Conner reached the address he was looking for, 434 Calle El Toro, parked in front, and rummaged in his backpack. He pulled out the copy of an old People article that Gretchen had given him, FLOTUS Is Besties with her Barber, and reread it. It was about Angel Garcia’s rise to fame as the First Lady’s hairdresser and how when Angel made enough money, he moved his family out of the Tijuana slums into this very house. Conner looked out the window at it. “Shit,” he grumbled. It pissed him off that the greaser homo’s family was living in a three-story stucco house with a satellite dish big enough to get TV channels from Mars. His headlights revealed what he considered the only consolation: The house was painted pink. I may live in a shithole, he thought, but at least it’s not pussy pink.
The house lights were off, so he climbed out of the car and walked over to the steel gate to check out the driveway. A security sensor light over the garage flashed on. As he feared, an alarm blared. He knew he had only a few seconds to ascertain a positive ID on the Garcia house. He glimpsed what he was looking for: a food truck parked alongside it. He took off his Ray-Bans so that he could ID the name on the truck: “Mama G’s Tacos.” Even without his sunglasses, it was too dark to make out the food truck’s decorations. All he could see was that whoever painted them had used a lot of Pepto-Bismol pink.
With the house-alarm blaring, Conner took off in the rental car. He drove with the lights off until he was three blocks away. He heard no sirens. So much for Mexican home security, he thought, then turned on his headlights and cruised through the neighborhood. His plan was to return and stake out the house before sunrise. If Angel Garcia was in Tijuana with the First Lady, he figured that there was a 50-50 chance that he had brought her to his family’s house. If Angel and the First Lady were inside, asleep, he would spot them there in the morning. If he didn’t, he would follow Angel’s mother when she left in the food truck. According to the People article, the Mama G’s Tacos food truck that Angel bought his mother had made her rich and famous—at least for a Mexican in TJ. “Follow his mother,” Gretchen Funck had instructed him. “She’ll know where they are.” Conner hated his own mother and had never done shit for her, so he had to take the First Daughter’s word for it.
He drove west, following the GPS route to the beach. In a few blocks, the houses gave way to sand dunes and the pot-holed asphalt road dwindled to a gravel trail. He pulled over, climbed out of the car, and walked in the chilly night air to the edge of an ocean bluff.
The beach below was shrouded in fog, but he could hear the thump of what he guessed were motherfucking-big waves slamming the sand. The thump reminded him of the sound his regulation ASP aluminum tactical baton had made on the back of a crazy Indian with a butcher knife who tried to break into the White House one time on Conner’s watch. It had been his most exciting day on the job. Once he was promoted to special agent, he knew his job would be much more exciting. I won’t be stuck pacifying nut jobs with a stick, he thought. I’ll do it with a SIG V-Crown nickel-case, stacked hollow-point bullet.
Through the fog, Conner could make out the blinking “Vacancy” signs on a few beach hotels in the distance. No one wants to stay overnight at the beach in the fog, he thought. He was more interested in the colored lights on the beach directly below him. From the canned salsa music and the shrill laughter of what he hoped were shit-faced señoritas, he figured there was a beach bar that was still open, maybe one with a thatched roof and palm trees, like in a Corona commercial. He checked his watch. Three hours until sunrise. Why not make the most of it?
As if in response to his question, the fog dissipated, revealing a steep path to the sand. He climbed down it, his hands getting pricked by the needles of cacti he carelessly grabbed to keep from slipping. At the bottom was an open-air shack of a drinking hole, its thatched roof as scruffy as a half-plucked chicken. Okay, so it wasn’t the beach party in a Corona commercial, but two hot young Mexican babes were sitting on stools and drinking, yep, Coronas. They wore short shorts and low-cut T-shirts that revealed the biggest boobs he’d seen in a long time that he could swear were real. He was glad that he had consulted Grandpa Google and discovered that the age of consent in Mexico is seventeen. The bimbos looked just this side of legal.
He slipped his Ray-Bans back on and strode toward them. “Muchachas,” he called, using one of the only words he remembered from ninth-grade Spanish. He held out his scratched-up hands, and in what he determined was an enticing come-on, said, “I got stuck with cactus needles. Which of you ladies wants to suck them out?”
They smiled coyly. As he stepped closer, he was surprised to see that they had attractive faces and naturally plump lips. He was already imagining how good it would feel to have them wrapped around his dick.
Twenty minutes, three Coronas, and one killer reefer later, Conner was leading the girls back up the rocky path to his car. Or, rather, they were leading him. One of his hands was tucked into the ripped back pocket of the short shorts worn by Rosa, the hotter of the two. His other hand was parked in the back pocket of her friend Maria. Neither hottie was wearing undies. Instead of cactus needles, his fingers were squeezing soft warm bootie. He felt like the luckiest white dude in TJ, except for one thing. I sure wish I had that black Escalade from the car-rental lot, instead of a piece-of-shit Ford Fiesta, to fuck them in, he thought.
They reached the bluff and walked toward his car. He squinted into a bank of security lights beaming from an ocean cliff to the north of them. He realized that he hadn’t noticed the lights before because they were hidden by fog. As his eyes adjusted to the glare, he saw that they were positioned atop a wrought-iron fence enclosing a white-marble mansion that was ten times larger than any he had ever seen in D.C. It pissed him off that some rich greaser dared to build a house that big.
“Who the hell lives there?” he asked. Suddenly, his head was spinning. He saw stars. He’d drunk three beers and shared a joint with women plenty of times before, but this…
Dark tentacles engulfed his brain and his legs gave out.
“I’m fucked,” Conner whispered before all went black.
Chapter 38
Washington, D.C.
December 19, 9 a.m.
“Welcome to Georgetown University Hospital, Mr. President, Madame First Lady,” said the willowy young Asian woman with a flawless ivory complexion. Moon thought she couldn’t possibly be older than sixteen. Was she really a doctor? She was wearing a white medical jacket and a stethoscope dangled from her neck. Moon read the woman’s nametag: “Dr. Yvonne Chang.” Note to self, she thought. Google what Chinese women put on their skin to look so goddamned young.
Dr. Chang bowed slightly. “We are honored to have you visit our children today, Mr. President.”
“It’s our pleasure,” replied Funck, but Moon could see that he was lying: He neither smiled nor made eye contact with the doctor. As they followed Dr. Chang down the spotlessly clean hospital corridor, the President’s neck remained rigid, but Moon could see his eyes dancing around, as if he were searching for an emergency exit. For a man who always swung his arms forcefully when he walked, it was unusual to see his hands plunged deep into his overcoat pockets. And why was he wearing an overcoat anyway? It was a good 75 degrees in here. The minute they had walked into the hospital, Moon had taken off her prim blue-wool Dior coat and slung it over her arm. She noticed beads of sweat shimmering on Funck’s nose. He is creeped out by all the germs he imagines in here, she thought. Bad for the President; good for me.
They entered what looked like a playroom at a rich-kids’ nursery school. It was packed with a dozen members of the press corps, whose cameras clicked away at them. The walls were decorated with Disney posters; the shelves were filled with kids’ books and games; and kid-height tables were piled with colorful puzzles and toys. But the children playing in the room were not those you’d see at an upscale nursery school. Wearing hospital gowns decorated with cartoon characters, some of them were rail-thin, others were unnaturally bloated. All had silicon
e ports implanted in their arms for administering intravenous drugs and taking blood samples. A few wore over-the-ear nasal cannulas attached to portable oxygen tanks, while several were propped up by blankets in oversized Radio Flyer Red Wagons. Moon knew from her nursing experience that in hospital children’s wards, the wagons were often used as a kid-friendly alternative to wheelchairs.
She glanced over at Funck. He grabbed a handkerchief held out by Special Agent Pricker and wiped the sweat from his face, his jaw flexing. She guessed that he was grinding his teeth, counting the minutes until he could get the hell out of here.
“Would you like to read to the children, Mr. President?” said Sally-Ann, who had accompanied the First Couple to the hospital.
“Let’s have the First Lady do it.” Funck plunged his hands deeper into his pockets. “She’s great at reading to kids.”
Moon glimpsed the terror on Sally-Ann’s face. Sally-Ann thinks I’ll blow my cover when I open my mouth, she thought. “I’d be delighted to read to the children,” she said in her best Natalia voice.
The photographers frantically snapped away as Moon picked a book from the shelf—Where the Wild Things Are. It had been her favorite kids’ book when she was a little boy. The nurses gathered the children together. She adjusted the white-silk scarf she wore around her neck to hide her bulbous Adam’s apple, reminding herself not to let the press get a possibly revealing profile shot.
She looked around for a place to sit. Dr. Chang brought over a kids-sized chair. “I’m afraid this is all we’ve got.”
Moon saw Sally-Ann turn pale as she lowered herself down onto the mini-chair, the hem of her tight blue dress threatening to hike up above her knees. A few of the photographers were smirking, as if waiting for the chance to “upskirt” the First Lady. To prevent one of them from getting a shot up her dress, Moon squeezed her thighs together and slung her coat over them.
She rested the book on top of the coat and began to read: “The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind… and another.”
“Thank you so much for coming today,” said Dr. Chang, shaking hands with the President and the First Lady as they walked out of the children’s ward. “It meant so much to the kids!”
“Our pleasure.” Funck forced a smile for the cameras, then steered Moon toward the hospital exit. Agent Pricker was waiting to open the door for them.
“Wait!” Moon turned back to the doctor. “Does the hospital have a hospice ward, Dr. Chang? Rex and I take a particular interest in end-of-life hospice care.”
“Of course,” she said. “How wonderful! I’m sure the hospice patients will be thrilled to see you.” She pulled the cell phone from the pocket of her medical jacket. “Just give me one minute.”
As Dr. Chang made a call, Funck moved closer to Moon. “What the fuck?” he whispered. “No way am I visiting a ward where people are fucking dying!”
Moon savored the panic on his face. “I thought it would be a kind gesture.”
Rex nodded to Sally-Ann. “Call Gretchen.”
Sally-Ann hurriedly stepped into a corner and made a call. She talked, listened, nodded, and hung up. She walked back to the First Couple. “Gretchen says nobody wants to see dying people,” she whispered. “She says it’s a, uh, fucking downer. A shit photo op.”
Funck sneered at Moon. “What did I fucking tell—?”
“The hospice patients are so excited to meet you, President Funck, Madame First Lady!” Dr. Chang pocketed her cell phone.
“Too late,” Moon whispered to Rex and Sally-Ann, feeling as mischievous as Max in Where the Wild Things Are. She eagerly followed Dr. Chang down the hall and into an elevator. A reluctant Sally-Ann, and an even more reluctant President Funck, followed.
The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor. A dozen hospice patients had been lined up in wheelchairs along one wall. Their faces were gaunt, their skin was pallid, and their bodies were frail. A few smiled weakly. Moon recognized the look of the dying and thought of her patients at the Good Samaritan Hospital in Miami. As soon as my White House prison term ends, I’m hanging up my Natalia wig for good, she thought. My work with hospice patients is what makes life worth living.
Moon walked graciously down the unlikely receiving line. She warmly greeted each patient with a few words—“What a beautiful smile!” “I’m so happy to meet you!” “You look nice today!”—and shook their hands. The bones of their fingers felt as light as the hollow bones of birds. With the patients that she sensed had only a few days more to live, she bent down and gently kissed their delicate cheeks. She was too caught up in the poignant moment to notice the chatter of cameras around her.
Until the chatter stopped.
She turned and saw that Funck was standing at the beginning of the “reception line.” His hands were buried in his pockets, his jaw was thrust out, and his lips were pressed tightly together. All eyes were on him, but he was in vapor lock.
“Rex, darling!” Moon walked over to him. “I want you to meet my friends.” She discretely pulled his right hand out of his pocket and nudged him toward the first patient in the line. She judged that the man was in his early thirties, but with his head bald and gray pallor, no doubt from chemo, he looked ancient. He was hunched over in his wheelchair, his hands on his lap. They were covered with scaly-red patches of psoriasis.
“You’re Oliver, right?” she said, remembering his name. The man nodded weakly. Moon turned to Funck. “Mr. President, meet my friend, Oliver.”
Oliver weakly lifted one of his scabby hands. Rex looked at it with ill-concealed disgust, then at the photographers. Their cameras were poised to catch the moment. He shot Moon a look that said, “I’ll kill you for this,” and shook the dying man’s hand. The cameras clicked away.
As if he had been jolted with electricity, Funck jerked back his hand.
“Sorry, got to go!” He waved at the photographers and turned to leave. They continued snapping photos as Pricker escorted Funck, and then Moon and Sally-Ann, into the elevator. He waved again as the doors closed.
The photo of Rex waving isn’t the photo that will end up on TV tonight, thought Moon, satisfied that she had accomplished her mission. It will be the photo of a horrified President Funck getting his hand zapped by a dying man in the hospice ward.
Chapter 39
Rosarito Beach, MX
December 19, 6:00 a.m.
Conner’s eyes were glued shut. He willed them to open. Nothing happened. I’m a fucking Secret Service special agent, he told himself. Special Agent Conner, open your fucking eyes!
Conner awoke slowly from a dream about crawling out of a tunnel lined with prickly cactus needles. They were painfully jabbing him in his arms, his legs, his ass. It took him a few minutes to comprehend that his sweaty, six-foot-tall body was uncomfortably wedged into the back seat of a very small car, his head jammed against a scorching-hot window. Then, like exploding shrapnel, the memory hit him all at once: the steep rocky path to the beach last night; the Latinas with the great tits and killer weed.
Shit, he thought, did I get rolled?
Conner had an old high-school buddy, Chuck, who tended bar at his favorite neighborhood joint in D.C. Chuck had warned him again and again: “Don’t fucking pick up sluts in bars! You think you’re hooking up with a ho for some fast fun, a bitch too scuzzy even for Tinder. Before you can whip out your cock, she slips you something—maybe in your beer, maybe in a capsule she shoves down your throat with a sloppy French kiss. You wake up with your pants around your knees, your wallet missing, and your car off somewhere getting repainted to ship to Nicaragua!”
Despite Chuck’s warnings, Conner had picked up plenty of sluts at plenty of bars, including Chuck’s, and the dude’s sluts-from-hell horror story had never happened to him. “I guess they love my dick too much,” he had boasted to Chuck. He swore he would never tell Chuck that the sluts in TJ didn’t give a shit about his dick. The last words he whispered before passing out last night came back to him. Th
is time he screamed them: “I’m fucked!”
Conner scrambled out of the back seat and onto the passenger seat of the Ford Fiesta. Not even TJ whores had bothered stealing this piece-of-shit car, he thought. He spotted his wallet wedged under the gas pedal and snatched it. The bitches had taken the $100 in twenties he got from an airport ATM, but they had left his driver’s license and passport. Thank you, Lord Jesus, he thought.
He discovered his backpack squashed under the driver’s seat and emptied out the contents. The intel items that Gretchen gave him had been tossed like a bad hand of poker. He scooped them up and laid them out on the dashboard. Present and accounted for were the ID photos of Angel and the First Lady, and a printout of the Facebook page for a band in Prague called Zlatorog and the Dragons. The rockers in the profile picture looked scuzzy—long hair, tattoos, earrings—but he had to admit that the guitarist was hot. Gretchen had told Conner his name was Vaclav and alerted him to be on the lookout. She suspected that Natalia might be meeting up with him. After seeing photos of the First Lady with the President, he couldn’t picture her with this lowlife, no matter how hot he was.
Conner was relieved that the printout of the People article was still there too. Once more, he told himself, I’m one lucky white dude. The hookers may have taken my money, but they didn’t touch what’s much more valuable—if you want to blackmail the President of the United States. He figured that even if the señoritas could speak some English, they had been too stupid to read the article. And that they were no doubt too poor to own a TV. If they hadn’t watched Funck’s inauguration, they might never have seen the First Lady. And why would a Mexican bimbo watch the inauguration or care about the First Lady of the United States, anyway?
To his surprise, the hos had not taken the black-steel tactical handcuffs that Pricker issued him. Conner figured the girls might have wanted them for S&M, but oh well. Another lucky-white-dude point for me, he thought. His instructions were that once he found the First Lady, he was to cuff her gently and call the White House ASAP.
The First Lady Escapes Page 18