Once inside, he walked the length of the stalls, glancing under the doors for shoes. The place was empty. He figured he had only a few minutes before the enlarged prostate brigade invaded for their after-dinner pee.
He entered the last stall, closed the door, and sat on the toilet. His phone displayed four missed calls and one text, all from his executive vice president in Washington, D.C. He opened the text.
“Shooting. Brecht and Ahmad dead. Li safe. Call!!!”
Jesus Christ, he thought. What the hell happened? He texted his driver:
Service entrance. Now!
Then a text to his Head of External Communications who was still in the ballroom:
Leaving. Make apologies.
Brentwood exited the clubhouse as a black limousine pulled to the sidewalk. “To the office,” he told the driver. “Glass up.”
A purr no louder than a kitten’s accompanied the ascension of a double pane of glass that acoustically insulated him from the driver. He checked to make sure the intercom was off, and then placed his call.
“What a shit storm!” Ned Farino’s voice quivered. Sirens wailed in the background.
“Where are you?”
“In my car at the far end of a parking deck.”
“Then tell me what happened.”
“There was a blackout just as the three were to start the panel discussion. I was at the back of the room and had given the all-clear to Jenkins.”
“We’ll get to Jenkins later.”
“Five men came in moving rapidly. I thought they were security. Someone tried to stop them and was gunned down. Then all hell broke loose.”
“What’d you do?”
“Crawled under the damn table like everyone else. When the lights came on, Brecht and Ahmad were dead. All five assassins were killed and a member of the security team.”
“Where was Li?”
“No one knew. Then I heard one of the security team confirm Li had been found alive in the kitchen. Her guard had whisked her away.”
Brentwood’s mind raced. “And the nephew?”
“He was with her. Also safe.”
“Have you heard from Jenkins?”
“Yes. He was in her room. We’re going to meet at midnight. The jet’s standing by.”
Brentwood relaxed. “Keep Jenkins with you. I don’t want you without a bodyguard. Until we know what we’re up against, we could all be targets.”
“That’s comforting,” Farino said.
Brentwood mulled the word. “Yes, comforting. What was the security guard’s name who saved Li?”
“I don’t know. They herded us out. The whole complex is a crime scene. Why?”
“Because that guy is now Dr. Li’s new best friend.”
Farino saw the angle his boss was exploiting. “A way in. We might turn this to our advantage.”
“Stay there. See if you can get close to the press. Someone will have his name.” He cut the call and switched on the intercom. “Change of plans. Go to the condo in Charlotte. I need to be near the airport.”
He settled back in the leather seat. A little after nine. The hour drive would give him time to plan undisturbed. Fifteen minutes later, the phone screen lit up with a text.
Guard—Rusty Mullins—wounded.
Rusty Mullins. The name rang a bell. Brentwood pulled open a panel from the back of the seat in front of him. A keyboard and video screen locked into place. He used the customized high-powered computer to log onto his private search engine and prioritized retrieval based upon the number of hits generated by all the other major engines. The first wasn’t a Facebook page or LinkedIn profile. It was a picture of a handsome, stone-faced, middle-aged man standing beside the President of the United States.
“Oh, shit,” Brentwood muttered. “That Rusty Mullins.”
Chapter Four
A soft cough roused him. Mullins opened his eyes and saw only indistinct shapes in the gray gloom. One of them moved toward him. He flashed back to the darkened hotel corridor and the man who had tried to kill him.
Mullins found himself flat on his back. He tried to push away from the approaching figure but his left arm refused to move. Someone had bound it to his side.
“Dad, it’s me.”
His daughter’s soft, calm voice swept away his fear.
“Kayli?” His throat was dry and her name came out as a croak. “Where am I?”
“George Washington University Hospital.”
Mullins nodded. His mind cleared enough to remember the ambulance ride, the rush to surgery, and then nothing.
“The bullet went through clean,” Kayli said. “The doctor says you’ll make a full recovery.”
“Lewison?” He asked the question with little hope that Nicole had been mistaken.
“No. I’m so sorry, Dad.”
He said nothing. Their talk would come later, he thought. Kayli would press him to come off the front lines, and she’d play the Josh card, not wanting her son to grow up without his grandfather. Yes, the talk would come later.
He was wrong.
“Dad. I know this isn’t the time, but you’ve got to stop.”
“You’re right. This isn’t the time.”
“No. Right now. While you’re in a hospital bed with a gunshot wound. Three inches to the right and I’d be viewing you in the morgue.” Her voice broke but she pressed on. “When Mom got sick you gave up presidential detail for her. Why won’t you do that for me? For Josh? For Mom?”
“Mom?”
“Yes. What wouldn’t you give to have her back alive? To have her here with your grandson? Well, that’s the way I feel about you.”
A lump formed in his chest that no surgeon could remove. The emotional tide rose as memories of Laurie flooded his brain. Kayli had never brought her mother into this debate before and the impact hit harder than the slug that penetrated his body. He felt tears on his cheek and hoped his daughter couldn’t see them.
“I’ll think about it, dear. I promise.”
She said nothing. For a moment the only sound was the faint chirp of a monitor.
He broke the silence first. “Is there water?”
“Ice chips.” She moved to a table beside his bed. “I’ll give you some on a spoon.”
He let the crystals dissolve on his tongue, and then rolled the cold water around his parched mouth and throat.
“Thank you. What time is it?”
“A little after four.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s Josh?”
“Sandy’s taking care of him,” she said. “When I got the news, Josh was asleep and I was able to carry him next door without waking him.”
Sandy and Don Beecham were Kayli’s neighbors and they had a boy Josh’s age.
“So, he’ll sleep through his sleepover,” Mullins said, trying to ease the tension in the room.
“Yes. He’ll be very surprised when he wakes up.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since ten. I came as soon as Nicole called.”
Mullins made a mental note to thank his colleague. He would have hated Kayli to hear of his injury from some reporter. “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? Be with Josh.”
Kayli reached out and grabbed her father’s hand. “No, Dad. I’m going to be here with you. I want to know firsthand what the doctors say when they make their morning rounds. You’re the one who needs to sleep.”
“Okay, honey.” He squeezed her hand. “Maybe I’ll just rest my eyes.”
In less than a minute, his ragged breathing settled into a softer rhythm. Kayli loosened her grip, laid her dad’s hand on his stomach, and returned to the recliner she was using as a bed. She closed her eyes and wondered if she had pressed him too hard.
Someone gently shook her shoulder. For a second, she thought her father must have gotten out of bed.
“Mrs. Woodson.”
Kayli awoke to find a nurse standing over her.
“Good morning. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I need you to go to the family waiting room for a few minutes.”
Kayli looked at her watch. “It’s not yet five. Is the doctor making rounds already?”
The nurse’s fingers picked at the buttons on her uniform.
Even in the dim light, a roused Mullins could read the nurse’s face. She was nervous. Something wasn’t right. He could also see his daughter wouldn’t go without more specific information.
“It’s all right, Kayli,” he said. “Let’s let them do their job.”
Both women turned toward Mullins, unaware that he’d been awake.
Kayli unfolded herself from the recliner. “Okay. But I’ll stay here for rounds.”
The nurse relaxed. “That will be no problem, dear. I’ll take you to the waiting room. This place is like a maze.”
As they left, the nurse called over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back, Mr. Mullins.”
But she didn’t come back.
A few minutes later, a man entered. At first his face was lost in the shadows. Mullins could make out a dark suit and white shirt. Not the attire of a visiting physician. He moved through the room with practiced swiftness. Mullins recognized the procedure, and then he recognized the man. He’d last seen him less than a year ago standing outside the Oval Office.
Mullins tried to sit up. “Sam? What the hell’s going on?”
Secret Service Agent Sam Dawkins stepped to the bedside and whispered, “Damned if I know, Nails. Someday you can tell me.”
Nails. Sam had been the last person to call him by his second nickname, the one Rusty Mullins had earned because of his penchant for Rusty Nail cocktails whenever off-duty Secret Service agents collected at a bar.
“What are you doing here?”
“What’s it look like?” Dawkins stepped back to the door. “We’re clear,” he said in a louder voice. Then to Mullins, he added, “Stop making this a habit, old man. I know the pension’s crap but live to spend some of it.”
A second taller man crossed in front of him, his silver hair backlit by the glow from the hall. “Thank you, Dawkins. You can leave us and please close the door.”
Mullins’ heart rate jumped at the sound of the familiar voice. “Mr. President?”
“Yes.” President Edward Miles Brighton stepped to the foot of the bed and leaned forward. “How are you doing, Rusty?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Haven’t we all. This is some age we live in.”
Mullins said nothing. He suspected why Brighton would come alone at a deserted hour, but the President would have to bring it up first.
“I feel like we’re in a deadly game of Whack-A-Mole,” Brighton continued. “Smash one extremist group and another pops up where we’re not looking.”
“Who’s claiming responsibility?”
“A group calling itself Double H. Humanity’s Hope. Sounds like they’re a bunch of Luddites convinced computers are taking over the world.”
“Religious ties?”
“Not that we know of. They’re completely out of left field. No one—FBI, Homeland Security, or military intelligence heard shit about them before last night. I’m throwing every resource at them. Interpol identified two of the five from prints. Both are suspected of political assassinations.”
Mullins propped himself higher in the bed. His mind raced through the implications. “Professionals. Guns for hire. That’s a twist.”
“Rudy Hauser at the FBI says the same thing. These weren’t suicide attacks. Witnesses saw a van near the hotel’s Fourteenth Street loading dock speed away shortly after everything went down. They had an escape plan.”
“They underestimated the quickness and strength of our response. Lewison didn’t hesitate to intervene.”
President Brighton sighed. “I’m sorry about that. I really am. Ted Lewison was a good man.”
“Yes. A very good man. Thanks for your concern, Mr. President, but why are you really here in the middle of the night?”
The President rounded the bed and came closer. “We didn’t do this, Rusty. I swear you weren’t a target.”
“Then someone should have told Double H.” Mullins knew Brighton wasn’t here to check on his health or debrief him. The President was afraid Mullins thought he’d tried to murder him.
“That’s the goddamn point. You could get killed on your job and then all hell breaks loose if your threat’s carried out.”
“Be glad my attacker wasn’t a good shot. You made the situation what it is. What’s the old phrase for detente? Mutually assured destruction?” Mullins’ mind jumped back to that night in the Oval Office when he’d played Brighton the audio file implicating the President in the Federal Reserve plot. Public revelation would have driven him from office and thrown the country into a financial and political crisis. Mullins had opted to protect the office of the Presidency, even though he had no respect for the man standing over him.
“So things have to stay the same, sir. If something suspicious happens to me or my family, the axe will fall. I’ve made sure of it.”
The President’s jaw clinched. “Then keep yourself out of harm’s way. Don’t be such a selfish, self-indulgent prick.”
First his daughter, now the President of the United States. One arguing out of love, the other arguing out of fear.
“Then you keep me in the loop,” Mullins demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“I want to know what’s going on. They killed my friend. I want them brought to justice. If you wind up as collateral damage, then so be it.”
“And you’ll stay on the sidelines?”
“I’ll get no closer than I need to. I have no desire to be in the line of fire.”
Brighton realized the deal was the best he’d get from the stubborn bastard. “All right. I’ll arrange it. The agencies will think it’s strange but I’ll tell them it’s out of respect for your past efforts and your heroism for protecting that Li woman and the boy.”
“Whatever.”
“Someone will contact you.” Brighton turned away and then looked back. “I was always trying to do what I thought was best for my country.”
“Yeah? Name me one President that ever said otherwise.”
Chapter Five
“Mr. Mullins, it’s time for the game.”
The voice was so close Mullins felt breath on his ear. He opened one eye and stared into the face of Peter Wang. The boy had the TV remote in one hand and his iPad in the other. Mullins shifted his gaze to the foot of the bed where Kayli and Dr. Li stood, lit by the afternoon sun coming through the room’s single window. Li scowled at her nephew; Kayli grinned.
“I said whisper,” Li admonished.
“But Miss Kayli said we could wake him,” Peter argued. “The game’s in five minutes.”
“It’s all right.” Mullins fumbled for the bed control and raised the head to a forty-five-degree angle. “Why aren’t you at the game?”
Peter’s eyes widened like the answer should be obvious. “We were to watch it together. I didn’t want to go without you.”
Mullins swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. Then he raised his good arm and opened his palm.
Peter set down the remote and gave Mullins a high-five. “Ready?” he grinned.
“Yes. But I have one question.”
“Lineup changes?”
“No. What’s the temperature?”
Peter gave a thumbs-up. “Eighty-one. Fernandez’s fastball will be smoking.”
Mullins ruffled the kid’s hair. “Then pull a chair up
beside me and find the game before we miss his first strikeout.”
Fernandez pitched six innings before being relieved in the bottom of the seventh with a two-run lead. The Nats went on to win nine to six.
“You were right, pal.” Mullins gave Peter another high-five. “From now on I’m taking a thermometer to every game.”
The boy beamed. “Maybe we can see one for real sometime?”
Mullins hesitated to promise anything. If Peter was heading back to Beijing, a weekend jaunt to the U.S. wasn’t in his future. “Maybe. Why don’t you go with Miss Kayli to the cafeteria and I’ll treat you to a victory snack? I want to speak to your aunt a moment.”
Dr. Li frowned and Mullins didn’t know if it was because she didn’t want Peter to go with his daughter or because she didn’t want to talk to him.
“Can I go, please, Aunt Li Li?”
“All right,” she consented. “But do what Miss Kayli tells you.”
As soon as they were alone, Mullins gestured for Li to take the chair vacated by her nephew.
She sat. “I hope Peter didn’t make your afternoon too strenuous, Mr. Mullins.”
“No, I enjoyed it, and please call me Rusty.”
She relaxed. “If you call me Lisa. Why do we need to talk?”
“First of all, how are you and Peter doing?”
“I’m looking over my shoulder and reliving last night. Peter’s putting on a brave face, but I know he has to be traumatized. We’ll have some counseling sessions back in Palo Alto. I don’t want that experience buried in his subconscious.”
Subconscious, Mullins thought. Lisa Li’s specialty. “Do you have security?”
She nodded. “The hotel transferred us to another room last night under a false name. The police put a guard inside the door so as not to draw attention in the hallway. My company flew in a security team overnight and this morning we were passed to them.”
“Where are they now?”
“One man’s just outside the door. A second stayed near the elevators. I suspect he followed Peter and your daughter to the cafeteria.”
The Singularity Race Page 3