He nodded toward the cluster of buildings to the east, the other half of the complex. “Over there someplace!”
“Cover me,” she said, and headed into the parking lot, keeping her head down, hugging the shadows, but knowing she’d given Hardesy an impossible job—the rifle shot had come from a good hundred yards away. He could neither cover for her nor effectively return the shooter’s fire.
As she ran, keeping low, Glock in hand now, she focused on those buildings, watching for any sign of movement. The trajectory made a shot from a window at any height unlikely. Somebody had been in the bushes or flat-out stood there and fired, and maybe was already gone.
But no vehicle in the parking lot had taken off in the aftermath of the rifle fire.
Then she caught a corner-of-the-eye flash of navy blue—a person running toward the parking lot toward the far side of the complex!
She stopped short and ran hard in that direction. If the shooter made it to his vehicle this chase was over . . .
The distance between her and the navy-blue suspect wasn’t narrowing but if he tripped or slipped, she had a chance. She was still a building and a half away when he got to the parking lot, where almost certainly his car would be close by.
She was near enough now to get something of a bead on him—an average-sized guy, black hair cut very close, an African American. He had the rifle in one hand, like a soldier charging up a hill. Then he came to a quick stop behind an older model Dodge and swung toward her, the rifle in two hands now, and pointing.
She threw herself to the pavement. The roar of a motor behind her brought her head up—Hardesy, in their vehicle, was closing fast on the Dodge! He was three car lengths away . . .
. . . when the shooter put one in the Ford’s radiator.
She got to her knees and raised her Glock as the shooter worked to rack another cartridge, then the shooter again took aim at the Ford, which swerved and slowed, steam pouring from the hole in its grill.
The guy in navy blue was in her sights when he pulled the trigger at the same time she did, not aiming at her, rather at the oncoming vehicle. The sniper dropped out of sight—she’d got him!—but then he scrambled up into the Dodge. Then her eyes went to the spiderweb hole in the Ford’s windshield.
The car rolled ever slower to bump up and over a curb, finally stopping.
“Hardesy!”
No answer.
Instinct kicked in and she sprinted toward their car, resting now in an apartment building yard on Temple Lane, headlights lancing through the night. In one final taunt, the Dodge gunned out of the parking lot.
Apparently she hadn’t hit the shooter, after all.
Hardesy was already climbing out, looking a little shaken and a lot pissed off.
“Son of a bitch shot the Ford!” he roared.
“You all right?” she asked.
“Hell no, I’m not all right! Suspect is dead, shooter’s in the wind, and the son of a bitch killed our car! Saving grace is, it’s the taxpayers’ money.”
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“I’m glad you’re alive,” she said somewhat breathlessly.
He grinned at her. “See how much better we’re getting along these days?”
Then he called in a BOLO (Be On the Look Out) on the Dodge while she walked over to where the vehicle had been parked. She clicked on her small mag flashlight and pointed it down: two rifle cartridges lay on the pavement next to a quarter-sized drop of blood. So while she hadn’t killed the shooter, she had hit him.
“Good,” she said to herself.
Hardesy came over. “BOLO is up. He keeps that car, we’ll get him.”
She pointed at the blood on the ground.
“So you hit him! Atta girl. Meaning no sexist disrespect.”
“None taken. The best part is, we have his DNA.”
He nodded. “I’ll get the word out to hospitals to look out for anyone seeking treatment for a gunshot wound.”
“And I’ll call in the evidence team . . . and talk to Miggie. Nobody knew we were coming here today but him. And I trust Miggie.”
Hardesy was frowning. “Me, too. Obviously someone else set us up. But who, and how?”
“Miggie ran Evans in the computer. Somebody must be doing some electronic eavesdropping.”
“Shit. That happened once before, if I remember.”
“You remember correct. There are some people in our government who would appear not to be trustworthy.”
“You mean, besides Congress?”
They both smiled at that, but not for long.
“Somebody,” she said, “is trying to keep us from investigating Secretary Yellich’s death.”
Hardesy was shaking his head hard enough to clear cobwebs. “What the hell has Reeder got us into?”
Even if she could have told him about the presidential mission, Rogers didn’t have an answer.
“Liberty may be endangered by the abuse of liberty, but also by the abuse of power.”
James Madison, fourth President of the United States of America. Served 1809–1817. Known as the “Father of the Constitution” for contributions to the drafting of the US Constitution and the Bill of Rights.
SEVEN
Melanie Graham, the ex-Mrs. Joe Reeder, glared at the man she’d divorced, who still loved her.
“Jesus, Joe,” she said, “when is enough going to be enough?”
He guessed that was a rhetorical question.
Slender, she was wearing her brown hair very short these days, a change he regretted but hadn’t commented on. Her brown eyes burned into him and her teeth were bared, her upper lip curled back.
Okay, so she was pissed at him—at least she still cared.
“You’re a very successful businessman,” she said, biting off words, “and you’re not a kid, and yet you insist on getting yourself involved in these dangerous fixes and then everybody in your life has to uproot themselves for God knows how long until you sort the crap out and try not to get yourself killed.”
She didn’t get raving mad like this very often, but when she did, Reeder knew there was nothing he could say. He tried anyway: “I’m on a mission for the President—”
“The President! The President! How many years, how many damn decades, did I have to hear about one president or another whose life was more important than ours! Goddamnit, Joe, I’m still tied to you! We might as well still be married!”
He wouldn’t have minded that—normally.
She raved on: “How am I supposed to explain this to Donald? That we’re to pick up and pack up and go running somewhere and hide?”
The reference was to her current husband, Donald Graham, a lobbyist. Reeder was standing in what had been Graham’s house and was now Melanie’s as well. The framed landscapes that were scattered around the room, the floral sofa, the antique table lamps, were all touches his ex-wife had brought to what had been Graham’s male domain.
Firm but without anger, Reeder said, “We don’t have the luxury of this argument right now. I said this was serious.”
“It’s always serious!”
“Not this serious. Just hours ago, they killed Len Chamberlain right in front of me.”
About to speak, she froze, her mouth half-open as she processed that. Then: “Not Len . . . he was . . . CIA wasn’t he?”
“He was. Just a desk jockey these days, but he was doing me a favor. We were about to meet outside the main entrance to ANC when he got taken down by a hit-and-run. Do I have to say it was no accident?”
“Oh, Joe . . . oh my God, Joe . . .” Her eyes softened as her voice trailed off, the back of her hand at her cheek in a loose fist.
“Here’s the bad part.”
“The bad part?”
“Len and I talked only once on the phone, with no direct mention of where we were meeting. The only way someone could have known where we’d be was if they are tapping my phone, and know my habits.”
“That . . . that could have
been you,” she said, her voice small. She took a tiny step toward him and he caught a whiff of her favorite perfume, Magie Noire. His favorite, too.
He put his hands on her shoulders, gentle though strong. “But it wasn’t me. In fact, they made no effort to get me, and I was right there for the taking. Len shouldn’t have been a threat to anyone these days, just playing out his string in Langley, waiting for retirement.”
Her eyes were narrow now in tightened sockets. “Why not go after you, if they had you in their sights?”
He dropped his hands from her shoulders. “I don’t really know. Possibly they’d already decided on Len, and knew that a hit-and-run death might be written off, whereas taking me down, too, would make it murder.”
She stared past him. “And now you’re on the run, keeping a low profile, which means . . .”
“Whoever-this-is might come after my family, whether for leverage or to make me mad enough to come at them straight on, which they’d be confident they could handle.”
Her eyes swung back to him, wide with alarm. “Tell me you at least had sense enough to handle Amy and Bobby first!”
Melanie meant their daughter Amy, a junior at Georgetown, and her live-in boyfriend, Bobby, who her middle-of-the-road Democrat dad considered half a communist.
He nodded. “She and Bobby are off to—”
She held up a hand. “Don’t tell me where, just that they’re safe.”
“They’re safe. An ability to make that happen is one of the perks of having real money.”
She sighed, calming herself. “And now you’re here. And Don and I get an unscheduled vacation.”
“All expenses paid,” he said, risking a little smile. “Look, Len and I were circumspect when we talked . . . but they were waiting for us, anyway. It doesn’t get more deadly serious than this, Mel. I need to know the people I love are safe. And, uh . . . I’ll need that package I left with you.”
Nodding, her expression somewhat dazed, she said, “Donald’s study. Come along.”
He followed her out of the living room and down a corridor toward the back of the house, past the dining room to a closed door.
Melanie led him inside. No feminine touches here—the dark-paneled, book-lined study was strictly male: wall-mounted flat-screen that overpowered the small room, a two-seater black-leather sofa, a massive oak desk that a window must have been removed to get in.
To one side of the window behind the desk was a painting of the Capitol that at Melanie’s touch swung open on unseen hinges to reveal a wall safe. She twirled the dial and soon was withdrawing one of two side-by-side brown-paper-wrapped packages about the size of two bricks.
She handed it over to Reeder, who hefted the thing, then said, “You should take the other one for you and Donald.”
She pulled out a second bundle. “How much is there?”
“Two hundred each.”
“How far will that go?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
The dark eyes flared. “Four hundred thousand dollars, and you kept it in a wall safe in our house?”
He managed a weak smile. “Turned out to be a pretty good plan, didn’t it?”
She found her own small smile. “It’s hard to hate a man who has two hundred thousand dollars tucked away for you.”
“Here’s that rainy day,” he said. “How soon can you and Donald get out of here?”
“If I can get a hold of him . . . probably . . . three hours?”
“Make it faster, if you can. But leave the house casually, okay? Load up the suitcases in the garage, and no word to the neighbors.”
She nodded.
“Thanks, Melanie, and . . . I’m sorry. I really am sorry.”
She glared at him, and then touched his cheek.
“I hate you,” she said.
But it sure sounded like, I love you.
Reeder, pondering his next move, had been back in the car maybe five minutes when the first burner phone made itself known.
Only one person had the number.
“We need to talk,” Rogers said.
When was a woman saying that to a man good news?
He said, “Something wrong?”
“Just meet us.”
“‘Us’ sounds like more than just you.”
“Hardesy’s with me.”
“Does he know what he’s signing on for?”
“Do we?”
Good point.
He said, “Where do you want to meet?”
“Falls Church. Mexican place named Los Primos on Lee Highway—know it?”
“I’ll find it.”
East of the Capital Beltway on Lee Highway, Los Primos was tucked away in a strip mall across the street from a warren of condos. The place looked to be less than half full, the dinner rush pretty much over.
Ceramic tile on the floor, Mexican music on the sound system, and a couple of cactus plants gave the place its contrived air of authenticity. Rogers and Hardesy were at a table toward the back. When the hostess smiled at him, Reeder nodded toward his friends and went on by her. She trailed him back to the table, one side of which Rogers and Hardesy shared. He sat opposite.
They declined menus and Reeder ordered Chiapas, black. Rogers already had coffee, Hardesy a Modelo. They waited in silence until Reeder’s cup came.
He had already noted, on the shoulder of Rogers’ jacket, the smudge of blood. Someone else might have thought she’d just spilled something on her navy-blue suit. Somebody had spilled something, all right.
“Whose is it?” Reeder asked her.
But Hardesy answered: “The recently late Tony Evans.”
The name meant nothing to Reeder and he said so.
Hardesy added, “He’s the delivery guy who brought Secretary Yellich the sandwich that disagreed with her.”
“Did he know that was what he was doing?”
Reeder’s expression said, Murdering her? This was a public place.
Rogers shrugged and said, “Too early to tell for sure, but we did find sesame oil in his apartment.”
Quietly Reeder asked, “How did his blood end up on your jacket?”
Just as quietly she told him.
The booths on either side of them were vacant, and the people at the table behind them were leaving. When they’d gone, Reeder asked, “A sniper was waiting?”
She glanced around the restaurant herself, then softly said, “Joe, they knew where we’d be, and that we were there to pick up Evans.”
Reeder considered the possibilities. “Who on our side knew where you were going?”
Hardesy said, “Only Altuve. Just Altuve.”
“Miggie’s true blue,” Reeder said, shaking his head. “But remember—he did get hacked in the J. Edgar Hoover Building last year. Maybe that happened again.” His eyes went to Rogers. “Or it could be the people who were tracking my cell were . . . are . . . also tracking yours.”
“Why track Patti’s cell?” Hardesy asked.
Reeder said, “Who else would I get in touch with in a tough spot? Who else do I trust?”
“Okay,” Hardesy said, frowning, “so you two are tight. But what made a target out of our suspect?”
“Somebody tidying up, maybe,” Reeder said. His eyes traveled from Hardesy to Rogers. “Could the shooter have meant to hit one of you instead?”
Rogers shook her head and so did Hardesy.
“Trust me,” she said. “That sniper hit the bull’s-eye.”
Reeder thought for a moment. “What do you know about your suspect?”
She filled him in.
After she’d finished, he said, “With DNA results from the shooter’s blood, and/or fingerprints on the shell casings, we may soon know more.”
Rogers sipped coffee. Hardesy swigged Modelo.
She asked, “Just what the hell is going on here, Joe?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “What do a poisoned Secretary of the Interior, four dead field agents, an assassinated delivery boy, and a
murdered CIA desk jockey add up to?”
Hardesy had no answer, but he did have a question: “Who has the high-tech capability and inside knowledge to tap your phone and/or hack Miggie’s computer?”
Rogers took that one. “Someone in the government,” she said. “That’s what happened last year—a mole who was part of that would-be coup.”
“You’re right,” Reeder said. “And we stopped that coup, but there could be other moles. A lot more.”
Rogers cocked her head, which was a question in itself.
“Suppose,” Reeder said, “we’re dealing with a shadow government. A faction, a large one, within the government.”
Hardesy grunted a laugh, then looked across at Reeder and saw the man wasn’t laughing. Not at all.
“Since last year,” Reeder said, “when that mole hacked Miggie, our cyber-defenses have been improved. But we’re still at our most vulnerable to . . . who was it said, The Enemy Within?”
Though Rogers was slowly nodding, Hardesy was shaking his head. “This is crazy,” he said. “That mess last year has softened your skulls. You’re talking conspiracy-nut nonsense.”
She said, “The Secretary of the Interior was murdered, as we’ve established. But till we waded in, there’d been virtually no investigation. Did somebody make sure of that?”
Hardesy kept shaking his head.
Reeder said, “Someone sent four top CIA agents to die in a country on the brink of war where the President himself had made it clear he did not want any American presence.”
“Come on, Joe,” Hardesy said, but he was weakening. “You know over at the Company the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing.”
“But does the far right?” Reeder asked. “Or for that matter, the far left?”
Her eyes on Hardesy, Rogers said, “Then there’s what happened with Joe’s all-but-retired CIA friend . . . not to mention the suspect who got blood on my jacket. Face it, Lucas, only someone with real power could do that . . . someone on the inside.”
“Not one someone,” Reeder corrected. “A group.”
Executive Order (Reeder and Rogers Thriller) Page 8