by David Perry
He unsecured the padlock and swung open the steel doors. Gundersen entered the container and was assaulted by the hum of electricity. He sidled between the corrugated metal of the container and the truck, squeezing into the cab.
Several moments later, the engine roared to life.
He exited the cab, circled the truck, and inched his way along the opposite side of the container. After removing the electrical cables from the battery supply at the front of the container, Gundersen manipulated two switches. The refrigeration unit on the truck was now being fed by the Freightliner’s M2 106 ISB Diesel engine.
He carefully backed out the Freightliner box truck. Gears screeched as he tried to find drive. He forced the gearshift into place and the refrigerated truck moved off. The ship’s captain weaved his way through the yard and out the terminal’s entrance. Showing his paperwork to the attendant at the small shack, he offered a friendly wave. Turning into a BP gas station off of Terminal Boulevard outside the gate, Gundersen recognized his contact by the bright red jacket swallowing him. The small, elderly man stood in a remote corner of the lot.
He braked ten feet from the hunched old man. Gundersen read the letters on the front of the jacket, “Red Sox.” He did not understand the words or what they meant. Gundersen rolled down the window and stuck his head out.
The grizzled conspirator pointed to a spot. Gundersen gunned the engine and parked. He climbed out and tossed the keys at the man, who simply let them rattle to the asphalt.
Gundersen made a backhanded wave and began to walk away.
“Hey,” the man hollered in a scratchy voice.
Gundersen stopped after four tentative steps and turned. The man had removed a gun from his jacket and had it pointed at the sea captain. “Pick those up,” he ordered.
Gundersen smiled stiffly, ready to be done with all of this. He strode to the keys, picked them up, and walked to the old man.
“Drop them in there,” the grizzled geezer barked, pointing to a sewer grate.
Gundersen, confused, said, “but how will someone drive it?”
“Another set is on the way!” the wrinkled human replied. He wagged the gun back and forth. “Now!”
Gundersen shook his head. “Whatever you say, gubbe.”
He dropped them in and turned to the man. “We good now?”
The man forced a smile, revealing stained, rotting teeth. He nodded.
“By the way,” Gundersen asked, “what’s in the truck?”
The man smiled, wincing as he straightened up. “I’m betting it’s a whole lot of trouble.”
Chapter 20
The bedroom was dark except for a sliver of early morning light cutting through the opening created by the two drapes. A phalanx of prescription bottles of varying heights and diameters stood on the nightstand, creating a miniature plastic skyline. A half-full bottle of water and a box of tissues flanked the pills. His head resting on two overstuffed pillows, Clay Broadhurst lay on his side, willing strength into his sore bones and shrunken sinews.
Save POTUS! Save POTUS!
As with nearly all previous nights, last night had been no different. Those words infiltrated his dreams, interrupting what little sleep he managed.
Save POTUS!
He had uttered those words as he lay dying in the stairwell of the north tower in the condominium complex in Newport News on that October day two years earlier. Despite everything he had gone through, being severely wounded and left for dead, the surgeries, the pain, and the investigations, those words survived. He had almost lost two presidents on his watch.
The Secret Service agents who were on duty in Dealey Plaza had suffered for decades with the knowledge that they lost their president in ’63. Broadhurst almost understood their grief. It visited him every night.
The cadre of medicine vials and the daily routine of swallowing the assortment of horse pills were, if not keeping him alive, keeping him as comfortable as possible. He studied the sliver of sunshine slicing between the curtains of the master suite. The small bit of luminescence interrupting the darkness summarized his life at this moment.
He was dying. Darkness was slowly engulfing him. The only beacon in his life was his family—his two daughters, Grace and Kelly, and his wife, Claudia. The burden of his cancer tugged at them, draining the sparkle from their smiles. Fear etched their faces like gouges in granite. They were as exhausted as he was.
Broadhurst was not afraid to die. He had stepped to the threshold of death’s door once already, only to be pulled back. Every second, every minute since that day was a God-given bonus.
Since being shot in the stairwell of the condo towers overlooking the James River, its bridge, and the Penrose Gatling Shipyard, Broadhurst had endured countless physical and emotional hurdles. The quick action by the pharmacist as he lay on the landing at the top of the stairs had saved his life. He remembered the cool air hitting his bare foot after Rodger’s pulled off his sock. The last thing he saw was the pharmacist’s face as he rammed the balled up sock into the chest wound. The pain was so intense he’d blacked out. He woke up in the intensive care unit of Tidewater Regional Medical Center a day later. Two weeks after that, he was transferred to Walter Reed in Washington.
In the months after being released, the Service bestowed upon him the Director’s Award for Valor in a secret ceremony attended by the president and a few high-level guests. Not even his family knew about the honor.
They couldn’t, of course. Seeing Broadhurst, the father and husband, presented with such a medal, would invite questions. Questions Broadhurst could not answer. As far as his family knew, he was shot by a crazed counterfeiter and drug lord on a botched raid. Of course, the lie was necessary to prevent further questions.
Broadhurst had also received a Congressional Commendation, equally secret, for his actions and wounds that day. Any satisfaction he derived from the honors were exceeded only by the knowledge that he’d done his job and his charges, the presidents, had not died.
But the special agent-in-charge also knew the outcome could have been very different if it were not for the actions of Jason Rodgers. Broadhurst had only managed the situation. Rodgers’s deeds and courage were the real reason for his success, and the reason he was able to lay eyes upon his family once more. Rodgers bought him precious seconds until the paramedics had arrived.
Since the near catastrophe, he filled his days recuperating and analyzing how the Service had allowed two assassins within the triple ring of protection, how they had failed, and what should be done to prevent another occurrence. Placed on restricted duty and confined to a wheelchair, Broadhurst manned a desk, working fifty hours a week—fighting through the surgeries, rehabilitation, and pain and interviewing everyone who had a role that day. To say the last two years were difficult would be like saying the Grand Canyon was a hole in the ground. But finishing his analysis had been his goal.
He’d finished his report three months ago and was looking for four weeks of relaxation, to enjoy his wife and daughters … before he became a memory.
One week after handing in his report to Director Doyle and a day before heading out for a well-earned and much-anticipated vacation with the three women in his life, the cataclysmic news hit.
An MRI had been performed on his left lung to monitor the progress of his recovery. It was the same lung that had been shredded by a phony agent’s bullet. The test revealed spots on the lung. Broadhurst had stopped smoking three years ago. The lesions were cancerous.
To this day, he guessed that his gunshot wounds and recovery allowed his lung cancer to take root. The doctors would not confirm or deny this theory. But Broadhurst knew in his heart that his weakened state had allowed the disease to blossom.
The chemotherapy sapped his energy and strength. His body shriveled from 190 pounds to a paltry 150. His clothes hung on his frame. He could almost fit his closed fist between his neck and the collar of his dress shirts. The end was near. The cancer had spread to the intestines and liver
.
It was a death sentence. Broadhurst held no illusions. The number of days left for him were dwindling. He’d made the decision to forgo further treatments. He wouldn’t put his body or his family through the torture any more. He would go out on his own terms.
Broadhurst swung the heavy covers off his skeletal frame. He dropped his legs over the side of the bed and opened the nightstand drawer. Removing the large, leather-bound diary, he flipped it open to the page marked by two sealed envelopes.
One was addressed to his beautiful Claudia, Grace, and Kelly. In it, he’d poured out his heart and soul to them in two carefully scrawled pages. The second was addressed to Jason Rodgers, the Newport News pharmacist. Broadhurst thanked the man he barely knew for saving his life and giving him a few more years. In his first letter, he’d asked Claudia to make sure it was delivered.
He ran his fingers along the sealed flap.
Thank you, Jason Rodgers!
Now is the time! The girls will be at a friend’s wedding shower for hours.
He laid the envelopes on the nightstand beside the pill vials. Slowly, and with enormous difficulty, the Secret Service agent rose, picked up his cell phone and slid it into his pajama pants pocket. Struggling to walk to the closet, he removed his service weapon from the holster hanging on the hook.
It took another full minute to make his way to the bathroom. He stepped into the shower and closed the curtain. Broadhurst pressed himself against the tiled wall and lowered himself into the tub. He pulled back the slide and chambered a round.
Flipping off the safety, he pointed the barrel at his chest, slightly off center between two ribs. The bullet would rip through his chest cavity, slicing through his heart. A chest wound would allow for an open casket.
Broadhurst removed his phone and found the number. His brother had agreed to call the authorities and would let them in to tend to his remains before the girls came home and found him. All he had to do was call him seconds before he fired the shot. He pulled up his brother’s number from his favorites list and poised his thumb over the green circle. Tears clouded his vision. His breath came fast and shallow.
The phone began to vibrate in his hand a moment before it chirped.
Broadhurst wiped his eyes and read the caller ID. It was Deputy Director Vince Gagliano.
What the hell does he want?
A sense of duty honed from years of discipline and loyalty would not allow him to decline the call. He pressed the green circle on the screen.
“Broadhurst,” he croaked, his voice thin and weak. His hand shook as he held the phone.
“Clay, it’s Vince Gagliano. We need your help!”
Exasperated and distracted, Broadhurst said, “With what? I’ve given you everything I can give.”
“Delilah Hussein is alive.”
The Gulfstream bumped onto runway ten of Gustav III Airport to the squeal of tires under the mid-morning sun and taxied to the terminal area. Instead of stopping, the pilot circled back as if he were going to take off once more, and crossed back over the runway to a service area. The plane came to rest inside an open hangar, away from prying eyes and overhead satellites.
A white Model 350 TraumaHawk ambulance appeared from behind the hangar and pulled alongside the jet’s tail. A phalanx of six men exited the tail door of the aircraft, descended the stairs at a slow jog, automatic weapons at the ready. With their backs to the aircraft, they formed a semicircle around the medical truck, ready to stifle any prying presence.
Seconds later, Michael and then Chrissie, unconscious, were carried down the steps, bound and gagged in their crates, by the remaining four team members. A minute later, they were loaded aboard the van-like emergency vehicle.
The four men climbed into the rear compartment and swung the doors closed. The six men lining the perimeter jumped into two waiting Land Rovers mounted with flashing portable light bars.
The Rovers took up front and rear positions as the three-vehicle convoy sped off the airport grounds. Thirty minutes later, they were heading east along Route D209, curving southeast along Saint Jean’s Bay and out of the city of the same name.
“Where is she, Pete?” Jason demanded, thinking out loud, not expecting a response.
The brothers sat in the living room in a state of fidgety animation. Jason on the sofa, Peter on the edge of the cushion of the stuffed recliner. Angled trapezoids of light filtered through the curtains. After Jason had discovered the drop of blood on the bedroom floor, they returned downstairs. Jason tried to call Chrissie’s cell phone again, only to discover that when he did, her phone chimed in the kitchen. It was on the counter, plugged into the wall, charging, hidden between the refrigerator and the Keurig machine. He then called two of her friends in turn. Neither of them had spoken to her last night. At that point, Jason called the police.
The Newport News Police Department sent a lone uniform in a cruiser to take Jason’s statement and photograph the now-smudged droplet of blood. He’d asked the obligatory questions about a quarrel and if she’d decided to stay with friends. Finally, he declared he would file a report and a detective would call in the morning.
“I don’t know how long it will take the police to respond,” he had said. “But this will start the process rolling.”
With nothing else to do, the brothers hunkered down and tried to find a way to relax. Peter lay on the sofa and Jason, not wanting to disturb any possible more evidence, slept in the spare room.
As he lay there staring around the darkened room, Jason battled the pain of his shoulder, his arm wound, and the deep gash on his head. As he popped some leftover tramadol, Clyde Hutton’s words returned to him.
They’re back … The Simoon! And they’re looking for you!
It couldn’t be. Hussein and Oliver were dead. The son, Sharif al-Faisal, aka Sam Fairing, had been taken into custody.
No, he told himself. It couldn’t be.
“I don’t know. How did the dinner go?” Peter asked, jolting Jason back to the present.
“Not good, she said no when I asked her to marry me.”
Both of the former marine’s eyebrows lifted. “Really? I thought you guys were making plans. You said it was a slam dunk.”
“I thought it was.” Jason rubbed sleep from his eyes.
“What happened? She must have given you a reason.”
“She thinks I’m having an affair.”
“What? An affair?” Peter paused, then asked, “Are you?”
“Don’t be an idiot. Of course not.”
“Then why does she think that?’
“Because she followed me to Headlights.”
Jason had kept Peter apprised of his progress of the surveillance of Clyde Hutton. His nervous habit kicked in. The marine rubbed his eyebrow, the one cleaved by a scar from his days in the corps.
“Didn’t I tell you to leave that shit alone?”
“Pete, don’t lecture me.”
“You know, Jason, your tenacity can be a real asset. But sometimes, you need to let things go. How much does she know?”
“She thinks because I was parked outside the club, I was waiting for a dancer. She thinks I’m boning one of them.”
“Does she suspect anything else?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. She knows I’ve been sneaking around.”
“Okay, well maybe she’s just pissed and left for a while.”
“I don’t think so. Again, her car, remember?”
“Somebody could have picked her up.” Peter’s eyes got wide with realization. He peered at his brother. “Wait a minute. You proposed to Chrissie last night during dinner. Then you ran off to accost Clyde Hutton.”
Jason nodded. “Yes … I mean no! I left the house after we fought, so I decided to take it out on Hutton.”
“You are an idiot, you know that?” Peter delivered the statement with the excruciating honesty that only a sibling could get away with.
Jason shrugged. “Look,” he began, “I know it prob
ably wasn’t smart—”
“Probably?”
“These guys, Hutton and Tattoo Man—Hutton told me his name’s William Luther—tried to kill me. I came this close to being murdered in jail. I can’t let it go. I’ve got the scars to prove it. These bastards got away with it. I can’t find any record of either of them being charged or convicted of anything. We know Hutton was around. Luther could be, too. Would you feel safe?”
“All because some knucklehead left you a note!”
Jason had told Peter about the anonymous note that was left for him on the windshield of his car a year ago. The note that had catapulted him back into all the amorphous, gut-wrenching anguish.
“Pete, shut the hell up!”
Peter held up his hands. “Okay, okay. We’ll have this conversation later.”
“What do we do now?”
“We’ll wait for the detective to call you. But first we need to get you stitched up. I’m going to the truck to get my medical kit.”
Jason stopped Peter as he started for the door. “Then there’s this,” he said, pulling out the item he had taken from Clyde Hutton’s pocket.
The pair of Land Rovers climbed the rutted mountain road, their undercarriages scraping against the sandy earth every hundred yards for the last few miles. The serious-looking guard at the compound’s gate was dressed in a crisp pair of jeans and a lightweight white shirt. He held up a hand as he palmed the black machine gun slung across his chest.
The driver uttered a few words. The guard nodded, pointed into the compound, and retreated to the guard house. The automatic gates peeled open.
The vehicles arrived in front of the main house three minutes later. Standing at the head of the circular drive, Delilah Hussein and Oliver watched the convoy circle and come to a halt. A cloud of dust engulfed the Rovers. The driver of the first vehicle, the leader of Team Mohammed, exited and circled to Hussein.
“Take them to the wine cellar,” Hussein ordered. “But first, I want to speak to your men.”