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  Linden Brierly and a dozen agents moved in an armed wave to intercept the president from entering the White House. Before Brierly could say a word, William Collins pointed a finger at him.

  “Don’t,” he barked.

  “Mr. President,” said Brierly in a tight whisper, “this is extremely ill advised.”

  The president stopped and looked around. His motorcade sat in the underground entrance, lights swirling, armed men and women everywhere. Security cameras were mounted on the walls, guards at the gated entrances.

  He closed on Brierly, getting right up in the director’s face, and his whisper was every bit as fierce. “You told me you swept the building.”

  “Yes, sir—”

  “Top to bottom, every room, every possible hiding place.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “You ran scanners over every inch of wall space. There are no listening devices and no hidden compartments where the entire Al-Qaeda could be lurking.”

  Brierly said nothing.

  Collins had enough courtesy to lower his voice so that only Brierly could hear him. “Whatever happened this morning is over. Your own team has deemed the building safe.”

  “Sir, I approved a memo saying that there were no detectable threats. That’s hardly the same—”

  “I am the president, Linden. I know it pains you to accept that fact, but there it is. Now get the fuck out of my way while you still have a job.”

  Collins glowered until Brierly reluctantly stepped back and to one side.

  With his entourage in tow and agents fore and aft, the president went into the White House to lay claim to the Oval Office. Linden Brierly, defeated, followed in his wake.

  Chapter Twenty

  Camden Court Apartments, Camden and Lombard Streets

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Sunday, October 20, 6:23 a.m.

  The two men in the black Crown Victoria watched the huge red-brick apartment building. The driver chewed gum slowly and methodically as he studied the building through dark sunglasses. The man next to him was hunched over a small laptop whose split screen showed him the feeds from several camera drones that perched as fake pigeons on power lines, light poles, and window ledges. From ten feet the drones looked entirely real. At close range their tiny black bird eyes were too dark, too lifeless, too unnatural to sell them as real. But they did not need to pass close inspection, and no one looks twice at a pigeon in Baltimore.

  “Okay,” said the man with the small laptop. “The woman’s leaving, too.”

  A tall and lovely young woman stepped out through the main doors and raised her arm for a cab. Both men paused to admire her legs and the way her clothes clung to her ripe lines.

  “Ledger’s pumping that?” said the driver. “Lucky bastard.”

  “Yeah, well his luck just ran out,” said the passenger. “Hope he got laid this morning, ’cause it’s going to be a long time before he sees a pair of tits again.”

  “Ah, well,” said the driver. “Life’s a bitch.”

  The other man laughed, then he tapped his Bluetooth. “The apartment’s empty. Send in the team.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  On the road

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Sunday, October 20, 6:24 a.m.

  As I drove I tried to make sense of things. On one hand, abducting the president made every kind of political sense — if you were a terrorist. If you were willing to die to make a point, this would be the biggest play of the game. Short of detonating a nuke on U.S. soil there’s no real way to top something like that.

  On the other hand, abducting the president made no sense. It was on a par with kicking a grizzly bear in the nutsack. Yeah, you can brag about it if you live long enough, but how much do you like your odds? You’d have to know that once guys like me — and the thousands of other agents, lawmen, soldiers, and shooters who would be in this hunt — were on your trail, you were done, cooked. Dead, if you were lucky; in custody if your luck turned to shit. There are worse things that can happen to an enemy of the state than Gitmo. Hate to say it, hate it to be the truth, but there it is.

  Who was the bad guy here? Who had either that much balls or was that crazy?

  The U.S. of A has a lot of enemies, and some of them are supposed to be friends and allies. Friendship is every bit as illusory as the concept of alliance — it’s all really a balancing of mutual interest, mutual greed, fear, and barely concealed exploitation. And that math is skewed even more when you factor in that everyone hates the guy at the top. So, who among our bitter enemies or supposed friends would risk abducting the president? Who would think the rewards would outweigh the risks? Moreover, who was dumb enough to believe that a hostage, even one of such importance, is a genuine shield? In the short term, sure … but that kind of protection goes toxic faster than macaroni salad at a hot August picnic. Hold a hostage too long and that person’s political relevance diminishes. There would be a change of power in the White House — hell, the veep was already the de facto president. All the useful codes were already being changed. Pretty soon the hostage has symbolic value only, and I wouldn’t want to live on those terms.

  Maybe this was political from a different camp. I mean, the loss of the president would tear down a lot of partisan structures. The president’s party would lose face and would likely be overwhelmed in the next round of congressional elections. The people most loyal to the missing president would be held up to scrutiny in case there was any possible chance that they were complicit in action or derelict in duty, and that stain of doubt would never wash off. Gradually everyone upon whom the president relied for swift, decisive action would be diminished, replaced, or otherwise disempowered.

  And, of course, there was the issue of retaliation.

  I couldn’t believe that any government was directly responsible for the abduction because this was an undeniable act of war. It was also a violation of our apparent strength and security. Once this was out we would lose face with the other superpowers; and the stock market would go right into the crapper. Our only response would have to be one of overwhelming military force. We would need to identify the culprits and utterly destroy them. If this was the work of a nonnuclear state, then they would be invaded and steamrolled flat. I’m not saying I agree with that, but I’m practical enough to understand the political philosophy of it. If you want to maintain the reputation as the absolute strongest, then when someone slaps you, you don’t slap them back. Instead you run them down with your car and make sure all four wheels bump over their bones. Barbaric? Sure. Spiritual? Of course not, because it is the exact opposite of the lessons of the enlightened teachers. But practical for a corrupt, illogical, and fiercely violent world? Sadly, cynically, yes.

  I was nudged out of those gloomy thoughts when a black car shifted into my lane two cars in front of me. It was a Crown Victoria of the kind often used by government agencies. It caught my eye because there was one just like it behind me. We reached a light and the four of us sat there — the first Crown Vic, then a red Honda with a woman with two small kids, then me, and then the second Crown Vic. On another day I might have missed the cars, or noticed them but dismissed them. Today was not another day. Today was today and weird things were already happening.

  The light turned green and we moved forward in a line to the next corner. The green light was about to turn and the lead car had just enough time to hurry through the yellow. He didn’t. The driver slowed and allowed the light to go all the way to red.

  I punched a button on my cell and called Church.

  “Boss, did you send an escort?”

  “No,” he said, “what are you seeing?”

  I told him and gave the tag numbers from the one behind me, transposing them from the reverse image in my rearview. “Can’t see the numbers on the lead car though.”

  “Hold on,” he said.

  The light turned green and we moved forward. The red Honda peeled left and went down a side street. That left my Ex
plorer sandwiched between the two government cars. I gave Church the plates of the lead car, which I could now see.

  Church came back on the line. “Both plates belong to cars in the general FBI fleet. Do you need to know who checked them out?”

  The light turned green, but the lead car did not move. I was in a box. I had six feet between my front bumper and the lead car, but the follow car had crept up so close he was crowding my taillights. Some wiggle room if this got weird.

  “I have a feeling this is about to go south on me, boss.”

  “I’ll roll backup,” said Church. “Be careful, Captain.”

  “Always am,” I said.

  Doors opened in both cars. Front doors, both sides. Four men got out. All of them tall, all of them in black suits with crisp white shirts, nondescript ties, sunglasses. Their jackets were unbuttoned and there was a slight breeze, however each man used one hand to keep the jacket flaps closed.

  “Uh-oh,” I said to Ghost. Actually I said, “Rut-roh,” in my best Scooby-Doo voice.

  Ghost straightened and looked out of the windows, turning to look in front and behind us.

  The agents closed in on my Explorer. Two on the passenger side, two on the driver side. The point man removed his identification wallet and held it out as he approached my window. Ghost growled softly, the ridge of hair on his spine standing as straight as a wire brush. He bared his teeth, four of which were made of gleaming titanium — replacements for the ones he’d lost on the Red Order gig in Iran. Ghost loves biting things with those chompers. He’s never hugely friendly with strangers at the best of times and right now he was picking up my tension. This car stop had “wrong” written all over it. It was weird, it was unexpected, it was improper and today wasn’t the day for that shit. I gave Ghost a couple of get-ready-but-wait commands.

  I rolled my window down one quarter of an inch. Enough for sound, not enough for any hanky-panky. The glass is bullet-resistant. I’m not.

  “Federal agents,” said the point man. He was a medium-size guy with a beaky nose and hardly any lips. All I could read on the ID were the three big letters that my boss insists do not stand for “Fart, Barf, and Itch.”

  I slapped my ID against the glass. I’d dug a set of NSA credentials out of the glove box. Since these guys were FBI, I wanted to both trump them and also play home-court advantage — and the NSA is based in Fort Meade here in Maryland. The DMS doesn’t have ID cards or badges being one of those “we’re so secret we don’t officially exist” things.

  Beaky Nose barely looked at my credentials. “Federal agents,” he repeated. Which, in the circumstances, was kind of a silly thing to say.

  “Me, too, friend,” I said coldly. “I am responding to a matter of national security. Please move your car.”

  He did not acknowledge my statement in any way. Instead he said, “Please step out of your vehicle.”

  “Sorry, did you miss the part where I said that I’m with the National Security Agency? Perhaps you’ve heard of us? Bunch of officious pricks with way too much authority? Including the authority to tell you to back the fuck off and let me go about my business.” Just to be pissy I gave him a toothy smile and added, “Please.”

  Beaky Nose opened his jacket and laid his hand on the butt of the pistol clipped to his belt. “Please step out of your vehicle, sir. Don’t make me ask you again.”

  “You just did,” I said. “You made yourself say it again.”

  Beaky Nose didn’t seem to know how to answer that. While he was sorting it out I opened the door and stepped out. He stepped back, his hand still on his pistol. I was wearing jeans and an unbuttoned Orioles shirt over a thermal undershirt. My Beretta was in a quick-draw shoulder rig, out of sight but in easy reach. The second agent, a beefy man with black hair and an Italian face came around from the far side of the car and stood a few feet behind me and to my right. My car door was still open, and it formed a nice barricade between us. The guys from the follow car, a scarecrow with sallow skin and a black guy with a precisely trimmed mustache and a gleaming bald head, stood behind me and to the left. Maybe six feet behind me. Almost but not quite the right distance to stay out of my range. Ghost stood up on the seat, but I kept him in place with a small hand sign. I left the door open, though, just in case things got creative out here. Ghost makes a great party crasher.

  “We need you to come with us,” said Beaky Nose.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “We need you to come with us.”

  He repeated the comment with exactly the same deadness of voice. No emotion, no inflection.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Let me see that ID again.”

  Beaky Nose didn’t answer. He stared through the black lenses of his sunglasses. I couldn’t see his eyes at all, not even the outline of them through the opaque lenses. It was a sunny morning, but the street we were on was shadowed by the tall buildings on either side. I was surprised he could see with such dark glasses.

  “We need you to come with us,” repeated Beaky Nose. It was almost robotic. Lifeless.

  Yeah, it was a little bit scary.

  The whole setup was scary.

  And it was all wrong.

  “Listen to me,” I said, “I’m a federal agent and I’ve been called in on a matter of national security. Unless you have a warrant, then detaining me is a federal crime. Now, you’re going to get into your cars and I’ll get into mine. You’re going to move your cars so I can get around you. Are we understanding each other here?”

  Beaky Nose looked at the Italian, then over to the Scarecrow and Baldy. Then he looked at me again. There was no flicker of expression on his face. He did not repeat his favorite catchphrase. He did not, in fact, say a goddamn word.

  Instead he went for his gun.

  Up till that moment I’d hoped that this encounter wasn’t as weird and threatening as it seemed. And, up till that moment Beaky Nose had a chance of ending the day without severe physical discomfort.

  That moment passed.

  I kicked Beaky Nose in the nuts with the tip of my shoe. Very, very hard. I have big feet and my shoes have steel toes. This is never good news for the sorry son of a bitch whose balls get in the way of my rage issues.

  He screamed loud enough to crack glass.

  “Ghost—hit!” He launched himself out of the car like a snarling white torpedo as Scarecrow moved in on me. They went down hard and messy.

  I slammed the half-open car door into the Italian, jolting him to a sudden stop, I whipped the door shut and jumped at him with a short-range front kick, crunching the flat of my foot onto the front of his thigh. It knocked his leg way too straight and way too hard and the leverage bent him in half and sat him forcefully down on his ass. Even as his tailbone tried to drill a hole in the asphalt, I pivoted my hips, cocked my leg and gave him a flat-of-the-heel side thrust right above the eyebrows. I’m pretty sure he was in happy land before the back of his head hit the blacktop.

  Then I whirled to see the bald guy caught in a moment of indecision — help Scarecrow or go for me. He spun and went for the dog. Wrong choice. I reached him in two fast strides, grabbed his collar and jerked him backward off his feet. His gun went flying straight up into the air. I twisted my hip and dropped into a crouch, using the torque and downward weight shift to slam Baldy’s back against the ground with a meaty thud. Air burst from his open mouth, and before he could take the next breath I leaned over and drove a two-knuckle punch into his solar plexus. He made a strangled screech and lay there, gasping and twitching like a gaffed marlin.

  “Off!” I called, and Ghost released Scarecrow’s bleeding arm. Ghost’s metal teeth had done impressive damage. The man screamed in pain. I knotted my fingers in Scarecrow’s hair, half lifted him and used my other hand to punch him in the face twice, breaking nose and mashing lips. He went out like a light and I let him drop.

  I spun, crouched, ready for more.

  But there
was no more.

  The Italian and Scarecrow were out; Baldy was trying to figure out that whole breathing thing, and it was going to take him a while to remember the rules. That left Beaky Nose, who was curled into a fetal ball. As I approached him he tried to wriggle away, but we both knew that wasn’t going to happen. I felt something give when I’d kicked him. Probably his pelvis.

  I’m a nice guy most of the time.

  I’m a really nice guy some of the time. Last night at Rudy’s bachelor party I was everybody’s pal.

  When it comes to ambushes, however, I find it hard to be affable.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  VanMeer Castle

  Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Sunday, October 20, 6:26 a.m.

  Once the call was ended, Mr. Bones closed the Ghost Box and turned to Howard Shelton. The old man was leaning heavily on the desk, head low, eyes staring fixedly into the wood grain. His color was bad and he was sweating.

  “This is scary as hell,” said Mr. Bones.

  Howard merely grunted.

  “I mean,” continued Bones, “on one hand we should be happy that she’s still clueless about the cyber-attacks and—”

  “Fuck the cyber-attacks,” snarled Howard. “We’ve got that safeguarded seven ways from Sunday. What about this thing in D.C.? What the hell is happening?”

  “It’s definitely not the Chinese.”

  Howard’s lip curled back from his dentures. “Yeah? And how do we know those slippery bastards aren’t screwing us?”

  “We know because they can’t. Remember the last time they tried? That entire lab complex in Tangshan became the epicenter of a very, very big earthquake. Worst of the twentieth century, am I right? You really think they’re going to risk that again?”

  “How the fuck should I know?” growled Howard, his face becoming livid. “We keep risking it. Any risk is worth it. Mount St. Helen’s, Haiti … even if someone ever puts two and two together, they’ll see how everything we’ve had to do is all for the ultimate good. That’s easy math. Besides, if we hadn’t gotten lucky with the organic component we’d be in the same boat as them.” He shook his head. “But it’s not the damn Chinese I’m worried about. Or the Russians or the frigging North Koreans or anyone.”