by Joseph Flynn
Derek Geiger knew he had no hope of leaving the room alive.
Now, hearing from Garner that he’d been the one to murder Brad, Geiger knew just how to end the standoff. He’d get at least two of his targets: Putnam Shady and James J. McGill. He’d shoot that bastard Garner, too, if the Secret Service people didn’t react in time and get him first. Even if they did, Garner probably wouldn’t outlive the day.
So, Shady first as long as he was right there.
Elspeth Kendry and Augie Latz saw in Geiger’s eyes what was coming.
“Now!” Elspeth yelled.
The command was meant for Latz and her. But Putnam, McGill and Sweetie took it to heart as well. Putnam let his legs turn to Jell-O and collapsed. Geiger was unable to support Putnam’s weight and the lobbyist fell to the floor, leaving the speaker to deal with four angry people hurling themselves at him.
He did what he could, extended the gun at McGill and pulled the trigger.
But Augie Latz got in the way and took the bullet, crashing into Geiger just as he pulled the trigger a second time and his plastic gun, a weapon not known for its reliability, exploded in his hand. Then he was driven to the floor under the weight of four bodies.
A razor sharp shard of plastic severed the speaker’s carotid artery. He would have bled to death in short order, if the combined weight of his attackers hadn’t slammed his head to the floor and severed his cervical spine first.
Special Agent Latz’s eyes went wide and he gasped for breath. Geiger’s first shot had penetrated the agent’s body under his left arm, and besides whatever other damage it had done inside his chest cavity, it had apparently hit at least one lung. The special agent had also taken a face full of plastic shrapnel when Geiger’s gun had exploded.
McGill, Sweetie and Elspeth pulled themselves off Geiger and each other.
“Elspeth, call for my EMT team and ambulance,” McGill told her.
Whenever McGill and Patti went to any public event, they were always accompanied by his and hers ambulances and emergency medical teams. Patti always had a surgeon on hand, too; McGill had to make do with med techs. What Latz needed most was some kind of professional help fast.
McGill skittered on his hands and knees over to Latz to see if there was any immediate help he might offer.
Then, like a messenger from the god of war, Celsus Crogher burst into the room with his Uzi leveled, but no one to shoot.
McGill asked “You’ve got medical people with you?”
“Right behind me,” Crogher said. He yelled for them, and then the SAC and Elspeth joined McGill in kneeling over the fallen agent. Each of them put a hand on Latz. All of them urged him to hold on.
They moved clear as soon as the EMTs arrived.
McGill got to his feet and turned to see Garner was down, too, but not bleeding. Rockelle Bullard knelt beside him. Garner’s time was at hand. McGill took up station on the other side of the congressman.
Garner saw McGill and smiled.
“Almost done,” he said.
Rockelle said, “Congressman, just in case you got any Lazarus in you, I have to inform you of your rights. You don’t have to say a word to anybody.”
Garner looked at her and managed to laugh.
“Where I’m going, nobody gets off on technicalities.” He put his eyes back on McGill. “You found the gun?”
“It’s in my pocket.”
“It’s Erik Torkelson’s gun. The one I used to kill him.”
Rockelle looked at McGill. He handed the gun to her.
“That and my dying declaration should do it, don’t you think?”
To establish his guilt, he meant. In case that wasn’t enough, he told them where they could find the other murder weapons.
McGill was now sure Zachary Garner hadn’t acted alone. He hadn’t had the physical strength to commit all four killings. Probably not any of them. McGill would bet that if anyone thought to check into it the forensics would show the lobbyists had been shot by someone shorter than Garner’s six-foot-five. But McGill was not about to raise the notion of accomplices in front of the lieutenant from Metro homicide.
She likely thought Putnam Shady was still criminally liable in some way.
McGill looked over to where Sweetie had revived Putnam.
Physically, he seemed no worse for the wear.
Emotional scars would manifest soon.
The emergency medical team was wheeling Latz out of the room.
McGill was startled when a hand went around his wrist. He looked back and saw Garner had taken hold of him, and had one more thing to say.
“If there’s a life after this one, I’m going to get whacked hard. But before I do, nothing’s going to stop me from visiting Kenny. I’ll tell him to be …”
Garner died before he could finish.
McGill and Rockelle looked at each other.
“Be what?” she asked McGill.
Strong, McGill thought. Brave. Indomitable.
But he said, “Good as new.”
GWU Hospital
Special Agent August Latz was in surgery. One lung had been punctured. The liver had been damaged and the small intestine had been perforated. Of lesser but not inconsequential seriousness, the upper right eyelid was partially severed and the septum of the nose had been displaced. The damage to the face was cleansed, disinfected and left to be treated until the critical issues were resolved.
A team of trauma surgeons and nurses worked on the special agent with intense concentration and all due speed. They were at the top of their profession and working in Washington D.C. they got plenty of opportunities to hone their skills. So much so that after they finished a procedure they shared their opinions of what they had thought their chances of success had been going in.
The odds on Augie Latz were fifty-fifty.
Reagan National Airport
Welborn and Kira sat in a booth at the airport bar, an untouched glass of champagne in front of each of them. They were both trying to think of a toast that was appropriate to the moment. The sentiment was not quick in arriving. Sometimes even presidential orders couldn’t carry the day.
They were booked to New York and from there to Madrid and Barcelona.
Kira had said she would have liked to sleep all the way to Sir Robert’s villa.
“And wake up from a bad dream?” Welborn asked.
“Wake up and hope there’s good news,” Kira said.
Welborn’s cell phone sounded. If he’d been following the spirit of the order the president had given him, he would have turned it off. But he answered immediately.
“Captain Welborn Yates,” he said.
“We speak again, Captain,” a female voice said
“Who is this, please?” he asked, and Kira leaned in to listen.
“Chana Lachlan. I asked you to warn Jim McGill about WorldWide news going after him, remember?”
“Quite clearly, Ms. Lachlan. How may I help you now?”
“Please tell Jim that I’ve heard WorldWide has a reporter inside the walls at Salvation’s Path Church. Communications might be blocked for the moment, but at some point the president can expect unfavorable press coming out of there. The White House should be ready for that. I thought the president or Galia Mindel should know.”
“Thank you, Ms. Lachlan. I’ll let Mr. McGill know, and I’m sure everyone will be very appreciative. Goodbye.”
Welborn clicked off.
Having heard every word, Kira asked, “Are you going to call?”
Welborn shook his head. “Not now, not on a cell phone. Too many ears listening in. I’m sorry Ms. Lachlan’s call reached me on my cell.”
“But don’t you think—”
“I do. But both Mr. McGill and the president have more than enough on their minds right now. When we get to Madrid, we’ll go to the embassy and send a cable.”
“Then we’ll go to Barcelona and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist?”
Welborn kissed his bride. “We
’ll do our very best — for the next two weeks.”
Salvation’s Path Church, Richmond, Virginia
Nobody saw who did it. There was no video of it being done. Federal, state and local cops had kept onlookers at bay, so the suspicion was the deed had been done by a construction worker sympathetic to those now being held in the church grounds cum prison. On one of the gray slabs comprising the wall a red graffito had been sprayed.
FREE B.G.
Within twenty-four hours, signs demanding freedom for Burke Godfrey would appear from coast to coast and border to border.
GWU Hospital
Carolyn met a disheveled McGill in the lounge at the end of the hallway. Lars stood behind her with a hand on each of her shoulders. Both of them were crying, looking as if the worst had already happened.
“Oh, God,” McGill said. “Please don’t tell me …”
Carolyn stepped forward and put her arms around her ex-husband’s waist; Lars put an arm around McGill’s shoulders. McGill still felt as if he might keel over. Then Carolyn sent a jolt of electricity up his spine.
“Jim, Doctor Nicolaides was just here looking for you. It’s Patti.”
Patti? McGill pulled free, stepped back and looked at them.
“What about Patti?” he asked through a constricted throat.
“There was a problem with the anesthesia. Something about an irregular heartbeat.”
“She’s not —”
Lars said, “No, no. The president is alive. Doctor Nicolaides said the immediate crisis has passed, but the medical team has to assess …”
“Whether they can risk the president’s life by going ahead with the procedure,” Carolyn finished.
McGill saw the dilemma. “But Kenny’s had that big blast of chemo. His own bone marrow has to be wiped out by now. He’s got to have the donor marrow.”
Carolyn nodded. Then she began to sob, turned and buried her face in Lars’ chest.
In a monotone, McGill asked Lars, “Where are Abbie and Caitie?”
“In the hospital chapel. I … I think we’ll join them.”
McGill nodded. He collapsed onto a nearby seat. Covered his face with his hands.
A moment later he heard a familiar voice.
“Jim,” he said, “we need you now.”
McGill looked up and saw Nick, the White House physician.
Again, he feared the worst.
But Nick said, “A very important decision has to be made, and quickly. You are the only one who can make it.”
McGill got to his feet.
Coming in Summer 2012
The Last Ballot Cast, the fourth Jim McGill novel
Jim McGill faces the most excruciating decision of his life, one that might cost the life of his wife, his son or both. Making matters worse, Damon Todd, the mad psychiatrist whom McGill shipped off to the CIA for safekeeping in The President’s Henchman, has escaped and has vengeance in mind.
The country, in a presidential election year, will also be making a fateful decision. The election will be determined by the electoral votes of one small state, and possibly the last ballot cast.
This is the book Jim McGill fans can’t miss. Questions of life and death will be answered. Political battles will be decided. There will be only one issue left to be determined … and you’ll need to read the book to find out what it is.
If you’d like to be added to my email list and receive updates on forthcoming books and learn of opportunities to receive free copies of e-books, please visit www.josephflynn.com/contactme.html.
You might be interested to read how I approach my writing. If so, go to my blog, Committing Fiction. The 12/28/11 post is titled: Serial characters, cliffhanger endings and other odds and ends.
About the Author
Joseph Flynn is a Chicagoan, born and raised, currently living in central Illinois with his wife and daughter. He is the author of The Concrete Inquisition, Digger, The Next President, Hot Type, Farewell Performance, Gasoline Texas, The President’s Henchman, The Hangman's Companion, Round Robin, Blood Street Punx, Nailed, One False Step, Still Coming and more titles to appear in the near future.
All the novels are available for the Kindle through www.amazon.com.
The Concrete Inquisition
Digger
The Next President
Hot Type
Farewell Performance
Gasoline, Texas
The President’s Henchman
The Hangman’s Companion
Round Robin
Blood Street Punx
Nailed
One False Step
Still Coming
On the following pages, you may read free excerpts of the first two Jim McGill novels, The President’s Henchman and The Hangman’s Companion. You may also read free excerpts of Joe’s other books by visiting his website at: www.josephflynn.com.
The President’s Henchman [excerpt]
Chapter 1
When McGill was formally introduced to the White House press corps, Helen Thomas asked him how it felt to be the country’s first First Gentleman.
He responded, “I prefer to think of myself as the president’s henchman.”
The line got a good laugh from the newsies; even Press Secretary Aggie Wu grinned. But Chief of Staff Galia Mindel reacted to the remark with a mighty frown. McGill saw the look of disapproval but didn’t worry. He didn’t work for her.
Just wait until Galia learned he’d gotten his P.I. license.
And his concealed weapon permit.
She’d be about as thrilled as the Secret Service had been. They’d changed his code name from Valentine to Holmes. Which McGill had laughed at and, on the whole, considered an improvement.
Galia wasn’t likely to crack wise, though. She’d try to fight him. And lose.
McGill’s career choice came with a presidential stamp of approval.
“What exactly does the president’s henchman do?” Candy Crowley inquired.
“Things nobody else can,” McGill told her with a twinkle in his eye.
Galia didn’t like that answer either.
James Jackson McGill became a minor historical figure when his wife, Congresswoman Patricia Darden Grant (R-IL), became a major historical figure by becoming the first woman to be elected president of the United States. McGill had worked as the de facto head of security for Patti’s presidential campaign. Before that, he’d been a Chicago cop for twenty years, and the chief of police for five years in the posh North Shore suburb of Winnetka, Illinois.
It was in this latter capacity that McGill met the future president. He solved the murder of her first husband, philanthropist Andrew Hudson Grant. Cracked the case in twelve hours.
Which was why the president-elect couldn’t argue with McGill when he told her the week before her inauguration that he was going to have to find something to do while she was busy running the country. He wasn’t ready to go fishing or spend all his time cutting ribbons.
“You still want to be a cop, don’t you?” Patti asked.
“Yeah.”
“But I know you don’t like any of the federal agencies. So you don’t want me to appoint you to run, say, the FBI.”
“No.”
“Do you want to stay in Illinois? Have a commuter relationship?”
McGill shook his head. Firmly.
“So what does that leave?”
“Private license,” he said.
Patricia Darden Grant was a very smart woman. Processed information like a supercomputer. But that one stopped her cold. Long enough to make her laugh, anyway.
“You … you want to be the private eye who lives in the White House?”
McGill said, “Why not? You’re the only one who gets to break tradition?”
What could she say to that? Only: “You’ll be careful, Jim?”
“Sure,” McGill said. “Won’t do a thing to embarrass you.”
“I wasn’t talking about politics. I can always get another job. But I don’t
want to bury another husband.”
McGill kissed the most powerful woman in the world, loving her more than ever, and did his best to reassure her he would be around for a long, long time.
McGill absolutely refused to have more than one Secret Service agent assigned to guard him. The head of the White House Security Detail was an unsmiling humanoid named Celsus Crogher. Although Crogher was only in his late forties, his gray hair was turning white. His eyes were the color of silicon; his skin was slate. It was as if all pigment had been pruned from his family tree. Crogher wanted McGill’s protection closer to platoon strength. The president brokered a compromise: McGill would have one Secret Service bodyguard and an armed driver from the White House Transportation Agency.
McGill interviewed several men and women for each position. In the end, he picked Secret Service Special Agent Donald “Deke” Ky. The son of a Eurasian Vietnamese-American mother and an African-American GI father, Deke had tightly waved black hair, blue eyes behind epicanthic folds and skin the color of a new penny. Leo Levy was a self-described good ol’ Jewish boy from North Carolina. Long and lanky, with a face out of the Levant and an accent out of Andy Griffith, he’d driven the NASCAR circuit before getting into government work.
Both men had exemplary records, and each took a solemn pledge never to rat out McGill for anything he said or did. Celsus Crogher and Galia Mindel were not to be privy to any of the doings of McGill Investigations, Inc. Beyond that, Deke and Leo were to let McGill know if they detected any government busybodies snooping on him.
Starting in February, just after Patti’s inauguration, McGill walked all over Washington, D.C., like a rookie cop learning his new beat. Before meeting Patti, he’d visited the city only once, as part of an American Studies course at Saint Ignatius College Prep. Deke Ky walked between McGill and the street. Leo Levy idled along in a supercharged and armored black Chevy sedan a half block behind.