“Also as my first act as President, I want to announce a new special weapons defense program that we will begin building in earnest, immediately.”
“Thank you for your time and your prayers. May God bless America.”
The moment the camera turned off, Sandford removed his microphone and stepped from behind the podium, greeted by several staffers who congratulated him on a well-delivered speech.
“You looked very presidential, sir,” said one staffer.
The butt kissing has already begun.
He rolled his eyes. He was more interested in doing some butt kicking—namely, the Russians’—and getting his daughter back home.
He stepped into the Oval Office, his phone buzzing with a text message:
Well done, sir. Now time to take action.
Sandford hated feeling like someone’s puppet, though no one had yanked any strings yet—as long as he overlooked the assassination attempt on the President. Other than that, the text messages were annoying and sometimes informational, particularly regarding his daughter.
No one is going to tell me what to do. I’m the President of the United States.
A staffer approached Sandford with a stack of documents.
“Here you go, Mr. President. I thought you might want to see these,” he said, handing Sandford the papers.
Mr. President. Now, that’s what I like to hear.
He smiled and thanked the staffer for the information. He needed to sit down. There was work to be done.
He had some missiles to prepare to launch.
CHAPTER 32
FLYNN AWOKE LATE SATURDAY MORNING with an aching back and a stiff neck. It was like most mornings for him. Except now his arms and legs were zip tied together—and he lay on the floor. He squinted as he looked around the room. A small vertical window at the very top of the room provided a scant amount of light, but it was enough to see Natalie in all her morning glory. Still asleep, Natalie’s hair remained matted to the side of her face, her mouth slightly open. At least she looks cute in the morning before she gets ready for the day. Not that Flynn really cared, but it was a nice bonus.
Those were the types of thoughts that kept Flynn going. Less than forty-eight hours ago he reveled in victory, solving one of the greatest mysteries in U.S. history: Who was behind the JFK assassination plot. But none of that mattered. He didn’t want to think about his legacy, determining that he wasn’t done creating it yet. Flynn wanted to tell more stories and expose more lies. He wanted to live.
But such desires seemed like nothing more than dreams at this point, locked in a cell and immobilized. While freedom would be nice, he would settle for a piece of bread and water.
He scooted back toward the door to see if there was any movement going on outside. He noticed two larger men sitting in chairs with their arms folded and heads slumped down. They both wore black tank tops with green Army surplus pants and boots. Tattoos covered the arms of both men. Flynn wanted the men to be dead, but he recognized that they were simply asleep. The third guard, who was wearing a black turtleneck shirt and similar pants to his cohorts, walked around the room with a cup of coffee in his hand, pistol holstered on his hip. Ivan was nowhere to be seen.
Flynn looked back at Natalie against the wall. She stirred but continued to sleep.
The phone belonging to the lone awake guard rang, allowing Flynn to listen in on one side of the conversation. His Russian was rusty, but he understood the gist of the conversation: The plan was running according to schedule and they would have no need of the hostages after tonight, once they moved locations.
Flynn heard Natalie stirring and began sliding back toward her.
“What is it, James? What’s going on out there?” she asked.
He ignored her question. “I bet you didn’t know how beautiful you look in the morning.”
She smiled and rolled her eyes. “You’re not answering my question.”
Flynn was well aware he was evading her question.
“Has anyone ever told you that before?”
She smiled again, continuing to mildly protest. “Stop it, James.”
“I’m serious. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Gosh, you are relentless—and ridiculous. We’re hostages of some terrorist group I’ve never heard of and you want to pay me compliments?”
“Well, have they?”
She laughed again and shook her head.
“Now that you know I’ve never been told that before, will you please answer my question? What are they saying out there?”
Flynn paused, choosing his words carefully.
“I’d really rather not say.”
“Come on, James,” said Natalie, her patience wearing thin. “What are they saying?”
“OK, fine. I’ll tell you. They said that after tonight they don’t have need for us any more and they will need to get rid of us.”
“Get rid of us? I’m hoping that means let us go.”
“Nice try. But you know that’s not what they mean.”
“What are we gonna do?”
Flynn shrugged his shoulders. “I’m working on it.”
Ever since he’d been tossed into this room with Natalie, he’d been “working on it.” But nothing was working in his head, at least not a plan that guaranteed safety for both of them. As much as he wished he had hours to plan out an escape, time was a precious commodity—and it was vanishing quickly.
He knew how high the stakes were. It was time to figure a way out of there.
CHAPTER 33
TODD OSBORNE STUDIED THE MESSAGE on his computer, wondering if all of the events over the past week were some orchestrated move by the Kuklovod. For an extremist terrorist group, their movements were so infrequent that the CIA often considered declaring them defunct. And then something would happen. A bombing here. A kidnapping there. A sudden rise to power by an unknown politician who was sympathetic to Kuklovod type causes. It was just enough to show a pulse, that the organization still had operatives—and still had an agenda.
But this week’s events meant something bigger was up. The Kuklovod remained covert except when it was preparing to make a big move on the global scene. And if ever there seemed like a big move, Osborne concluded this was it. Everything seemed to be falling into place. The removal of a peace-loving President. The re-emergence of the Vice President’s supposedly dead daughter. The distraction of a former CIA operative who chose to finger the organization on national television as a group targeting the President.
The message on Osborne’s terminal was from an operative embedded in Russia. He taught English at a school in the Urals and rarely had much contact of any kind. If Siberia was where Russia sent political opponents to silence them, the Urals was where the CIA sent operatives who barely passed key components of the agency’s espionage training. Nothing ever happened there, at least, nothing to speak of. But Osborne wondered if one of his operatives had discovered one of the most elusive locations in global spydom: the location of the Kuklovod’s headquarters.
Most agents figured out quickly why they were there. If they avoided detection, they would usually be reassigned within a couple of years. Normally, Osborne would’ve dismissed this as an overzealous agent, trying to make a name for himself. But with the sudden re-emergence of the Kuklovod injecting themselves into national events, he couldn’t dismiss this as mere coincidence. Something far sinister seemed at play.
Identified two Kuklovod operatives. Followed them to what appears to be Kuklovod HQ. Please advise.
Osborne wanted to storm the gates and oust the terrorists in a public display—something the agency would frown upon, especially since the U.S. wasn’t officially in Russia. And this opportunity seemed worth breaking protocol. But not when tensions with Russia were so high—and not when he was unsure of the Kuklovod’s end game. He advised the operative to continue monitoring the situation. Osborne wanted to discover more before charging in—much more.
CHAPTER 34
&n
bsp; BREAKING FREE OF THE ZIP TIE holding Flynn’s hands behind his back never presented a serious problem. However, severing the tie without an action plan would prove detrimental to his hopes of escaping if he didn’t have a firm plan in place. From experience, Flynn knew plans executed with confidence worked. Trying to escape without a plan? Not the best idea—especially when you had someone with you.
“So what are we going to do?” Natalie asked.
“Escape,” Flynn responded dryly.
“Well, I hope so. But how?”
“I’m working on it.”
Flynn slid next to the door and put his ear to the ground to discern what their captors were saying. A few moments passed in silence as Flynn strained to listen.
“Well?” Natalie asked, finally breaking the silence.
“Well, what?”
“Well, what did you hear?”
“Nothing that’s going to help us right now.”
“What were they saying?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Of course I do. If I’m a spy now, I want to know what’s going on.”
Flynn cracked a slight smile. “OK then, I’ll tell you. They said they hope that everything goes as planned in the missile attack on the United States—and that they are a long ways away when it happens.”
Natalie had no idea how to process such information. She remained quiet, staring at the floor.
“I told you that you didn’t want to know,” Flynn said, attempting to break Natalie out of her stupor. “So, even if we make it out of here alive, we’re going to get bombed. What do you think about that?”
Natalie stayed quiet, rocking slowly and staring at the floor.
“OK, I see that you are having a hard time with this. Well, you need to snap out of it because we’re about to break out of here.”
Natalie’s gaze broke and she rejoined Flynn in the present. “What do you want me to do?”
Sharing his detailed plan with Natalie, Flynn expressed full confidence that his idea would result in freedom.
Flynn sliced his zip tie and climbed up the wall and into the beams of the room’s vaulted ceiling.
“Ready?” he asked Natalie.
She nodded. Flynn could tell she wanted to believe in his plan but looked tentative at best.
“Sell it hard,” Flynn said.
She nodded again and smiled slightly.
A moment later, Natalie unleashed a scream that pierced the ears of the three guards. One of them came rushing into the room.
“What is wrong?” he asked, seeing Natalie lying on the floor.
Before the guard received an answer, Flynn jumped down from the rafters and onto the guard’s back. In one fell swoop, he broke the guard’s neck and watched the man slump to the floor. He then scurried back up into the room’s rafters.
One of the remaining guards called out and waited. Receiving no reply from his comrade, he rushed into the room.
Natalie screamed again as she shifted her glare toward the guard lying on the floor next to her. Again Flynn descended, breaking the man’s neck. However, he struggled enough to alert the other guard that something wasn’t right.
When the lone remaining guard charged into the room, Flynn was ready. He had lifted two guns off the dead guards and readied himself.
The final guard never saw his two fallen comrades before succumbing to his own death in a hail of bullets. Flynn hated dragging out confrontations, especially when they were easy to end. He glanced at Natalie, who looked like she might throw up.
“Being a spy isn’t easy,” he said. “This is the part of the job that’s hard to take.”
Sullen, Natalie sat on the floor, staring at the sudden body count that resulted from Flynn’s plan.
“It’ll be all right,” he said. “They got what was coming to them.”
“What if they could’ve helped you and given you more information about what they were up to?” she asked.
“They already did.”
He offered Natalie his hand to help her up. She reached for it and was instantly pulled to her feet.
There was still no sign of Ivan.
Flynn spent the next fifteen minutes taking pictures and videos of the building from one of the dead guard’s phones. It would be valuable for law enforcement to determine the organization’s next move—assuming Flynn didn’t figure it out first.
CHAPTER 36
SANDFORD WALKED INTO THE CABINET MEETING and closed the doors behind him. He had been in debates that were less contentious than the one going on in the room he now presided over. Despite his best efforts to ignore the buzz of staffers in the hall, Sandford understood the situation, ruled by chaos and confusion. Some staffers quietly whispered how Sandford could take over the White House like he did. Others wondered aloud who was behind the assassination attempt, questioning if it was an inside job. All the while, television and radio reports being monitored depicted nothing short of anarchy outside the Capitol steps. Protesters had already taken to the streets, demanding the U.S. strike whoever did this to their Commander-in-Chief. While no group had claimed responsibility, based on the signs toted by angry citizens, the instigators ranged from Middle Eastern terrorist organizations to Syria, Iran, China and Russia. It was clear nobody understood the situation at hand. And neither did Sandford.
He poured himself a glass of water before assuming the chair previously occupied by President Briggs. Sinking into the leather chair, Sandford felt good. Whatever was going on was his problem now—and he was going to fix it. But he first needed to create solidarity with Briggs’ cabinet members.
“I want to thank you all for your work during these extenuating circumstances,” Sandford began. “It’s never easy to thrive under duress, but that’s what we’re under right now. I trust you’re all aware of the current situation.”
That was the last moment Sandford felt any sense of control in the meeting, for the next five minutes resembled an unmoderated Crossfire debate more than a room full of experts serving at the pleasure of the President. Fingers pointed, wagged and even formed crass gestures. Accusations flew around the room. Words like “coup” and “anarchy” and “unpatriotic” filled the air. This was no cabinet meeting aimed at gaining control of the situation—this was a hive of political partisanship where the worker bees were eating their own. If I can’t control the cabinet, how am I going to control this country?
Sandford stood up and slammed his palms on the desk.
“Enough!” he screamed. The room immediately fell silent. At least they respect anger.
“The President asked you to serve on this cabinet, but nobody here seems to be able to do that. I suggest if you want to maintain your position here, you need to stop with these shenanigans and do what you’re supposed to do: give me advice on how to proceed. Otherwise, I’ll replace you with someone who will.”
Sandford’s control grab worked, creating a more cooperative environment. But it didn’t take long before the meeting grew tenser.
“Our final item is to talk about what’s going on in Russia,” Sandford said. “I’ve read reports from Homeland Security that not only are the Russians building more missile silos in Siberia but they’re also pointing some at us right now. I think we need to show them that we won’t be intimidated.”
Sandford’s suggestion was met by some resistance, as the doves in the room pleaded against using any force, much less showing some. The hawks created an echo chamber for Sandford’s idea, urging him to do what President Briggs lacked the fortitude to do. The ensuing debate caused an uproar that rivaled the early minutes of the meeting.
This time, Sandford pounded his fist on the table, quieting the room once again.
“Thank you for your input,” he said. “I’ve made my decision. We’re going to show Russia that we mean business.”
With that, he thanked everyone for attending the meeting before dismissing them.
It’s time somebody with some real guts led this country.
Sandford was going to launch missiles at Russia. They were going to pay for whatever they did to his daughter.
***
DIANE DIXON EXITED THE ROOM, seething at what just happened. The Secretary of Education was not about to let President Briggs’ decision to err on the side of diplomacy take a backseat to the hawkish Vice President.
She dialed a number on her cell phone as she retreated into a private office down the hall.
“We need to talk,” Dixon said.
“What’s going on?” the woman on the other end of the line said.
“Briggs is about to start a war with the Russians—and you’re the only person who can stop it.”
CHAPTER 36
FLYNN AND NATALIE made their way to the subway and headed toward Grand Central to take a train back to Washington. Unwilling to risk being apprehended, Flynn decided railway was the easiest and quickest way to escape the city. After all, he had immobilized a federal agent—and that wouldn’t be looked upon too kindly, even if it did garner results.
“What’s going to happen now?” Natalie asked as they stepped inside their private car on a train headed toward the nation’s capital.
“You are going to find some place where the Kuklovod can’t find you—I don’t know—a long lost friend or a distant relative. I don’t care who, but someone who isn’t going to be easy to trace back to you. Understand?”
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