Cost of Honor

by Radclyffe

  “Got it,” Sandy said, wondering how she was going to do that if Matthew was anywhere around.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The Oasis

  Game Day minus 8 hours

  Eleven p.m. came and passed, then midnight, as Sandy watched the door waiting for Trish to show up. A few minutes later, Sandy ordered her third beer, took a couple of swallows as she had with the first two glasses, and left it on an empty table. At 12:35, she slipped into the rear of the bar and headed down the narrow hallway toward the bathrooms, grateful for the dim lighting that saved her from seeing the grunge on the floor and God knows what else on the walls, and pulled out her phone.

  “There’s nothing—no call, no reply to my texts,” she said. “I’m going to Camden.”

  “I’ll be behind you,” Watts said.

  Sandy left the bar, walked to the closest cross street that wasn’t barricaded for the president’s arrival the following morning, and miraculously only waited six minutes for a cab. She slid in and texted Watts. ETA, 10 minutes.

  On your tail, sweet thing.

  She smiled and slid her phone away. She and Watts were the only ones not attached to the joint antiterrorist task force operation set to commence at 0400. Dell, Frye, Oakes and another Secret Service agent, and the PPD SWAT were embedded with the FBI strike teams planning to hit the cell members the HPCU and federal counterterrorism units had identified from vehicle IDs, photographs, phone records, and known associate networks in simultaneous strikes on six different locations within a twenty-five-mile radius of Center City. The FBI, of course, had taken over the operation as soon as they’d been notified, and none of the HPCU were happy about it. Their case, should be their arrests too. At least the team was still involved. Jason and Sloan, who were technically civilian consultants, were handling all the communication and electronic surveillance from HPCU headquarters.

  Sandy didn’t see Matthew’s Corvette where he usually parked it near the corner. That didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t home. They needed to find him and take him in before the strikes. If he got word, he’d disappear.

  She texted Trish again, still no response. The apartment windows on the street side were dark. Something in her gut insisted this was all wrong, but if Matthew was home and she tipped them off before the raid, she might jeopardize the entire operation. She hesitated, knowing Watts was parked somewhere nearby, waiting for her to make the call.

  She did the only thing she could do, the only thing she truly trusted. She went with her gut, rang the buzzer, and waited. Nothing. She tried the door and, like with so many of the run-down buildings in the area, security wasn’t a big priority. The deadbolt wasn’t operational, and the lock itself took a little jiggling before it gave. The foyer, with a row of dented brass mailboxes with jimmied locks left over from an earlier era and a scattering of trampled flyers on the cracked tile floor, opened directly into a dingy hallway with dust balls, food litter, and cat pee making the whole place smell like a latrine.

  No light showed from beneath the single door at the far end of the hall. The two apartments on the second floor were all quiet as she passed by their doors as well. She climbed to the third floor and knocked on Matthew Ford’s door. She was working on her story for appearing unannounced when it opened. Trish was backlit by the light from the galley kitchen down the hall. Her hair was disheveled, her makeup smeared, and her face puffy.

  “Trish,” Sandy said. “I’ve been calling you. Didn’t you get my texts?”

  “The fucker took my phone. Too bad he didn’t take the rest of the trash.”

  “What?” Sandy peered around Trish’s shoulder. Empty take-out containers, beer bottles, and plastic cups, some still holding wine dregs, littered the coffee table and floor.

  “He took his duffel and every fucking phone he could find. Gone.” She snapped her fingers, managing only a muted thud. “Just like that.”

  “Gone where?” Trish shrugged helplessly, and Sandy eased inside and closed the door. Trish seemed too upset to question why Sandy had just shown up. She might be on her way to being high too. “Let me take a look around. Maybe he left a note or something.”

  Trish snorted and wiped her eyes. “He didn’t. I looked, but”—she waved an arm—“feel free.”

  Sandy did a quick scan of the room, confirmed it was empty, and checked the kitchen. The refrigerator held half-open cans and bottles and a few take-out containers. “At least he left the food.”

  “Yeah, decent of him, the prick.”

  “Did he say anything?” Sandy called as she headed toward the single bedroom. “That he was leaving or something. Or if something happened?”

  “I told you I haven’t seen much of him the last week, the last two weeks, really. He’d come and go at all hours, wouldn’t say much to me. Wouldn’t tell me what he was doing or what was happening. He didn’t even say good-bye.” Trish slumped on a cracked fake-leather stool in the corner of the kitchen. “I knew as soon as the others showed up this would happen.”

  Sandy hurriedly searched the bedroom closet, found it was empty. A few of Matthew’s shirts hung on hangers, but no duffel. He left most of his clothes, so he had something else in the duffel. Weapons? Nothing under the bed, and the single chest of drawers revealed nothing but a few T-shirts, underwear, and Trish’s clothes. He was gone and he hadn’t taken much with him. Maybe he planned to come back, but then, why not tell Trish he was leaving?

  “Trish,” Sandy said as she came back into the kitchen. “Where would he go? Was he meeting one of the others?”

  “How would I know? I’m not important enough to tell.”

  Trish was angry, and definitely more than a little drunk. Sandy grabbed her hands, gave them a little shake to get her attention.

  “This is really important, Trish. Matthew could be in trouble. Maybe they all are. If you know where he is, have any idea at all, it’s important you tell me.”

  Trish frowned. “What do you mean, trouble?”

  “If they’re planning something violent, they could all be in danger. Did he tell you anything? Where or what they were going to do?”

  “What does it matter now? He’s gone. They’re all doing their special thing. Because they’re all so smart and important.”

  “It matters, Trish. They could get hurt. Other people could get hurt. Matthew could stop it.”

  “I don’t know where he went,” Trish said. “I don’t know what they’re planning. It all felt like some kind of big game, you know? All the secret talks and the phone calls and the meetings. But I don’t think they’re really going to do anything.” She gave Sandy a confused look. “That would be crazy, right?”

  Sandy believed her. Trish wasn’t part of Ford’s plan, and now she’d lost him.

  Philadelphia

  3:45 a.m.

  Rebecca’s phone rang as the armored vehicle slipped silently through the streets of Fishtown.

  “Frye,” she said.

  “Ford’s in the wind,” Sloan said. “Sandy couldn’t get anything from Trish, but he’s gone.”

  “We’ll get something when we hit the other cells,” Frye said. “Someone will talk.”

  She didn’t add, if any of them know anything beyond their own small act in the larger play. To date, Ford had been smart enough to go unnoticed by a dozen counterterrorism agencies. He might have been smart enough to keep critical details from the others too. But they could get lucky. Sometimes being lucky beat being good.

  “Good luck,” Sloan said, echoing Frye’s thoughts.

  “Everyone on schedule to hit their targets?”

  “So far. We’ve got them all on closed-circuit here.” Sloan laughed. “The FBI has joined us. It’s a real fun party.”

  Frye half smiled. Yet another government agency envious of Sloan’s toys.

  “Keep me informed.”

  “Keep your head down, Frye,” Sloan said.

  “Plan on it.”

  Alpha team—go!

  Bravo team—go
!

  Charlie Delta Echo—go go!

  Strike teams all over the city simultaneously took down doors in houses and apartments, SWAT and CAT—the Secret Service counter-assault unit—swarming inside, apprehending anyone they found. FBI and Secret Service canine teams followed, the bomb dogs and their handlers scouring the buildings and grounds. Rebecca counted a dozen detonators, C-4 explosives, and vests wired and ready to be armed in the back room of the apartment her team raided.

  Within fifteen minutes, all targets had been swept and cleared. Forensic teams stayed behind at each site to log evidence, bag and tag all electronics, and photograph the scene.

  Fourteen people were sequestered at the Edward N. Cahn Federal Building for interrogation. Rebecca and an FBI interrogator, along with a half dozen other teams of two, began the questioning after the detainees were printed and photographed.

  The interrogation room resembled a hundred others she’d seen over the years, although this one smelled a little better than most. Four straight-backed metal chairs, two on each side, flanked the long metal table in the center of the room. A pale redhead in a shapeless V-neck jersey tee and institutional orange canvas pants was handcuffed to a ring on the far side of the table. She’d obviously been sleeping in the tee and little else and someone had issued her the pants, which were going to be part of her standard wardrobe for a long time.

  “Ms. Rothman,” FBI Special Agent Renée Savard said, “what time were you instructed to initiate your action this morning?”

  “Lawyer,” the redhead said instantly.

  Special Agent Renée Savard shook her head. “You’ve been detained under suspicion of domestic terrorism, supported by the presence of explosives with the clear intent to harm. According to the Patriot Act, this action falls under the jurisdiction of military law, and as such, we are not required to bring charges prior to questioning, and thus”—Savard smiled as if everything she said was the best news of the day—“you are not entitled to an attorney at this time.”

  Rebecca slid out a chair and sat across from the prisoner. “The more you cooperate, the more you help yourself.”

  She didn’t mind playing good cop if she could get a lead on Matthew Ford.

  In a dozen other interrogation rooms the same conversations were taking place. And in every one, the question of the hour was where was Matthew Ford.

  * * *

  A knock on her door roused Ari from a light, restless sleep a little before six. Her alarm was due to go off any moment, and she massaged her gritty eyelids with her fingertips. She hadn’t expected to sleep at all, but the fear and tension of waiting while Oakes took part in the takedowns eventually wore her out.

  When she let Oakes in, her heart pounded with relief. “Is it over?”

  “Not yet. Ford is still whereabouts unknown.” Oakes rubbed her face. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and she looked pale and thinner than the last time Ari had seen her.

  Ari’s stomach tightened. Not over yet. “You need coffee and some food. Do you have time?”

  “Just a little.”

  Ari kissed her and gave her a little push in the direction of the sofa in the seating area. “Go sit down. I’ll get something up here right away.”

  Everyone on the president’s staff got the fastest service possible, and ten minutes later, a pot of coffee, several baskets of bread and pastries, and breakfast food arrived.

  “What about everyone else?” Ari asked after Oakes had her first cup of coffee. “Are they giving you more information about their organization—who’s in charge?”

  “It’s early yet, but some people are talking.” Oakes snorted. “Most people are talking. Now that everything is coming apart, only a few of them are hard-core. Those are the ones we suspect would have worn the vests.”

  The horror of that image tightened Ari’s throat, and she wrapped her arms around her midsection to quiet the turmoil that roiled there. “How can anyone believe suicide could achieve anything?”

  “When fear and helplessness are the goals, it’s a pretty good weapon.” Oakes sighed and poured a second cup of coffee. “As near as we can tell, four individual cells were mobilized, and we have eighty percent of their members in custody.” She grimaced. “But not Ford.”

  “What does that mean for the president’s arrival?” Ari asked.

  Oakes gave her a long look. “Will the president change his mind about appearing in public, walking the rope line?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “My thoughts too. So we’ll have to find Ford in a crowd of tens of thousands before he gets close enough to harm anyone.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Game Day

  Philadelphia

  National Convention, Day 1

  Ari pulled on the cobalt blue blazer that nearly matched the color of her eyes, smoothed out the white textured silk shirt, and checked that her makeup was camera ready.

  Oakes knocked at seven a.m. exactly.

  “Hi,” Ari said when she opened the door.

  Oakes, in a charcoal suit, her lapel pin signifying Secret Service on the left side, and a dark, intense expression on her face, stepped inside. “We’ve got about thirty seconds.”

  “I know.” Ari kissed her and pressed both hands to her shoulders. “Be careful today.”

  “Stay close to the agents today,” Oakes said, and kissed her again. “I love you.”

  Ari ran her fingers through Oakes’s hair, leaving it ever so slightly disheveled, leaving her mark even if only she could see it. Oakes wouldn’t be riding in the motorcade to meet the president. She’d be staying behind with the hundreds of law enforcement agents securing the area and hunting for Matthew Ford. “I love you too.”

  They didn’t speak on the way down to the basement level where a line of black SUVs idled at the top of the entrance ramp, the lead cars bearing US flags and presidential symbols. The mobile hazmat, bomb control, and medical vans followed later in the line. As they approached, Cam Roberts climbed into the back seat of the lead car. An agent opened the rear door of the third car in the line.

  “Ms. Rostof,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Ari said, pausing to catch Oakes’s gaze. “I’ll see you after the press conference.”

  There was nothing left for her to say. Agents were posted on floors above and below the one the president would occupy, in the garage, at the hotel entrances and surveillance points inside, and at strategic locations on the inner perimeter surrounding the hotel. Secret Service agents, local police, and FBI swarmed the outer perimeter in plain clothes, hunting for Ford.

  Everything was in place. Everyone had seen the image of his face.

  Now all they could do was follow protocol. Oakes and the others would do their jobs and she would do hers.

  Oakes stepped back as Ari stepped into the car, and almost as soon as she’d snapped her seat belt into place, the vehicles moved out. Out her smoked glass window, the city streets along the motorcade route appeared eerily deserted. No traffic, no irritated cabbies blaring horns, and no pedestrians. At the inner perimeter line, she caught her first glimpse of crowds milling about behind police barricades. Scores of uniformed police erected more metal barriers to allow civilians to line the route for a fleeting glimpse of the president’s car passing.

  A dozen motorcycle police fell into line in front of the lead car to escort them over the bridge to the airport. With no traffic on the bridge, they arrived at the airfield in less than fifteen minutes. The vehicles pulled into line along the runway. People crowded six deep along the length of a chain-link fence bordering a grassy expanse on the far side of the runway. Uniformed police on foot and in patrol cars with light bars flashing stood ready to stop any eager onlookers who decided to climb the fence for a better view of the president’s arrival. The press congregated behind temporary barricades set out along the runway behind the wall of Secret Service vehicles.

  At eight a.m., Air Force One set down and taxied alongside the waiting cars. Ari got out an
d stood beside the SUV along with the agents and watched the majestic 747 taxi to a stop. As the engines wound down, the staircase slowly descended and the military escorts exited and took their position at the foot of the stairs. The president and Blair stepped out together, followed by Lucinda, the first doctor, the protective detail, White House staffers, and the press. Secret Service agents hurriedly crossed the tarmac to flank the president on his way to the vehicles.

  Blair motioned Ari up to the second car in line. “Ride with me.”

  Ari slid into the back seat with Blair and Commander Roberts.

  Within moments, they were on their way back to the city.

  “How are we doing?” Blair said.

  “The polls are positive,” Ari said. “The president has maintained a healthy lead, the delegates are all solid in their plans to vote as expected, and the economy has been helping us out. Everything looks good.”

  Blair nodded. “His handling of health care and the minimum wage questions at the debates really solidified his support.”

  “It helps that he knows what he’s talking about, and it shows.”

  “That’s why he is going to win,” Blair said.

  “He wouldn’t have had any competition at all except the democratic socialist candidate just won’t give up the spotlight.” Ari shrugged. “In four days, none of that will matter. We’ll be moving on to the campaign trail in a whole new game.”

  They were over the bridge and entering Center City within moments. The closer they got to the hotel, the more Ari’s heart pounded. She curled her fingers to hide the tremor. Oakes expected something to happen, although she hadn’t said so in so many words. Across from her, Cameron Roberts emanated fierce tension with the unswerving focus of a jungle cat poised to take down prey. Silent, powerful, deadly.

  The motorcade turned onto Market Street, the main avenue bisecting the city from north to south. Only a few blocks now. The streets were lined with people and police.