17. Game Over

by Fern Michaels

  One gutsy anchor from CNN, with a very dry, brittle comb-over, said, “This is how you have to look at it readerwise, folks. The vigilantes are on page one of a five-hundred-page book. The White House patriotic party is on page four hundred ninety-nine, and Justice Leonard’s impending retirement is on page five hundred. Wake up, all you stiffs at the White House, and do what the people want. The people who voted you into office in the first place. I voted to pardon the ladies!” He ended his commentary by saying, “There’s been a run on powdered wigs at every costume shop within a fifty-mile radius.”

  Maggie giggled, glad she’d sent her secretary out early to get her powdered wig. She walked back to her office to view her costume. She was going to the festivities dressed as Betsy Ross. She checked her backpack, emptied half of it out into one of her desk drawers, and dumped in her three cameras and her press credentials, a banana, and a package of peanut butter cookies. She settled the backpack more firmly inside Betsy’s sewing bag, which came with the costume and powdered wig. Now all she had to do was wait until six o’clock, when her driver would pick her up and drop her off at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Maggie leaned back in her swivel chair. She hated it when she wasn’t 100 percent in the loop. She started to nibble at her nails and then stared at the engagement ring, which she’d been wearing for over two weeks. She’d promised to stop chewing her nails, and she was trying. If she squinted, she could almost see some new growth to her nails. The emerald-cut diamond wasn’t just beautiful; it was exquisite. She had had no idea that Ted had such good taste.

  She turned sideways and looked at Ted’s and Espinosa’s resignations, still lying on her desk, where they’d been since they handed them in three days ago. Like she was really going to accept them. If they quit, she was quitting.

  Something wasn’t computing, and being as smart and as astute as she was, she figured the resignations had something to do with what was going to happen tonight. Tomorrow her star reporter and her star photographer would be back in the saddle, chasing down some new scoop. She wondered why she didn’t believe her own scenario. A shiver worked its way up and down her spine, then moved to her arms. She blinked away a tear. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew neither one would be marching into the newsroom tomorrow morning, just as they hadn’t for the past two days.

  Everything was changing at the speed of light. First, it was Justice Leonard and his upcoming departure from the Supreme Court; then it was Lizzie’s possible nomination. And then, just a few hours ago, Lizzie had called to share her unbelievable news. She had turned down the offered nomination a few weeks ago because she had found out that she was pregnant. She apologized for not telling Maggie right away, but she and Cosmo had decided to wait before going public. She hoped that Maggie understood.

  Lizzie Fox was going to be a mother. That had to be right up there with getting a Pulitzer. Only better.

  If the vigilantes pulled off this last mission, they were home free. How dull life was going to be. For her, not them. They’d all be happier than a posse of pigs in a mud slide, but what about her? “What am I going to do when they all go off to wherever they’re going to live their lives?” She loved the thrill of danger, loved the thrill of outfoxing the opposition with the written word. Her life would become humdrum. Boring to the nth degree.

  Maggie bit down on her lower lip. Once she kicked all the bullshit aside and looked at it full in the face, as she was doing right now, right this second, she couldn’t deny that it was the thrill of being needed. When everyone rode off into the sunset, she wouldn’t be needed anymore. Even Ted had proved he didn’t need her by resigning. Suddenly she felt so bad, she wanted to cry. Not being needed had to be the worst feeling in the world. Did her mother feel like that when she sent her off to college? Back then did she even care enough to ask? She simply couldn’t remember.

  God, how she hated pity parties. She pep-talked herself then. Come on, Maggie. Pull up your big-girl panties and get on with it. Your life is going to be whatever you make out of it. No one is in control of your life but you. Chop-chop!

  Maggie gave her undies an imaginary hitch and said, loud enough for anyone passing by to hear, “What a crock! Everyone needs someone, even those who won’t admit it.”

  Chapter 23

  Harry Wong looked at the ten most deadly martial arts experts in the world, who were now attired in spiffy khaki Global Securities uniforms, the logo of the company emblazoned on the pockets in gold thread. To a man, they refused to wear the visored caps and steel-toed boots GS had provided, and Harry wasn’t about to argue the point.

  “Here’s the plan, gentlemen. We ride to the White House in one of GS’s security vans, where Mr. Jellicoe himself will meet us. We’ve gone over the layout, and you all said you have it committed to memory. Mr. J will assign you to your post. Any run-ins with the Secret Service, you simply put them to sleep.

  “Jack just called and said there will be pictures of the ladies in their costumes on the closed-circuit TV in the van. In addition to the ladies, there will be another woman separate from them. Her name is Maggie Spritzer, and she will be dressed as Betsy Ross. Shield her, too. Don’t let anyone get to her. She’s going to give the ten of you publicity like you only dreamed about. Any questions?”

  The old man with the ropy arms stared at Harry. “What? You think we’re stupid?”

  Harry laughed. “Not one little bit, but in this country they have a saying, and they call it Murphy’s Law, which means what can go wrong will go wrong. But,” he added hastily, “we all know that doesn’t apply to any of you.”

  “Harry-san, does that friend of yours, the one you refer to as a dumb shit, really think we can catch speeding bullets with our fingers?” one of the ten asked.

  Harry laughed again and said, “Yeah, he does. I don’t see any need to enlighten him at this point in time, either.” Harry looked at his little army and bowed low.

  In the van the men looked at everything in amazement.

  “Pretty high tech,” one of them said. “My country has nothing like this.”

  The others agreed.

  Harry pressed buttons, and picture after picture appeared on the screen. He rattled off the names of the Sisters and gave a little scenario on all of them. “These two,” he said, pointing to Annie and Myra, “Mama-sans.” He pointed to Jack, Ted, Bert, and Espinosa. “These men are…”

  “The dumb shits,” the old man said with a twinkle in his eye.

  Harry grinned. “You guys catch on quick. Okay, here are your credentials. Just slip them into your pocket. If anyone gets overly aggressive, just whip these babies out and go about your business. You got that?”

  Heads bobbed up and down.

  “Any other questions?” Harry asked. “Okay, then we should get this show on the road. Buckle up, gents.”

  As Harry tooled along, he was grinning to himself at the conversations wafting toward him. He wondered if his friends would kill him when he wasn’t able to produce Sylvester Stallone at the end of this little caper. He wished he hadn’t been so rash when he made that particular promise. Nor was he going to be able to produce the Jonas Brothers. He didn’t want to think about the other rash promises he’d made to ensure his friends’ arrival here in the States. If he had time, maybe he could enlist Jack’s help. Yeah, yeah, good old Jack would come to his rescue. Just to be on the safe side, Harry yanked out his phone. One eye on the road, one ear on the conversation behind him, he somehow managed to text Jack to apprise him of his concern. A text came back so quick, Harry almost collided with a Honda Civic carrying a bunch of giggling girls, which was swerving all over the road. He leaned on the horn and was stunned to see the windows go down on the Civic. Four middle fingers saluted him. The text read, Always knew you’d get your dick in a knot. I’ll see what I can do.

  While Harry bemoaned what he imagined to be his early demise, Jack texted Maggie and asked what she could do for Harry. She in turn texted Abner Tookus, who brought to bear
every contact he had in the world. Ten minutes later Jack texted Harry, saying, The best they could do was a webcam meeting with Sylvester and the Jonas Brothers. Just say Stallone is getting married and the Jonas Brothers’ flight was delayed. It’s the best I can do. Viewing time is 9:06. Be in the van at that time. Take it or leave it, bro. And you owe me for saving your ass, and do not think for one minute that I’m going to forget this, either.

  Harry’s return text read, Okay. There was grateful, and then there was grateful. You never, as in ever, gave Jack Emery the edge.

  As Harry steered the van to where a local cop on horseback was directing traffic, he called out, “We have arrived, gentlemen. I see Mr. Jellicoe. Remember now, you are in charge. Pay no mind to all those cops, the FBI, or anyone else. Tonight, gentlemen, we are golden. On behalf of all those milling about on the grounds and inside the White House, welcome to Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  “If you ever decide to give up your day job, Harry-san, you can seek employment as a tour guide,” the old man said as he hopped out to the ground.

  Harry was the last to get out of the van. He pressed the remote on the key chain, locking the doors of the one-of-a-kind security van. He marched up to where Hank Jellicoe was standing and saluted smartly.

  “No one likes a smart-ass, Wong,” Jellicoe said.

  “Takes one to know one,” Harry shot back.

  Jellicoe eyed Harry for a full minute before he spoke. “You really think those ten guys there, yourself included if you want, can take all my people and the Secret Service?”

  Harry tilted his head to the side, as though he was pondering the question. “Depends if you mean with one hand tied behind their backs or with both hands tied behind them. In other words, I don’t think we can do it. I know we can do it.” Harry waited to see if there was going to be a comeback, and when there wasn’t, he knew he’d won the round.

  “You’re looking rather dashing this evening, Harry,” Jack said, coming up to stand next to him. Right behind him were Bert, Ted, and Espinosa, similarly attired. “Did you know these are designer uniforms, Harry? They are. Our new boss just told me that. And they’re free when you work for Global Securities. You understand my text? You know, Harry, I put my ass on the line to get those guys to agree to save your ass. The magic moment is nine-oh-six. You’re one minute late, and it all goes down the tubes.”

  Harry looked down at his watch. “That’s precisely fifty-six minutes from now.”

  “So it is,” Jack said happily.

  A devil perched itself on Harry’s shoulder. He leaned over and kissed Jack on the cheek. Betsy Ross clicked her camera, and the moment was caught forever.

  The ten deadliest men in the world looked at one another. A few rolled their eyes; a few shrugged. It was the old man who quipped, “Who knew?”

  Jack started to laugh and couldn’t stop.

  “What’s so damn funny, Emery?” said Harry.

  “You, you dumb schmuck. Those guys, your people, now think you and I are…How should I say this? A couple. And Betsy Ross over there got it on film.”

  What sounded like a ripe discussion suddenly escalated to voices being raised. Jack stepped back as Jellicoe went at it with one of the Secret Service agents, who stopped whatever he was about to say next to talk into his sleeve. Jellicoe pushed forward, Harry and his friends ahead of him. Jack waited a moment to see if a contingent of Secret Service agents would follow. They didn’t. “Chalk one up for Global Securities,” he muttered.

  Inside the White House, Jack closed his eyes for a moment to get a mental fix on where he was supposed to go. Nikki and the girls had arrived fifty minutes ago and were milling around, trying to familiarize themselves with the layout. He saw them then, off to the side, talking to a man dressed like Abraham Lincoln.

  Jack smiled at the Sisters’ costumes. Annie was Bess Truman and looked more like Bess than Bess had herself. Myra was Lady Bird Johnson. He craned his neck to the right to pick out Jackie Kennedy, aka Isabelle. Because of her height and exceptionally long legs, Alexis had chosen to be Uncle Sam. No one questioned that Uncle Sam was white and this Uncle Sam was black. Yoko wore a tattered garment and had a bandanna tied around her glossy black hair. A small placard around her neck said, CHILD SLAVE. It was Kathryn, however, dressed as Paul Revere, who caught the eye, and it was Kathryn whose duty it was to make it to the Oval Office to pick up the pardons and secure them in her mail pouch.

  Betsy Ross, her eye on her watch at all times, maneuvered her way through the crowd, snapping picture after picture. She sidled up to Jack and hissed, “Tell me this is going to work.”

  “My people tell me it is going to work, Betsy,” Jack said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Will you stop with that ‘my people’ crap already? Do you know what I had to pay out to get Sylvester Stallone to do this? Well, do you?”

  “I don’t want to know. Where are those guys, anyway?” Jack asked.

  “Believe it or not, they’re guarding the portals leading to the Oval Office. I heard enough snapping and snarling between Jellicoe and the Secret Service to last me a lifetime. I have to hand it to the president. She stepped up to the plate, and they all backed off. I got a picture of the president kissing Mr. Jellicoe. On the lips!”

  “No shit! You gonna run that in the paper?”

  “No! But I’m going to send them a copy. The Marine Band is going to play ‘Yankee Doodle.’ How neat is that?” Maggie said through clenched teeth.

  Sensing Maggie’s nervousness, Jack said, “How’s the food?”

  “Food! Food! You’re thinking about food at a time like this! They have everything in the world on those buffet tables. And you can’t get near them. I have pictures. The president looks like she’s headed this way.” Maggie looked at her watch and moved away.

  Jack scanned the crowd of “patriotic” guests and walked away in the opposite direction. He risked a quick glance at his watch. Time was marching on, just like the music the band was supposed to be playing. Where in the hell was the damn band? He looked over at the Sisters, who had now split up and were in clusters of two and attached to small groups of guests. They looked like they didn’t have a care in the world. His eyes raked the room. Nothing stood out, no one appeared anxious, and no one seemed to have a clue that this was anything other than a party. At the White House. No matter how boring the party, just to be able to say you were invited to the White House was a coup in itself.

  Security cameras? Where the hell were they? Jack had a moment of panic when he looked around, spotted Hank Jellicoe attired in a nifty tux that looked like it had been made especially for his lean frame. He looked around again to see if anyone else was similarly attired. Nope. And Jellicoe stood out like the white elephant in the room. Jack shrugged. Obviously, he had a reason for the way he was dressed.

  The president—now, she was dressed in a crinoline and looked like she’d just stepped from the pages of Gone With the Wind. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she was dressed as Dolley Madison.

  Jack continued to watch the president as she made her way past the little clusters of guests, and when she stopped to speak to Paul Revere, Jack’s breath caught in his throat. He watched as a startled Kathryn straightened her shoulders, tugged at the ponytailed wig she was wearing before bowing and reaching for the president’s hand to bring it to her lips. Even from where he was standing, Jack could see the humor in the president’s eyes. She was saying something to Kathryn, but he couldn’t read her lips, and Kathryn nodded slightly but didn’t speak. The president moved off. Jack looked down at his watch again.

  Harry tapped Jack on the shoulder. Jack almost jumped out of his skin. “Don’t ever do that again. I almost had a heart attack.”

  “And if I do, what are you going to do about it?” Harry asked, his tone vague as his gaze swept the room. Harry was definitely on duty.

  “I’m going to kiss you on the lips, that’s what I’m going to do. What do you think of that? Then I’m g
oing to send the picture to all those ninja magazines you subscribe to.”

  “Eat shit, Jack. We both know you aren’t going to do that. I think there is a diversion about to take place. Honest Abe, the really tall, lanky one, is about to have a mishap…aaaany second now.”

  Jack saw it all in slow motion. Two waiters, with heavy platters held high, were advancing to the head buffet table, where the president was talking to Hank Jellicoe and the lanky Abe Lincoln. Abe took a misstep, jostling Jellicoe, who lost his footing and landed across the buffet table. The heavy platters went upward, the contents showering down on the president just as strains of “Yankee Doodle” blasted through the room. Jack blinked as a gauntlet of Secret Service swarmed in to surround the president, who was laughing so hard, she couldn’t catch her breath as she sampled the roast duck that was dripping down her face. She went off into another peal of laughter as Betsy Ross clicked away with gay abandonment.

  “And there goes Paul Revere, galloping off for her last ride of the evening.” Harry cackled.

  Harry and Jack continued to watch as Hank Jellicoe slid to the floor to sit next to the president. “I would like it very much, Madam President, if you would accept this engagement ring I have somewhere in my pocket. I just have to find it. As you can see, I even got dressed up for this momentous event.”