by C. G. Cooper
“Use the house for as long as you need. Daniel will give you the code. If you decide to leave, send us the receipt for your flight home.”
+++
As the two Marines slid into the rental vehicle, Daniel turned to his boss. “What are we going to see the president about?”
Scowling, Cal said, “To find the leak.”
Chapter 18
The White House,
District of Columbia
8:26am, December 19th
“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Mr. President,” said Cal, his demeanor neutral, tone clipped.
The president looked up from the folder stamped Top Secret Presidential. “You said it was urgent. Should we wait for the vice president? He’s on his way.”
It took Cal a moment to remember that the vice president was his friend, former Senator Brandon Zimmer. “That might be a good idea, sir.”
“Why don’t you and Briggs have a seat. I’ll have them bring in some water and snacks while we’re waiting. I haven’t eaten today.”
Cal didn’t argue, instead sitting down on the love seat across from Daniel, who gave him a look as if to say, “Calm down.”
No one said a word until Vice President Zimmer entered. Daniel immediately moved to stand. Cal motioned for him to stay seated. Zimmer either didn’t notice or didn’t care, instead taking the seat next to Daniel. He looked tired, and it was barely his second day on the job.
“What’s on your mind, Cal? I take it by your demeanor that this isn’t a social call?” asked the president, as he joined the others.
Inside, Cal simmered. He willed his temper down. “Mr. President, I assume you’ve heard about my cousin, the CEO of SSI, Travis Haden, being arrested this morning?”
“I thought he was taken in for questioning,” answered the President.
Cal’s jaw clenched. “Sir, they showed up at our Nashville headquarters with a caravan of ten police cars and an entourage of reporters.”
The president’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t hear about that.”
“What are you thinking, Cal?” asked Zimmer.
“First, you both know there’s no way in hell we were involved in the attacks targeting the first lady…”
“We would never say—,” interrupted the President. Cal dared to raise his hand to quiet the most powerful man in the world.
“I’m not finished, Mr. President. When I agreed to undertake this operation, it was with the understanding that the only people privy to the full thing were the men in this room. We kept our end of the bargain, sir.”
The accusation stabbed.
“And you’re saying we didn’t,” responded the president.
Cal nodded.
The President exhaled. “We haven’t told anyone, son. Not even my closest staff—.”
“And yet my company’s name is now being tarnished by the liberal nuts on television, saying that we’re part of some right-wing conspiracy. More than one client is demanding answers. I warn you, Mr. President, if you can’t find out who did this, I will.”
“That’s enough, Cal,” barked Zimmer. Cal glared at his friend, but kept his mouth shut after the rebuke. Silence. Then Zimmer asked, “Why do you think the leak is from here? Besides, why would anyone want to link you to the attacks? There’s no evidence to support the claim. Trav will be home before noon.”
“With all due respect, sir, that’s not the point. Of course we’re innocent. But the threat is still out there. We’ve been accused. You, Mr. President, should know more than the rest of us what a media frenzy can do to a company’s reputation. Besides, who the hell would have the pull to get the Nashville police and the media to show up at the same time and the same place?” Cal asked. When no one answered, he continued. “I’ll tell you who it is. The only demographic that has that kind of pull, that can be that Machiavellian, are politicians. When I think politics, my gaze rests right here, on Washington, D.C.”
+++
“What do you mean you can’t throw him in jail? And what the fuck happened to all the video? It was supposed to look like you guys were taking down a drug kingpin.”
“They got some big shot lawyer that made some calls. She shut down most of the news channels with threats of lawsuits.”
“You’re saying some bitch had the balls to get in my way?”
“Look, I’m doing what I can, but I already got my ass handed to me from the chief. He’s pissed that I took that many guys with me. He said I was showboating.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what that fat shit says! Don’t ever forget that you work for me, and that you’ve worked for me since your pimply ass left the academy. Now get off the phone and do what you’re being paid to do!”
Congressman Peter Quailen smiled wide. His tirade had been more of an act to keep that shit Lebeau in his place. The media coverage hadn’t been what he’d planned, but that wasn’t a problem. The damage had been done. Quailen dialed another number and said, “Is my money in the account?”
+++
Cal was still fuming as he rushed to leave the White House. Daniel stayed close behind, worried that they’d just stepped over the line. The meeting hadn’t ended well. Cal, in not so many words, had told the president that he had enough secrets to make his last three years in the White House very miserable. The president hadn’t taken it well, telling Cal to take some time to cool off. Zimmer had tried to pull Cal aside on the way out, but the stubborn Marine brushed by, making a B-line for the exit.
Minutes later they got in the car, and Cal slammed his palm on the dashboard. “Fuck!”
“You okay?” asked Daniel, knowing the temper that rarely surfaced from the young leader.
Cal stared out the rain streaked window, not saying a thing until they’d pulled onto the Beltway.
“What do you think? You think the president ran his mouth?” asked Cal.
Daniel shrugged. “Above my pay grade, boss.”
Cal rolled his eyes. “Seriously. Who do you think did this?”
“I don’t know. How many people have you pissed off in the last three years?”
Cal laughed. “Are you kidding me? With all the scumbags we’ve put away or killed, the list is long.”
“Do you really think it was someone on the president’s staff? That would be pretty ballsy doing that under his nose.”
“I don’t put anything past politicians. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that they’ll say or do anything to get their way.”
“They’re not all bad. What about Brandon?”
Cal snorted. “He’s no Boy Scout either. Don’t ever forget how we all met.”
+++
“What do we need to do about Stokes?” asked the president.
“Let’s give him a day to cool off, and then I’ll talk to him,” said Zimmer. “I’d be pissed too. I’m just sorry he came in here like that. If I had known…”
“It’s not your fault. I can’t say that I blame him. There was a time when I would’ve done the same thing.” The president walked over to the fireplace, staring into the flames. “Cal’s right about one thing. We need to help him find whoever’s behind this.”
Chapter 19
SSI Safe House, Arlington, VA
10:19am, December 19th
The four vehicles pulled into the drive, Gaucho and his team piling out. They quickly unloaded two duffel bags per man and went inside.
“Any trouble getting here?” asked Cal, as Gaucho stepped into the dining room.
“We left in intervals and met halfway, caravanned the rest. Had a tail. Think it was a reporter. Lost her pretty quick.”
“You sure?”
Gaucho rolled his eyes. “Any word on the skipper and Trent? They get out yet?”
“Not yet. Haines is working on it.”
“I heard she went apeshit. I know I’m a crazy Mexican, but ain’t no way I’d ever piss off The Hammer.”
“Yeah,” said Cal absently.
Gaucho glanced at
Daniel. “What did we miss?”
Daniel pointed to Cal, who looked up from his thoughts. “We paid a visit to the president earlier.”
“Yeah? How’d it go? They know who’s behind the attacks?”
“Not yet.”
“So what’s the plan? Got somewhere for us to go?” asked Gaucho.
“Get the boys together and I’ll go over what we know so far. We’re on standby until we hear from either Zimmer or Neil.”
Gaucho nodded, and left to coordinate the dispersal of gear, worried about his boss’s attitude. He hadn’t seen Cal this detached before, except for when they’d lost men in Jackson Hole. Not a man to be afraid of much, Cal’s lack of typical optimism worried the former Delta operator.
+++
“Come on, guys. We’ve gotta have something by now,” Neil complained to his team of computer geeks. “Nothing from the NSA?”
“Nada,” answered a guy with a head full of curly red hair, sporting white rimmed oversized glasses without lenses.
Neil was at a loss. He thought for sure they’d have something. His automated programs scoured the world, trying to find any link to Travis’s arrest, while also monitoring activity for information on the terrorist attacks. Still nothing. Whoever was behind the operation knew what they were doing. To Neil’s highly tuned mind, it wasn’t the acts that necessarily bothered him, it was the subsequent silence.
+++
Special Agent Stricklin spent the previous night helping at The Amphitheatre at the Wharf, keeping reporters and nosy locals at bay, meanwhile freezing his ass off, still nursing a wicked headache.
He’d gotten out of going back the following morning by telling the agent in charge that he had to go to the hospital to get his head checked out. The agent in charge didn’t argue, despite needing the manpower. Stricklin had already pissed off half his staff, and he was glad to be rid of the guy.
Stricklin sat in his hotel, engrossed in reading every article he could find on the arrest of SSI’s CEO. His heart leapt when an article by The Tennessean referenced the majority owner of Stokes Security International, Calvin Stokes, Jr.
The pieces started coming together in Stricklin’s head. If he could only connect Stokes to the amphitheater attack and an assault on a federal officer…
Clicking a new tab, Stricklin started a new search. He had to get to D.C.
+++
“Mr. President, I think we may have something,” announced the president’s chief of staff, walking into the Oval Office.
The President looked up from his work. “What’s that?”
“We may have a lead on the Orange Beach attacker.” Vance handed over a thin folder.
The President scanned its contents. “Give me a minute, Rick. I need to make a call.”
Once his chief of staff had closed the door, the president picked up his desk phone. “Connect me to Cal Stokes.”
+++
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. President.” Cal glanced up after ending the call. He’d stepped out on the porch for privacy, and walked back in the living room, motioning for Gaucho and Daniel to follow him to the kitchen.
“What’s up?” asked Gaucho, now seated on a bar stool as Cal poured himself a glass of water.
“The president says they just found out from the Alabama bomber’s family that the guy was up in Detroit for the last two weeks doing some training with a new trucking company. They said he’d been acting strange ever since coming home.”
“What are the Secret Service doing about it?” asked Daniel.
“They were able to track the location from the guy’s cell phone trail. The FBI’s going in to raid the place. He said he’ll have Zimmer call us when they know more.”
“I went to Detroit once with my abuelito,” said Gaucho. “Good coney dogs, but cold as shit.”
+++
The FBI SWAT team crept silently through the maze of abandoned buildings. Detroit was full of them. A barren wasteland. The address they’d been given showed a long-vacant auto manufacturing factory. It’d seen better days, crumbling and covered in graffiti, choked with debris.
“Two minutes,” the point man whispered into his mic, never slowing his approach.
His weapon swiveled as a homeless man sitting next to a small fire startled, jingling the bag of aluminum cans lying next to him. The second man in line put his finger to his lips, instantly hushing any forthcoming sound from the bum. Someone farther back in line would take him in for questioning.
“Thirty seconds,” announced the lead agent, each subsequent team member steeling themselves for entry. They spread out, covering every approach as well as they could. The place was an ambusher’s dream. Angles and vantage points mocked the team’s advance, goading them forward.
The point man was the first in, scanning, pivoting, swiveling. Nothing. Room to room they went. Still nothing.
Closing in on the central fabrication area, the point man halted their assault, and then touched his nose and pointed forward. There was a smell of roasted meat coming from up ahead. Not meat, but some kind of flesh. The man leading the move had done a stint in Iraq training with Marine Special Forces. He’d encountered scenes that still brought back vivid memories. For him, more than anything, it was the smell, the same stench he sensed creeping forward now.
Coming around a corner, he finally spotted the source of the fire. Eyes widening in disgust, he waved his squad forward.
Chapter 20
SSI Safe House, Arlington, VA
12:41pm, December 19th
“Is this for real?” said one of the SSI operators over Cal’s shoulder. They were all viewing the oversized computer screen.
“Yeah. The FBI just sent it over. The president’s probably watching it right now, too,” answered Cal.
“Whoever did this is a bunch of sick fuckers, boss,” growled Gaucho, the hair on the back of his neck matching the sentiment in the room.
The team watched as the video panned around the factory room. Rusted racks lined the room under old rail systems that used to move vehicles from one portion of the factory to another. From one of those racks hung five burning bodies, just then being doused by SWAT members.
“I’ll bet that reeks,” said another one the SSI crew. They were all experienced men, from all branches of the armed services. They’d seen and smelled the aftereffects of acts like the one being shown on the computer screen.
The room hushed as the camera zoomed in on a gurney, dirty surgical equipment arrayed on a metal tray, covered in blood.
“I saw a bomb factory in Iraq a couple years ago,” said Cal. “Looked a lot like that. They were putting IEDs inside little kids. If they didn’t die, they kept them there for a day, then sent them out to sell DVDs to our Marines.”
More than one man nodded, having experienced something similar during their time overseas. The cameraman did a thorough job capturing every inch of the surgical area, and then moved to the left, focusing on the back wall. Cal paused the playback. “Oh, shit.”
+++
The president paced, taking pulls from a cigarette stolen from his hidden stash. He’d tried to quit for years, trying everything from the patch to pills and electronic cigarettes. At times the stress pulled out his old habit. It was the video and its message.
Vice President Zimmer, the chief of staff and the president’s National Security Adviser were in opposite corners, talking into their cell phones, trying to do what they could to deal with the situation.
The image replayed over and over again in his mind’s eye. Aryan propaganda. Death to the Jews. Death to the Hispanics. Death to blacks. And then…a caricatured spray painting of the first lady, adorned with a bullseye on her forehead.
+++
“How’s the president doing?”
“Not good, Cal,” answered Zimmer, glancing over his shoulder at the still-pacing head of state. “Seeing the first lady’s face on the video really shook him up. Rick Vance says he’s never seen him like this.”
; “Is there anything we can do?” asked Cal, genuinely concerned for the president, despite their run-in earlier. Cal had lost the love of his life. He knew the pain of it, and could imagine what the chief executive was thinking.
“You still in Arlington?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Stay close. The way the president’s talking, whenever we find out who’s behind this, it’ll be taken care of outside of official channels. That means you.”
Cal couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Outing dirty politicians was one thing. It was hands-off. Going in and taking care of terrorists on U.S. soil was something else entirely.
“Not that I’m complaining, but are you sure that’s a good idea? Wouldn’t one of the agencies be better suited to taking care of it? I don’t want anyone changing their mind halfway in,” said Cal.
“This just got personal, Cal. I know you understand that. Let’s just call it a shift in presidential policy.”
“Fair enough. Tell the president that we’ll be ready whenever he calls.”
+++
“Did you get the bodies burned?”
“Yeah. We almost didn’t make it out in time.”
“How many do you have left?”
“Three.”
“All viable?”
“As viable as they can be.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch soon.”
Chapter 21
Litchfield Golf Course,
Litchfield, Minnesota
3:25pm, December 19th
The frigid air whipped off of Lake Ripley, causing swirls of snow dust to sweep across the closed golf course. In the distance, a large engine revved, working against the brutal Minnesota snow and ice. A minute later a Ford F450 rolled into the shuttered clubhouse parking lot.
The driver stepped out in the subzero air, face obscured for protection from the elements rather than anonymity. He wasn’t worried about being recognized. No one else was crazy enough to be out in the cold. A light flashed from the opposite end of the building, and he headed that way.
Sheltered from the wind, another man, daring to smoke a cigarette, waited. The newcomer approached nonchalantly. They’d had similar meetings around town for the past year. Money always changed hands. Good paydays for the Minnesota native.