Presidential Shift (9 page)

SSI Safe House, Arlington, VA

10:19am, December 19
^th

The four vehicles pulled into the drive, Gaucho and his team piling out. They quickly unloaded two duffel bags per man and went inside.

“Any trouble getting here?” asked Cal, as Gaucho stepped into the dining room.

“We left in intervals and met halfway, caravanned the rest. Had a tail. Think it was a reporter. Lost her pretty quick.”

“You sure?”

Gaucho rolled his eyes. “Any word on the skipper and Trent? They get out yet?”

“Not yet. Haines is working on it.”

“I heard she went apeshit. I know I’m a crazy Mexican, but ain’t no way I’d ever piss off The Hammer.”

“Yeah,” said Cal absently.

Gaucho glanced at Daniel. “What did we miss?”

Daniel pointed to Cal, who looked up from his thoughts. “We paid a visit to the president earlier.”

“Yeah? How’d it go? They know who’s behind the attacks?”

“Not yet.”

“So what’s the plan? Got somewhere for us to go?” asked Gaucho.

“Get the boys together and I’ll go over what we know so far. We’re on standby until we hear from either Zimmer or Neil.”

Gaucho nodded, and left to coordinate the dispersal of gear, worried about his boss’s attitude. He hadn’t seen Cal this detached before, except for when they’d lost men in Jackson Hole. Not a man to be afraid of much, Cal’s lack of typical optimism worried the former Delta operator.

+++

“Come on, guys. We’ve gotta have something by now,” Neil complained to his team of computer geeks. “Nothing from the NSA?”

“Nada,” answered a guy with a head full of curly red hair, sporting white rimmed oversized glasses without lenses.

Neil was at a loss. He thought for sure they’d have something. His automated programs scoured the world, trying to find any link to Travis’s arrest, while also monitoring activity for information on the terrorist attacks. Still nothing. Whoever was behind the operation knew what they were doing. To Neil’s highly tuned mind, it wasn’t the acts that necessarily bothered him, it was the subsequent silence.

+++

Special Agent Stricklin spent the previous night helping at The Amphitheatre at the Wharf, keeping reporters and nosy locals at bay, meanwhile freezing his ass off, still nursing a wicked headache.

He’d gotten out of going back the following morning by telling the agent in charge that he had to go to the hospital to get his head checked out. The agent in charge didn’t argue, despite needing the manpower. Stricklin had already pissed off half his staff, and he was glad to be rid of the guy.

Stricklin sat in his hotel, engrossed in reading every article he could find on the arrest of SSI’s CEO. His heart leapt when an article by The Tennessean referenced the majority owner of Stokes Security International, Calvin Stokes, Jr.

The pieces started coming together in Stricklin’s head. If he could only connect Stokes to the amphitheater attack and an assault on a federal officer…

Clicking a new tab, Stricklin started a new search. He had to get to D.C.

+++

“Mr. President, I think we may have something,” announced the president’s chief of staff, walking into the Oval Office.

The President looked up from his work. “What’s that?”

“We may have a lead on the Orange Beach attacker.” Vance handed over a thin folder.

The President scanned its contents. “Give me a minute, Rick. I need to make a call.”

Once his chief of staff had closed the door, the president picked up his desk phone. “Connect me to Cal Stokes.”

+++

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. President.” Cal glanced up after ending the call. He’d stepped out on the porch for privacy, and walked back in the living room, motioning for Gaucho and Daniel to follow him to the kitchen.

“What’s up?” asked Gaucho, now seated on a bar stool as Cal poured himself a glass of water.

“The president says they just found out from the Alabama bomber’s family that the guy was up in Detroit for the last two weeks doing some training with a new trucking company. They said he’d been acting strange ever since coming home.”

“What are the Secret Service doing about it?” asked Daniel.

“They were able to track the location from the guy’s cell phone trail. The FBI’s going in to raid the place. He said he’ll have Zimmer call us when they know more.”

“I went to Detroit once with my abuelito,” said Gaucho. “Good coney dogs, but cold as shit.”

+++

The FBI SWAT team crept silently through the maze of abandoned buildings. Detroit was full of them. A barren wasteland. The address they’d been given showed a long-vacant auto manufacturing factory. It’d seen better days, crumbling and covered in graffiti, choked with debris.

“Two minutes,” the point man whispered into his mic, never slowing his approach.

His weapon swiveled as a homeless man sitting next to a small fire startled, jingling the bag of aluminum cans lying next to him. The second man in line put his finger to his lips, instantly hushing any forthcoming sound from the bum. Someone farther back in line would take him in for questioning.

“Thirty seconds,” announced the lead agent, each subsequent team member steeling themselves for entry. They spread out, covering every approach as well as they could. The place was an ambusher’s dream. Angles and vantage points mocked the team’s advance, goading them forward.

The point man was the first in, scanning, pivoting, swiveling. Nothing. Room to room they went. Still nothing.

Closing in on the central fabrication area, the point man halted their assault, and then touched his nose and pointed forward. There was a smell of roasted meat coming from up ahead. Not meat, but some kind of flesh. The man leading the move had done a stint in Iraq training with Marine Special Forces. He’d encountered scenes that still brought back vivid memories. For him, more than anything, it was the smell, the same stench he sensed creeping forward now.

Coming around a corner, he finally spotted the source of the fire. Eyes widening in disgust, he waved his squad forward.

SSI Safe House, Arlington, VA

12:41pm, December 19
^th

“Is this for real?” said one of the SSI operators over Cal’s shoulder. They were all viewing the oversized computer screen.

“Yeah. The FBI just sent it over. The president’s probably watching it right now, too,” answered Cal.

“Whoever did this is a bunch of sick fuckers, boss,” growled Gaucho, the hair on the back of his neck matching the sentiment in the room.

The team watched as the video panned around the factory room. Rusted racks lined the room under old rail systems that used to move vehicles from one portion of the factory to another. From one of those racks hung five burning bodies, just then being doused by SWAT members.

“I’ll bet that reeks,” said another one the SSI crew. They were all experienced men, from all branches of the armed services. They’d seen and smelled the aftereffects of acts like the one being shown on the computer screen.

The room hushed as the camera zoomed in on a gurney, dirty surgical equipment arrayed on a metal tray, covered in blood.

“I saw a bomb factory in Iraq a couple years ago,” said Cal. “Looked a lot like that. They were putting IEDs inside little kids. If they didn’t die, they kept them there for a day, then sent them out to sell DVDs to our Marines.”

More than one man nodded, having experienced something similar during their time overseas. The cameraman did a thorough job capturing every inch of the surgical area, and then moved to the left, focusing on the back wall. Cal paused the playback. “Oh, shit.”

+++

The president paced, taking pulls from a cigarette stolen from his hidden stash. He’d tried to quit for years, trying everything from the patch to pills and electronic cigarettes. At times the stress pulled out his old habit. It was the video and its message.

Vice President Zimmer, the chief of staff and the president’s National Security Adviser were in opposite corners, talking into their cell phones, trying to do what they could to deal with the situation.

The image replayed over and over again in his mind’s eye. Aryan propaganda. Death to the Jews. Death to the Hispanics. Death to blacks. And then…a caricatured spray painting of the first lady, adorned with a bullseye on her forehead.

+++

“How’s the president doing?”

“Not good, Cal,” answered Zimmer, glancing over his shoulder at the still-pacing head of state. “Seeing the first lady’s face on the video really shook him up. Rick Vance says he’s never seen him like this.”

“Is there anything we can do?” asked Cal, genuinely concerned for the president, despite their run-in earlier. Cal had lost the love of his life. He knew the pain of it, and could imagine what the chief executive was thinking.

“You still in Arlington?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Stay close. The way the president’s talking, whenever we find out who’s behind this, it’ll be taken care of outside of official channels. That means you.”

Cal couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Outing dirty politicians was one thing. It was hands-off. Going in and taking care of terrorists on U.S. soil was something else entirely.

“Not that I’m complaining, but are you sure that’s a good idea? Wouldn’t one of the agencies be better suited to taking care of it? I don’t want anyone changing their mind halfway in,” said Cal.

“This just got personal, Cal. I know you understand that. Let’s just call it a shift in presidential policy.”

“Fair enough. Tell the president that we’ll be ready whenever he calls.”

+++

“Did you get the bodies burned?”

“Yeah. We almost didn’t make it out in time.”

“How many do you have left?”

“Three.”

“All viable?”

“As viable as they can be.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch soon.”

Litchfield Golf Course,
Litchfield, Minnesota

3:25pm, December 19
^th

The frigid air whipped off of Lake Ripley, causing swirls of snow dust to sweep across the closed golf course. In the distance, a large engine revved, working against the brutal Minnesota snow and ice. A minute later a Ford F450 rolled into the shuttered clubhouse parking lot.

The driver stepped out in the subzero air, face obscured for protection from the elements rather than anonymity. He wasn’t worried about being recognized. No one else was crazy enough to be out in the cold. A light flashed from the opposite end of the building, and he headed that way.

Sheltered from the wind, another man, daring to smoke a cigarette, waited. The newcomer approached nonchalantly. They’d had similar meetings around town for the past year. Money always changed hands. Good paydays for the Minnesota native.

The driver of the large Ford pulled a sealed freezer bag out of his coat. “This is the last batch. The rest got shipped overseas.”

“That’s okay. This’ll be the last one we need.”

The Minnesotan was disappointed. He’d known the relationship with the strange man would end at some point, but the money was good, good enough to buy himself the truck he’d arrived in along with a couple vacations for him and the wife.

“You have the money?”

The smoking man pointed to a plain black backpack on the ground, the same kind he’d delivered every time before.

“Mind if I take a look?” asked the Minnesotan.

The smoker shrugged, unconcerned. After examining the contents of the bag, the supplier stood back up. “Looks good. Here’s your stuff.”

Taking the sealed baggie without examining it, the buyer asked, “I assume it’s the same as the others?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” He stuffed the purchase into his fur-lined jacket with his left hand. His right hand stubbed and discarded the cigarette, and entered the opposite pocket. A split second later, it came out again holding a silenced .22 pistol, that promptly spat two rounds into the supplier’s face. The lifeless body crumpled to the ground.

Grabbing one of the smaller stacks of cash, along with two tiny dime bags from his pants pocket, the buyer stuck them in the man’s oversized hand, tucking it under the body slightly.

After snatching the backpack of cash, he walked calmly to a rental SUV idling on the other side of the road. He had to get to FedEx before they closed.

+++

Springfield, VA

4:45pm

“Stevie, what are you doing home so early? You told me you’d be gone two more weeks!” screeched Mrs. Stricklin, hugging her son as he stepped in from the cold.

“Change of plans, Ma. Have any food made?” Special Agent Stricklin tossed his overnight bag on the kitchen table and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

“Not right now, but I can make you something.”

Stricklin nodded and headed downstairs to his bedroom. It was a split level, and for the most part, his mother left him alone when he was in town. It was expensive living in D.C., so he’d opted to stay in a suburb with his widowed mother. She liked having him close. He liked not having to pay rent.

After two more beers from the fridge in his room — his mother kept it stocked — Stricklin headed back to the kitchen, following the smell of shrimp and stew. Without a word, he grabbed a hunk of bread, a bowl, and ladled a bowl full of the gently simmering concoction.

As usual, it was delicious. Mrs. Stricklin, rail thin, sat across from her only son. “How long will you be home, Stevie?”

“Come on, Ma, can’t you call me Steve?”

“Sorry. I know. It’s just that you’ll always be my little Stevie.” A wistful look followed. There had been many of those looks after his father’s death years before. “So how’s work, mister big shot FBI agent?”

Stricklin shrugged. “Not bad. I was at the terrorist attack in Alabama.”

His mother inhaled sharply. “Did you get hurt? The news said there were a lot of people killed.”

Stricklin pointed to the bruise on the side of his head. “Just a bruise. I’m okay.”

“Did you go to the doctor? Do you have a concussion? Can you hear okay?”

He nodded as he continued eating, enjoying the attention. “I’m fine.”

“It’s like I told you before you went in the Marines, you’ve got to take care of yourself, son. You’re all I’ve got left.”

Stricklin hated it when she got all weepy. Sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t have been easier if she died with her husband in the car wreck.

“Your uncle called. Did I tell you?” she asked.

“What did he want?”

“He phoned last night and said he was coming in town.”

“Today?”

“Yes. He said he wanted you to call him. I thought I’d sent you a text like you showed me, but, well, you know I mess that up sometimes.”

Stricklin simmered. It would’ve been good to have that information the night before. “I’ll call him after I finish eating.”

“Good. I know he’d love to see you. He’s always asking about what you’re doing.”

+++

Stricklin, dressed in his best suit, following the directions on his GPS, finally came to an ornately sculpted iron gate tucked back in a pricey Falls Church neighborhood. The gate squealed open. He pulled through, following the short curving drive up to the mansion.

His uncle, probably half in the bag, greeted him at the front door. “Stevie! Look at you. You look good, kid!”

Stricklin smiled. “Thanks, Uncle Pete. I appreciate you having me over. Your new place is beautiful.”

Congressman Peter Quailen looked up at his house, as if he was just realizing it was there. “Yeah, it’s not bad, right?”