Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel

by Miller, Randall H

  “You don’t have anything to prove to anyone, Mom.”

  “It’s not about proving anything, Meghan. It’s all for the cause. Softball interviews and appearances rarely sway opinion or compel change. I have to do this. Sway public opinion and Congress will have to answer. At least that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

  “Okay, I’m with you,” she said, reaching over to squeeze her mother’s hand.

  Fox News, here we come …

  * * *

  A very young, obscenely polite staffer who looked as if she had probably been born during the first term of the Bill Clinton administration greeted the women at the door.

  “Think she’s going prom dress shopping later?” joked Meghan as they followed her down the hall to hair and makeup.

  Another staffer, a young man slightly older than the first, sat next to McDermott for preshow prep as an older woman touched up the Senator’s makeup.

  “And that’s basically it, Senator. It’s just a friendly conversation between you and him, and it’ll air tonight at 8 p.m. Do you have any questions? Or can I get you anything to make you more comfortable?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” answered McDermott with a smile.

  “Great! You’re up next, so just sit tight and we’ll come and get you when it’s time. And thanks again for coming, Senator. We really appreciate you accepting our invitation,” he said cheerfully.

  McDermott finished her hair and makeup and waited in the green room, the knot in her stomach getting bigger with each passing moment. She watched the monitor and listened as the host set up the next segment.

  “Next up on The Factor, we’ll welcome Senator McDermott of Connecticut, an outspoken critic of America and crusader for radical change. You won’t want to miss this.”

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Sixty-two

  “But certainly someone of your intelligence can see the hypocrisy of your positions. You want to change the Second Amendment of the United States Constitution and strip Americans of their right to defend themselves, yet you arrived in an armored car surrounded by armed men and women?” asked Bill O’Reilly.

  “Let me clarify, Bill. If it were up to me, I’d change a lot more than just the Second Amendment, but I think that’s where we need to start. Guns are simply too easy to get in this country, and we pay the price every day with our children’s spilled blood. No more. Those lives may not matter much to the NRA, but they mean quite a bit to many of us, and we’re not going to just sit back and tolerate it,” she replied confidently.

  “You didn’t answer the question about your own security, and quite frankly, you’ve just served up more hypocrisy. You say it’s all about children’s lives, but you’re an outspoken opponent of any restrictions on abortion whatsoever. How do you reconcile all these contradictions, Senator? And do you honestly think the NRA doesn’t care about children?”

  “Of course not, Bill. I think I was simply trying to make a point. But showing up within hours of a tragedy and screaming from the rooftops that the answer to our gun problem is more guns is pure insanity. If nothing else, the NRA leadership is tone deaf. And a lot of Americans agree with me.”

  “That’s true, but there are an awful lot of Americans who, quite frankly, fear you. They fear your radical agenda and your vision of what America should be.”

  “That’s their problem, Bill. I am unwaveringly committed to my causes and fully aware of the opposition. But they don’t scare me.”

  “Something must scare you, Senator. There are armed guards and police officers following you everywhere. Which brings me to even more hypocrisy. You gave a speech last month in which you thundered away for more than an hour about America’s police officers. You painted them as a ‘militarized mob of unaccountable thugs,’ and that’s a direct quote. Why do you hate America’s heroes so much? What have Officers Hale and McCracken done to deserve your vitriol?”

  McDermott hesitated before speaking.

  “Yes, I’ve used some pretty strong words, Bill. But every morning when the American people wake up, they wonder what it’s going to be that day—another mass shooting or another viral video of police officers brutalizing the very citizens they’ve sworn to protect. Almost as scary as the brutality itself is the standard line from too many law enforcement officers who say that unless you’ve worn a badge and worked a shift, you can’t be critical of them and your opinion doesn’t matter. That mindset alone tells me that it’s time for major police reform and that law enforcement officers across the country need to be reminded whom they work for. As for the names you just mentioned—I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “I’m not surprised, Madame.”

  O’Reilly smirked and narrowed his eyes before continuing.

  “Officers Hale and McCracken are two of the officers who have been escorting you around the city all day. They haven’t left your side since 5:00 this morning. Right now they’re waiting in the green room to escort you to safety once we’re finished. Why do you have so much contempt for the people who keep you and the rest of America safe?”

  Things went downhill from there, but when O’Reilly gave her the final word she rallied and finished as strongly as she could. Overall, the appearance was unlikely to sway people in either direction, but she had avoided disaster and could put this one in the tie column.

  Meghan waited off camera with their personal items in hand and was ready to get the hell out of there as soon as the taping was complete. McDermott grabbed her bag from Meghan, and the two made a beeline for the elevators.

  “I hate that man more than al-Qaeda,” remarked McDermott.

  The energetic young staffer who had talked with her in the prep room slipped into the elevator just as the doors began to close.

  “Wow, that was close. Glad I didn’t have to run down all those flights of stairs to catch you, Senator!”

  “Thanks, but we can see ourselves out,” said Meghan.

  “Okey dokey. I can let you do that. But I’m afraid I can’t let you leave with the microphone. Can I have it please, Senator?” he said, pointing to the tiny microphone still clipped to McDermott’s lapel.

  “Oh no, is it still on? How far is the range on this thing?” asked McDermott worriedly.

  They knew by the expression on the perky young man’s face that he had heard the comment about O’Reilly and al-Qaeda. As the Senator unclipped the microphone, Meghan noticed the smartphone in the staffer’s hand. He was recording them.

  “Turn that thing off right now,” Meghan said, pointing to the phone. “Turn it off or I’m going to shove it down your throat.”

  Due to Meghan’s distance from the microphone, her threat sounded a little muffled as it was replayed over the next few days on every media outlet imaginable, but there was no doubt to whom the voice belonged. By comparison, the audio of the Senator declaring her preference for al-Qaeda over Bill O’Reilly was crystal clear.

  McDermott supporters applauded the Senator and Meghan gained a bit of street cred for her part. Opponents had a field day and O’Reilly basked in the controversy, milking it for everything it was worth.

  “Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you are probably aware of Senator McDermott’s recent appearance on The Factor and her subsequent slip of the tongue. Well, the Senator has personally apologized to me and I fully accept it. Honestly, it’s not a big deal and I get called worse things on a daily basis. Sometimes much worse,” he intoned with a smile on a subsequent program.

  “Over the decades, I myself have occasionally let emotions take over and said a few things I later regretted. It happens. I do not think any less of the Senator or her daughter for simply being human. They are both good people and are welcome back any time. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that many of those who share her radical vision for America probably do hate traditional Americans like me more than al-Qaeda. After all, whenever terrorists attack, we typically get to share the blame. And that’s why their vision
for America is so dangerous. If folks like Senator McDermott and her kind were in charge of the country, traditional Americans like me and the millions who faithfully watch this show would be an endangered species. Be vigilant, my friends. Electing radicals is a lot tougher to take back than a hateful comment. And that’s the memo.”

  Sixty-three

  Mark was on his ladder painting the house when Doc called. “I’m in Boston. How about lunch tomorrow, Mark?”

  There was no set agenda, but Mark expected to be pushed about his plans. Would he stay with the Family in his current role, change roles, or retire and start a new life?

  Doc was already seated at an outdoor table when Mark arrived at the restaurant. With his back to the building, he watched throngs of tourists file back and forth along the cobblestone streets around Faneuil Hall. A glass of ice water and two menus sat on the table in front of him. He stood when Mark arrived, and the two shook hands firmly.

  “I’m glad you’re here, because I’m starving,” said Doc.

  “Me too. I hate cooking, so I haven’t been eating much. I already know what I want. A full rack of ribs and a Sam Adams.”

  “I’ll have the same,” replied Doc.

  As the two men talked and caught up, both constantly scanned the environment from behind their sunglasses. When vigilant civilians scan the crowd in a public space, they try to see everything and often end up seeing nothing. They look for obvious anomalies like a guy wearing a heavy coat on a warm day or someone who is constantly adjusting his clothing to accommodate a concealed weapon. But when an operator scans the environment, he sees math. He sees probabilities and equations that need to be solved. He looks for ever-so-subtle anomalies—micro-expressions. The operator sees someone holding a coffee cup or steak knife just a little bit differently from everyone else. The operator intuitively assesses which person is likely to be the most dangerous and why, who will likely run at the first sign of trouble, how to get to the edge of any potential incident so he has only 180 degrees to deal with instead of 360, which way he would break if necessary. It’s a difficult skill by itself, made even tougher by the need to do it naturally while simultaneously carrying out other tasks. Both men talked, ate, and continuously scanned without missing a beat.

  “Well, you knew I was going to ask, so here it is: have you made any decisions?” asked Doc after the waitress removed the plates of bones from the table.

  “Yeah, I think I have. I’m all done, Doc. I’m going to retire and settle down. I hope that doesn’t adversely impact your plans.”

  Doc grinned widely. “Of course not, Mark. You’re valuable, but we’re all replaceable. And to tell you the truth, I think you’re making the right decision. You’re still young. Go start a family and enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it. Besides, things are changing so quickly, you might be returning to a completely different kind of unit if you decided to stay. Do you want kids?”

  “I do. I want a family. I want to be a father. I never really had one, but I want to be one,” Mark answered.

  “I admire that. My kids have been grown for a long time. We’re a close family, but I missed a lot and I can never get that time back. You’re wise to avoid that if you can. Avoid the guilt.”

  “Guilt?” asked Mark. “What kind of guilt?”

  “The guilt of not being there when they need you. When all the other dads were watching their kids score goals, I was nowhere to be found. When my wife was blindsided by another car and she and our two children were taken to the emergency room, they needed me to be there and I wasn’t. The list goes on and on. What we do is important, Mark. We help to protect the country. But that job comes at a price—sometimes we’re not there to protect the ones we love. I’m happy for you. It’s not my business, but is there anyone else in the picture?”

  “I’m working on that part, Doc.”

  Both laughed and finished their beers. Doc paid the tab. They exited the restaurant and walked along the Freedom Trail, the brick path that weaves its way in and out of Boston’s most significant historic sites. Out-processing from the Family would be relatively painless but might take a day or two, Doc explained.

  “And we can do that any time after the holiday, ok?” he added.

  And that’s when Mark saw her. Alone. Thirty to forty feet away. Big designer sunglasses. Shopping bags. He couldn’t remember, maybe she was a brunette the last time he saw her, but the body was impossible to forget. And even though she had casually oscillated her gaze between the shop window and the two men walking near her like a seasoned professional, Mark had spotted her.

  Sadie? Prague, was it?

  Several years earlier, the Family had sent her, twenty-five years old and straight out of selection and training, to a field assignment with Mark. The two had playfully walked throughout the city, hand in hand, as they secretly followed a dangerous freelancer affiliated with several terrorist organizations. Mark was sure that their cover was blown when the target abruptly turned around and looked directly into his eyes. Before he knew what was happening, Sadie had creatively pushed him against a building and started slapping and kicking him, screaming at the top of her lungs about his wandering eyes and prior infidelities.

  The target had circled back and peeked at them from across the street before going on his way unsuspectingly, but she kept up her tirade until a shopkeeper shooed the couple away from his storefront. Mark remembered her as fearless, with the instincts of a much more experienced operator.

  Doc waved a hand in front of Mark’s face.

  “Relax—she’s with me, Mark. Security, believe it or not. I used to go everywhere unaccompanied, but Dunbar forbids it since the data breach. Everyone’s on edge, and some have even moved their families. It’s a good time to retire, Mark.”

  “Moving families, really?”

  “Yes. The world is changing, Mark. The battlefield used to be a faraway place to which we deployed; now it’s the ground under our feet.”

  Both men subconsciously looked down at the Freedom Trail bricks and noticed that they were at the corner of State and Congress Streets, the site of the 1768 Boston Massacre.

  “Things have changed, all right. At least they were nice enough to wear bright red coats back then,” said Mark.

  Sixty-four

  Frank Tagala was done for the day and on his way out of town when a minor accident in front of him halted traffic for a few minutes. Horns blared all around him, but Frank was transfixed on the two men talking on the other side of the intersection.

  Is that Agnes’s kid? And who’s the other guy? He looks familiar. Where do I know him from?

  Two Boston cops on foot patrol cleared the accident scene, and cars started moving again. One block down the street, Frank spotted the stunning young woman and instantly made the connection. He had seen her and the older gentleman getting off the elevator inside the Joint Terrorism Task Force headquarters a few days earlier. And now they just happened to be hanging out with his neighbor.

  Interesting.

  Sixty-five

  “This kid is kicking up a storm in there, John. He’s dying to get out and I’m dying to get it over with. Any day now,” said Linda.

  “I’m ready too, babe. You’ve done all the heavy lifting so far and my role has barely gotten started. I can’t wait to get that boy out so I can put him to work around the house,” joked Officer John McDonough into his cell phone.

  “I hope he has my nose,” she said.

  “Why your nose? What’s wrong with—”

  McDonough was startled by the unexpected knock on his cruiser’s trunk and froze momentarily.

  “John? John?”

  “I’ll call you right back,” he replied quickly.

  He saw Ghassan waving in the rear-view mirror and exited the vehicle.

  “Sorry if I scared you, my friend. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

  “No problem, Ghassan. I was just talking to my wife. The baby is due any day now, so we’re both a little on edge.”

/>   “Great news! I am so happy for you and hope you will allow me to visit the boy when I return from vacation. I’m actually on my way out of town right now, but when I saw you parked here, it reminded me to ask a favor.”

  “What is it?” asked McDonough.

  “I’ll be gone for about a week, and Yasir will be in charge of Baba Ghassan’s. He’s supposed to keep the ship afloat through the holiday. I am sixty percent sure he can pull it off, but if you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on the place I would feel better. If that’s not too much to ask.”

  “Not at all. I’ll be working through the holiday anyway. Where are you headed? Anywhere exciting?”

  “Not really. I’m going to visit my sister and her family in New York City. She’s a pain in the ass and her family is worse. But I said I would go, and it would break my mother’s heart—God rest her soul—if I didn’t. You have a good week and best of luck with your son. I can’t wait to meet the little prince!” boomed the old man.

  “Thanks. Travel safely.”

  “God willing,” answered Ghassan. “God willing.”

  Sixty-six

  Luci arrived home from the gym to find that Mark had cleared out her garage and assembled protective mats on the floor. When she pulled up, he approached her unrolled window.

  “Hello, beautiful. Your warrior training is about to begin.”

  “Seriously? Mark, I just did an hour and a half at the gym and I’m beat.”

  “Good. It’ll be more realistic then. Bad guys typically don’t wait for you to be well rested and standing like this before they attack,” he said, raising one knee and holding bent wrists high above his head like the Karate Kid to illustrate his point.

  “Very funny. Fine, just let me change my gym clothes. These are soaked.”

  “Good. You do that and I’ll finish preparing the dungeon. Bring your duty belt with unloaded handgun and spare magazines—all empty. Body armor too.”

  * * *