Final Strike (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 21)

by R. J. Patterson

  “It’s done,” the message read, accompanied by three photos.

  “Excellent,” came the reply. “Return back here at once.”

  Hawk smiled. “Let’s get rid of these bodies and then figure out a way to determine where these lackeys worked.”

  “I’m not sure that’ll be easy,” Alex said. “These guys are careful with every move they make.”

  As they finishing the cleanup portion of their operation, Hawk’s satellite phone rang.

  “This ought to be interesting,” Alex said.

  Hawk nodded. “I know. There’s only one person other than Blunt who knows this number.”

  He answered the call.

  “Brady Hawk?” a man said in a familiar voice.

  “Big Earv?” Hawk replied.

  “You know it,” Big Earv said before breaking into his baritone laugh. “I hope you crazy cats are all right.”

  “Yeah, we are. How did you get this number? There’s only one person who—”

  “Actually, there are two of us now. But you’re right. That one person gave me your number.”

  “But how did—”

  “I’ll have time to explain it later,” Big Earv said. “Let’s meet up, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

  “Perfect,” Hawk said. “I know just the place where we should meet.”

  Hawk gave his old friend from the Secret Service an address and a time before hanging up.

  “What was that all about?” Alex asked.

  “It was Big Earv,” Hawk said. “He knows where Blunt is. And Big Earv is going to help us break our boss out of prison.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Washington, D.C.

  PRESIDENT YOUNG RETREATED to his office for a drink. His early afternoon had been a mix of good news and bad, making his glass of whiskey sour the most appropriate drink he could have. On the good side, he received a text that three members of the Phoenix Foundation team had been killed, news that he wanted to share right away with the public. However, he was cautioned against it in wake of the other big story.

  Franklin Templeton, the U.S. Ambassador to Iraq, had been found dead just hours earlier with two bullets in the back of his head. Early intelligence reports claimed that Templeton’s death was performed execution style. And it was performed by the Iranians.

  Payback for the oil tankers … even though we had nothing to do with that.

  Young sighed as he mulled over a response to all the day’s news.

  Lacy Wickersham, Young’s press secretary, cautioned him against trying to share the good news in a press conference. She warned that news about the elimination of rogue agents would be lost amidst a sea of questions about Templeton, who was a Washington icon after serving in Congress for more than two decades. And if Young wanted any positive publicity in the press, he needed to let that story die down.

  The president took a long pull on his whiskey sour. This was the moment he was hired for, yet all he wanted to do was let someone else come up with a solution. However, he didn’t trust anyone else but himself to do the best thing, especially with the election on the line. But that ship had sailed. Someone else was calling the shots now. And Young didn’t like it one bit.

  Young sifted through a report on his desk from a couple of Pentagon officials urging the president to strike swiftly against the Iranians. Phrases like “weak” and “bullied” were underlined twice throughout the document. The war hawks had already fallen in line with the drumbeats. If it were up to them, an all-out offensive would’ve been launched on Iran the second the report about Templeton’s death reached their ears. While Young didn’t oppose taking action when necessary, he felt like it wasn’t the politically expedient thing to do. The press would hammer him on security issues, which was enough to tip any election among the fear-prone American voting populace. Promise, or at least give off the appearance of, security and people would listen with votes to follow.

  But Young already had a record, a fairly good one, thanks to J.D. Blunt and his team. Their ability to thwart serious threats against both the country’s citizens and interests had made Young appear stronger than his policies truly were. But Blunt was going to be the fall guy, his arrest announced at just the right moments, perhaps when his campaign needed a boost. In the meantime, he was going to make other moves to shore up his national security persona, but not the kind of moves he necessarily wanted to make.

  Two days earlier, Young received a note informing him that he had forty-eight hours to replace Doug Quinn with NSA Director Clive Blackwood as the Secretary of Defense. Refusal to do so would result in the release of his private conversation with his wife. Young checked his watch.

  Only a half-hour left. Might as well get this over with.

  Young notified his administrative assistant that he was ready for the pre-press conference consult and to send in Wickersham. Moments later, the bombshell blonde glided into the room with Blackwood in tow.

  “Here are your talking points, Mr. President,” Wickersham said as she handed Young a small stack of neatly-typed notes. “Highlights from Mr. Secretary’s bio are bulleted on page two.”

  “Thank you,” Young said as he studied the documents.

  “I’ll be back in five minutes,” she said before exiting.

  Blackwood stood silent against the wall on the far side of the room. With his hands clasped behind his back, he cleared his throat.

  Young looked up from his reading and stared at Blackwood. “Did you want something?”

  “Well, maybe a hello would be nice,” Blackwood said.

  Young sighed and shook his head, returning his gaze to his paper. “Don’t think you deserve to be here? Because you don’t. You obviously were bought, just like everyone else.”

  “I suppose that’s not the worst thing you could say of a bureaucrat in Washington.”

  Young grunted. “I don’t care how long you’ve been in this city; you obviously still have a lot to learn.”

  A few minutes later when Wickersham returned, she looked Young in the eyes. “Are you ready?”

  Young nodded.

  “Just say it with conviction, like you really mean it … even if you don’t,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  Wickersham led them down a hallway and just outside the press briefing room. “Are you ready, Mr. President?”

  “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

  She led them onto the podium and gave a brief introduction behind the lectern before yielding to Young. The media throng covering the event clicked their cameras and shouted questions before he even had a chance to open his mouth. He held up both hands in a gesture to silence the reporters, but they ignored him, continuing to bombard him with a full inquiry on a range of topics, from the campaign to Iran to the debacle in Afghanistan.

  When they didn’t stop, Young slammed his hands down on the lectern and shouted. “Would you all shut the hell up, please?”

  An awkward silence fell on the room.

  “The American people want to hear what I have to say, not you,” Young said. “And if you won’t behave, we’ll conduct the pressers in the future without any members of the media here. Are we clear?”

  Heads bobbed in agreement, while a few reporters muttered “yes.”

  “Good,” Young said. “Now, let’s proceed.”

  Young spent the next fifteen minutes introducing Clive Blackwood and then touting his record as head of the NSA. When Young was finished, he yielded the floor to Blackwood, who received his baptism by fire. But despite Young’s misgivings about having to make Blackwood his Secretary of Defense, he did an admirable job in handling the press corps.

  After that portion of the press conference was over, Young gave a brief update on the ongoing search for J.D. Blunt as well as how the U.S. was planning a measured response to avenge the murder of Franklin Templeton. Young fielded a handful of questions from media members he found friendlier toward his administration before exiting the stage.

/>   When he reached the hallway, John Pembroke, the deputy secretary of Homeland Security, was waiting in the hallway.

  “John?” Young asked as he cocked his head to one side. “What are you doing here?”

  Pembroke nodded. “I’m sorry about this, sir, but we have a situation. And it can’t wait.”

  “What kind of situation?” Young asked.

  Pembroke glanced at the bevy of aides circling the president. “Let’s talk about this in your office … alone.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Old Firestorm bunker

  HAWK’S SUV SHIMMIED as he navigated the washboard-dirt road. For all the hideouts, safe houses, and interrogation locations Blunt employed, this was the one place that Hawk knew the team could utilize as a retreat. Years ago when the facility was first built, Blunt took great caution to ensure that nobody knew he owned the place. To purchase the land, Blunt used an alias Alex created along with a corresponding social security number that could never be traced back to Blunt. With only a couple of rundown barns, some rotting fences, and two rusted out tractors, it wasn’t going to attract much attention.

  Hawk pulled into the barn at the back of the property and parked.

  Alex looked up, eyeing the aging building. “This isn’t exactly what I imagined when you said Blunt had a bunker out here, but it does have some country charm.”

  Hawk chuckled as they got out. “This isn’t the bunker. Follow me.”

  Alex and Black followed Hawk to a small tack room along the left side. He knelt and then tugged on a handle concealed by some strands of hay, lifting a hatch. After flipping a switch to light the tight staircase, Hawk led the way. They descended a couple of flights before reaching the main room.

  The musty smell overwhelmed Hawk as he coughed and then wrinkled his nose.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been down here,” he said.

  “I think it’s been a while since anyone has been down here,” Black quipped.

  Hawk tore the furniture cover off the conference room table and chairs, while Alex dusted off the monitor on the far wall. She powered on one of the screens.

  “Nice picture,” she said. “Based on the way you talked about this place, I would’ve guessed the monitors wouldn’t be this nice.”

  “I don’t know the last time Blunt used this place, but I’d guess three or four years ago,” Black said. “He still kept the technology down here fresh.”

  “At least since the last time he used it,” Hawk said. “Everything in here isn’t that outdated though.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Alex said. “As long as we have wi-fi, I’ll be able to do everything I need to do with my laptop.”

  Hawk stroked his chin as he scanned the room. “Look in that cabinet over there. I think that’s where the router is.”

  Alex opened the cabinet and powered on the router. Then she searched the drawers for a remote to control the monitors on the wall. She gasped as she sifted through some papers.

  “What is it?” Hawk asked.

  Alex held up a black-and-white photo. “Do you know who this is?”

  Hawk shook his head. “I don’t know, but she’s certainly cozier with Blunt than any woman I’ve ever seen him with.”

  “How many women have you seen him with?” Black asked from across the room. “I thought he’d given up dating a long time ago.”

  “Maybe this is why,” Alex said.

  “Forget Obsidian,” Hawk said. “Now we have a real mystery on our hands.”

  The trio laughed before setting up their computers and getting to work. Alex turned on the television to see the director of the FBI showing footage of Hawk at a gas station and urging the public to call if they’ve seen him.

  “Just wonderful,” Hawk said. “They don’t even get my good side there.”

  “You’ve got bigger problems than that,” Alex said as she looked at Hawk.

  “Maybe not as big of a problem as those people,” Black said as his eyes bulged.

  Hawk quickly turned his attention back to the screen where a news anchor was reporting about a leak from the Zeus Chemical plant in New Orleans. As the woman delivered the story in a somber tone, images from a drone over a portion of the city showed what was happening better than she could ever tell it.

  People scurried from one house to another, pounding on the doors and begging the home owner to let them in. In the streets, people staggered and fell as a thin haze descended to the ground.

  “What is that stuff?” Alex asked.

  “They’re not saying,” Hawk said. “I assume because it’s the kind of gas that shouldn’t be there in the first place.”

  As the anchor continued giving out details, the scene on the streets worsened. People returned with guns, demanding access. When they were denied, some of those shut out started forcing their way inside. Every few seconds, an entire household would empty outside before falling to their knees in the streets and gasping for air. Sometimes the people would just pass out, while others would cover their mouths with their shirt, stagger to their feet, and get moving again.

  “What the hell,” Black said before his mouth fell agape. “I’ve never seen anything quite like that.”

  Hawk shook his head. “Yeah, we have. You ought to know a chemical attack when you see one.”

  “Sure,” Black said, “but I’ve never seen one live on television carried out on civilians.”

  Alex turned up the volume on the television.

  “Officials are urging all residents to remain in their homes for the next couple of hours until the gas weakens,” the anchor said. “While most homes won’t be able to keep out the toxic gas, there are a few homes that are prepared for such a catastrophe.”

  The overhead camera flew over to the adjacent street, where the scene was much different. Instead of people freaking out, the people were sitting by the window patiently. People in the streets couldn’t even get into the yards.

  “Meanwhile, a development of Freedom Homes appears to be weathering the gas leak just fine,” the anchor said. “We actually have one of the residents on the line now and will discuss with her what it’s like to be there. Miss Johnson, this is Carly Vanover. Would you mind telling us what things are like for you there?”

  “Well, it’s not like what’s happening in the houses behind us,” Johnson said. “These Freedom Homes are built so tight that a mosquito couldn’t even squeeze inside. All our air is filtered, and we even have greenhouses where we grow our food. I feel so blessed to be living in a place like this.”

  Hawk sighed. “Is it me or is this obvious what’s going on right now?”

  “Oh, it’s obvious … if you’re awake,” Alex said.

  Black nodded in agreement. “Unfortunately, most people aren’t. Your average viewer will want to know where they can buy one of these homes rather than questioning the source of the leak, much less what kind of gas is actually killing people in the streets.”

  Alex pointed the remote at the television. “I’ve had enough of this.”

  She turned the channel to another station where a desk full of pundits were talking about President Young’s new Secretary of Defense, Clive Blackwood.

  “When the hell did that happen?” Hawk asked.

  Alex sighed and turned her attention to her computer. After a couple minutes, she turned off the television.

  “Guys, I just received all the information from Mia that they got while hacking into the CIA’s database.”

  “Well, tell us all about it on the way,” Hawk said. “I just received a message from Big Earv detailing all the schematics of the holding facility where Blunt is. And we need to move now.”

  “On it,” Alex said before pausing. “By the way, has anyone heard from Sterling lately?”

  Hawk stopped and thought for a moment. “I don’t believe I have.”

  “Me either,” Black said.

  Alex shook her head. “Something’s not right.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Washington, D
.C.

  PRESIDENT YOUNG MARCHED toward his office with John Pembroke and Clive Blackwood. While Young felt good about how the press conference went in terms of how presidential he appeared, he couldn’t help but wonder if the public saw the lack of substance and ideas. Navigating the country through tumultuous times was never an easy task, but his situation was more akin to someone standing in a ravine while an avalanche rushed at down both sides of the mountain.

  When Young reached his office, he stopped and turned toward Pembroke. “John, can this wait? I really need to get Clive here caught up to speed on what’s going on in the Middle East.”

  Pembroke frowned. “Well, sir, it’s just that—”

  “Good,” Young said, ushering Blackwood inside. “I’m glad you agree. Just give me a few minutes alone with Clive, and then we’ll chat. Sound good?”

  Before Pembroke answered, Young shut the door on his Homeland Security deputy, leaving him in the hallway.

  “That was quite the performance out there,” Blackwood said. “I almost believe that you want me in this position.”

  Young ambled over to the bar and poured himself a drink, neglecting to offer one to his new Secretary of Defense.

  “One thing I’ve learned about this job,” Young began, “is that you might be the President of the United States, but you don’t always get to call the shots.”

  “Maybe you do if you don’t let someone hold something over your head,” Blackwood said with a wry smile.

  “I can only assume that you’re here for the exact opposite reason,” Young said. “Because you obviously know I didn’t select you on merit.”

  Blackwood shrugged. “Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. I’m not going to judge you either way. What I do know that is that I’m going to do my best to serve you and this country.”

  Young took another long pull on his drink. “Well, you can start by helping me figure out how to shovel our way out of this mess with Iran.”