. We’ve known each other for quite a while and have a long history together. But we’ll get into that later.”
They all stood again and took turns introducing themselves to the stranger called Boz.
“Now then,” Grant finally continued. “If everyone’s ready, let’s get to it.”
CHAPTER 7
The Prophet finished his morning prayers and stood from his knees. He half expected someone to break down his door any minute now. If he was honest, he’d half expected it to happen while he was taping his message last night.
He had never been assured of his safety. But to be honest, safety was never part of the deal. And he knew that. He accepted that the day he gave his life. None of his predecessors had been guaranteed safety. Why should he? If he had to really take inventory of his situation, the possibility truly existed that he, too, would be persecuted.
No matter. The message was to be given. That was the command. Tell them. And that’s what he would do.
He had been fasting for seven days leading up to the taping. Today he would break his fast. He set about fixing the small meal of oatmeal and toast. His body was weak. He needed the food. And he wanted more. But he also knew that if he were to eat a big meal, he would be sick. His system wouldn’t be able to handle it after seven days of just water. So he bowed his head and gave thanks for the food set before him.
He ate slowly, so as to not upset his stomach. Though he was in great physical condition, he could feel the effects of the fast. His muscles felt atrophied. Weak. His skin looked pale. Clammy. His head was still pounding from the headache he’d suffered the last two days. Slowly, bite by bite, he could feel his energy begin to return.
He finished and set the bowl and cup in the sink. The small breakfast was a good start. He would make sure to have a bigger lunch. And a protein bar for a snack in between. Or two.
Feeling a little better, he turned from the small kitchen and walked the three steps into the living area. He grabbed the book and thumbed through the pages. Its bindings were coming loose. He had scribbled notes and references throughout. If he hadn’t known its contents so well, he might not have been able to make out the words.
He spent the next hour flipping through the worn pages, reading the contents both silently and aloud. He went through his favorite passages and then settled on a particular title. This was perhaps his favorite section. It spoke boldly. It brought condemnation but offered refuge and salvation. He felt the tears well up inside as he read. No matter how many times he read it, it always had the same effect on him.
After the reading, he spent another hour in prayer. His knees hurt from the hard wooden floor. The carpet had been torn up long ago. The previous tenants of the small apartment all but destroyed the place. Some would say it wasn’t fit for someone to live in. But it was cheap. And it was unassuming.
And he needed to stay that way. Because last night was not the first warning. There had been three previous ones. And, he was sure, there would be more.
CHAPTER 8
Keene took his seat, along with the other two guests, as President Grant had asked. The two directors, however, remained standing. Keene thought that odd. He guessed they were going to speak, too, about whatever it was that brought him here at this ridiculous hour in the morning. But then something different happened. President Grant thanked the two men for bringing Keene and the FBI girl in. And he walked them back to the elevator.
“Any idea what’s going on here?” Taylor whispered to him and the other guy.
Keene shrugged his shoulders. Hamilton shook his head.
When he returned, the president reached into his desk. “Before we start, I think it’s important that the two of you know”—he nodded to Keene and Taylor—”that Jennings and Preston are aware of the content of our meeting this morning. They are not staying because they have a debriefing with Director Levy this morning. And you all are probably wondering why I’ve called you here today. So let’s get to it.” President Grant leaned on the front of the desk, facing his three remaining guests. In his hands were three envelopes. Nothing significant, just plain white number-ten envelopes.
Keene watc
hed as the man called Boz shifted in his seat and produced a little worn book and began thumbing through the pages.
“You all know my thoughts on God and faith,” the president continued. “I’ve never tried to hide it. I’ve never backed down from it. I talk openly about it. Ever since the first night I met Tess and went to that Bible study, my life has been different.”
He passed an envelope to each of his guests. Each one had written on it, To the President of the United States.
“What you have there are three separate letters. Each written, I believe, by the same person.”
Keene opened his envelope and carefully took out the single, letter-sized page. He quickly skimmed the contents. The words were scribbled but legible. Two short paragraphs.
“Beginning three months ago, I received the first one, the one you have in your hands, Mr. Keene. One month to the day I received the next.” He motioned to Taylor. “And then, one month ago yesterday, I received that one.” He nodded to the man called Boz.
Keene looked at the FBI agent and the stranger. Taylor seemed as confused as he was, but the man called Boz looked as if he had a better grasp on what was going on.
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” Keene said. “Why are you showing these to us? Wouldn’t this be an FBI thing?”
“Because, I believe it’s the same man who sent me this last night. I’ll get to why you in a minute.” He reached behind him and turned the monitor of his computer around to face them. The video was up and ready to go. He pushed PLAY.
The 13: Fall Page 3