Black stroked his chin and eyed Dalton. “That’s interesting because he’s listed as being at another station in the Middle East during that time. Are you sure it was him?”
“Absolutely,” Dalton said. “The guy was like a ghost. I’d see him around the embassy for a day, and then I wouldn’t see him again for three months. It’s like our office was a wayward stop for him as he explored the entire country of Afghanistan.”
“Do you have any idea what he did?”
“All I know is that he ran some secret missions based out of our office.”
Black nodded. “Who was handling him?”
Dalton shrugged. “Maybe Wellington. I don’t know. I just know that he was there infrequently and wasn’t my responsibility, so I didn’t pay much attention to him.”
“Was it common for you to not know who was stalking the embassy halls?” Black asked.
“We had so much going on back then that I didn’t have time to micromanage. All I know is that he was an agent. He worked a lot with a guy named Frank Horner. The two of them seemed to appear all around the same time. There may have been a third guy, but I don’t remember. It’s been years, and my memory isn’t as sharp as it used to be.”
“Remember anything else about these two guys?”
“Not much. When they did come back, they’d often be bruised and scratched. I never asked questions. We were just trained to accept how they were and proceed like everything was normal.”
“Hmmm. Anything else useful you remember about Vogle?”
“Not off the top of my head.”
“Did he have many interactions with Wellington?”
Dalton shrugged. “I saw them together a few times and wondered what they were working on, but nothing I could verify for you. However, if I think of something, I’ll call you.”
Black shook his head. “I wish I’d know this before. Could’ve saved me a trip.”
Dalton chuckled. “Think I would’ve answered your call? Think I don’t know how to keep my number from every seeing the light of day in an agency file?”
Black smiled before pausing. “Oh, I almost forgot to give you your mail.”
Dalton thanked Black for the delivery. “Anything else you want to know?”
“What about my father?” Black asked. “What kind of man was he?”
“He was the best,” Dalton said. “In my few conversations with him, he was always kind and considerate. And he loved his country and his job. He’d fly any mission, from what I understand. It’s really too bad that he’s gone. The world could use more Victor Blacks.”
“I agree.” Black stood and then headed toward the door. “Don’t forget to call me if you think of something.”
“Of course,” Dalton said, following Black.
He made the short walk to the edge of Dalton’s property before hopping the fence. Black drove back toward the airfield, lost in thought over his conversation with Dalton. Wellington was involved somehow, yet Black had yet to connect the dots. He needed to do that quickly before it was too late to figure out just what the Vogle was up to.
After Black returned Gertie’s truck, he trudged to the airfield and waited for the pilot to get everything ready for the return flight. That’s when he decided to call Shields.
“What’d you find out?” she asked after exchanging pleasantries.
“More questions than answers,” he said.
“Figures.”
“But I did learn one interesting thing.”
“And what was that?” she asked.
“There was an agent that worked with Vogle in Kabul during the same time. According to Dalton, he had a similar pattern of infrequent visits to the office as well as disappearing for vast amounts of time, resurfacing only when necessary.”
“Did this guy have a name?”
“Yeah,” Black said. “His name was Frank Horner.”
Black listened as Shields typed furiously on the computer.
“Well, this just got interesting,” she said.
“What is it?” Black asked.
“Frank Horner retired earlier this year from the agency,” she said.
“So?” Black said, “That doesn’t mean anything.”
Black heard her typing away for a moment before she sighed. “What is it?”
“You're not gonna like this,” she said. “Horner was murdered three months ago.”
CHAPTER 16
Washington, D.C.
PRESIDENT MICHAELS CLUTCHED his wife’s hand as they navigated through the crowd of people gathered outside Bobby Van’s restaurant for a big campaign fundraiser. The upscale dining facility handled some of the biggest events in town for all the VIPs. And while Michaels was undoubtedly the reason for the gathering that cost a hefty sum for each plate, Bobby Van’s steaks were equally alluring.
Michaels flashed his trademark smile and waved as people called out his name and tried to snap pictures of Michaels with his wife, Bethany. She looked up and him and smiled.
“There are still a few people in this town who like you,” she whispered to him.
“I don’t care if everybody in Washington hates me as long as you still love me,” he said.
She cast a sideways glance toward him, a faint grin leaking around the corners of her mouth. “The election is still months away.”
He chuckled and charged into the group of well-wishers with her.
After a half-hour of shaking hands and posing for pictures with prospective donors, everyone sat down to enjoy their food. The president’s chief of staff, Ryan Mason, sat on Michaels’s left, while Bethany occupied the seat to his right.
“There’s a lot of energy here tonight,” Mason said. “Can’t you feel it?”
Michaels nodded as he consumed another piece of delectable meat.
Bethany leaned forward and looked at Mason. “I was just telling Conrad that not everyone hates him, despite what the media says.”
“The media hates everyone,” Mason said. “I think they hate themselves the most. They’d find something wrong with Jesus Christ if he were walking the earth today.”
Michaels dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Thankfully, I wasn’t under any allusions that becoming president would mean I’d become more popular. Quite the contrary actually. If this was a popularity contest, someone like Oprah could waltz onto the ballot every year and coast away with a victory. I’m here because I feel like I’m supposed to be here and I want to help this country reach its full potential.”
“And in order to do that, we need money and lots of it,” Mason said. “So, hurry up and finish your meal so we can get these people opening up their checkbooks.”
Michaels nodded. He hated the economics of politics in America. It was one thing he wanted to change when he won his first term. But the method of funding campaigns had become too entrenched in Washington. He figured it’d take an unprecedented act from Congress to make that change happen. And that meant the status quo wasn’t going anywhere.
Michaels finished his meal and was introduced by Amy Waverly, a self-made billionaire in the tech industry who volunteered to host the event. She was known to be very apolitical, which was why her offer to host a fundraising dinner surprised the campaign.
“Everyone give it up for the President of the United States of America, Conrad Michaels,” she said, her voice echoing through the sound system.
Michaels strode to the lectern, gesturing for his supporters to calm down. But that only fired them as they continued to clap and shout for him. After about a minute, everyone settled down and took their seats again. Michaels pulled out his notes and began his speech.
When he finished, Mason ushered the president into a special VIP lounge where he met individually with a few people. The special meet-and-greet lasted a half-hour before he was told to wrap it up.
The Secret Service was escorting Michaels to his limo when a young woman stopped him in the hallway.
“Please, Mr. President, can I have a mo
ment of your time?” she asked. “It won’t take long. Thad Huxton asked me to give something to you.”
Michaels gestured for the security members to back away. They fanned out against the wall as he turned his full attention to the woman, who was wearing a short, skin-tight dress.
“Did you say Thad Huxton?” Michaels asked.
“Yes, he wanted to be here tonight but fell ill.”
Michaels had wanted to connect with Huxton for three years or so now. His new invention that turned salt water into fresh water was saving cities along coastlines that had been ravaged by droughts. Since going public, Huxton Industries had become one of the hottest stocks on the market. An entire ethos of fans had cropped up, hanging on Huxton’s every word. Every social media post garnered millions of likes and comments and oftentimes drove the cable news cycle with pundits dissecting his latest public message.
“Huxton was supposed to be here?” Michaels asked.
“He told me to give you his apologies,” she said. “He was really looking forward to meeting you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Michaels said. “I’ve wanted to ask him to join my entrepreneurial task force for a few months now but have to wait until next term to issue new invites.”
She smiled and nodded. “I’ll be sure to tell him. In the meantime, he wanted me to give this to you.”
The woman handed him a large envelope.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Just look at it when you get a chance. There are some instructions inside on what to do once you’ve read through the material.”
“Of course,” he said. “Give Mr. Huxton my best.”
“Have a good evening, Mr. President.”
Michaels watched the woman walk away before Bethany strode up to him and punched him in the arm. “Put your tongue back in your mouth.”
“She had something to give me,” he said.
Bethany leaned in close and spoke in a whisper. “I won’t be nearly as forgiving as some first ladies have been.”
Michaels huffed. “It’s not like that.”
“It better not be. Now, let’s get moving.”
They wove through the sea of adoring supporters and only stopped upon reaching the curb where the president’s limo was waiting. Michaels turned to wave at the crowd one final time before ducking inside the vehicle.
“Well, that was fun,” Bethany said as she patted him on the knee. “I just love Bobby Van’s. Going there makes me feel normal again.”
“You and me both,” he said. “Those steaks are just in another class.”
She eyed his envelope. “What’s that?”
“It’s something from Thad Huxton.”
“The Thad Huxton?” she asked.
Michaels nodded. “He’s the only one I’ve ever heard of. That woman said she was delivering something for him.”
“Well, open it up. What do you think it is?”
“Probably just a check and some favor he’s hoping to curry with me.”
Bethany clapped, her gaze locked on the envelope. “Whatever. Let’s see it.”
Michaels broke the seal and reached inside. Instead of a check, he found some pictures. Instinctively, he shielded them from Bethany and then shoved them back into the envelope.
“Well?” she asked.
“It’s nothing. Just some political favors. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Whatever,” she said. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just have to look for myself.”
He clutched the envelope as she dove for it, yanking it just out of her grasp. “It’s not a big deal, Bethany.”
“Then why won’t you let me see it?”
“Because some things aren’t mean for your eyes. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“I worry more about your tyrannical rule over me.”
Michaels sighed. “For goodness sake, Bethany. I’m not a tyrant. There are just some things you can’t see. We’ve talked about this already.”
“That doesn’t make it any easier to take,” she said as tears streamed down her face. “You don’t treat me like I’m your loving partner anymore.”
“Look, if you must know, it’s a gory picture of a dead agent,” he said. “I didn’t want to upset you by seeing something like this—and right after we ate too.”
Bethany sighed and turned to look out her window. Michaels needed to get another glimpse at the contents. While he wasn’t entirely sure of what he saw, if what he thought was in the envelope was in there, he wasn’t sure he’d even make it to the election in November.
With Bethany gazing at the streetscape whizzing past, he eased the documents out of the envelope again. It was exactly what he thought it was. Michaels looked on the back page and read the note.
“Do I have your attention now?” it read, accompanied by a phone number. “Call me from your private line when you’re ready to talk.”
Michaels knew this day would eventually come. He just didn’t anticipate it being so soon. With a looming election, Michaels wasn’t sure he could stomach what would happen if he didn’t kowtow to the demands that would soon be made of him. But he didn’t have a choice since he was at the mercy of the person behind the special envelope. Michaels was sure it wasn’t really Thad Huxton.
But who then? Think, Conrad. Think.
Based on what he saw in the pictures, any plan he needed to stop the release of that photo needed to happen within hours rather than days.
CHAPTER 17
UPON BLACK’S RETURN to Washington, Blunt gathered the Firestorm team together to develop a plan for apprehending Preston Vogle. Four days had passed since Black saw him on Cape Hatteras, but since then Vogle had all but vanished. And Blunt was growing impatient.
“Welcome back,” Blunt said as he nodded at Black, who was nursing a cup of coffee. “Ready to move to Alaska?”
“If you like being alone, there’s not a better place to live.”
Blunt chuckled. “Is that all you have to say about it?”
“Beautiful country,” Black said. “Maybe I’ll have more insightful commentary once I wake up.”
“That is a long trip,” Blunt said before he turned toward Shields. “Any word from Miriam Parsons?”
Shields shook her head. “And from all the monitoring we’re doing on traffic cams and every other CCTV feed we can utilize, Vogle’s become a ghost.”
Blunt fished a new cigar out of his pocket and snipped off the end. “The longer this goes on, the more I fear we may not find Vogle until it’s too late.”
“It’d be really nice if we could utilize the FBI to conduct a manhunt,” Shields said.
“Of course, but we’ve been asked to keep this search quiet for Quinn’s sake, not to mention the rest of the agency’s.”
“If we knew what he took and why…” Black said, letting his words hang.
Blunt nodded. “For now, I’m willing to respect the agency’s wishes. But if Vogle’s threat grows, I’m open to revisiting that. But let’s just see if we can figure out a way around having to make that choice. What do you say?”
Shields nodded. “So, I did a little digging on the man Lewis Dalton suggested we look into, an agent named Frank Horner.”
“Anything interesting aside from him being dead?” Black asked.
She pushed copies of a document across the table toward Blunt and Black. “I got his personnel files and did a little digging. By all accounts, he was a model agent, much like Vogle. He spent time in the Middle East but was never in Kabul, at least officially.”
Black stroked his chin as he stared at the page. “Dalton said Vogle and Horner worked together in Kabul.”
“Well, apparently it wasn’t the kind of project that was logged with the CIA.”
“Then what were they doing there?” Blunt asked.
Shields held up her index finger. “That’s the million-dollar question, sir.”
“There’s got to be some link to Wellington,” Black said. “If the CIA had him wor
king on some secret project and these guys were all in Kabul during that same time, wouldn’t it stand to reason they were all working together?”
Blunt shrugged. “Maybe, or it could just be coincidence. At this point, there’s only one person who can tell us what’s going on.”
“One person that we know of,” Shields said. “Vogle allegedly had ties to Horner and was in Kabul while Wellington was there. But there could be someone else or maybe a handful of others who could explain what might be going on.”
“At this point, that’s just a theory,” Blunt said, gnawing on his cigar. “We have to deal with the facts we have. And currently, Vogle is it. Meanwhile, we can’t find the bastard, and he hasn’t given us even the slightest clue about what his end game is.”
“I’ll expand my search on facial recognition,” Shields said. “Until he makes a mistake and shows up somewhere else, I’m afraid we’re just looking for a needle in a haystack.”
Blunt slapped the table with his hand. “Dammit! We need to catch a break.”
“You know that’s not how this works,” Black said.
Blunt nodded before he buried his head in his hands. “Just keep looking.”
Black and Shields exited the conference room, leaving Blunt alone. He paced around the table and attempted to piece together more of the information they had. But there wasn’t anything he saw as actionable. The team was already doing everything it could to track down Vogle and bring him in. However, Blunt knew that the longer this hunt went on, the less their odds were of catching the man.
Blunt’s phone vibrated on the table. He picked it up and glanced at the screen.
Great. The president.
“Hello, Mr. President,” Blunt said. “How are you today?”
“The truth?”
“Why not?”
Michaels grunted. “I want to punch someone in the face.”
“That good, huh?”
“Look, this isn’t a laughing matter. We need to talk. How quickly can you meet with me?”
CHAPTER 18
PRESIDENT MICHAELS DUCKED into the hidden passageway that took him to his secret underground meeting room beneath the White House. As he squeezed through the tight corridors, he couldn’t help but think about the moment that placed him in his current predicament. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the man running with a knife in his hand, blood dripping from the tip of the blade. The scene seared into Michaels’s memory felt like yesterday, but it had been years. Yet he couldn’t shake what happened next. It’s not what he wanted to do, but he felt like he had no choice.
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