Breach of Power (The Action-Packed Jake Pendleton Political Thriller series Book 3)

by Chuck Barrett

  * * *

  President Rebecca Rudd watched the young man leave the Oval Office. As her Secret Service agent closed the door, the door behind her opened and an elderly man walked in.

  "Do you think he knows I'm sending him into a den of lions?" Rudd never took her eyes off the door where Jake Pendleton exited.

  "No, Rebecca, he doesn't."

  She looked at the wise old man. Her first encounter with him was when she was Secretary of State for her predecessor. She found him and his organization to be a resource she could call on to accomplish certain agendas that could not be handled through diplomatic channels. On more than one occasion she had covered the previous President's ass by utilizing the services of the man in front of her.

  "I'm not sure I understand why you couldn't have been in here while Mr. Pendleton gave me his briefing," Rudd said.

  He paused. "Call it an employee evaluation," he finally said. "If you and I are going to enter into a future arrangement, then I need to be sure Jake is going to meet my lofty expectations at this level."

  "And?" Rudd asked. "Are you satisfied?"

  "As usual, Mr. Pendleton exceeded my expectations."

  "Do you think it's fair of me to put Mr. Pendleton in such a potentially uncompromising position?" She asked.

  "Jake adapts quickly to change. He'll be fine."

  "Ultimately he'll be faced with a dilemma. Can I trust him to make the right decision?"

  "Jake is as loyal as they come." The old man pushed up his wire rim glasses. He swiped his hands through his gray hair. "You can trust Jake with your life. Just as I have with mine…and my granddaughter's."

  22

  Evan Makley met Abigail Love at the same spot as the last meeting. They sat on the same park bench at the Jefferson Memorial. This time there were no paddleboats or sun glistening on the water. The weather had turned for the worst overnight, leaving the September morning rainy, dreary, and cool.

  Love was waiting for him when he arrived. She wore an olive green raincoat that came below her knees and held a black umbrella over her head while she typed on her smart phone. At first glance his mind filled with pleasurable thoughts of their sexual encounter. It was the type of male fantasy written about in Penthouse Forum. Only this one was real. And it had happened to him.

  Again, he sat down on the opposite end of the bench. She insisted it be done this way.

  Makley was the first to speak. "Well? Did you find who sent the email?"

  "No, Evan. I didn't. I'm go—"

  "Why the hell not?" Makley raised his voice. "What am I paying you so much for if you can't trace a simple email?"

  Love crossed her legs away from Makley signaling him to remain silent while a pedestrian walked past. It was a signal they had used numerous times on previous occasions.

  A tall, thin woman with long red hair came into view. Under her umbrella she carried a small dog. The woman walked fast, never slowing or taking her attention away from her dog. When the woman was out of sight, Love uncrossed her legs.

  "First of all, there were fourteen different email addresses being forwarded ahead of that one email you got. Ultimately they traced back to nothing."

  "So, what? It's a dead end?"

  "I didn't say that." Love unexpectedly turned to face him. "I was able to trace the ISP to Charleston, South Carolina. But that's as far as I can get without this." She held up a flash drive.

  "What's that?" Makley asked.

  "I have a tracer program on this drive. Stick it in any USB port on your computer and reply to his original email. Just ask him some questions."

  "What do I ask him?"

  "I don't know, Evan. You didn't get where you are by relying on someone to make decisions for you. Figure it out."

  She was right. He hadn't climbed to the Chief of Staff position by relying on others. He used others to get him where he wanted, and then he discarded them like trash. Until the email, he thought he'd discarded Abigail Love. But some people prove more useful than others.

  "How does it work?"

  "When you reply, it embeds a tracking code in the email. As soon as your blackmailer opens the email, the tracking code installs a tracer on the hard drive so I can track the computer no matter where it goes. Once the computer accesses the Internet, we'll have him."

  "You said you traced his Internet Service Provider to Charleston? That's coincidental."

  "Why is that?"

  "This morning Rudd briefed me on that grave robbing case and they have a lead in Charleston. A grave of a soldier killed in World War II was broken into in Charleston. Just more of what I told you the other night except now it's happened enough times to cause her concern. She's tasked someone to handle the investigation. She calls it Project Resurrection. The national cemetery here at Arlington was the first. She originally thought it was racially motivated because the first two break-ins were graves of black soldiers."

  "Someone is stealing bodies from graves?"

  "No. That's the strange part. Nothing appears to have been taken from any graves."

  "Tell me more about this lead, Evan"

  "It appears a woman drove a rental car into a cemetery in Charleston in the middle of the night, stayed for thirty minutes or so, and then left. That same night a soldier's grave was unearthed at the cemetery. Her parents are buried there also. No one else was seen entering or leaving the cemetery all night. Just her."

  "Could be a coincidence, probably is, Charleston isn't a very large town." She paused. "Too much at stake not to check it out, though. I mean what are the odds that Charleston would come up twice like this?" She pointed to the flash drive. "You do your part and I'll check out Charleston. You remember the woman's name?"

  "Ashley something," Makley said. "Ashley…Ashley. I can't remember. I'll have to send it to you."

  He let his eyes scan up and down her torso recalling what was beneath the raincoat. The last time they'd met on the park bench she was wearing a spandex jogging suit so revealing that he could see every curve of her pleasing shape. Now that he had seen her uncovered, he had to admit she was too much woman for any man to resist. She had dark hair, dark tanned skin, and vivid green eyes.

  Such a striking contrast.

  "What is the chance for an encore performance?" He asked.

  Love stared at him. "Perhaps. When I think it's safe, I'll come to you."

  As she spoke, he remembered the woman's name. "Reagan. Ashley Reagan. No. No, wait. Regan. That's it. Ashley Regan."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, I'm positive. Ashley Regan is the woman's name in Charleston."

  Abigail Love stood. "I'll be in touch."

  He watched her walk away while his mind relived that night.

  * * *

  Francesca Catanzaro put the puppy back in the pet carrier, pulled the micro digital memory card from the handle of the umbrella and inserted it into her phone.

  * * *

  Thirty seconds later, George Fontaine received the encrypted photos and processed them through Commonwealth's facial recognition software then transmitted the results.

  * * *

  Less than a minute later, President Rebecca Rudd was looking at the photos with Elmore Wiley. Five minutes later she was looking at an FBI file on Abigail Love.

  "Oh, Evan, what have you done?" She lowered her head and shook it. "Elmore, I'm open to suggestions."

  "Rebecca, there are no circumstances where Evan Makley's association with Abigail Love, even if it is only as lovers, can be condoned by this administration. The mere fact he has met with this woman at all and that this picture even exists warrant, in my opinion, some sort of preemptive action on your part."

  Rudd felt gastric acid churning in her stomach like molten lava. She reached into her desk, grabbed two Tums from a container, and popped them into her mouth. "I don't know what to say, Elmore."

  "Rebecca, I'll handle this. The best thing for you to do or say…is nothing at all."

  23

  Jake had
time to study the traffic cam videos on the flight from D.C. to Charleston. Fontaine emailed the two videos to Jake after he dropped off the information packet at the Commonwealth penthouse. The entrance to the cemetery, as he was now aware, was never locked leaving access to the graveyard 24/7. The perimeter, a 6-foot high stone, masonry wall, along with several locked gates allowed for only a single point of entry and exit after regular hours. And, whether by design or not, was monitored by a traffic camera mounted at the entrance.

  The City of Charleston had installed the cameras nearly three years ago when they installed the traffic signal at the entrance because of the heavy amount of traffic on the major artery leading in and out of town.

  The camera didn't catch a shot of the driver as she entered the cemetery, only the vehicle and a clear shot of the tag. According to the time stamp, Ashley Regan's rented Chevy Impala entered the cemetery at 1:43 a.m. and exited at 2:29 a.m.

  Forty-six minutes. Longer than he had originally thought.

  It seemed to add an extra element of peculiarity to the event. First of all, who visits a relative's grave during those hours of the morning? He'd visited his own relatives' graves before and couldn't imagine staying for 46 minutes regardless of the time of day…or night. On the other hand, 46 minutes didn't seem like enough time to dig up a casket either.

  Another oddity, he thought, was the fact that as she left the cemetery, the camera clearly showed two occupants in the front seat of the Impala. Two faces looking directly at the camera, eyes glowing green in the infrared picture. Both women.

  Jake opened up the file Fontaine had prepared for him. Inside, a full background on Ashley Regan. He stared at the photo of her face. Then he looked at the still frame infrared shot of the two faces that the traffic cam captured through the Impala's windshield while the car was stopped at the cemetery exit traffic signal. No doubt about it, the driver of the Impala was Ashley Regan.

  He flipped through the file and found Regan's address, pulled a handheld GPS unit from his backpack and loaded the address. He pulled out his Glock and a spare magazine and placed each item on the seat next to him. He slipped the GPS into his shirt pocket, stuffed the file along with his iPad inside his pack and zipped it closed.

  He'd only gotten four hours of sleep, barely enough to keep him going. The last few days had kept him sleep deprived and that burning sensation in his eyes reminded him of it. He pushed himself out of the plush leather chair and walked to the galley as he heard the pilot of the Citation 750 say over the cabin speaker, "Fifteen minutes until touchdown, Mr. Pendleton."

  How many times does he have to tell that man to call him Jake? He felt embarrassed to have the man, clearly twenty years his senior, call him "sir" or "Mr. Pendleton." He poured himself a cup of coffee. No sugar. No creamer. Black and bold, just the way he liked it. On rare occasions, if it was available, a dollop of honey might find its way into his cup. And over the past few days, he'd consumed many cups to keep him going.

  Jake returned to the leather seat, still warm from his body heat, and sipped on the hot coffee. Wisps of steam spread the aroma throughout the cabin. Just the aroma of fresh brewed coffee helped him relax. He thought about his next move. He'd already been to the cemetery with Francesca. He'd seen all he needed. Time to pay Ashley Regan a visit at her residence and get to the bottom of her midnight visit to her parents' graves.

  As it turned out the pilot was wrong. According to the co-pilot, the weather at Charleston had dropped below landing minimums and they would have to circle in a holding pattern for a few minutes.

  The weather hold was brief. They commenced an instrument approach to the Charleston airport after only 30 minutes in a holding pattern. Jake didn't care. It allowed him a few minutes to close his eyes and let his mind run through everything that had happened since he was unexpectedly and literally plucked from Kyli's arms in the Maldives.

  After landing, Jake hailed a taxi, climbed in the back seat, and gave the address to the Indian driver. The Charleston airport was considered Zone 4 and the minimum ride into downtown was $35. By the time the taxi pulled in front of Ashley Regan's house, the meter had already rung up $51. Jake asked the driver to wait only to be informed that the first five minutes were free and a dollar a minute after that. Jake agreed to the terms and got out of the taxi.

  He walked up the driveway of an older red brick home. It was a single story, one of only two on the block, with a two-car attached garage on his right as he faced the house. There was no walkway to the front door leaving his choices across the wet grass or up the driveway and across the front porch.

  When Jake reached the garage, he looked in through the glass panes that extended across the top of the garage door. One car parked inside. Not Regan's car according to Fontaine's report. And not the rented Impala.

  He walked across the front porch, peering through the plate glass windows as he stepped. Someone had ransacked the living room. Jake pulled out his Glock, stepped to the side of the front door, and tried the doorknob. Locked. He took one step back and kicked open the front door just below the knob. The aging wood on the doorjamb broke free and splintered pieces of wood scattered across the old hardwood floor.

  Jake stepped inside the house with his gun aimed straight ahead. He heard an engine roar. He turned to see his taxi speed off, leaving him without a ride back to the airport.

  He scanned the room. Lamps lay broken on the floor. Bookcases emptied, piles of books strewn in all directions. From where he stood he could tell someone had emptied the cabinets in the kitchen as well. He cautiously went from room to room. Each room in the house was ransacked. In the bedrooms, mattresses were upturned and box springs slashed open. Someone was looking for something and there was a strong possibility they hadn't found what they came looking for since every room was ravaged.

  Even the garage had been pillaged. Jake holstered his gun, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed George Fontaine. He explained what he'd found. "Whatever Ms. Regan is up to, she's pissed someone off. And, by the looks of her house, she could be in danger."

  "I can try to track her cell phone," Fontaine said. "Good chance she won't think to disable it."

  "Do that, George. And run facial recognition on the passenger too." Jake paused. "Also, can you track all the cemeteries that Major Adams shipped remains to?"

  "What are you thinking?"

  "That if Ashley Regan is the one looting these graves, then she knows something we don't. And now it looks like somebody else has come to this party uninvited. If we can figure out where she's going next, we can catch her. And if she is in danger, perhaps even save her life."

  "And," Fontaine said, "we can answer the bigger question…why?"

  Jake didn't reply.

  "I'll check on the Army records. The question is whether or not they've scanned those archives into a searchable database. Remember, that was the mid 1940s." Fontaine chuckled. "I just got a hit on Regan's cell phone. Northeast of Johnson City, Tennessee."

  He said nothing.

  "Jake? Did you hear me?"

  Nothing.

  "Jake?" Fontaine's voice now blaring through his phone.

  "Oh hell. This can't be good."

  "Jake? What is it?"

  "Sirens."

  "Maybe it's not what you think."

  Jake looked out the garage door window. "No, George. It's exactly what I was afraid of. Three cop cars just pulled up." Jake walked back into the house. "George, I don't have much time. Find out what you can about Regan's whereabouts. Keep tracking her. See if you can match any of Major Adams shipments to the area. After I take care of the cops, I'll call you back."

  "Will do, Jake. Be careful."

  "Always am." Jake turned off his phone as three policemen burst through the front door pointing their guns in his direction. He held up his hands.

  The darts hit him in the chest.

  His legs collapsed. Arms wouldn't respond. Head pounded.

  Cuffs tightened around his wrists.


  24

  Abigail Love watched the man kick in the front door. When the taxi sped off she couldn't help but smile. Perfect. She didn't know who the man was that entered Ashley Regan's house but he couldn't have been more obvious.

  She had been watching the house, about to make her move, when the taxi pulled to the curb. Interesting, she thought. She hadn't made it as far as she had by acting hastily or overreacting. She knew when to resist the temptation to act on impulse. The situation warranted closer scrutiny. She had parked several houses down and on the opposite side of the street under a large live oak with a low hanging canopy.

  Through the zoomed lens of her digital SLR camera, she had an unobstructed view of the house and the man entering it. He was average height, she guessed, had a muscular build, and carried himself with confidence. He was a good-looking man in his early thirties. She snapped pictures of his every move. As she sized him up she could tell he was alarmed by something he saw in the window. The drawing of the gun was her first clue. Her second clue was when he kicked in the front door. Clearly the man knew what he was doing. She inspected her camera; she'd taken 57 photos of the man since he'd arrived.

  Who was this man and what was he doing at Ashley Regan's house? He didn't look like a cop. At least no cop she'd ever met. He approached the house in a tactical military style, disciplined and decisive. She recognized his gun—a Glock. What was this man's connection to Regan? More important, does he know about the blackmail attempt on the President?

  Then she remembered that Evan Makley told her President Rudd was sending someone to Charleston. Maybe this was that man.

  She'd found two good photos of the man's face and emailed them to Evan Makley along with a short message. After the man had been inside for ten minutes she started getting curious. Was he questioning Regan? If he was, then she stood to lose a lot of money. Evan Makley's money. She reached under her seat and pulled out her Smith and Wesson M & P .40 caliber Shield subcompact pistol. It was lightweight with a smaller grip than its Glock counterpart. She double-checked her pistol to ensure a round was chambered and tucked it in the small of her back. Time to see what the man inside was up to.