His mother couldn’t believe any woman in their right mind would prefer to get their oil from a country that veiled their women, stoned them to death, executed them for witchcraft, circumcised them and let them be married off younger than ten.
“Where are the feminists in this fight?”
It was a frequent refrain of hers, to which he and his father would reply, “They’re blinded by the religion of global warming”.
His eyes filled with tears as he realized he was never going to have those conversations again.
“Excuse me,” said a man in a dark suit after he bumped into Reese from behind.
The man walked away quickly without looking back, but Reese felt something heavy in the right hand pocket of his jacket. He nearly pissed his pants as he realized the gun had just been handed off to him. He slowly, carefully, as casually as he could, reached inside and felt the coolness of the weapon now in his pocket.
It felt odd. Bumpy. And incredibly light.
And he immediately recognized it as the weapon he had been forced to steal at the gun show.
And that today was the day his victim was supposed to tell the police.
They’ve framed me!
He knew now no matter what happened he was going to prison. Police reports would be hitting the wire at any minute, his ID had been scanned when entering the White House, and with the heightened level of security, news of a plastic gun being stolen in the Washington, DC area had to raise red flags with everyone.
They were going to find him at any moment.
“It’s the President!” somebody gushed, causing all heads to turn to a staircase where the Commander-in-Chief and his entourage were quickly descending.
He doesn’t look scared at all!
A broad, confident, reassuring smile spread across President Bridges’ face as he veered off and immersed himself in the crowd, his Secret Service detail none too happy about it as he glad-handed the fans.
Reese’s hand wrapped around the grip and his finger found the trigger.
Then he thought of what his father would do.
And raised the gun to his head.
“Gun!” yelled Secret Service Agent Maxwell Logan, darting into the crowd of tourists and grabbing the hand of the man he had handed the weapon off to only moments before, Stan Reese. Reese hadn’t followed the instructions, instead turning the weapon on himself.
Making the right decision.
But not for him. Logan’s instructions were clear. If the target doesn’t follow instructions, it was up to him to intervene.
He yanked the gun hand away from Reese’s temple, his expression at being stopped a mix of shock and relief. Logan’s hands wrapped around Reese’s as he pulled the man’s arm out in front of them, cupping his own hands around the grip, trapping Reese’s finger on the trigger.
As he grabbed the hand he pulled Reese through the crowd, swinging the extended arm about as if Reese were putting up more of a struggle than he was.
Suddenly the President was in front of them, two Secret Service agents grabbing his arms to hurry him away as the realization of what was happening set in.
Logan pressed against Reese’s finger, squeezing the trigger, the first shot hitting the agent on the left, Reese crying out in dismay. Yanking the arm slightly to the right, Logan squeezed again and as he saw the shock on President Bridges’ face, he repeatedly squeezed Reese’s finger against the trigger until the gun was spent, the President’s body jerking with each hit, blood quickly spreading, staining his white dress shirt from the inside as the crowd panicked.
Logan twisted Reese’s arm, feeling the shoulder pop out of its socket, then kicked the feet out from under him as Logan grabbed his own service weapon. And as their eyes met, Reese’s filled with horror and shock, Logan’s calm and businesslike, Logan pumped three rounds into the man’s chest, then let go of his hand, the stolen plastic weapon still gripped tightly by Reese, the finger still on the trigger.
And in less than ten seconds, the President of the United States was on the floor, dying, with all evidence pointing to one Stan Reese.
And in the minds of some, dying was the best thing President Bridges could do to save his country.
USS Columbia, SSN-771, Los Angeles Class Submarine
Contiguous Zone, 14 nautical miles off the coast of China
Dylan Kane held his hand out, helping Lee Fang down the final step of the ladder leading from their mini-sub. He turned and saluted the Captain. “Permission to come aboard, sir!”
“Permission granted,” said Captain Lynch, snapping back a quick salute. “I’ll have you know, Mr. White—what is it with you covert ops guys and colors?—that this little rendezvous of yours has been quite inconvenient. And how the hell did you get a mini-sub without there being a retrieval already set up?” He looked at Fang. “And who the hell is she?”
Kane smiled. “Captain, I appreciate your curiosity, and those are all questions I’d love to answer. But right now, I can’t. I will need however to speak to you in private, immediately.”
Captain Lynch frowned. “I can assure you I trust my men.”
“And I, Captain, can assure you that even you don’t have the clearance for what I’m about to reveal to you.”
This seemed to surprise Lynch, if only for a moment, his eyes squinting slightly for a brief second. He stared at Kane, his eyes flicking over to Fang. “Follow me.”
They followed the Captain, under armed escort, to his stateroom, ducking as they entered, the door closed behind them by one of the guards. The Captain sat at his small desk, pointing to the one spare chair. Kane motioned for Fang to take it, she initially resisting until he implored her with a bulge of his eyes.
She sat.
“Captain, I can’t identify myself properly, however the fact that you were sent here should be enough validation of my clearance and discretion.” He motioned to Fang. “I of course cannot identify my companion either, except to say she has brought valuable intelligence to us.”
“A defector?”
“No!”
Kane placed a hand on Fang’s shoulder, squeezing it gently, silencing her. “No, not a defector. A patriot who stumbled upon something being done without the knowledge of her government, that ultimately affects our country. Not knowing who to trust, she reached out to us and I retrieved her. The intelligence she has provided in exchange for our protection is of extreme importance. I must make contact with my people immediately.”
“Just what is this intel?”
“I can’t say, Captain, but it is of vital importance to our national interest.”
Captain Lynch pointed up. “Sir, we are diving as we speak. Your retrieval was just outside of territorial waters. We are in the contiguous zone, hours at best speed to international waters. In our current position, the Chinese won’t hesitate to try and surface us if they feel it necessary, even if it does violate international law. If our presence was detected, and your friend here is as important as I think she might be, they’re going to want her back. We have six Chinese naval vessels in the immediate area, and I’ve got that pig of a mini-sub of yours attached to my hull, screwing up my tear-drop. Every damned listening device in the Pacific will be able to hear us. There is no way I can risk going to the surface for you to send a message.”
Kane frowned, realizing that Lynch was right, but only under normal circumstances. In this case a chance had to be taken, and the only way he would be able to convince the man that it was worth the risk to put his vessel in danger was to tell him what he wanted to know.
“The President is going to be assassinated.”
Lynch’s eyes shot open, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead.
A buzzer sounded causing Fang, obviously still on edge, to jump. Lynch hit a button on a control panel. “Bridge, Captain. Report!”
“Captain, XO. Three vessels just changed course and are converging on our pickup location. ETA seven minutes.”
“Other sonar contacts?”
“Six more on their way, at least a dozen civilian ships of varying sizes. They definitely know we’re here, Captain. They’re at flank speed.”
“Are we still at communications depth?”
“Negative. We can still float a buoy if we stop our descent.”
“Do it. Flash message to command as follows. Package retrieved. Reliable intel that assassination attempt to be made on POTUS. Will deliver package to extraction point beta soonest. Got that?”
“Yes, sir. Assassination?”
“You heard me. Attach our coordinates to that, then send an open broadcast to command indicating we are in the contiguous zone, not territorial. I want the Chinese to know we’ve gone public. Emergency dive once sent.”
“Yes, sir!”
Lynch ended the call with a jab of his forefinger on the panel, then turned to Kane.
“You two might have just got us all killed.”
“And if it saves the President?”
Lynch frowned. “He’s only one man.”
Kane had to agree with the Captain’s sentiments, even though it was their sworn duty to protect the man. “And with what’s happening back home, he’s more important now than ever.”
Lynch blew some air through his lips. “Only if he’s the right man for the job.”
“That’s not our job to determine, Captain.”
Lynch rose, rubbing his hands down his shirt to smooth out any wrinkles. “You’re right, of course. Just the frustration of seeing our homeland being destroyed while at the command of enough firepower to start and end a war with no target to fire at.”
Kane let out a short laugh. “Captain, you and I think a lot alike. Get us to South Korea and I promise you I’ll do everything I can to not bring those responsible to justice.”
Lynch’s eyes narrowed questioningly. “Meaning?”
“I intend to kill every damned last one of them.”
The White House, Washington, DC
Chief of Clandestine Operations Leif Morrison stood in shock at the top of the stairs, the Presidential Briefing barely over, he still discussing something with the Secretary of Homeland Security, Ben Wainwright. He had heard the scuffle and witnessed the entire assassination. And as the chaos unfolded, he numbly listened to the screams of fleeing tourists, shouts of Secret Service agents as they locked down the situation, and smelled the gun powder, the odor familiar, but accompanied by something unusual, something he couldn’t place.
Plastic?
He eyeballed the agent who had taken down the gunman as he stood with his hands up, several guns pointed at him as the Secret Service tried to determine who the bad guy was.
And as he watched, he saw the man look toward the stairs Morrison now stood on, and nod.
Almost imperceptibly.
Morrison turned his head to see who the intended recipient of the acknowledgement might be but the stairs were now occupied by at least two dozen people, including most of the cabinet from the meeting he had just left.
“It’s a plastic gun!” exclaimed someone as they disarmed the now dead assassin, medics finally arriving to tend to the President, it clear it was already too late. He had been hit five times by Morrison’s count, and he couldn’t see him surviving though his stomach was still rising and falling.
He found himself beside his dying leader, his feet having carried him down the stairs without realizing it. Bridges’ eyes suddenly locked on his as his entire body trembled. A hand raised up and Morrison realized he wanted to say something, he possibly the only familiar face the poor man could see, the rest Secret Service and medical personnel.
He quickly stepped over and dropped to his knee, taking President Bridges by the hand.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
The man’s breathing was labored, blood flowing freely. He stole a glance at one of the medics, who subtly shook his head.
Hopeless.
“D-did y-you s-see it?”
Morrison’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the shooting?”
“Y-yes.”
His voice was barely a whisper now, and Morrison dropped to both knees, leaning forward on one hand so he could get his ear as close to Bridges’ mouth as possible.
“Yes, I saw everything, Mr. President.”
Bridges reached up and grabbed him by the shoulder. “N-no, y-you d-didn’t.” His hand leapt from Morrison’s shoulder to the back of his neck, pulling him down until he could feel the dying gasps of breath on his skin. “T-trust no one.”
A heart monitor linked to the President suddenly flat-lined as the hand gripping Morrison’s neck let go, slipping to the floor, the President of the United States dead.
Leaving Morrison to wonder just what the man had seen.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
“The President’s dead!”
Chris Leroux jerked awake, his computer beeping at him as his face, mashed against the keyboard, pressed any number of keys, Windows finally fed-up. His phone rang as he lifted his head, ending the computer’s protest. His eyebrows popped as he noticed the Secure Call Indicator flashing.
He grabbed the headset.
“Leroux.”
“This is Morrison. Are we secure?”
Leroux verified the indicator. “Yes, sir.”
“The President has just been shot.”
Leroux’s heart raced as he realized it wasn’t a dream, that what he had heard shouted was real. He had been working non-stop pulling together all of the footage he could of Sherrie and anyone else who looked out of place at Fort Myer, as per Morrison’s orders after he had shown him the Sherrie footage in her cell. The footage of her repeated beatings had been incredibly hard to watch, tears rolling down his cheeks as his adrenaline fueled rage slowly waned, his body finally forcing him to sleep despite his best efforts to continue his work.
But he had been successful before collapsing. He had identified several dozen personnel wearing what he would characterize as paramilitary clothing. They all seemed to be confined to the same building Sherrie had been driven into, and military personnel seemed at a minimum there compared to the rest of the base. His current count was about fifty, and they never seemed to leave the building unless there was an entrance he knew nothing about.
It’s as if they’re all, civilian and military, confined to the one building.
And it was a large building. From the limited views he had of it there were dozens of rooms, including dozens of cubicles set up in one large area. The building was definitely a hive of activity, but for what he hadn’t been able to determine yet. All he did know was everyone was armed and strict security was observed.
And now the President was dead. He felt his chest tighten as he processed the words Morrison had just spoken. He had yet to find any link between what was happening to his country and the F-35 theft. All the evidence at this point suggested it was a completely separate incident, the timing merely coincidental.
“Our deal is intact. We shall not interfere.”
It had gnawed at him since he had first watched the tapes Kane had sent. Interfere with what?
“Chris, are you there?”
Leroux started, realizing he had drifted back to sleep, the phone ready to slip.
“S-sorry, sir. Yes, I’m here, I think I fell asleep.”
“You’ve been up all night again, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I had to.”
“I understand you’re motivated, and that’s good. But keep off the energy drinks and caffeine. They just make you more tired in the end.”
“You sound like Sherrie, sir.”
Morrison chuckled. “She’s a wise woman. And I won’t tell her you broke your promise.”
“How’d—”
“I know everything.”
“Now you sound like Kane.”
“Fine company.” Suddenly his tone became serious. “Okay, I’m in my vehicle now. I’m returning to Langley immediately. I want you to drop what you’re doing—”
“But, s
ir!”
“The President has been assassinated, finding out who’s behind it is essential.” He lowered his voice. “Listen, Chris, the President spoke his last words to me. I think he saw something during the shooting, something that I think he thought didn’t fit. And I swear I saw the agent who shot the assassin exchange a nod with someone, as if something had been planned. I want you to grab an Ops Center, your team, and get every damned camera angle you can on that shooting. I’ve already convinced Homeland to share everything so it should start streaming into you shortly.”
“Yes, sir.” Leroux’s voice was subdued, crushed that he wasn’t going to be able to continue pursuing his girlfriend’s abductors but Morrison was right that it was more important to gather intel on what was happening rather than attempt a rescue.
“She’s alive for now. Let’s take advantage of them not knowing we’re watching.”
Morrison’s words still echoed, but when Leroux had challenged him, the next words had chilled him to the bone.
“She knew the risks going in. Dying is sometimes part of the job.”
“Chris?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You do realize what this means?”
Leroux was at a loss, his entire thought process consumed by Sherrie and her continued plight, and now his orders not to continue working on saving her.
“No, I’m sorry, sir, I can’t focus.”
“If this assassination isn’t what it seems, and that agent who took down the assassin did indeed nod to someone on the very stairs I was standing on, then this assassination may have been committed with the full knowledge of someone inside the White House.”
Death to America (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #4) Page 12